Adoption

A Change of Heart – Part 3

A continuation of A Change of Heart -Part 2…

Keisha couldn’t give me a due date. At one point she said it was the end of March and another time she said it was the beginning of April. She asked me to attend a doctor’s appointment with her that no one at the doctor’s office seemed to know anything about.  Things were getting really strange. Then in January the contact with Keisha diminished considerably. She wouldn’t return calls from the agency. She had stopped contacting me. I left messages for her to explain what the agency needed in order to continue preparations for the adoption. She finally called back in February to explain that her phone had been stolen and things were not good with the boyfriend again. Her voice was strained and she sounded tired and overwhelmed. She said she would call me back when things settled down.

I never heard from her again.

Ben and I had, on several occasions, given Keisha suggestions on ways to get out of her chaotic lifestyle, to find help, find a job, move out of the stressful situation she was living in and make a better home for her children. The agency had resources in place for this, too, which is why we had encouraged her to utilize them. But she didn’t and we couldn’t make her, nor did we feel comfortable stepping in and taking over the decisions that were hers to make.

March came and went and so did April. There was no last-minute phone call from the hospital, announcing that she had had the baby and was now ready to finish the adoption process. We had to face it: she had certainly had the baby by then and we were not going to be the parents.

The Lord, in His mercy, had protected our hearts from too much anticipation during this whole ordeal. On many occasions Ben and I discussed how this experience was more than likely just an opportunity to pray for this mother and her children, regardless of the outcome. The agency had warned us that these unusual “matchings” rarely resulted in a placement. We appreciated their candidness and acted on their advice on how to deal with Keisha. This caution kept us from experiencing a real heartbreak when the relationship gradually ceased. We were sincerely concerned for Keisha and her welfare, for the future of this new child and the other children, but we knew that we had done what we could to help and it wasn’t in our hands anymore. To this day we have no idea if Keisha had a boy or girl or if she’s raising the child herself. We sometimes wonder if she was ever really pregnant and if not, why did she act like it? We will probably never know. We just trust that she and her family are in the hands of our loving Heavenly Father, in whom she confessed a strong faith.

I still see the very young single moms at the bus stops and parks and grocery stores, but I look at them differently now. I consider what their pasts may have been like and what options they see for themselves for the future. Now I see not just what they have that I don’t, but I see what’s missing–what I have that they might not. I wonder if it’s a Keisha I’m passing by.

Seeing these women now stirs up compassion instead of jealousy. I have a new perspective that I didn’t have before I met Keisha and was welcomed into her life for such a brief period of time. Even though we invested so much of ourselves into this potential adoption without the joy of bringing a baby home, I still have to thank God for using this experience to open my eyes. I thank God for giving me a change of heart.

The Marathon

This is a marathon not a sprint.

We learn the hard way not to push too fast at the start. We pace ourselves. We don’t want our hamstring to cramp at mile seven when the pregnancy test reads negative. We don’t want to stop short with a side stitch at mile fourteen when the birth mother changes her mind. We don’t want to hit the wall at mile twenty when the agency falls behind in our paperwork.

No, we want to finish this race, so we numb ourselves to the pain. We settle into our stride and ignore the mile markers as they pass.

Sure, we might stumble; we might chafe and bleed from all of the friction; we might even have to hitch a ride on the medic cart for a spell. Whatever happens on the course, though, we know to trust our miles ahead to Him who promises to bring us safely across the finish line.

So, chins up, ladies. You are in this race to win it. Keep your shoulders down. Suck your belly button to your spine. Keep hydrated with Word and Sacrament, and put one foot in front of the other.

Do you hear that? That’s all of your brothers and sisters in Christ cheering you on from the sidelines!

A Change of Heart – Part 2

A continuation of A Change of Heart – Part 1…

“I think we should call her,” Ben said as we stood in the kitchen that evening, going over the unbelievable events of the day. I had fumbled through the rest of the phone call with Keisha, eventually encouraging her to contact the agency we were already working with. I knew that they could provide her with some resources she might need, as well as be a facilitator between us if she was really serious about wanting to pursue adoption.

Ben continued, “If we are really open to this then we need to find out more about her and the birthfather and her situation so we can know all the facts. What if she decides not to contact the agency for some reason? We might never hear from her again.”

His sentiments both surprised and touched me. He was suggesting a much more aggressive approach than I would have considered and it reminded me that although he did not often express  his frustrations with this long wait for a second child, his desire to have a baby was just as strong as my own.

So I called Keisha. She was excited to hear from me again and heartily agreed to come over that very evening to meet Ben and continue our discussion. When she arrived she seemed a bit more timid in Ben’s presence, but still willingly answered the countless number of questions we threw at her.

During the conversation that evening and over the course of the next few months we obtained a picture of this woman and her life, both past and present, that brought to light the realities of what life is like for so many girls who grow up in a culture of poverty. Her father was never in the picture. Her mother was verbally abusive and their relationship now was strained and sporadic. The birthfather–her first and only boyfriend–was repeatedly unfaithful but yet the connection to his family provided her with a place to live, a family support system, and a father to the other three children they had had together. She felt trapped, without any real options in front of her for making a better life.

As she and I visited with each other during this time I couldn’t help but look at my own past and all the privileges I had had: married parents who loved me, moral guidance, boundaries, pastors, a Christian education, a selfless and faithful spouse…too many to count. And I looked at Keisha’s life and felt again a sense of injustice, but this time it wasn’t for me, it was for her.

We eventually had the opportunity to meet Keisha’s other children, whom she obviously loved dearly. Despite the fact that she had experienced very few healthy relationships in her own life, she was a gentle and attentive mother to these little ones who seemed to adore her. These children showered her with the love and affection that she had not received from anyone else in her life. Could it be that perhaps, despite her poor choices, these children were God’s gifts to her  to fill a need that no else had even tried to fill? She loved these children, but she felt that a fourth one would be more than she could handle  in her current living situation. Family members suggested abortion but this was not an option for her.

For four months we spoke with Keisha and the boyfriend, encouraging them to work with our adoption agency. While both of them seemed adamant that they could not raise this child and that we were the right family to do so, they were reluctant to follow through with visits to and from the agency social workers. “Why?” we kept wondering. “What was preventing them from making that next step?” This was not the only red flag that had emerged. There were others as well. Ben and I knew we needed to proceed with great caution. We prayed, we asked for advice, and we waited, all the while wondering if it was realistic to think that this baby would really be our own someday.

To be continued (and concluded)…

A Change of Heart – Part 1

Living in a large city has been an eye-opening experience for my family. We had previously been surrounded by primarily white, middle-class communities. Not anymore. We now live among people of various ethnicities and cultures, many of whom are living in poverty and do not have traditional family units. I see this almost every day that I leave my house. Single moms wait at bus stops with several children in tow.  I see high school girls walking home after school, several with bellies protruding, evidence of the life they carry within. At first it was hard to see these girls day after day and not feel a great deal of injustice. It appeared that lack of self-control and poor decision-making were being rewarded by God when my husband of 14 years and I continued to wait for a child. It felt unfair.

We are on the Caucasian waiting list with our adoption agency. The decision to have our names on the Caucasian list as opposed to the list that includes all races was not made flippantly, nor have we resolved to only have white children in our family. Because we have a choice as to what list we go on we picked the Caucasian list, but we’ve always agreed that if an opportunity to parent a child of a different race was dropped in our lap we would certainly be open to this. And then, one warm and bright October morning, the opportunity arrived–not in our laps, exactly, but on our doorstep.

“Keisha” rang our doorbell with the intent to ask some questions about the “for sale” sign in our front lawn. She and the large family she was living with were looking to move out of their small apartment and they wanted to remain in the same neighborhood. She loved our house and had been admiring it for several weeks. Although I would not normally have invited in a perfect stranger to take a tour, for some reason I felt very comfortable with her and asked if she’d like to take a look around. I was thrilled that someone was showing some interest in the place. We hadn’t had many lookers.

Keisha was sweet, with a wide smile that brightened the room and starkly contrasted her dark skin. She had a calm, confident presence about her, perhaps accentuated by her tall, brood figure. In our conversation during the tour it somehow came out that our son had been adopted and we were hoping to adopt more children. Keisha was intrigued  by this fact and commented on how well Caleb seemed to fit into the family and how content and cheerful he was. She soon left with the realtor’s number and mine in her hand and I prayed that the experience might move us a little closer to getting this house sold.

Not twenty minutes later I received a phone call from her. We exchanged the initial greetings and then, after a quiet moment of hesitation, she blurted out, “I’m pregnant. And I’ve been thinking about adoption. You were so kind to me when I was in your home and your son seems like he is so loved and so happy. I really feel like you’re the family I’ve been looking for.” I almost dropped the phone.

To be continued…

Keeping Watch

I had let my guard down too soon.  I cried.  I grieved for that which was not given to me.

Thanks be to God for you, my dear sisters, who kept watch with me.  You listened and didn’t try to offer a rosy outcome.  You hugged me and cried with me.  You gave me space to let it all out.  You reminded me that I am God’s child, and you prayed for me.  You sent me a baby elephant.  Thank you.

A Quiver of One


Psalm 127

1 Unless the Lord builds the house, those who build it labor in vain.

Unless the Lord watches over the city, the watchman stays awake in vain.

2 It is in vain that you rise up early and go late to rest,

eating the bread of anxious toil;

for he gives to his beloved sleep.

3 Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward.

4 Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the children of one’s youth.

5 Blessed is the man who fills his quiver with them!

He shall not be put to shame when he speaks with his enemies in the gate.

[The Holy Bible: English Stand Version]

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On our wedding day, my husband and I read this psalm with the congregation.  It was our fervent prayer that the Lord would grant to us a quiver full of children.  We knew that children were a heritage from the Lord, and we hoped to inherit abundantly.

The Lord has been gracious to us, and we have one daughter.  She brings us much joy, and we know she is a gift to be treasured.  As the years have passed, however, we have not received any more daughters or even a son.  How can this be?  The psalm-writer pens words about a quiver filled with arrows.  Why shouldn’t my home be filled with children?

It is then that I mourn for my daughter.  I’m sad that she doesn’t get to play dress-up with a sibling.  I wonder how she feels about playing alone in her fort.  Is she tired of playing Dog-opoly with her mom and dad?  Does that bother her?  I feel like she must be missing out on sibling experiences – yes, even on sibling squabbles.

However, these worries are ill-founded.  My daughter doesn’t know any differently.  In fact, she has come to embrace her experiences.  She has made all sorts of crafts and read lots of adventure books.  She has learned to sew and cook and help in the garage.  Her activities are numerous and enjoyable to her.

Recently, a friend of hers lamented not having anybody to play with him at the moment.  My daughter replied, “That happens to me sometimes.  There are LOTS of things you can do by yourself.”  She didn’t say that it really stinks to be an only child.  She didn’t bemoan the fact that she doesn’t have a sibling for a constant playmate.  She didn’t mourn over the fact that she has to be creative in her play sometimes.  No, she simply stated how comfortable she is in her own skin.

And so I worry less for my only child.  In her I have a beautiful treasure.  She is a baptized member of the body of Christ.  She has a family full of sisters and brothers, who share the same faith in the Triune God.  The Lord has made her my daughter, and she is a blessing.  If I never receive another child, my quiver of one is still full.

Roll the Credits

As our adoption draws closer to fruition, we are becoming more serious about the need to choose a name for our little girl.  After six years of waiting, it’s hard to find a name upon which we can all agree.  Also, my husband and I were teachers.  There are some specific children associated with certain names, and we could never give that name to our baby.

We’ve been online and looked at the list of 1000 top girl names.  We’ve scanned baby name books.  We’ve had some fun dinner conversations, calling out names and vetoing others.  So what to do?

Watch a movie.  That’s right; we’ve resorted to watching the end credits.  There are lots of names listed there.

Please don’t text-bomb me with name suggestions.

Here We Come!

Won’t you come out and meet us?

Rebecca Mayes and I, God willing, are getting behind the wheel next Tuesday in hopes of meeting YOU. We will be presenting on the topic “Caring for the Barren Woman” at Concordia University Chicago, Concordia Theological Seminary, and various churches in Michigan and Indiana. And – Best of all! – my husband is coming with us. Rev. Michael Schuermann will be available to answer any questions you may have regarding how to care for the barren man.

Location and presentation details can be found here.

If you would like any of the HeRemembersTheBarren.com hosts to present “Caring for the Barren Woman” at a church near you, please let us know via the “Submit a Question” page on this website.

We can’t wait to meet you!

* Photo by Adriane Dorr

Nikusubila

Nikusubila is an African name. It means “hopeful.”

A year-and-a-half ago, I was walking through Hobby Lobby – piddling, really (a.k.a. wandering aimlessly about with no life goal other than to admire hoards of other peoples’ things I cannot and should not own) – and I came across a figurine of a young boy wearing a safari hat. His expression was sweet, like he was watching something of interest across a field, happily forgetting his present task at hand. Just like a boy!

I picked up the figurine and fingered the boy’s round cheeks. I liked the color of his skin, the shape of his scrawny arms and chicken legs. Everything looked and felt just right. He reminded me of…

No! I quickly set the figurine back down. Silly. Ridiculous, even. I did not need a figurine of a boy in my home. I loathe dusting, and this would be just another item to collect dust.

I escaped around the nearest aisle to look at picture frames and candles. Yes, that was safe. But, even as I checked prices on frames and sniffed waxy confections my mind was on that boy. His posture was just so charming and familiar. He had rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbow, and he was resting his right hand on a hip as if he was waiting for someone to catch up with him.

That settled it.

I walked back to the figurine, picked him up, and paid for him at the cash register before I could chicken out. This was more than an impulse buy. This was hope in action.

For, you see, this boy looks like my son. I have never actually met him. I have only seen him in my head and in my heart, but that afternoon in Hobby Lobby I saw him with my eyes.

Nikusubila now stands in his bare feet on my fireplace mantel where I can look at him and keep hoping that, God willing, I may someday catch up with my son.