I've been meaning to share some of the processing I've had to do to wrap my heart around the fact that there are two girls in Africa who are my daughters. I think it is important to share because one great fear I know a lot of people have is that they won't love an adopted child like their biological children. Of course I don't have a biological child, but I have no doubt that I don't love Abram any less than a mom loves her biological children. :)
International adoption is different. You are all of the sudden shown a picture of child a million miles away and you have to decide if he or she will become your son or daughter. In theory, it sounds like a wonderful, glorious moment . . . the day you finally see a picture of your child. In my experience, however, it is a heavy, daunting feeling.
When I first saw our girls' pictures, I felt SCARED. TO. DEATH. I was scared of how emotionally wounded they might be. I was scared if they would love me as their mom or not. I was scared if I would love them as my daughters. Will they ever attach to me? I think a lot of this had to do with the fact that they were 5 1/2 (actually 7 now)and six years old and not the cute, snuggly little 3-4 year olds I was expecting. I didn’t get those warm, fuzzy feelings you get when you look at cute little African orphan babies in a slideshow.
Another thing happened as soon as we accepted the referrals of our "older" girls, almost three months ago. I became very aware of my niece Sydney's little 4-year old world. I noticed how much of life she comprehended, her language, her affection and all of her 4-year old cuteness. It made me ponder how long it would take our girls - 7 and 6 years old - to catch up with all that she understood of the world around her. It overwhelmed me at times.
During the time of my heightened 4-year old awareness, I spent a weekend away with Sydney (and Mya, Kate and mom). For two to three days after that trip, I was depressed. I was so incredibly sad for all of the 4-year old crawl-up-on-your-lap cuteness that I will have missed out on in my girls lives. I did a lot of crying, grieving those losses.
But, grief is a gift from God. He gives us the tool of grief to move from one place in our heart to another, new place in our heart. I am so thankful for grief (though it is no fun at all to go through). During this short time of grieving, I read the following from Oswald Chambers (My Utmost for His Highest, Sept. 25):
“Our Lord's making of a disciple is supernatural. He does not build on any natural capacity of ours at all. God does not ask us to do the things that are naturally easy for us - He only asks us to do the things that we are perfectly fit to do through His grace, and that is where the cross we must bear will always come.”
I also read: "There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment." (1 John 4:18)
And finally: ". . . in quietness and trust will be your strength" (Isaiah 30:15)
My heart was (and often still is) overwhelmed at the thought of bringing in these two older girls who have had significant neglect and trauma in their short little lives. But, God's truth spoke peace into my weary heart. My strength and ability to love and help these girls rests solely on God. There is a sweet freedom and joy in this place.
Sure enough by the next week I felt the beginnings of love for my daughters. Making a photo album for them helped. Buying shorts and shirts and underwear for them helped. But, it has been a process . . . a process that involved a lot of tears while crying out to God during worship at church for about four weeks in a row, asking Him to do what seemed impossible from my point of view. Jesus has been faithful and He has grown a fierce love inside me for my girls.
Just this past week, we received new pictures of all three kids. The girls were wearing the clothes and flip flops we sent and holding the baby dolls we sent. And they looked SO DIFFERENT from their first pictures in the orphanage. I honestly thought they sent me the wrong pictures of my girls. 10 weeks in a foster home, receiving love, nurture and better nutrition has made a huge difference. Not to mention the knowledge that they are no longer orphans. Our social worker said the girls were smiling because they know we are adopting them.
In one of the pictures we received, our six year old daughter was holding the photo album we sent with a picture of Jason, Abram and I on the cover. The look on her face is so cute. You can tell she is happy, almost proud, to be showing a picture of her family. Just three months ago they were orphans with no hope, no family, no one to love them as their own. And you could see it on their sad, empty faces in their first pictures. They now not only have hope, but a family.
In the most recent pictures, both girls are wearing a nametag that says LEE, _ _ _ _ _ (first name). They finally BELONG to someone. They BELONG to the Lee's.
They belong to us.
The Lee Three
Showing posts with label Adoption Loss and Grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Adoption Loss and Grief. Show all posts
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
We Can't Ignore Their Losses
I follow a blog called One Thankful Mom. This mom writes about the challenges and blessings of love and much of it is about raising a family with several adopted kids (and several biological kids).
The recent post below was excellent and ties in well with the Grief and Adoption article I posted two days ago.
Here it is:
(While out running this morning) I thought of my children and my heart was heavy. These three years have not only been hard for us, they have been equally, or possibly even harder, for them. While our lives have been turned upside down, it cannot compare to the changes they have faced. They have given up their:
country
culture
language
home (even if it was an orphanage, it was home)
friends (some who were like sisters and brothers since they were together for many years)
and the life they imagined.
I do not doubt that this is the life God has for them; He places the lonely in families. But we cannot ignore their losses. We must not ignore them. It is essential that Russ and I acknowledge our children’s grief, fear, loneliness, and anger. We must join with them in their suffering.
Even their healing comes at a cost to them. Letting go of the old ways of relating to people, the ways that made them feel safe, is terrifying. Learning to trust that we:
won’t hurt them,
will provide for them,
will keep them safe,
will love them,
will never leave them,
is hard, gut-wrenching, wrestling-with-your-soul work.
Lest anybody (including me) think that Russ and I have made all of the sacrifices, we must always keep before us just what our children are struggling to embrace.
May we never give up, never lose hope, and always believe in the transforming and healing power of our loving God. And may we do it gently, with our children’s hearts held tenderly in our hands.
~Lisa
The recent post below was excellent and ties in well with the Grief and Adoption article I posted two days ago.
Here it is:
(While out running this morning) I thought of my children and my heart was heavy. These three years have not only been hard for us, they have been equally, or possibly even harder, for them. While our lives have been turned upside down, it cannot compare to the changes they have faced. They have given up their:
country
culture
language
home (even if it was an orphanage, it was home)
friends (some who were like sisters and brothers since they were together for many years)
and the life they imagined.
I do not doubt that this is the life God has for them; He places the lonely in families. But we cannot ignore their losses. We must not ignore them. It is essential that Russ and I acknowledge our children’s grief, fear, loneliness, and anger. We must join with them in their suffering.
Even their healing comes at a cost to them. Letting go of the old ways of relating to people, the ways that made them feel safe, is terrifying. Learning to trust that we:
won’t hurt them,
will provide for them,
will keep them safe,
will love them,
will never leave them,
is hard, gut-wrenching, wrestling-with-your-soul work.
Lest anybody (including me) think that Russ and I have made all of the sacrifices, we must always keep before us just what our children are struggling to embrace.
May we never give up, never lose hope, and always believe in the transforming and healing power of our loving God. And may we do it gently, with our children’s hearts held tenderly in our hands.
~Lisa
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Embracing the Grief of Adoption
I have read some on this topic, but have NEVER read anything so well-written on the topic of grief and adoption than this article below, again from Empowered to Connect. I think I will need to read and re-read this many times down the road.
Embracing the Grief of Adoption
By: Michael Monroe
I was reminded last night of something I already knew, though I often try to forget it. It is one of the more sobering realities of adoption – the fact that there is no adoption without loss and pain . . . and grief.
As an adoptive dad, like all adoptive parents, my tendency is to focus on the miracle, blessing and joy of adoption – and rightfully so. These are the undeniably beautiful realities of the adoption journey. But they do not negate the equally unavoidable reality that there is no adoption without loss and pain. Adoption is at the same time born from and a response to hurt, loss and sorrow.
Last night I saw through my son’s tears and heard in his words the deep, heartbreaking grief that lurks in the shadows of adoption. It was an intense sorrow caused by the loss he feels and understands now more than ever before. My son’s grief is for that which never was and for what will never be.
In trying to carefully walk a fine line between honestly telling about our adoption journey and protecting what is, after all, his story to tell, I dare not share the details of what was said. But it was all too clear that he has now come to an age where the facts of his past no longer merely equate to a story that he feels some amount of curiosity, confusion and even sadness about. The books told us this would begin to happen at his age – for some children more than others. And yet, nothing could have fully prepared me for the flood of thoughts and emotions as I saw his grief come crashing in. The loss and pain of his broken past are now more fully his loss and his pain. His heart was breaking and as he cried I felt so helpless – I felt so small. There was nothing I could say and little I could do other than take turns with his mom holding him close and listening, being sure to acknowledge each and every emotion and longing he expressed.
The adoption journey certainly has its share of loss and pain for everyone involved. Our journey to our son has pain and loss, and even grief, but it is not the same as his. In that sense, we share the same adoption with him, albeit from different perspectives, but we do not fully share his same journey. As I held him close I so desperately wanted to tell him that I understood what he was thinking and feeling . . . and God knows I wanted to, but I can’t. Not truly. He knows it and so do I. As a result, all we could offer him was our reassuring presence to help him run toward the loss and pain, not away from it. To help him own the grief that he feels, and to own it redemptively.
{Blogger's note: The previous two sentences are two of the most profound and powerful sentences I have ever read on the subject of grief. I have never heard anyone say this - yet it is so true. And I think we can all learn own our grief - no matter what the source of that grief - redemptively. What a beautiful picture. And only possible because of what Jesus did. It is a picture of the cross.}
As a dad everything in me wants to protect my son from such grief. As an adoptive dad, this grief can appear as an unwelcome intruder seemingly intent on pushing he and I apart – reminding us both of “another” as if to suggest the need for him to make an impossible choice. But I choose to believe that his grief can bring us closer together. By choosing to let go of my desire to hold exclusive claim to my son’s love and loyalty; by choosing to see myself not as an all-sufficient substitute for what he has lost, but rather as an imperfect father dependent on God’s grace to love him well, then, and only then, can I offer my son what he needs most, especially in the midst of his pain and grief.
I find that there is beauty in the pain and I know there is meaning in the grief. As a result, we will do our best to weave this pain and grief into the story that we tell and re-tell, being sure not to miss the beauty or overlook the meaning. But last night as I fought against my instinct to try to make the pain and grief go away, all I could do was hold my son in my arms and reassure him that I love him – all of him. This includes his pain and grief. There was no nice and neat resolution to our time together, no magic words that I was able to speak to make everything better. Instead, as he cried himself to sleep in my arms all I could do was hold him, with his grief, tightly, and remind him that we are both in the arms of another.
Embracing the Grief of Adoption
By: Michael Monroe
I was reminded last night of something I already knew, though I often try to forget it. It is one of the more sobering realities of adoption – the fact that there is no adoption without loss and pain . . . and grief.
As an adoptive dad, like all adoptive parents, my tendency is to focus on the miracle, blessing and joy of adoption – and rightfully so. These are the undeniably beautiful realities of the adoption journey. But they do not negate the equally unavoidable reality that there is no adoption without loss and pain. Adoption is at the same time born from and a response to hurt, loss and sorrow.
Last night I saw through my son’s tears and heard in his words the deep, heartbreaking grief that lurks in the shadows of adoption. It was an intense sorrow caused by the loss he feels and understands now more than ever before. My son’s grief is for that which never was and for what will never be.
In trying to carefully walk a fine line between honestly telling about our adoption journey and protecting what is, after all, his story to tell, I dare not share the details of what was said. But it was all too clear that he has now come to an age where the facts of his past no longer merely equate to a story that he feels some amount of curiosity, confusion and even sadness about. The books told us this would begin to happen at his age – for some children more than others. And yet, nothing could have fully prepared me for the flood of thoughts and emotions as I saw his grief come crashing in. The loss and pain of his broken past are now more fully his loss and his pain. His heart was breaking and as he cried I felt so helpless – I felt so small. There was nothing I could say and little I could do other than take turns with his mom holding him close and listening, being sure to acknowledge each and every emotion and longing he expressed.
The adoption journey certainly has its share of loss and pain for everyone involved. Our journey to our son has pain and loss, and even grief, but it is not the same as his. In that sense, we share the same adoption with him, albeit from different perspectives, but we do not fully share his same journey. As I held him close I so desperately wanted to tell him that I understood what he was thinking and feeling . . . and God knows I wanted to, but I can’t. Not truly. He knows it and so do I. As a result, all we could offer him was our reassuring presence to help him run toward the loss and pain, not away from it. To help him own the grief that he feels, and to own it redemptively.
{Blogger's note: The previous two sentences are two of the most profound and powerful sentences I have ever read on the subject of grief. I have never heard anyone say this - yet it is so true. And I think we can all learn own our grief - no matter what the source of that grief - redemptively. What a beautiful picture. And only possible because of what Jesus did. It is a picture of the cross.}
As a dad everything in me wants to protect my son from such grief. As an adoptive dad, this grief can appear as an unwelcome intruder seemingly intent on pushing he and I apart – reminding us both of “another” as if to suggest the need for him to make an impossible choice. But I choose to believe that his grief can bring us closer together. By choosing to let go of my desire to hold exclusive claim to my son’s love and loyalty; by choosing to see myself not as an all-sufficient substitute for what he has lost, but rather as an imperfect father dependent on God’s grace to love him well, then, and only then, can I offer my son what he needs most, especially in the midst of his pain and grief.
I find that there is beauty in the pain and I know there is meaning in the grief. As a result, we will do our best to weave this pain and grief into the story that we tell and re-tell, being sure not to miss the beauty or overlook the meaning. But last night as I fought against my instinct to try to make the pain and grief go away, all I could do was hold my son in my arms and reassure him that I love him – all of him. This includes his pain and grief. There was no nice and neat resolution to our time together, no magic words that I was able to speak to make everything better. Instead, as he cried himself to sleep in my arms all I could do was hold him, with his grief, tightly, and remind him that we are both in the arms of another.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)