Ya'll know me, so you know that I have a heart for adoption. I have two chosen sons. When I think about adoption, most days I think about my boys- and how they came to be mine. And how we are desperately trying to heal their scars. Today, I saw adoption from another view.
God allowed me to eavesdrop on a conversation between two women today. They were talking about their own childhoods. Their mother up and left when they were young, around the ages of 4 and 6. The reason for her disappearance is still in question. There are theories, and rumors. And, 5 decades later they still ponder the reasons and still search for answers.
One sister was adopted. One sister was not.
The adopted sister, while loved and blessed to have a family, a Christian family, still aches to know why she wasn't wanted. Why she was put up for adoption. Does she share the medical history of the one, she longs to know, but cannot find. She wonders why she wasn't the chosen daughter, to remain with the father.
The other, while not adopted was farmed out to strangers, who were paid to watch after her. Then, after a while, her father would return and take her with him for a while. Then, leave her again. She was raised mostly by her grandparents. Not because they had great love and affection for her, but because she was old enough to "take care of them." She was disciplined (or so we'll call it) for normal kid things. She blocks the memories. She wishes she had been adopted.
They talk about why each had it "better" and their fears that kept them apart for many many years. They talk about their memories- at least the ones they can face. Memories bring hot, running tears. The talk brings shivers to my spine. Some vivid, and some pushed so far back, they won't or can't bear to talk about.
I hear them laugh.
I see them cry.
I hear them give thanks. They are thankful that after decades of being apart they found each other again. They pushed past the fears of further rejection to to the courage to take that chance.
They look alike.
They act alike.
How is this possible, when they were raised by different people in different places?
It's possible, because they are family.
I think again about my own boys. I think about the difficulty we face day in and day out as they deal with their demons. Their questions of why.
I am convinced, as I listen to the women share, that I can trust what my boys tell me. That their memories are real. And I am reassured that truth brings freedom.
I decide again, to continue to tell them the truth. To give them the answers they seek, even when the answers are ugly.
And I too wonder why.
Did the one who abandoned the women do so to protect them?
Are the rumors true? Will we ever know?
And if it had been different, what would their lives be like today?
This is where I barge in on the conversation and try to encourage them. (it's what I do) I feel the need to remind the women that God, the God they know and love, is sovereign. Always.
If anything had been different, than all may have been different.
Because their lives took the path it did, my life is taking the path it is.
Who were these women? These are women who are precious in God's sight.
Just a mom, and an aunt.
And I am blessed they are mine.