A Letter of Love to 2 Unknown Birth Mothers

Dear Unknown Birth Mothers of my Two Sons,

I do not know your names. I have not seen your faces. I do not know your stories.

But I love you.

You carried the flesh and blood of my two sons. You nourished, carried and hosted the miracle of life given to you by our amazing God.

You did not terminate the lives of my two children.

You could have.

You didn't.

I cannot thank you enough.

What hardship you endured, I cannot fathom.

You each loved of them so intensely.

I know you did. There are clues all about their stories that indicate your love.

You cared.

How it must have broken you in two to make the choice to allow someone (me) to come along in their future to raise them.

I cannot walk a mile in your shoes, but I respect you.

And I cannot stop thanking you.

The laughter and joy that Zeb brings my heart---oh how I wish you could know it too! Perhaps you treasure memories in your own heart on a day like this? Perhaps you think daily of your son you have lost. Wondering. Hoping.

I promise you: I will raise him as if you were here with me. Holding him in my arms when he is frightened.

Wiping his tears (and that ever runny nose) when he is hurt or sad.

Guiding his heart to trust.

Leading him to Jesus--where all sorrows melt into joy.

And to Toby's birth mother, oh you precious woman! How can I thank you for so carefully placing him in a spot where he would be immediately found?

Your heart knows exactly how old he is.

I understand...

I lost a son too. He would have been 6 1/2 now.

You know very well that your son is 2 1/2.

Please carry no guilt. You don't need that on top of a broken heart.

Know that I treasure Toby as my very own flesh and blood.

I promise to you as well: I will raise him as if you were here with me, looking over my shoulder, listening to how I comfort, train and teach.

And those scary things about his body that didn't look "right?"

Worry not! We are working with those and will be seen by the best doctors in the West for his condition. His differences are not scary for us (who had plenty of months to research and prepare), as they must have been terrifying for you. We are surrounded by supportive people who also have children like this. We are in good hands.

Oh how different it is when we CHOOSE a special need versus you who had it sprung upon you without warning or explanation.

I planted a rose bush in my garden for each of you:

Red for Toby's China mommy

It is a memorial garden to honor your memory. To teach my sons that they have been loved from their very beginnings.

A place for them to be when they feel they want to just thank you.

Or cry for you.

Or even be angry.

Pink roses for Zeb's Uganda Mommy

There is so much loss in adoption, but much gain.

You ladies each gave to them.

You gave to me.

And so today, on this Mother's Day, I honor you.

Sincerely,

Adoptive Mommy to your birth sons

Dichotomy of Sons

I snuggle down a bit deeper into the old rocker and breathe deeply. I smell the freshly washed tight curls that cover his head. Strawberry and coconut. Mmmmm. What a blessing this moment is.

Five years.

I hear the words echo in my head as I rock this snuggled in, jammied one who clings to me with his warm, dark fingers.

It's been five years.

I am aware on so many levels the way time passes and yet does not impact the deeper pockets of pain that I carry. I am indented with the wounds that death has inflicted, yet I daily live full of love.

Dichotomy.

I rock this child and hold him tighter, if it's even possible. He says nothing, just cuddles his face into my neck. We love one another. We are together.

It is December 29th. A night of deepest searing pain for me 5 years ago. A day when the sun went black. A third pregnancy ending in horror. And this time, we'd made it to 39 weeks.

But now...we've rolled ahead five years. Now I sit holding a child from Africa in my lap. Freshly bathed and read to, he clings to me as if he knows I need it.

"Mary treasured all these things, pondering them in her heart." Luke 2:19

One son is gone from me, another is snuggled in.

One is from my own body, the other from someone else's...whom I will never know.

One son lives with Jesus, another is here waiting to learn about Him from me.

One son taught me so much by his leaving, another here has taught me much by his arrival.

Believe it or not, I am comforted by the fact that I do not understand the ways of God. Scripture says His ways are higher than ours, His thoughts, higher than our thoughts. I take comfort in this. I do not want to know why.

I simultaneously ache from the pain in my heart from Oskar who left me too quickly and delight in the armful of love I have on my lap who looks at me with deep dark eyes and stutters out, "M-m-m-mommy, I l-l-l-l-ove you."


Thank you, Lord. For all of it.

Raw moment

Yesterday while we were outside playing, I commented to a fellow adoptive father, "I think they're all probably a bit older than we were told..." To which he replied "No, we have his actual birthdate."

Why did I ask??

But I did.

"When is his birthday?"

"December 29th."

I sucked in my breath. That was Oskar's birthday--well, it was the day I discovered he was no longer moving anymore. The day the nightmare began. A day that will forever be frozen in my memory.

And then I realized that his soon-to-be son was actually born on the same day, the very same year.

It was too much. I felt my legs go weak. My heart raced. Tears flooded and I got up to run off...but remembered the trauma of Zareb when I took a phone call away from the crowd so I could hear. (He flipped out thinking I'd abandoned him--his deep seated fear.) So I quickly bundled him up in my arms and ran off to find a quiet place.

I found some stairs that overlooked Lake Victoria. Gorgeous colorful flowers dotted my view. I sobbed. Zareb looked quite alarmed. I snuggled into him. And then I realized it.

We have BOTH had deep pain in our lives to bring us to this point.

Tears are not unfamiliar to my Ugandan son. It's not a happy childhood that avails a child to adoption.

"Please don't cry Mommy," he said lovingly later when we got back to the room. His tender heart had remembered me, so broken, on the stairs and he sought to bring me comfort. I thought it was interesting...one of the books that brought me great comfort during my grief after Oskar died was titled that same thing, Please don't cry, Mommy.

It may seem like adoption is merely paperwork and rejoicing, but there's a layer of pain and harsh reality that underlies it all. I am grateful to God for the pain (and great healing!) He has permitted in my life.

Perhaps I am better able to help my son with his past as well.