Debunking the Myths #1

I've heard for the last time (without responding)"I'd adopt an orphan, but..." Last week, I heard one of the more common "buts", and I finally responded. So for those of you who are reading and use this phrase, this serves as my disclaimer and warning, you just might be challenged or offended. The occurrence:

Said person, we shall call "Kelly", bumps into us in line. "Oh, what a cute child. Is he yours? I mean where did you get him?" Innocent question.  Information seeker.  Our baby does look different than us.  The question makes sense, so I assured Kelly he is my son and that I got him from the arms of a loving mother, who despite her best efforts and desire was unable to parent. "OHHHH!" She says, "I see. Was it one of those situations?"

"Don't know," I'm thinking, "I don't know what one of those situations would be." So I stand with an inquisitive look staring back at her waiting for her to elaborate.

"I mean, what's his story? Was it bad. I guess his mom and dad are dead or just didn't want him."

"Oh no, Kelly, we are his mom and dad. We do want him. In fact, we fought a 2 year, uphill battle to make our son part of our family. The woman, who happened to carry him in her womb, is alive. She was unable to parent. We don't openly share his story." I wanted to explain to her that's the equivalent of me showing your birth video on my blog...but no, that's not the sentiment I wanted to leave her.

"Well, we've always considered adoption. We would adopt, but I have a problem buying a baby. I mean how much did you spend when you got yours?"

Ever so kindly, I looked at Kelly and responded, "Interesting. I didn't realize OB/GYNS, clinics, labs, hospitals, and insurance agencies were comping the price of births. My insurance costs us $1500/month, my ultrasounds were $450 each, my birth was $8000, and my last son's NICU stay ran about $20,000. This doesn't include the price of an epidural or a cesarean if it is needed. Last time I checked, all of the women in America buy their babies in one way or another.  We chose to buy ours through the gift of adoption; you chose to buy yours through a system of medical staffing, hospitals, and insurance.  I'm sure in the end there is no difference."

Kelly moved away in line. I wasn't sad. Sorry, Kelly.  My son came to me by the same kind of love that brought your children to you. Another woman may have carried him in her womb, but he was intended for my family by an omnipotent creator before the foundations of the earth.  I believe Kelly needed a reason to take a step away from being different. She didn't want the disturbance that comes with going against the status quo. She doesn't want adoption to be a measure by which God stretches her faith. Kelly, a valid excuse would be, "I don't want another child."

If in you there is anything that desires to grow your family through adoption, don't let the cost hinder you. Email us. We will help walk you through some options and suggestions.  Who wouldn't want this to be a part of their lives:

Nine Months

Just a blip:
I remember with our first son being quite annoyed around the 6-9 month mark when he would scream each time I’d leave. Separation anxiety was better termed separation annoyance in our home. I hated the guaranteed bawling, yelping, and wailing that ensued at each departure. In fact, it curtailed much of unneeded socializing. Ahhhhh, but this side of parenting (be it maturing, fourth baby, or adoption) I relish any sign of being “Mommy”. This week, while at Kanakuk Family Kamp, we hit yet another milestone in the area of attachment and bonding. We are rejoicing that our little Meze is crying, screaming, and inconsolable when I take leave. Yes, Meze, our remembered one, we thank you for the gift of protest. So, keep it up. Shriek. Screech. Sob. We love that you ask for us with such definite fervor and desire. We love you. Happy 9 months.

An Ethiopian Princess

In the adoption circuit, family friends are forged fast and fervidly. People, whose faces you've never seen, take up permanent residence in your heart. Our hearts are tied merely by the miracle of adoption. That miracle is connection enough. While in Ethiopia, we met a beautiful little girl, an Ethiopian princess of sorts. Maritu, as she is known in Ethiopia, boast sparkling, wide eyes and a wide smile, which never tires. Her family lives in NYC. Soon, she will be welcomed into a home with a mommy a daddy and a big sister; but before she can join the ranks, the funds to get her home must be in place. The Francis Family has worked through out their adoption to secure the funds for this expensive process. They are not too far off of their goal. Today, I'm advocating for them, in part, for Maritu, my favorite Ethiopian princess, to be able to come together as a forever family. You can log onto this site:



to donate to the Francis Family. Enjoy the beauty of this little one; she is a doll. Maritu, we are waiting to hear you are in the arms of your family, forever to belong.

Adoption Ornament

Check out this exciting new Gladney Family Association fundraising project. The GFAs, who work to promote adoption and offer support to adoptive families, have partnered with Christopher Radko to produce the first-ever Radko holiday ornament with the
Gladney/Adoption logo. I am pleased to report that the East Texas Gladney Family Association is offering this beautiful Radko ornament to you and yours for $60. The Cozy Cottage will showcase the logo on the chimney. What a perfect gift for a family, who knows the beauty of adoption first hand...whether they adopted through Gladney or another organization. Orders will arrive at the end of September or beginning of October. Please, email me privately at lbknight@suddenlink.net for inquiries or orders. Check out the mock up of "The Cozy Cottage" below.

Mezekir Meets the Beach

Sea Island is beautiful beyond belief. The homes are lovely, the landscaping gorgeous, the people are enjoyable, the beachcombing cannot be matched, and were I to order up weather, this is what I would request for a beach trip. We are enduring the rather milky, murky water and brown sand. Mezekir is not enduring anything. He loves all of it: the waves breaking on the sand where he is sitting, the sand, which he aptly puts in his mouth, the birds' noises as they fly overhead, the warm sun combined as it fights the breeze from the sea, and the pool, where we go to escape from the salt water. He is quickly acquiring a taste for American lifestyle and luxury. The Club environment lends itself to the feel of the 1950's or a movie set. Gentlemen walk around in sport coats and slacks; the ladies sport classic styles. Josh is not here, but he jokes it reminds him of Dirty Dancing. It reminds me that regardless of how luxurious and full of beauty and convenience the trips God allows us, my hole for Ethiopia, the simplicity, the kindness of my friends over the Atlantic, the fullness of a culture steeped in tradition cannot be filled except by His presence.

At Loss for Words

There's a song by Mercy Me, which expresses my sentiments better than I am able. The opening line says, "Finding myself at a loss for words, and the funny thing is it's okay." I haven't blogged since our return because I can't even put to words my feelings, my station, my struggles, my pains, my joys, my distractions, or my heart. I am, in so many ways, at a loss for words. So I force myself to recount it all. My joys. Those are easy to recount. My family is together. My son is home. God had allowed our desires to come to fruition. His hand went before us in epic proportion, in way that paralleled the Israelites journey to the Promise Land from Egypt. But the rest is harder. It baffles me. My words don't suffice. I wonder; maybe I don't need to be heard now. Instead, I need to listen more closely to the Lord. I need the truths of His words to be alive in me.

In Ethiopia, it was simple. It was simple to be still and know Him and hear Him. The distractions were small. Looking around, it was easy to see Him and to know where He would lead and direct me at each step. It was simple to know He was present. Continually, He made himself known in ways I had never experienced before. Here; here is different. Here is busy. Here is full of things. Here the noise of life overtakes. Here I can't find my way to the quite, still before His throne. Here is absent of the simplicity I crave in such an extravagant way. Maybe it isn't different or difficult, but I can't find the same place of hearing Him, walking with Him, touching Him, and seeking Him. Here, I can't find the place where His majesty is revealed to me in such a tangible way. And still, I know, He is the same. He is here. He doesn't change. He is consistent. I know He is ever present. I know He desires for me to find myself in His midst. But for me, I'm changed. This place doesn't seem to fit any longer. And here, I feel lost. The loud of life, the busy of life keeps trying to creep in. And I don't want it. For once, I feel like I moved from living in a shadow of reality and met life like He intended for me, for my family, my friends head on with such fullness that leaving it sucks the breath out of life. SO if I'm quite, know it's not you. If I'm quite, it's me. I'm trying. I'm trying to be still and hear Him and rest in Him. I'm trying to find contentment and fullness in the place He has me, here. I'm trying to find the place where He and I commune without distraction.

Today, as I type, my baby, Meze, is lying in my lap. He is curled up like he's been here forever. He doesn't realize life changed. For him, I think it just started. He may not know America. He may not know our home. He may not understand all the new faces. But for him, one thing remained consistent. The love of family. Parents. Trusting the ones who provide for his needs and love him beyond measure. When I look at him, I am reminded, this is exactly what the Lord says to me...I am here. Abide in me... Trust me,.. the one who loves you and provides. I did not leave you. I am constant. I am what you need. Not Ethiopia. Not America. Not friendship. Just me. I am enough. I am your portion.

There is a melancholy, a bittersweet. But the funny thing is, it's okay.

In the meantime, enjoy some eye candy.

Motherhood

I’ve always considered myself fairly resolved. As a teenager, I didn’t need much proof of friendships. I never consumed myself with thoughts of exclusion or inclusion. As an adult, I’m not compelled to question if I belong with or am included by those I know and love. However, parenting in general beckons my heart for proof of being enough, offering enough, loving enough, and meeting enough needs. I look for proof that my children see me as the parent I aspire to be. I am not proud of this. I am aware of it. And becoming a parent through the miracle of adoption leaves me looking for “proof” once again. Yesterday, God allowed me one of these glimpses.
For each set of traveling families, Gladney hosts a tour of the Gladney foster homes and a coffee ceremony. At the coffee ceremonies, the adopted children’s “special mother” (from their time in Gladney’s care) has special time with the child alone. They say goodbye. They dress the child. They mourn. A chapter of love, friendship, and parenting comes to an end. They share their last kisses and hugs, their last words of promise, their last memory. Many of the caregivers were orphans themselves. They relate with our adoptive children in a special way. The special mothers treasure this time. Tigist is Mezekir’s special mother. She loves Mezekir. And the story goes, during Meze’s time at Gladney, he loved and preferred Tigist to all others. On Wednesday, we attended the coffee ceremony. Tigist peered out the front gate as we approached the Gladney home in the van. She could barely contain herself. The evidence of her joy prevailed. She could not wait for us to disembark the van before taking Mezekir in her arms. And then, as quickly and magically as Mezekir was placed into our arms 2 and ½ weeks ago, he was swept away. Tigist’s time with him marked the beginning of the end for them. Mezekir appeared unaffected. He smiled at me as they walked away. I felt a lump in my throat. It began to grow. I was not sure why.
We toured the foster homes. Tigist and Mezekir stayed together. An hour later, we returned. From outside Gladney home #1, I could hear a familiar cry. Mezekir wailed loudly. He was unhappy. I hurried through the front door of the red brick house in the Ayat neighborhood, and Tigist saw me there. She held Mezekir tightly, but it was clear she knew things had changed. She looked to me, sadly, but certainly, and handed Mezekir to me. Mezekir’s cry had been inconsolable. His tear-stained face and red hue proved his cries were a long time in the making. Then, a surprise, a moment, the moment I had dreamt of happened. Mezekir looked at me, his cries quieted; he buried his face in my shoulder. His wailing softened to a whimper and then ceased all together. Tentatively, Tigist said in broken English (and a mix of Amharic), “I’m not mamma anymore. You are his mamma now. He loves you. Go to America and be happy.” The sweet but sad moment was the proof in the pudding; he did know me. He wanted me. He loved me. And, if even for only a moment, he knew I was his mom, and he longed to be with me. I’ve known for so long he was my son. And God granted a glimpse of Meze’s heart melding into mine.
Thursday, we attended Embassy. We expected an uneventful but long experience. I determined ahead of time, it would not be an emotional experience. But truth be told, all of the emotions of knowing Mezekir’s story, remembering his relinquishment, speaking about his birth mother and her story, remembering the time waiting for him, recounting each profitable and failed step in our adoption journey, praying for him and his country and his birth family, knowing soon we would depart this place and people, which we have grown to love, and looking toward the future together culminated when we approached the window for our embassy appointment. The man performing the interview was surely caught off-guard by my tears and smiles. His gentle voice did not lighten the blow as he asked about Mezekir’s background and his birth mom. My answers were brief. I provided what he needed. Inside, though, I remembered each detail of the pain and heartbreak surrounding his life before entering our family. After answering his questions, he looked at us and matter-of-factly reported, “Congratulations. You are free to take your son home with you to America.” Tears flooded and my smile beamed as I cried and thanked him. Even though he does this everyday and is accustomed to the miracle of adoption as it plays out in front of him, for me this experience cannot be replicated. I cannot imagine this journey without tangibly feeling and visibly seeing God at work in every step along the way. He has answered our prayers in the moments of our trials. His name proves to be our strong and mighty tower. He answered our hearts deepest dreams and desires. Each time we call on Him, He faithfully responds. We rejoice today more than ever as we recount our steps in this journey, His journey. He led us across continents, over oceans, to a situation of need and desperation, which evolved into hope and joy. Ethiopia, we love you! Thank you for the gift of a son, of friendships, and of unmatched kindness and love.