I remember one of the first baby dolls that I begged my
parents for. He was a newborn and came
with a birth certificate ready to fill out.
His eyes were slightly open, umbilical cord still visible, wearing
nothing but a white cloth diaper and a hospital identification bracelet on his
arm. His name was Todd Michael. Of
course, I put my name on the certificate as the mother. But even at that early age, I knew that I
wasn’t the REAL mom, my baby doll was adopted, which made him even more special
to me. I don’t really remember how old I
was at the time; I’m going to guess 6.
What 6 year old do you know that wants to adopt? Throughout the years, as friends of mine got
married and had babies of their own, I’m often asked about my children, do I
want any. When? The answer has always stayed the same, I WILL
adopt. That answer is almost always
followed by, ‘ugh, you don’t want to have ANY of your own kids’ with a
disturbed and disdainful voice. I’ve
always gone back and forth on this, sometimes wanting to experience pregnancy
and motherhood in that way, and other times completely comfortable with the
idea of adopting an unloved child. Obviously,
in the end my future husband will have a say so on this but I am becoming
confident in the fact that not birthing my child will make me any less of a
mother. Because the ones that I do
adopt, will be my OWN.
So far on the race, I have had several opportunities to
visit and work at orphanages. In
Bolivia, we worked at an orphanage for special needs babies, most of whom had
cleft lips/palates. We were there when
some of the babies had surgeries to repair the cleft lips/palates thanks to
Operation Smile. A few days after the
surgeries, I went with one of the “moms” to take the babies for a checkup. Walking into the clinic was like a breath of
fresh air, medical supplies (which reminded me of work) and ENGLISH. I held Wonca (made up name) tightly and
waited in the lobby until it was his turn to be seen, the whole time taking the
sights in around me. I listened to the
English being spoken, but never really spoke or let on that I knew English; I
mean it was obvious, right? I stand out
like a sore thumb with an invisible sign over my head yelling “AMERICAN.” During the checkup, Wonca held tightly to my
thumb never once crying. As I picked him
up to get ready to leave, the American volunteer asked in Spanish, “Are you his
mom?” I smiled and politely said “No,”
but in that moment, I realized that I was, at least for that day. (Breathe Mom, I’m not adopting him).
(at the TB hospital)
Fast forward to Ukraine.
In our second week here, we met up with a team of Canadians who were
here on a mission trip. We had the
opportunity to go to several orphanages with them over the course of one week. One of the day’s we were there, one of the
Canadian men met a girl that would have been the same age as his daughter if
she had lived. There was an immediate connection. After talking to his wife, the second time he
met the girl he asked if she would be open for adoption. I wish that you could have witnessed this;
there were very few dry eyes around.
Being at the
orphanage that day, witnessing that made me realize all the more how that will
be me soon. And I am so ready for it.
Father to the fatherless, defender
of widows – this is God, whose dwelling is holy. God places the lonely in
families. Psalms 68:5-6
