All of our domestically adopted children came through the foster care system and subsequently had visitations with birthparents that went on for years. They remember their families, aunts and uncles, grandparents, and siblings. They remember places and birthdays and animal friends. They remember.
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Presently, our older girls have no (or limited) contact with the people who were part of their lives until they were four and five years old. Our paths cross every so often; years ago an Aunt who works at the grocery store made herself known to me. But so far, there have been no "relationships" built or maintained.
It's hard.
Really hard.
This not knowing.
Nor can we answer the questions that inevitably come.
At least not to their satisfaction.
We cannot change the circumstances.
We cannot turn back the clock.
So we hold them and comfort them. We learn to listen. We grow thick skin and try to bear the grief when the arrows of anger are hurled straight at us. Though it is not our fault, these terrible things that happened. The gaping loss in their lives, we weren't on the scene. But we are here now. Forever.
And when they are ready, we will confront the past with the present and go find the people who, in their minds, still matter. We will support them and be present for whatever comes when truth is revealed.
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Years later, when the babies came, the opportunity to create an open-adoption relationship came about. Why not, we thought? We knew the way with the girls wasn't ideal. Perhaps there was another way to do adoption.
Maybe maintaining relationships would be better, the grief less, the questions answered in real time? We had a choice, no one would have forced us or twisted our arms, but we decided we wanted this for our boys. We went forward with an informal agreement to stay in contact, made easy by the coming and going of little Miss Rosy.
And what has developed has been nothing short of amazing and crazy and wonderful and bizarre and sometimes downright difficult.
Early on, she asked us to adopt Micah. We were stunned, unworthy of such honor. The heartfelt entrusting of flesh and blood to our care and keeping was overwhelming.
She came to Trey's adoption. She came to help us celebrate the eighth "birth" into our family though she was laced with pain and sorrow in doing so. The what-ifs wracked her. How could they not? But she came for him, for us, for her.
That my friends, is strength.
But, and perhaps there is always a but, it's hard this way too.
We have annual photo sessions with the other siblings, as many as can be gathered that year. We often stop by to visit and play. We shop for the kids and pierce ears together. We've even gone to the beach a few times. Twice we have shared a meal in our own home.
However, there are emotional ramifications for our boys. Even though they were babies, they know. They feel the loss. It's much more subtle than with the older kids but the confusion is still there.
When we are together, my boys are doted on and played with, tossed in the air by the older siblings. Loved on. And they adore the attention.
And I squirm.
Because we only allow them to see the good side.
We are fiercely protective of our young sons. They don't see the domestic violence, the drugs and alcohol, the regular police presence, all the dysfunction that led to their removal.
They don't know.
We have inadvertently created another kind of fantasy.
And the Mom and I? We talk about the day when she will have to tell them the truth. The hard truths.
Together, we pray that the love we share for these children will carry them through those inevitable questions and the stretching days of, "Who am I really?"
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Finally, there are the Chinese babes.
Only just here. Learning about home. What a family can be.
One doesn't want to know or even talk about it.
Yet.
There may never be any answers for them. The people and places in their pasts don't exist on paper like the others; giving us another form of heartache to learn about, to carry for them and with them.
Still, we honor those unnamed life-givers for allowing us the privilege to know and love and cherish these beautiful, precious children.
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There is no right way to do adoption. No rulebook, no road signs.
But there is hope.
And we have had the privilege of watching each of our children
reach out and grasp tightly the hope that is true and right and real.
I lift up my eyes to the hills-- where does my help come from?
He will not let your foot slip-- he who watches over you will not slumber;
the LORD will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.
Psalm 121
Linking up today at We Are Grafted In with other families sharing the "openness" in their own adoption stories.









Even the thrill of 20 stickers doesn't help with the non-glamour of this procedure. 







