After our baby Silas, the first in my womb, came and went, and after we gave the ok for the autopsy of his tiny body, a well-respected geneticist told us we’d likely never be able to have healthy children, whole and well. He said that maybe we should try to prevent another pregnancy even, that it would probably end in more imperfection, more loss, more pain. And for what?
Nathan and I, we considered this, prayed about it. No real decisions made, but we started talking adoption with friends and folks we knew. And then while we were still sorting through it all, gathering information and down on our knees, there we were, pregnant with our twin daughters, who came home – healthy and unbroken. And so, we knew now that the doctor was wrong – strong, whole babies could come from my womb. But too the seed had been sown, our hearts ever-softening to the possibility of bringing a child not of our own flesh and blood into this family of ours.
Time passed, as it does, and when our girls were nearly 3 years old, I woke up feeling woozy, recognized that now familiar turbulence in my mid-section, and took a test. Positive. Another life beginning to grow inside of me, heard the heartbeat, saw the little silhouette in black and white. And then after 13 weeks, this baby too left my womb for heaven. We named him Job. And since I wasn’t far along enough to deliver him, and since I’d had that excessive bleeding with our girls, my doctor recommended a D & C, where they scrape the uterine lining and take out everything inside. So a trip to the operating room – cold and sterile, bright lights all around. I remember laying there on the table, waiting and waiting, rubbing my belly hypnotically, and talking to this wee babe. “It’s ok, little one.” “Mommy loves you.” “All is well.” “All will be well.” “You’re going Home, my sweet baby.” “There’s nothing to fear.” And Baby Job joined his brother, Silas, out in the grass with the stones.
And again, after Job came, we began dreaming of a child not from my womb, began praying in earnest, researching adoption agencies, filling out preliminary questionnaires, to see if we would even be eligible to be considered as adoptive parents. And as we were praying and pursuing, the news: a large sum of money would be coming our way unexpectedly, more than enough to cover the cost. And soon after that: approval from an international adoption agency our friends had worked with to adopt their daughter from Russia. Based on our age, years we’d been married, income, current family size, and the like, they notified us that we would be qualified to adopt from one of two countries: Bulgaria or Ethiopia. Then the research into these countries – the people, the statistics – to help us make our decision. The deciding factor there, the bottom line: Bulgaria had an estimated 10,000 orphans at the time and Ethiopia, over 4 million. Our child would come to us from Ethiopia.
Then, just as we found ourselves prepared to move forward, our adoption agency’s rule: If we became pregnant at any time during the adoption process, our adoption would be terminated and we would forfeit any and all money paid. For us, this meant that we would have to try to prevent another pregnancy indefinitely. And my heart sank. My initial reaction: I told Nathan I couldn’t do it, couldn’t pursue one child across an ocean while possibly preventing another from growing right here within me. We agreed to sleep on it, and to pray – more, still.
It was a fitful night sleep for me, and then, morning. And with morning came a sense of peace, a confirmation within us both – we needed to move forward with this adoption, regardless of what that meant for any babies from my body, for there was an ever-growing sense that our child was already being prepared for us, an entire continent away. And so, it was time to act.
Began with the social worker coming into our home, looking around, asking question upon question upon question about our families of origin, our marriage, our jobs, our parenting style, our religious beliefs, our budget, our hopes and dreams for the future, and so on. Next, came making sure our smoke detectors worked and our cleaning supplies were all locked up. Then, having our fingerprints taken, making doctors’ appointments, and producing bank statements and paystubs and tax returns. Taking photographs of us all together as a family. Completing workbooks and online courses about adoptive and transracial parenting. Collecting personal references, stating that we were fit to be parents. This went on for several months.
But when all the questions were answered and the house was deemed safe, when the paperwork was filed and the background checks came back clean, when the doctor said we were healthy and the bank said we had enough money, when the workbooks were full of words and our references affirmed we were, in fact, fairly normal human beings, our names were placed on ‘the waiting list,’ just before Christmas that year.
So, with our adoption agency at the time, when the mountains of paperwork were complete, your name went on the very end of the ‘waiting list,’ along with other families who were also waiting to adopt a little one. There at the beginning, we were #20-something for a boy and #40-something for a girl, meaning that there were approximately 20 families ahead of us that were waiting to be placed with an Ethiopian baby boy and 40 families ahead of us waiting to be placed with an Ethiopian baby girl. We hunkered down for a long wait, through the frosty days of winter and into the balmy days of spring. And then, that May, when we were #13 on ‘the list,’ we got ‘the call’ from our agency, right there on Nathan’s last day of school as we were all driving in our old blue Suburban to Lincoln together. “We have a little boy we’d like to talk with you about…” said our caseworker, the voice on the other end of the line.
My first thought: “But we’re #13? What about the other 12 families ahead of us on ‘the list?'” And the caseworker: “Well, this little one that I’d like to talk to you about, he has been severely malnourished – we think he’s about six weeks old and he weighs less than six pounds now…so, the other families ahead of you have passed over him…” And so, I listened to our caseworker tell all she knew of this baby boy, my heart breaking as I took in his story, already knowing that he was our son. But at the end of the call, she asked us to take 24 hours to think and pray about this little one, before we let her know our final decision. And we did talk and pray. But it was more of a deep and immediate ‘knowing’ for both Nathan and me. This child, and no other, was His gift to us.
Next up then came the passports and immunizations and plane tickets, the filing of visa paperwork with the U.S. government. And a paper chain, counting down the days until our feet would touch down on Ethiopian soil and we would hold our son in our arms for the first time – a son, not of my womb, but of my heart.
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