I’m posting at Mercy Found Ministries today. Join me there? Thanks, friends, and Happy Monday!
This post is written to the parents who have walked the heartache of a terminated or disrupted adoption. It’s a unique situation to be in – a club no one wants to join. I want you to know today one very important thing:
Your grief is real, and it is valid.
Perhaps you’re right in the midst of this trial. Maybe it is something you experienced long ago. Either way, the loss of a child through a disrupted adoption leaves a lasting scar.
It’s a mark on the heart that heals, but never really leaves.
When our adoption was terminated, I struggled with exactly how to process it. I wondered if perhaps I was overreacting, if my emotions were displaced and over-dramatic. I feared that people saw me as whiny, and perhaps more emotional than necessary considering the fact that we had not even met the child we were hoping and praying to adopt.
For the most part, this inner strife was self-imposed. I didn’t have a string of insensitive remarks being flung my way to back these these feelings of inadequacy. This was my own struggle, and it gnawed at me for a long time.
Did I really deserve to be so sad over our failed adoption attempt?
I walked through those early days after it all fell apart in a fog. In fact, I can barely remember the month of January, 2013. It is very hazy. Grief does that – it clouds the mind, and shrouds the memory with a sense of heartache that you never really escape.
Every day, I was sure that the people around me rolled their eyes behind my back, ready for me to get over it and move on. I questioned God, trying to make some theological sense of our predicament.
Did we really lose a child, or was there never a child planned in the first place, since He is All-Knowing, and He knew from the beginning that we would not be able to complete the process?
My mind spun throughout the long, dark hours of the night, trying to break it all apart, to make some sense of it all. It was a “chicken or the egg” riddle without a clear-cut answer, and it made me crazy….
We decided early on that we wanted to find out the gender of this baby, but we also wanted to take advantage of the fun developments that have occurred in the last six years since we had our last child. (And by “We,” I assume you all I know I mean “Me.” Lee is, graciously, along for this crazy ride).
There weren’t gender reveal parties when we had babies earlier. This is a new development, and a fun one to boot!
Last Thursday, I had an ultrasound, and I kept my head turned and my eyes squeezed shut while the technician pushed and moved the baby around looking for the right shot. She got a clear view, and handed me a sealed envelope with the results, and thus began the most stressful 24 hours of my pregnancy.
I held the results in my hand, but we had determined to find out together as a family.
Do you know how many times I considered opening them, then resealing them in another envelope?!
Roughly 168 times…
But I resisted, and I handed off the envelope to my friend Jenni, who was tasked with pulling the surprise together. And I spent the second 24 hours talking myself out of texting her to see if I could get her to slip up and offer me some clue as to the results. I’m glad I waited, though, because the surprise?
Oh it was sweet.
I had my mouth open for most of the pictures. Good grief, I have a huge mouth…
Truthfully, I’ve felt for most of this pregnancy that I was carrying a girl, but there was a part of me that feared I was wrong. Of course I would have been equally as thrilled to have another little boy, but here’s the thing:
I feel like this little girl is just a whisper of God’s sweetness to me.
It’s no secret that the termination of our adoption was one of the most difficult and heart-wrenching experiences I’ve ever walked through. While I mourned the loss of a child I had prayed for, dreamed of, and envisioned for so many years, I lost something else, too.
I lost the guarantee of a sister for my Katya.
These past 18 months have been some of the hardest of my life. Not only did I say goodbye to my dream of adoption, and to the child that we had already prayed for and loved, but I also experienced personal heartache within my own family, and it all became a lot to process.
I longed for a sister in the last year. I see the relationships that so many others have with their sisters, and I wished I had the same.
Adoption had been a way for me to answer that dream for my daughter. I dreamed of giving her a sister, and by adopting a little girl, I felt like I could at least give her that gift.
See the thing is – Stuart men are not known for producing little girls. Our Tia broke a long history of strong male lineage, and I feared that we had already struck the X-Chromosome gold, so to speak, and it seemed fairly far-fetched to think we might be able to have another girl on our own.
So I had prepared myself to bring another (amazing) little boy into this world, and to pray that Tia would be blessed with sister-friends instead.
This is my very favorite of all the photos.
But God is so good to hear my deepest heart’s cry. He knows that I still ache a bit over the failed adoption, and perhaps I always will. Perhaps that experience will always sting just a little.
But He provided a balm by answering the smallest of prayers.
Please give my girl a sister.
What a joy it was to experience this moment with our families, both near and far. Thank you modern technology. Yet another advance from the last time we did this whole baby thing.
Having a baby in 2014 is F-U-N!
Thank you to everyone who celebrated this day with us virtually.We opted not to have an in person gender reveal, because I just felt like it would be too much, but the online virtual party we had was even more fun, because all of my worlds, past and present, collided in that one moment, and it felt like the most special day in all the world.
Social media, man. It’s pretty awesome.
And, of course, a big, huge, GIGANTIC shout out to Jenni of Avodah Images for keeping the secret, bringing the balloons, and taking the photos. I’m so grateful that she and her family were there with us for this day. What a blessing.
This is the second installment in my four week series honoring the Ukrainian men and women who fought for their freedom in World War II, or “The Great Patriotic War,” as it is referred to in Ukraine.
Today’s story comes from a man named Oleg Dimitrievich. I met him at a local school one afternoon in Kiev after I finished speaking with a group of students. He heard what I was doing, and asked if he could tell me his story.
I will never forget this man. His hands were weathered and rough, nervously ringing his hat as he recalled the memories that haunted him. He told me his story with tears coursing down his cheeks, and he wanted to make sure that I understood that the men and women who fought in this war were more than just soldiers.
You must know that I and my comrades, we were all just ordinary people. We were not special. We were just young men and women doing our job. The battalion I took part in was a fine battalion. We fought hard for our country. We were good men – learned men. Many of the men loved to write poetry. We were deep thinkers and philosophers and singers. We were more than just soldiers.”
Oleg Dmitrievich remembered those days of war with raw emotion. He described the heat of the bombs, and the sounds of the bullets as they buzzed by his head. Out of 600 men in his battalion, less than 50 survived.
This is his story:
I was a simple officer in the Great Patriotic War. When the war began I was still studying in college, so I did not join the front until March of 1942. I was 23-years-old at the time.
I would like to tell you my impressions of the war. You see, my memories of that time are not just stories, they are realities. The deaths, the battles, the bombings – they are all real to me. You are just listening to these stories, but I was living them.
You must understand that many people in my country have covered up facts about this period of history. For many years, people have tried to cover up their shame by burying the truth beneath a mountain of propaganda. We have hidden ourselves from the truth.
And what is the truth? Many people do not know that when the Germans first appeared, people in our country, especially those in small villages, accepted them. They thought that perhaps Germany had come to liberate them from the Soviet Rule. They thought it was the establishment of a new Revolutionary period. So, as the Germans marched into the villages, people threw them candy and sweets. They listened to the German songs and tried to sing along. This was hard for those of us fighting the war to see and understand. We felt betrayed by their acceptance of the very people we were trying to overcome. This is the truth.
There is one particular episode that stands out vividly in my mind. It was late in the afternoon, and I had somehow gotten separated from the men in my battalion. I was walking down the road, unsure of where I was when I saw two Soviet soldiers sitting on the side of the road with their backs to me. I thought that perhaps they were sleeping, but I needed help so I decided to disturb them. I approached and asked for directions but received no response, so I gently nudged one of them. It was then that I noticed that they had no heads. This was a terrible shock. This was life on the front. You never knew what horror each day could bring.
In 1944, I took part in the liberation of [the town of] Kam’yanets Podilsky. It was difficult there. Kam’yanets Podilsky was a small town surrounded by rolling hills. There was a large bridge that crossed a deep gully. This bridge was old and beautiful. It led to the old fortress. This fortress is one of the most remarkable sights in our country. Through determined fighting, the Soviet soldiers had managed to save that fortress from complete destruction. But they could not keep the Germans out completely.
The Germans had taken control of this town and were monitoring the main bridge. We worried that we would not be able to usurp them. So we decided to trick them. We waited until night to begin our attack. We shined our tank lights down upon them as bright as we could, so they were unsure of whether we were enemy tanks or their own tanks. Then, our division rushed forward, and somehow, through that simple trick, we were able to retake the bridge.
After this time, I participated in the liberation of Lviv. In Lviv, we faced an battalion of Ukrainian rebels called the Banderovtsy. They were an ugly, terrorous people. We did not know about them before we got to Lviv.
(Sidebar:The Banderovtsy were a group of men and women who fought zealously under their leader, Stepan Bandera. Their sole aim was to see Ukraine become an independent nation; therefore, they often fought not only against the Germans, but against the Soviets as well. There is a great divide between Ukrainians as to whether the Banderovtsy were patriotic soldiers or ruthless killers. In Western Ukraine, the Bandersovtsy are often hailed and remembered with pride. But elsewhere, they are often shamefully scorned.)
At one point, we found ourselves in a small village outside of Lviv where wounded soldiers were being treated. I do not remember the name of this town. There were thirty-one people in this village when I arrived, and we wanted to evacuate them to a hospital. I left one morning to get a car to send for the wounded, but by the time I returned, all of them had been slaughtered. The Banderovtsy had been there. This was terrible.
We were always on edge during this time of war. We never knew when an attack would begin. Fear mounted only in the still moments of the night, when we had nothing but our thoughts to keep us company. During the day, we did not have time to fear. You see, fear appears only when you are idle – when you have nothing to do. But, if you have a goal and know what you are working toward, you are busy and you can neglect your fear.
This was my experience in the Great Patriotic War. I feel it is a pity that we had to fight this war. It seems it should not have happened. But I am grateful that I took part and helped lead this country to victory over the fascists. We fought to the victory!”
I answered the phone in my matchbox apartment as I unpacked one last wedding gift. A set of dishes that I thought were the coolest thing I’d ever seen when I was a 21 year old college student dreaming of setting up her own home. A set of dishes that I no longer love with the same fervor that I did then.
My husband of three weeks was on the other end.
“I got the job,” he said.
“Great!” I answered. “Congratulations.”
When we left for our honeymoon, we thought he had a job lined up, but we’d been surprised to return home and find out the job had fallen through. This was a hasty interview set up at the last minute for a job selling printers for Hewlitt-Packard in the Dallas-Ft. Worth area.
There are some many days that I miss those early years when we lived more on love than on cash. We had so much fun, and between his salary, and my earnings as a gymnastics coach, we had just what we needed to enjoy the newlywed life. We knew even then that we were beyond blessed, and that we had more than we really needed.
As life has moved forward, and careers advanced, we have, naturally, been able to increase our earning capacity, and with each salary raise, each new job, I find myself missing more and more that feeling of freedom that comes when you don’t have a lot of money.
It’s ironic, isn’t it?Ironic to equate having less money with freedom. Granted, we had no children, which made our lower earning less of a strain, but there is still a sense of freedom that washes over me when I remember those early days.
Freedom from want. Freedom from the desire for possessions. Freedom in contentment.
When children enter the picture, you naturally amass more “stuff.” The bills increase with each sports team joined, each new endeavor tested. These aren’t bad things, of course, but I find myself slowly and methodically being chased.
Chased by the want of more.
The more we’re blessed with, the more I find myself wanting.
I want to take this vacation.
I want to purchase that new furniture.
I want to buy my children this new toy, or that new outfit.
I want to eat out because OMG THEY NEED TO EAT THREE TIMES A DAY EVERY DAY!
I want, I want, I want…
When the “wants” start to close in, Lee and I ask ourselves a few questions:
First, is this something that we need? This is often the toughest question to answer, because sometimes the answer can legitimately be “Yes,” but the item may still be more frivolous than we’re willing to really admit.
Second, can these funds be put to better use elsewhere? We have two children poised to enter the world of orthodontia. We got the estimate for Phase 1 the other day, which has now taken precedence over a few of the other things we were hoping to spend money on. It is what it is, even if it’s not fun.
Third, will this purchase hinder us from giving freely? This is the area in which I feel God has most freed us as a couple in the last three years. While we used to think of ourselves as joyful, cheerful givers, often when the time came to actually do the giving, we had a hard time pulling the trigger, or we gave less than we actually could because we were afraid to let go.
I often feel chased by wants. There so many things I want to do, places I want to go, changes I want to make.
But before we fulfill any of those desires, what I really want is to make sure my heart and motives are checked first. Because there’s a fine line that separates just enough and too much, and with three (soon to be four) sets of little eyes watching closely, the want that I must place first and foremost, is the desire to show them that life is so much more full when you give it away.
And that is a want I’m willing to surrender to, every. single. time.
