I read somewhere that today is "Birth Mother's Day". And I have to admit, it is a time where I think a lot about my daughter's birth mother and mine too. I'm so grateful that these women chose life. And I'm grateful that they thought beyond themselves.
Fifty years into this adoption thing, I have found that adoption is just a part of my story, it does not define me. It's where my story began. And 44 years later, it is where my daughter's story began. As she grows we find ourselves saying more and more "you're your father's child" or "you're your mother's child", just like we have with Harrison. Because, even though her eyes are brown and mine are blue, we do resemble each other a bit. We both have a bit of a creative side to us and sometimes we just don't notice all the details. Other times we are very intent on whatever it is we are working on. And to be honest, we both love a good "pajama day".
In a few weeks, Clara is going to be in a wedding. The morning after she tried on her flower girl dress I found a little list she had written herself...
"dres
shoos
flowors
har
bun"
She had made herself a list of things to remember for the wedding! Dress, shoes, flowers, hair, bun. The girl loves to have her hair in a bun. I laughed so hard! She is her father's child!!! (Because of the list, not the bun.) And when I go out and look at my vegetables growing in my garden, I have to think "I'm my father's child" too. I realize that somewhere out there is a woman, who I am told I look just like. She is a gift. She gave me the gift of life. And the gift of a life she felt would be better than what she had to offer at that time. And I grew up very loved and very much my parents' child.
Somewhere in China is a woman I love but will probably never know. I often wonder what her circumstances were. She kept Clara for about two months. It's hard to picture the day that she laid her in the bushes outside that hospital, hoping she would quickly be found. Did she hide across the street by the school and watch until someone picked Clara up and called the police? Or did she feel she had to flee for fear of being caught? Did she cry for days? Or did she have to hide her pain from those around her? Does she look at little faces in China wondering if one of them is her daughter? Does she have peace, knowing deep in her heart that she is loved and cared for? Does she still weep? Can she speak of her pain? Does she have a joyful life? I look in my beautiful girl's face and wonder so many things. But mostly, I praise God for the miracle of adoption. And I pray that her birth mother hears about Jesus and finds peace in Him. And I ask God to never let me forget the sacrifice made by that woman so far away.
