Who doesn’t love the opening of Dumbo when the stork struggles all plucky over the clouds until he finds the train where Mrs. Jumbo awaits the arrival of her precious child? Such sweetness when he plays a note and then sings Happy Birthday to the little tyke.

Where did all this stork business start anyway? Wouldn’t the pouch of a kangaroo make more sense? Or if this delivery creature had to fly why not a big strong pterodactyl?

So we somehow have this idea that offspring find their way to us by a mystical force. Logically a stork has little or nothing to do with the acquisition of children, so maybe fate plays a hand, or possibly God. As parents we know the process involves more than the multiplication of cells and the influence of genes. Heredity gets us closer to idea of a child placed in our family by design. Be it through conception, adoption, marriage, or other family-making ways it would seem that a force is at work placing children in the arms of their parents.

Some intimate conversations followed my writing an article on our orphanage blog called “Sometimes I don’t know how to pray“. Then a few other blog posts trickled in giving me cause to pause. One friend speaks of the waiting pangs as they painstakingly walk the steps to adopt their first (or first, second and third kids all at once). Another dear friend rejoices over the eleven children God has blessed them with; arms wide open to more should they come into their lives.

So I wonder which ones are mine.

Hannah cared for Samuel for just a few years after month after month of agonizing infertility.

Moses’ mother let the child suckle at her breasts in preparation for a destiny of liberation away from her.

Jesus started to pull away from his mothers’ grasp as a youth as he discussed business with grown-ups.

Rebekah had a boy with failure to launch issues.

Moses ended up running away from his adoptive mother after a life of privilege.

Our children never really walk out of our lives. No matter how long, or short, they stay physically close to us a mother is changed forever. Each child leaves a mark.

I currently mother five children. They are mine. I know this.

We have an orphanage. We provide for the kids. We interact with them and they know us. We have placed caregivers in the home.  But, someday I will be more closely involved in the lives of the children who live in The House of Dreams. I have yet to mother these children.

Because, I wonder which ones are mine.

To date 53 children have lived at the House of Dreams. Seventeen of those are still with us: 10 boys and 7 girls; ages 10 and under. Two of those 17 are assigned to be adopted soon. Two others are on a course to be reunited with their birth parents. The math and statistics tell us the 13 that are left will grow into adults under our care.

So, I wonder which ones are mine.

Should you choose to believe in dreams one of those 13, a little girl, is destined to a family. I saw another of the 13, a boy, running to his adoptive parents in a vivid dream one night some time ago. That would bring the number to 11.

11+5=16.

Which ones are mine?

When we started our adoption process (before we knew how things worked) there were three little girls in our orphanage we would have loved to adopt. Pati, Carolina, and Ximena are now lovely European young ladies. Our girl is Kaitlynn. She came to us as a surprise, hand-picked for our family from an orphanage on the other side of town.

People ask us if we will adopt again. It was never in the plans. So to give the surface answer I say no. Yet I know that about a dozen or so kids will be dropped in my mothering arms. Maybe sooner than I think.

I ask myself why I do not yet mother them, the 17 over there. The reasons too deep and hidden still, I settle back into mothering my five. I don’t feel guilty about it. It just doesn’t feel like the time for more yet. I know it’s coming. I know there will be a time when some of the children living now in the House of Dreams will be mine.

So I wonder why I don’t run over there now and squeeze them all tight. I wonder why I don’t say to each of them, “You are mine until you belong to another.” What am I waiting for?

I am waiting to know which ones are mine.

Dare I ask the Great, Stork-like, Pterodactyl, God person?

Which ones are mine?

My parents granted me permission get my ears pierced when I was ten. True to his nature, my dad preceded our entry to the mall with a long talk in the car. He made sure I wanted to forever mar my body. Answering his inquiry in the affirmative we walked together into Claire’s. A quick click, click finished the deed. I never regretted the decision, even as my own newborn babies pulled at the dangles threatening an enlarged hole.

Three of those babes happen to be girls. As parents we decided to follow the tradition of making piercing the child’s choice.

Raimy, my oldest, begged us for pierced ears her whole life. During a trip to the States we said yes. A trembling eight year old held my hand as we walked the halls of the mall looking for Claire’s. Two clicks from the gun held by a holey, decorated teenager and my daughter had two more holes in her head.

A number of months later that same child begged me to let her take out the shiny bobbles and let the holes grow shut. Her sensitivity couldn’t stand the feel of earrings. I consented, with one stipulation. If she ever wanted pierced ears again she paid for it.

At thirteen years old she revisits the idea at least once a week. She might go with her friends. We’ll see.

Of course my second daughter, Gabrielle, has begun the begging. We might get it done when we go to the States with her. She is 10; like I was. We’ll have to do it at Claire’s to keep tradition.

Speaking of tradition, the Bolivian girls get their ears pierced as infants. An infant is thought to be a boy (no matter how many dresses and pink you put the child in) if the ears are not pierced.

The thought occurred to me to inspect my third daughter’s ears. Kaitlynn has two tiny little scars where a piercing took place. I imagine as an infant in the hospital her birth mom had it done. The holes have since grown closed. Oh to know the story behind these tiny scars!

As her mama and papa now we will follow the tradition of letting her decide if she will have pierced ears, rather re-pierced ears. Will the fact that the closed up scars came from her mom influence her decision? She could always ask the piercer to give her new holes so she can keep the old ones as a reminder.

I wonder what other kind of scars from her former life have closed up, or are in the process of closing up. I wonder if some permanent scars from before she found us will never grow closed. I wonder if we might be able to adorn those reminding scars with shiny bobbles of gratitude.

Do you think it is possible to let scars become gratitude reminders?

Do you have any scar stories you would like to share?

Differing views regarding the naming of children inundate the adoption realm. For the simple fact that such contradicting opinions come from learned professionals leads me to the conclusion that following our gut made for the best decision for our family.

Yesterday I had a most wonderful conversation with the couple adopting the youngest little girl from our orphanage. They are in the visitation stage. Three days to bond under the eyes of the social worker and the psychologist who will form a report of the progress allowing them to move to the next stage of the adoption. Eventually they will be able to take their daughter back home to the country they came from.

Chattering a mile a minute (or a kilometer a minute since they come from Spain) they confided in me as one who has seen this process various times before and as a fellow adoptive parent. My heart swelled as they shared the story of their five year struggle with infertility and the following six grueling years of the adoption process bringing them to this very point.

The match with their daughter is perfect. I am overjoyed.

As one prone to analytical tendencies there came a moment in the talk during which the familiar doubts crept into my stream of consciousness. Not doubts regarding them. Doubts regarding our own adoption decisions. I truly hope one day the doubts and second guessing subside. For now I must beat them back with a stick of reasoning. Thus the blog.

I brought up the topic of naming. With much conviction they told us this little girl would retain her name as her middle name. Ironically the first name they chose for her happens to be the first name of this little girl’s birth mom. Then they clinched there position with the following, “That name is hers. It belongs to her. How could we take away from her something that belongs to her and makes her who she is. No. Never. We would never take that away from her.”

So my mind starts spinning. We gave our adopted daughter a completely new name, first and middle and last. According to the viewpoint expressed by this lovely couple we stripped our daughter of something precious and sacred. They did not say that in so many words. I did not bring up our situation. I just listened. They are under enough stress and scrutiny as it is. They don’t need a second point of view from me. They need an ally. I am their ally still. I smiled and nodded approval at their passion.

This article bears the purpose of bringing peace to my mind and shoring up my own personal convictions regarding the issue of giving our daughter a new name.

• DaRonn and I chose all five names of our children before we were even married. ['Names']
• Being raised in her birth culture assures me her ties to Bolivia will be strong.
• Names carry meaning. The meaning of her name is a precious gift we have given her.
• Naming her helped me to bond with her as her parent.
• Various times in the scripture people received a new name from God to mark a new part of their life. Her new name marks the new life she has stepped into.

One of the most fascinating parts of our adoption to me was how quickly she assumed her new name. During the two week visitation we made as a family to her orphanage we called her by the name she had always known. We didn’t want to throw too many changes at her all at once. On the day we brought her home we called her only by her new name. I sat her down and told her in the most simple way, in Spanish, so her two year old mind could take it in, “Your name is now Kaitlynn.” And that was it. She never turned back and has been very proud of that name ever since. Actually it took longer for her to call me Mama than it did for her to accept her new name. I am supremely grateful for that.

There will come a day when she will want to know about her life before she became a Washington. I have all the paper work and documentation so that she can know everything we know. I am looking forward to that time of discovery with her. We will not hide that from her whatsoever.

As an end note, today marks 15 months since we brought Kaitlynn home. [See 'Nine Months' post for chart] That is the exact amount of time she spent living in the orphanage. Somehow this has significance for me because from this day out she has spent more time on this earth outside of her birth mom’s womb with us than anywhere else. We are her most permanent home thus far.

(no pics in april – oops!)

Links to stories about our journey: “Adoption” and “Kaitlynn“

Adoption covers a multitude of sin. Forgiveness of the redeeming nature rarely lends itself to comfort or ease. Not all the points following surround every adoption in existence, but I can guarantee that every adoptive parent wrestles with forgiveness to some degree.  My personal observations:

• I forgive the birth parents who allowed this child of mine to live in the conditions she did for the length of time she did.
• I forgive the officials who probably traumatized her during her ‘rescue’.
• I forgive society for the fact that such realities as my daughter has lived through exist.
• I forgive the social services agency, the courts, the judges and all other government entities who I am sure are doing their darnedest but whose darnedest is painfully not nearly enough.
• I forgive the orphanage workers who made my daughter comfortable in an institution. Oddly enough these same people receive my utmost gratitude and admiration for their work of mercy.
• I forgive the strangers who stare and say unthinking things.
• I forgive the acquaintances who stare and say unthinking things.
• I forgive dear ones who intend no harm but might every so often do or say things that I perceive as hurtful either because I didn’t take the time to hear their heart or I am just a bit worn out from processing things that I am short tempered, which is no excuse it just is what it is and it makes it hard.
• I forgive my biological children for remarks and actions taken as they process having a new sibling.
• I forgive my husband for apparently being better at connecting with this tiny person who did not gestate in his body. Of course he had practice with it four times over and this is my first time around. Still I thought it would be easier for me and I see it as ‘easy’ for him and I have to just get over it.
• I forgive my adopted daughter time and again… as is the case with all of my children.
• I forgive myself for so many things like: lack of patience, lack of love, lack of preparation, prayerlessness, selfishness, jumping to conclusions, just plain laziness, unrealistic expectations, etc.

These paths of forgiveness have ruts worn down as I revisit them almost daily, and I am sure that my journey of forgiveness has only just begun.

In continuing with the theme of disclosure I will say that at times I stand and stare at these hard paths contemplating if I want to walk the road of forgiveness. There are times I choose to turn my back on what could be the sorrowful path to a freer heart. Yes, there are time I make the conscious choice to not forgive. These are dark moments. When the forks of avoidance turn me back round again in a depressing loop to the same point  I stand staring once again at the choice to forgive.

Then, labored steps move me beyond the tough spot in the route of forgiveness. With each painful, conscious decision to forgive I am sweetly reminded of the passage as though Jesus were speaking directly to me:

⁴⁷ “I tell you, her sins—and they are many—have been forgiven, so she has shown me much love. But a person who is forgiven little shows only little love.” ⁴⁸ Then Jesus said to the woman, “Your sins are forgiven.” (Luke 7:46-48)

To love much I remember what great forgiveness has been shown to me.

Today, may we choose great forgiveness.

The social worker came for the follow up visit. She sat on the couch in front of me, the children busy close around me here and there. She watched. Comments uttered came through smiles and nods. She noticed her improved skin. She noticed how she played with her new siblings. She noticed her confidence. The questions came later after she was able to soak in the pleasant scene before her.

My guard was completely down by this time. After just a couple weeks of having my newest daughter in our home as part of our family I was unsure about what the social worker would be looking for as she evaluated our level of bonding. Had we bonded enough? Was she content with how Kaitlynn interacted with us? What obscure thing would she point out as unacceptable? These and other absurd fears had that tiny little corner of my soul frantic at the thought of this little girl being taken away from us if we didn’t serve tea correctly during the visit. But now seeing the social worker smile I relaxed my shoulders, calmed my breathing and enjoyed the conversation.

Questions to the whole family about our experiences so far were answered candidly. She reassured us and encouraged us that things looked great. Then she steered our thoughts towards the future.

“Have you considered the revelación?”

DaRonn and I looked at each other. We had never heard the term before in regards to adoption. We knew she was a Christian, but the English word for the book of Revelations is Apocalipsis not revelación. Up until now we had only been speaking Spanish. She saw the confused looks we were exchanging so tried her bit of English.

“What you think about the revelation?”

Nope, that did not help. Still that term. I asked her to explain. Graciously she did.

Evidently the ‘revelation’ refers to the moment when Kaitlynn will become consciously aware that she is adopted. The social worker was interested in how we had planned on handling that. Since DaRonn and I had discussed and researched this aspect before we were able to talk with the social worker about how we imagined this unfolding for our family. She added some helpful suggestions and the visit came to a close with relief on everyone’s faces.

Since that day I have been watching Kaitlynn’s personality. She is docile person and very personable. She is smart, complacent and obedient. When I try to think about what it will be like when she finds out I imagine that she will take it in stride. I am not sure yet how emotional it will be. I am pretty sure it will happen in parts, gradually; similar to how children are educated about the differences between genders and all that those facts imply. The information we provide will be age appropriate and we will make ourselves completely available to her as she discovers this marvelous aspect of her being.

I do often contemplate what her feelings will be about the adoption culture in this country. By the time she is able to reason about it there may be some improvements. If things stay relatively the same and we continue on with the work that God has placed in our hands I do wonder what her thoughts will be.

When she looks around and sees children living in the streets begging for food. When she befriends the children at The House of Dreams. When she visits the orphanage she was adopted out of. When she hears us tell of her birth parents and the events leading up to God placing her in our arms. When she contemplates if and with whom she will share such intimate details. What will her main response be? Compassion? Disdain? Pity? Indifference? Anger? Embarrassment? A desire to be involved? Inspiration to help? A burden to pray? [fill in the blank] ??? Only God knows.

I don’t worry about it. It may be comparable to when my older children started to understand the revelation that they are missionary kids. My oldest was only slightly older than my youngest is now when we first landed in this land almost ten years ago. Some of the talks about why and what for and how long have not been easy. I don’t anticipate adoption talks will be all easy either. I do know for sure that I will not avoid any question from any of my children as these revelations unfold. It’s just not my style to shirk or redirect in those moments.

We will talk together, discover together, pray together, cry together if needs be, laugh together and move forward together. Truth be told, this intimate, heart matter stuff is one of my favorite parts of parenting.

Do you remember encountering a ‘revelación’ when you were young? I would appreciate hearing about your experience. You can use the comment space below or send a personal message. Thanks!

She said she planned to leave the baby at the hospital. Large with overdue belly she sat in a plush chair, the large smile never leaving her dark face. The connections are complicated. Sister of maid is pregnant. In her thirties, circumstances unknown, she tells the maid-sister her idea. Maid-sister tells boss-lady, a wealthy Bolivian housewife with a young family of her own. Boss-lady gasps to pastor-wife the horror, begging for the orphanage to take the poor creature in. Pastor-wife has a friend waiting to adopt a baby boy. Friend and her husband agree to meet and talk about options.

Pastor-wife picks up friend, her husband, and their toddler son. They drive to boss-lady’s fancy house. Soda passed out the sisters come and sit. All seven sit to talk of the future, eight with the unborn child. Is the child a boy? Sister smiles and shrugs her shoulders. Phone numbers exchanged, ultra sound scheduled.

Word flies around our circles. A second family steps forward to take in the child if the birth reveals a girl. More rushing around. More talks with lawyer, doctor, clinics, mamas, papas, friends. The second family steps down. A third couple takes their place. Yes, we will take the girl.

Yes, the ultra sound finds the sister will give birth to a sister. Sister of many in the belly. Plans are made for birth mama and adoptive family, third couple, to meet the next day. Baby can’t wait. The night brings cries, hard labor, the baby backed into the world, born into a plan.

Boss-lady calls pastor-wife with news and what do we do now questions. Pastor-wife calls friend. Friend mobilizes circle. A visit to the birth ward is made. Third couple anxiously waits at the door while friend talks to sister to find out what her heart says. Yes, I want the couple to have my child.

Third couple gently meet the newest addition to their beautiful burgeoning family. Baby soap, diapers, blankets, clothes, a meal for sister, and other things are bought and brought since the hospital provides only the hospital gown. After the visit sister is left to care for the baby girl, nurses permit only nursing, no bottles.

How long last night must have been.

Pastor-wife sneaks in with church-member-medical-resident-at-hospital at the start of the morning.

“Do they still want to take the baby?” tired sister asks. The same question will be whispered with the same great big smile and large worn out eyes more than one more time that morning. Pastor-wife reassures each time.

“My baby will be raised in a Christian home,” sister says as she reaches her hand out to the baby girl cradled in pastor-wife’s arms. The hand is retrieved before making contact.

“She doesn’t want my milk,” sister explains. “I am hurting,” she says wincing and tugging at the ragged gown. Exposed. Nervous. Barefoot.

“You know I don’t have any toilet paper,” sister hangs her head and giggles. Pastor-wife wonders how sister can still be smiling and says, “I will go get you some.”

At the front gate of the hospital two rolls are bought for fifty cents. Pastor-wife makes calls to friend so friend can inform circle of the latest before returning to sister’s side. Harried details deliberated. Pastor-wife chats with the nurses before bidding farewell to sister and baby girl.

Pastor-wife returns to house where her littlest ones have spent the morning with yet another adoptive missionary couple and their newborn surprise, delivered right to them by Divinity’s hand, good friends. This missionary couple knows the third couple who pastor-wife has never met. More calls to the circle. Sister needs clothes. The ones she came in were taken away. Clothes will be taken to her tomorrow.

Pastor-wife thinks about sister and baby girl in the hospital this night. She remembers her parting words to sister, “You are a brave woman. What you are doing for the good of your child is a brave thing. You are a brave woman.”

What was she thinking? She saw no alternative. She gave her child away.

The bed carefully prepared. Tears streaming down her face. Wrapping her newborn son she laid him in the basket. Stealth her only concern she made her way to the river side. Making  sure she was alone she gave the soft head one last kiss and shoved the bundle in the the water. It bobbed and swayed. She watched until she could no longer make out its tiny form. Hurrying back to the house she buried her spinning head in her hands.

Had the story ended here what would we say of that birth mom? Would we shake our fingers and scold. How could you? What were you thinking? Crazy woman!

We have to hope that such an extreme act was based in a glimmer of hope that there was a better life for her son than living under the dread of the soldier’s sword. We have to believe in the hand of Jehovah in their lives.

Still One watched over that boy. He watched through a startled sister’s eyes. She hid in the tall grass and scurried quickly along the banks as the water carried her brother to his new mother. Miriam watched as he was taken from the water, his new name bearing to this truth: Moses. In an instance his life was saved by the same race of people that ravaged the country side with bloodshed attempting to snuff out a nation’s existence. Salvation and liberation would come through this Hebrew offspring raised in the oppressor’s home.

The story of Moses fills one with awe at the plan of redemption which began with the birth of a boy.

Now I would like to tell you a similar story about the birth of a girl. Her birth mother’s head may have been spinning after a drastic act in the hopes of a better life for her daughter. Left on a doorstep, abandoned, found and taken in this little girl now has a mama and a papa. She also has a little sister on the way ready to be born in a few short weeks. Her story is just beginning. We hope as it unfolds that the Lord’s hand would be present as it was in the life of Moses.

Just today Romon and Melinda Gore (our missionary interns) gave their new daughter a name. The daughter who is due to arrive at the end of March they have decided to name: Jalynne Miranda. The daughter who came to them last Thursday has been named: Jolee Brooke. These two girls will be raised as twins. Jalynne and Jolee. I like it.

Here are the meanings of the names of this precious five pound, less-than-a-month-old surprise:

So fitting. God has increased this family with a doubly rich inheritance. I am so very happy for them! And I am so happy for me that I get to babysit. We all love her, as you can see in the following images. She is sweet and soft and so tiny.

I am also so very happy to be able to walk with these first-time parents and help them through the mysterious birthing situation in a foreign country and simultaneously help them with the arduous adoption process. Please pray for strength for Melinda as she still has a few weeks left in the pregnancy before Jalynne is born. You can pray for Romon as well as they are both going to be very busy with these two girls. You can pray for Jolee’s health. You can pray that the whole Gore family has favor before every official they will encounter.

Blog announcement from the parents: Our Growing Family

(Click to see the images enlarged.)

Nine months ago today my youngest daughter came home with me. Her 47 months of life have been spread between three places:

Looking at the time periods in this way shows me that we have really just begun to get to know each other. I have great hope for what is yet to come…

Now on with the crunchy, munchy, mixed-up life I lead…

• Pomegranate season has begun! For the the next four to six weeks my fingers will be tainted purple. Yum!
• Third week of the 2011 school year started yesterday.
• Due to strikes in the city two days of school were canceled last week.
• The city is also gearing up for the yearly week long festival called ‘Carnaval’.
• After Carnaval comes the birthday of my eldest. We will be parents of a teenager!
• After that momentous occasion our interns will have their baby.
• I’ve got babies and birthdays on the brain since the 27th of this month marks 9 months since we brought Kaitlynn home. Need to journal my thoughts about the significance of that date.
• Do you read the blog we do for the orphanage? Three times a week we have stories going up about The House of Dreams. Here’s the link: http://houseofdreamsorphanage.wordpress.com/
• Last night I taught a group of people how to eat sushi.
• I keep replaying in my mind a sentence that my husband said to me yesterday that made me feel so very loved.