Semi-Open

As I’ve been mainly focusing here on our current adoption of Charlie, I haven’t mentioned at all what has been transpiring in Gracie’s little world of adoption.  This is the first of a couple posts to update and educate some folks on our semi-open transracial adoption.

We have what is called a “semi-open” adoption with Grace’s birth-mother (GBM).  That basically means we have her medical background from the Bethany pregnancy counselor with whom her birth-mother worked to select us and place Gracie.  GBM, along with her drug counselor, initially chose us but was then told we were unavailable because we were already in the process of securing the placement of Emma Sloan.  She then chose two other families, both of whom refused to accept Gracie because of the vast medical needs she had and the risks associated with the health of GBM.  But as you may remember, Emma Sloan’s birthmom chose to parent on day 9 of our 10 day waiting period, and so we were then asked to consider Grace.  

The semi-open adoption agreement through Bethany also requires things from us.  For the first six months, we had to supply Bethany with a letter and photo at each post-placement supervision visit. So, of course, I supplied LONG letters and about twenty photos each time.  Since the finalization of Gracie’s adoption, we are simply required to do annual updates.  Each year, around Gracie’s birthday, we send a letter for GBM and photos to Bethany.  We also tend to include something for Grace's tween half-sister.

Birth-mothers can choose whether or not to receive the updates.  Many times, a birth-mother refuses the updates, but then, after a few years, asks to see the files.  I do not believe this is because the birth-moms are suddenly gripped by regret, but that, having waded through their grief of placing a child with an adoptive family, they are finally able to see the blessings they chose for their child.  They want confirmation that it was and continues to be the best choice.  

GBM and birth-grandmother have always wanted the updates.  And our first Christmas home with Gracie we received via Bethany a Christmas card full of photos.  We have pictures of GBM as a baby, child, teenager and adult.  She is lovely.  Silky straight dark hair (though there did appear to be a permed stage in high school), almond shaped brown eyes.  If you saw her high school pics and mine, you would think we could pass for cousins.  Seriously.  

We have pictures of her half-sister as an infant--they share the same chubby cheeks and pudgy toes.  We have pics of Grace’s birth-grandmother riding an elephant.  We have pictures of Gracie’s biological great-grandma sitting cross-legged on the floor of a house in Japan eating noodles with chopsticks.  

Mostly this semi-open relationship has been one-sided.  We send letters and photos and hear nothing.  Gracie’s birthfamily does not know our last names, nor where we live and only because Grace was in the NICU for so long do we know the GBM’s last name.  ­­I once googled her name to try and locate her (much to the fear of my case worker).  Yeah, I was able to locate her location via longitude and latitude, but not her street address.  Given the fact that I can barely read a map, this was less than helpful.  

We do so desperately long to have a relationship with her.  For the sake of Gracie’s school aged-half sister still living with her and her grandmother.  For the birthmom’s sake.  So she can see the redemption that has taken place in our daughter’s life.  So she can see how even in the midst of all the drug haze, God was and is for HER.  That God loves her.  Not because she chose life and chose us, but because God adores her.  That He chooses her.  That he longs to adopt her.  

I do not want her to simply be my daughter’s birthmother.  I want her to be my sister. In addition to sharing her daughter, I would like to share a Savior. I want to be able to look Gracie in the eye and tell her that she will get to spend all of eternity getting to ask each and every question she had here on earth.  

I do believe it would be helpful for Gracie to know her birthmom.  To have her as a resource for questions.  But the truth is, because of the wretched disease of addiction, this will most likely NOT be able to happen.  It just wouldn’t be helpful for anyone for Gracie to see her birthmom when she is strung out.  So we pray.  For healing.  For sobriety.  For redemption in the land of the living.

Dropping Soda and picking up Latin...

So I really dropped the ball this Lenten season.  I sort of forgot about it until yesterday, when at lunch, a friend asked me if I was giving something up for Lent.  I asked her why and we discussed our own motivations for “fasting” from something—be it a food, beverage, or routine.  We both agreed that food could be tricky.  Because giving up something for Lent is not about dieting for Jesus.  But food IS tangible.  We hunger.  A lot.  And that hunger can point us to our deepest hunger—union with Christ.  And all too often we settle for so much less than God’s grace.  We settle for the comfort of a Hershey’s kiss, a glass of wine, an additional friend on Facebook, or a Downton Abbey marathon.  The objects of my affection are not in and of themselves bad for me, but my dependence upon them is a pathway to death.  If I give my heart to created things, there will be nothing left to give to my Creator.  

And typically during Lent, I’ve been more successful when I’ve committed to doing something rather than foregoing something.  Our first year of marriage, Sloan and I committed to praying together every day during Lent.  And it became a habit.  But a Lenten fast isn’t about quitting bad habits or success—it is about being drawn into the heart of Jesus.  So something that perhaps sets me up for loads of repentance is just the thing.  

So in my usual fashion, this year I will be giving up something: SODA and committing to something:  Daily Lectio Divina.  (Full disclosure, as I type this I am drinking a Diet Dr. Pepper.  I didn’t select this until today, and I like it because it will force me to be more intentional and really is just an inconvenience but one born of habit, ease, and comfort.  And my own comfort is a pretty big idol in my life.  If I could constantly wear flannel and elastic waist pants, I would.    Giving up soda will be uncomfortable for me.  Obviously.  So I’m having my Fat Tuesday soda today.  Deal with it, people, I’m not a Pharisee.)

Lectio Divina is an ancient monastic approach to the reading of Scripture.  I studied it in Seminary and its odd form and counter-productive approach to union with Christ struck me to my core.  Lectio Divina isn’t about reading scripture for comprehension.  It isn’t even about learning, per se.  It is about entering into the very heart of God and resting there.  Its four components—lectio (reading/listening), meditatio (meditation), oratio (prayer), and contemplio (contemplation) are free formed.  So it is a bit awkward at first.  There are no questions to answer, sentences to write, word studies to complete, or pronouns to circle in a text.  There are simply words and phrases to repeat, listen to, say aloud, write down, an respond to. 

I have chosen this because what I desperately crave is Sabbath.  At our church we sing a hymn with the words “Jesus, I am resting, resting in the joy of what thou art.”  I don’t even know what those words mean anymore.  I don’t know what that would look like.  I’m struggling to have patience with the Lord in our adoption, which is spiraling into a short fuse and impatience with my children. 

I crave to rest in God’s lap “like a weaned child in its mother’s arms.”  (Psalm 131:2)  I will be coming alongside others in my church using my church’s Lenten Blog and guide.  With scripture, accompanying paintings and songs, I will be attempting Sabbath.  Perhaps for the very first time in my life.

I’m kind of afraid.  Which is a perfect way to approach Lent. 

Obligatory Snow Picture

On Sunday, it started snowing.  It was pretty lame.  My friend Ali described it as "high school production snow".  But, around 7 o'clock, it started kicking in for reals.  Sticking to everything and accumulating nicely.  Which was shocking, because literally just the day before my daughter was running around and playing outside in her bare feet.  (Clearly, I need a third child because I have SUCH control over the two I have.  Ahem.)

As it began to fall in thick flakes,  I felt a little like the bad Mommy as facebook became littered with pics of kids in the snow in the dark.  But the kids go to bed at 7 and well, well, Sloan was out of town and I may or may not have had some Downton Abbey to watch. 

The next morning, Henry was so excited it had snowed.  He began panting, "Ok.  We are first going to have some hugs.  Then we are going to go outside and play in the snow.  Then we will come back in and have chocolate milk and cookies and hug some more.  Then we will go in the snow and go sledding and make snowballs and a snow fort and a snow man.  Then we'll come back inside for more chocolate and hugs.  Then sledding again!  Then we will watch a movie in our pajamas and I will wear my robe."   I was suddenly preparing breakfast for Buddy the Elf.

I replied, "Umm...I'm cool with most of that plan.  I like the way you think.  But that's an awful lot of coming in and out and snow makes your clothes wet and a big mess and we already have a lot of dirty laundry.  So here is what we are going to do.  Hugs.  Then chocolate milk.  Then we will go outside and play.  There's not enough snow for a fort or a snowman, (ok, there was...but Henry helps for maybe three minutes and then I'm left there peeved because my snowman is ugly) but we can sled some in the backyard. And we can play on the slide and make snow angels and ride the shuttle boards and be silly.  We will stay outside for as long as you want.  But when we come in, we are in for the morning.  Because the clothes will be wet and muddy (oh, did I fail to mention that by 8am, it already sounded as though it was raining because of how quickly it was melting?).  And when we come inside, we can have more chocolate and more hugs and yes, you can wear your pajamas ALL DAY LONG and even your red robe and we can watch a movie.  It is Gracie's turn to pick the movie."

So that, my friends, is how we found ourselves in our pajamas watching Wall-E and drinking chocolate milk for the better part of yesterday. 

The Greatest Show on Earth

This post will not be about how much I loved the 1950s classic movie starring Charlton Heston.  (Note to self:  rent this movie for the next time Sloan goes out of town.)

THIS post is about the most recent Phillips Family Fun Friday.

I began the morning with a little psychiatric testing.  (Because that's how all good days begin.)  In case you've never gotten to take the MMPI, it is basically a scientific personality test that will tell China if I have anger issues or whatever.  It is close to 600 true or false statements ranging from the ridiculous ("I am uncomfortable left alone in a room with broccolli") to the checking to see if you are a liar ("I never get in arguments with members of my family") to the awkward ("I never think about sex when I am in the bathroom") to the random ("I enjoy mechanical magazines.")  Oh, and did I mention that the psychologist who did my intake session and test and will write up our personality reports gets paid three digits per hour?  Awesome.

Phillips Family Fun Fridays are rarely cheap.

But they are ALWAYS awesome.

Because when we go out, we go big and then we go home.

We don't just go to the circus, we get front row seats to the circus.  ( They were Daddy's birthday/Valentine's gift from the kids and me).

The front row seats were great because then the kids could stand up and not bother the folks in front of us.  And to give you an idea of how close we were to the action, here is a picture of the circus band.  And no, I was not zoomed in.

Henry's favorite part was the motorcyles.

Yeah, that's a motorcycle on a wire with two ladies dangling from it.  And yes, it was basically right above our heads.

And that's eight guys on motorcycles in the ball of death.  Or maybe it was ball of steel.

Gracie's favorite part was the elephants.

Sloan's favorite part was the lions and tigers.  Meanwhile, I was longing for days of Gunther Gabel-Williams.  (No YOU wrote him fan mail when you were a kid...)

And my favorite part was the trapeze act.

All in all, it was a great day.  One we hope to make an annual family tradition.

I would also like to give a shout out to Ringling Brothers.  I'm fairly certain its performers are far more ethnically diverse than when I was a kid.  I think it was a pretty pale show back in the eighties, with mostly caucasian performers.  They now not only have an African-American ring master (who rocked his sequins so well that I'm sure even Rod Roddy would be jealous), an African-American cowboy, as well as many Latino, Asian, in addition to your standard Eastern European circus performers.  Pretty much every tongue, nation, and tribe was represented.  What a treat it was for gaggles of kids to see and want to be when they grow up folks of every ethnicity.  Now, if you could stop charging $12 for a bag of cotton candy, you'd really have my heart...

Not our Charlie

We found out on Tuesday that the little boy we had asked to be matched with is not our son.  This made my heart fall.  However, HE HAS FOUND A FOREVER FAMILY!  So while he is not my son, he is well on his way to no longer being an orphan.  So we will continue to pray for little Y.  That he will be loved and cared for.  That he will soar through the numerous surgeries he will undoubtedly have to go through for his scoliosis and that his folks will be able to get him stateside SOON.

I must confess that I did sense some relief when we learned that Y was not Charlie.  Prior to hearing the news, I imagined any relief I felt would come from not having to engraft a child who needed surgery every 6-9 months until puberty into our family.  But that played no part in my sense of loss or relief.  I love little Y.  I find myself sad that I will not get to trace my finger down the twist of his spine or kiss his little pointy nose and pouty lips.  

My relief is selfish really.  I think it will be easier to wait without a picture of a specific child.  For now, my image of Charlie is largely a hodge-podge of the various cute little boys in my life with an Asian twist.   This dull ache for my son is still in the abstract.  So I ache, fill out paperwork, and trust in the Lord.  Once we have our referral, it will move from the abstract to the literal. An actual child will be missing from my couch.  I will begin to picture him at our table, in his bed, splashing in the tub with his siblings.  So my ache will evolve from a dull ache to an acute stab in my chest.  

And of that, I am afraid.  Because that pain will follow me until he is in my arms.  I know that ache too well.  Those empty arms.  The box of small clothes in Henry’s closet just waiting for him.  That incomplete family portrait.  I have 3 children, but I only get to tuck two of them in bed at night.  

We are living in the land of Good Friday, trusting that Easter Sunday will come. 

Homestudy visits, the Muppets, and the Police--Only in my life do these things go together

Monday our case worker C came to our house.  She interviewed each of us individually.  We talked about teenage rebellion, our relationships with our folks and one another.  C also got to hear what it sounds like when a meeting goes longer than expected and we leave Gracie in her room for too long.  And since we have a video monitor, she got to see it as well.  Basically, she got to watch G jump off her train table and hear her sing the Muppets Manamana song.  Over and over again.  My cell phone also rang a lot because my friend who was keeping Henry had expected me to pick him up at 4 (since, ya know, C got to our house at 12:30), but I didn’t get over to pick Henry up until 4:40 or so.  Awesome.

On Tuesday, Sloan and I went to the Bethany office for a joint interview.  Again we talked about our parents, our marriage, our views on parenting, and our (ahem) romantic life.  When asked if I was satisfied in my love life, I may or may not have said, “You know, I don’t like that question.  It’s asks if I am satisfied.  To satisfy means to completely fufill desires, to be full of something.  Well, I will never get enough of Sloan.  I will always want more kisses.”  Sloan blushed.  C just said, “Ok, I’m just going to put yes.”  

And then my stupid cell phone started ringing again.  Sloan was peeved I hadn’t turned it off, but I needed it on in case something happened to the kids.  C understood this.  It was an 800 number so I just turned the ringer down.  Five minutes later, it vibrated on the table.  Again an 800 number, so I ignored the call.  Then my sister called.  And texted.  So I picked up my phone and said, “I think I ought to listen to these voicemails.  My sister is my emergency contact.”  

Ummm…apparently our burglar alarm was going off at our house and ADT had been trying to reach us.  So they called my sister and dispatched the police.  Which I guess would’ve been good if we had had a burglar and not just an idiot homeowner who set the alarm, forgetting that her cleaning lady was coming over.  

Sloan and C asked what was wrong.  “Um, our alarm is going off and they’ve dispatched the police.  So it is entirely possible that our housekeeper has been arrested. Sweet. Can we leave this part out of our homestudy?”  

We had a good laugh and I made some calls.  The police were cancelled and the cleaning lady thought it was funny.  Or she didn’t understand my explanation of it and was just laughing at me.  Either way, she cleaned my house.

We were supposed to have our final homestudy home visit tomorrow.  But it has been postponed (augh!) because we cannot seem to find any psychologist available to give us our MMPI tests.  And China requires that every person who has ever seen a counselor of any kind for any duration or has ever experienced trauma or has ever taken a med for anxiety or depression or has ever had a problem with drugs or alcohol to take the test.  So I’m fairly certain that equals to all Americans taking these tests to adopt from China.  Bonus.

So we wait. 

Where My Heart Is

I started making these pins.   

This one I call the “My Heart’s in Zhengzhou” mainly because that is where my heart is these days.  I’ve made some with the hearts over Africa in both Ethiopia and the Democratic Republic of Congo, because I’ve got friends who have adopted from or are adopting from there now.  I’ve also made a Haiti and can pretty much make any country that has a map I can google. 

If you want to buy one from me, let me know.  They are $10.

And yes, they are shrinky dinks.  And yes, I’m a bit old to be playing with shrinky dinks.  Henry helps.  And by helps, I mean he stands at the oven door and shouts about the progress.  “They’re still big!”  “They are curling!”  “They are flattening!”  “They are shrink dinkied!” 

I made my Zhengzhou pin as a reminder to myself to pray for my son.  To pray for those who care for him.  To pray for those orphans who will never be adopted.  To pray for those loving folks who have built hospice units for all the orphans who will never know an earthly father’s love before passing into the embrace of their Heavenly Father.  When I put my pin on, I am simultaneously broken and encouraged.  There should not be orphans.  There just shouldn’t.  But through God’s grace and mercy, we are being used in the redemption of the brokenness.  God is using our little family to make all the sad things untrue for one blessed boy.

Sloan asked me to make him a pin.  I was surprised, but got to shrink dinking.  Except, it messed up.  It didn’t uncurl all the way.  I attempted to flatten it out with tweezers and the pressure of an Oxford Unabridged dictionary, but it stayed bent.

 

Sloan wanted to use it.  He held the red and yellow mess in his hands tenderly.  I snapped it from him.  “You will not wear that one!  I’ll try again!”

“Elizabeth, it’s fine, it doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“Yes it does.  I do not make crappy crafts.  That one is trash.”  I tossed the offending map of China into our kitchen trash can.

Sloan teared up.  “I don’t want you to throw it away.  It’s fine, really.”

“Shut up.  I can make you a new one.  It’s not a big deal.”

Sloan went and snatched the tangled map from the trash.  “It IS a big deal.  It doesn’t have to be perfect.  It is not trash.  That’s what someone thought of Charlie when they saw him.  That he wasn’t perfect and so they wrapped him up in a carpet and threw him away.  And they would’ve thrown away Henry for being 6 weeks early and unable to breathe on his own or suck and they would’ve thrown away Grace for being addicted to drugs.  Just because it is imperfect doesn’t make it trash.”

“This is a thing.  Those are people.  It’s different.”

Is it?  

Is our pursuit for perfection in our wardrobe, weight, home décor, hairstyle and work an attempt to make sure we aren’t thrown out?   

Do we dismiss the imperfect?  Impervious to their needs because they are different than us?  Because their imperfections are more obvious?  Because they haven’t learned to become such elegant white washers?  

At present, the imperfect China sits on the ledge behind my kitchen sink.  It reminds me what of what real grace looks like.  That this world is not how it should be and yet Jesus still came for me and loves me and says I'm beautiful.

Heavenly Father, I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.  Help me to make sure Charlie understands he is wonderfully made too.