Archives for posts with tag: adoption

“You love to sketch,” I told him as he plopped down on the couch. “You should do a journal page for me.”

What would I put on it?

“Well, what does hope mean to you?”

It means you never give up, no matter how bad things get.

“That’s perfect. You should write that on there. It’ll give people a place to start journaling. But you should draw something, too — something that makes you think of hope.”

He comes back to the living room what seems like only 15 minutes later.

Here you go, Mom. This character’s name is Yoshina or sometimes he’s called Ageha. He fights to help people who can’t help themselves because someone saved him when he was little.

That’s when I fight to hold back tears. That’s when I ask if I can share a little bit of his story.

You can tell whatever you want, Mom. Maybe it could help somebody else.

And so I begin.

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Jessie’s 2-inch thick adoption file

For the first five years of Jessie’s life, he lived with his biological parents and his half-sister. He has great memories of playing at parks and baking cookies, and he has memories of hiding in the bathroom until the police came to separate his fighting parents. He remembers his mom liking something that was milky white but that he was never allowed to touch and a rainy night when she could barely keep the car on the road.

Then, there was the time they left him and his slightly older sister in the toy aisle at Wal-Mart for several hours while they went to get drugs – and the times that the kids spent the night at the crack house. Times when his parents were home but unavailable, not quite functioning. Times when lunch was a tub of margarine. Times when homework went unchecked.

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This is how his life started and that’s why at 14 he struggles to print legibly, why he always asks when dinner will be ready, why he looks a little lost, a little pained when I talk of trust, of lasting family ties.

Already he’s had more than one lifetime of loss. Already he knows too much of complicated relationships, of shaky love.

Already he speaks of hope as one who knows how badly it’s needed in this world – and already he understands its strength.

Don’t give up even when things are bad.

Jessie1Today’s journal page was designed by my oldest son, Jessie. He loves video games, drawing and reading — especially manga, which are Japanese comics. He plays a mean game of Monopoly and shares my love of office supplies. He’s handsome, has just the faintest touch of a mustache and jeans that always seem too short. He’s one of the most generous people I know, and I’d like him even if he wasn’t related to me. To download today’s journal page and write your own thoughts, please click here.

Here’s a glimpse…

Jessie

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Somewhere around the middle of November I start to brace myself. I love the holidays but they aren’t always kind to my family.

When I send our oldest son off to school, he offers a weary smile – a sure sign of another sleepless night spent with memories of birthdays and Christmases before his adoption.

Then, there’s the man I married who hasn’t heard from his biological father in more than 30 years. While perfect families flash smiles across the screens, he fights off the questioning and the wondering that’s always chasing him this time of year.

My job is usually to comfort them, to reassure them that they are loved and valued, and to keep the holidays normal for the two younger boys. I wrap presents and drape strings of pearls on the tree. I make hot chocolate and search for the best neighborhood light displays. I stay home and feather the nest.

I’ve gotten pretty good at it, so we look OK from the outside. But I’ve been angry inside. Troubled that the people I love have been hurt. Upset that some of their joy has been stolen. Burdened by the thought that Christmas doesn’t feel very welcoming to them.

So this year I’m reading the Christmas story differently. And in the process, we’re rewriting our own.

IMG_0638I’m elbowing in at the manger, knowing that Jesus welcomes everyone. The grieving. The sick. The financially strapped. The less-than-perfect and the far-from-perfect.

I’m sidling up beside Mary and Joseph who know what it’s like to have a family that’s different from everyone else’s and what it’s like to have your own plans changed.

I’m standing shoulder to shoulder with the shepherds who are desperately seeking light in the darkness, who have come in their dusty shoes for the promise of peace.

Oh, how I’d like to get that angel’s attention. I desperately want to be close enough to whisper: Please, continue to tell the good news. Light up the sky and invite people to come as they are to Christmas. Remind them that they aren’t alone in this crazy life and that there’s plenty of room – and love – here at the manger.

And I pray that the sacred, almost indescribable joy of Christmas comes to hearts both whole and broken this season. It’s meant as a gift for all.

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When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.”

– Matthew 2:10

Photo courtesy of Lori Ostling

I really didn’t mean to cause a scene or to serve as a bad role model for my son. I was just tearing apart my laundry sorter – the kind with cheap metal bars and nylon bags for holding clothes – and doing it with a little gusto when I was “found out.”

For three years I’d been rolling that sucker around the laundry room, stopping once or twice each trip to re-insert one of the metal bars that always seemed to work its way out of the corner joint. That fateful night, I had to stop four times to fix the crazy thing – and I hadn’t even rolled it a few feet.

And I had had it.

I started pulling apart the metal bars and dropping them one by one on the cement floor. I was not being careful or quiet, and I called my laundry sorter a name I’m ashamed of.

Apparently this caused quite a racket because my husband came running down the stairs to check on me, and our oldest son was close on his heels. I growled at Jessie to go back upstairs because I wasn’t sure I was done calling my laundry sorter names.( I allowed my husband to stay because he served four years in the Navy, and I was confident he had heard far worse while out at sea.)

Photo courtesy of Joyce Schurr

Then, once all the pieces were on the floor and my husband and I had a good laugh at my expense, I called Jessie back to the basement to explain myself and to apologize. It’s a spiritual pattern that I’ve found myself repeating a lot in the last five years since Jessie came to live with us.

When we first started the adoption process, I thought God was allowing me to help Jessie. I didn’t know how much Jessie would help me.  I had all these great lessons that I wanted to teach him and characteristics that I wanted to model for him. What I found is that I’m terribly flawed – and that if you live with me, I can’t always hide my impatience or even my slowness to forgive.

I’ve tried for years to serve God, and he finally handed me a mirror with mousy brown hair and lanky arms. It’s not always a flattering picture, but it’s accurate and it keeps me honest.

Photo courtesy of Lori Ostling

Writer’s note: In my defense I was pregnant when I threw my little fit… and my husband did go out and buy a sturdier laundry sorter that has never come apart!

I believe we all have vices, little addictions that rear their ugly heads. Some people are lucky enough to have just one, but I have at least three.

First is sweet tea, and I blame my daily habit on growing up in Oklahoma where God, football and iced tea are plentiful. Second, I apparently have more stationery and office supplies than the average person. Of all the important life lessons I’ve tried to teach my oldest son, he remembers this from school shopping: “Life’s too short to buy ugly folders.” In my defense, the folders were shiny and had great graphics.

And, last but not least, I really like taking pictures of my family. In fact, I talked my husband into letting me buy a rather expensive digital camera before I was even pregnant — just so we would be prepared. Of course, casual snapshots aren’t enough for me, so thankfully, I have a good friend from church who is a professional photographer. She charges a modest fee for someone so talented, so we are regular customers. And sometimes she brings her camera along to my family events just because she likes us.

If you flip through my pictures, you’ll see that she was there the night I gave birth to Benjamin, and she was at the airport two months later when Jessie walked off the airplane and into my arms. It was her camera that caught Benjamin eating his first birthday cake and her camera that took the picture of Jessie’s adoption. The picture that still makes me cry.

We were in the judge’s chambers. Almost all the paperwork had been signed, and we were moments away from everything being final. The judge looked at Jessie, who had been in foster care for three years and eight months, and said, “When I sign this, it means it’s over. It is finished.” Then, Judge John J. Rivoli signed his name and turned to shake Jessie’s hand. In that moment the camera clicked, forever capturing Jessie’s smile.

Anyone can look at the picture and appreciate its artistic qualities, but those of us who know Jessie can see much more in that frame. We can see relief. Forgiveness. Unchained optimism.

I see a 9-year-old who is wise and truly loving, a young man who misses his first parents but chooses to wake every morning with a smile. I see a son who wants to help and please. A son who is delighted that his baby brother will never remember life without him. Best of all, I see a son who understands there’s always room for hope and a chance to start over.

A son I’m already proud of.

photo by Lisa Ruth Photography

When I gave birth a little more than a year ago to my  third son, I wasn’t as afraid of the hospital stay, of figuring out the complicated car seat, of finding the right bumper for the crib. I was more concerned about the intangible things I want for this son of mine.

I know it’s popular to wish for happiness – for a life free of bumps and bruises – but I don’t see that as practical or even helpful. Each generation has had its own challenges and its own evils. (Remember: The good ol’ days include slavery, the Holocaust and terrorist attacks that have killed thousands.)

My son’s generation will not be exempt from hardships either. And as much as I’d like to protect him, I’ll serve him better by preparing him.

photo by Lisa Ruth Photography

We’re starting by giving him the first name Colt, which to me means strength and freedom. May he always have the courage to do the right thing, to look for God in every situation and to run to his side. May he always understand that freedom is a human right that comes from our Creator, not government – and may he be willing to stand for those rights, for himself and for others.

 

His middle name is Alexander, a name he shares with his oldest brother. This year we’ll celebrate four years of having that older brother live with us, an older brother who went through a tough time with his biological family and spent almost four years in foster care – an older brother who despite life’s knocks has chosen compassion and progress. We could think of nothing better than those traits to have at the heart of a name.

May his middle name also serve as a reminder that true family is a choice, one we make every day in how we treat one another. May Colt never take family for granted and may he always feel loved and cherished.

photo by Lisa Ruth Photography

May he find not only fleeting happiness but the deep joy that comes from finding a purpose in life, a life well spent in service to God and others. May he live up to – and beyond – his name.

 

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