Sing, O barren woman, you who never bore a child; burst into song, shout for joy, you who were never in labor; because more are the children of the desolate woman than of her who has a husband, says the Lord. Isaiah 54:1 NIV
Through the prophet Isaiah, God addresses one of today’s most prevalent and often-painful women’s issues – infertility. Rarely do we hear about Joy and infertility in the same sentence. Rarely do we hear about singing praises and barrenness in the same sentence. But rarely, also, do we consider the Biblical answers to this tremendous issue. According to the latest CDC statistics 6.1 million American women have impaired fecundity (difficulty conceiving or carrying a child to term). Christian women across the country search daily in the scriptures for assistance on raising children, selecting a mate, and guidance for everyday living; but quickly turn to medical journals and internet chat rooms for advice on infertility.
As with other issues that we face in life, God has given us instruction and assurance about this barrenness as well. God has offered the concept of a child of promise. This is a child that may or may not be actually born of the mother (the one who raises the child), but is promised to her nonetheless. In Genesis God gives Sarah a child of promise -- Isaac. This is a child who was promised to Sarah even in her barrenness. And, as always, God fulfilled his promise, even when it seemed impossible.
Today, God often gives children of promise to women through adoption. Although the issue of adoption is becoming more and more socially acceptable discussion material, and trans-racial and trans-cultural adoption is becoming more prevalent, adoption is still an issue that is commonly swept under the rug, locked away in a safe or hidden from the world. Because of this idea that adoption is a secret issue, Americans who choose to adopt often resort to seeking to gender, race and culturally-select their children so that no one can “tell that they’re adopted.” God isn’t bound by our cultural and racial boundaries. Not only have countries such as China, Russia, Latvia, Guatemala and India opened up for international adoption, where uncounted millions of children await to find forever families, but there are 130,000 children of varying cultural ancestry and ages right now waiting for families here in America. These children are not mistakes. God didn’t create them by accident and they, like children born into a family, want and need caring Christians to bring them home into their “families of promise.”
Fears such as time, expense, questions of bonding, fears about birth parents coming to interfere are not bigger than God. His promised children will be brought into their families of promise. He alone can overcome all obstacles and to fear otherwise is merely interference by our enemy. For the Lord is good, and his love endures forever, and his faithfulness continues through all generations. Psalm 100:5
James instructs us that Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this; to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world. James 1:27 This instruction goes against the secular ideas in “treatment” of infertility and challenges us to follow God’s example and bring His waiting children into their “families of promise.”
Throughout the New Testament, we are instructed that we, as Christians, are adopted children of God. Christ is God’s only son by “nature,” that is that God is the biological father. We, however, are each adopted children of God through His Son, Jesus Christ. And, as described in Galatians 4:5, with that adoption, we are given a full inheritance. What better endorsement for adoption can there be than an example set by God Himself through His Son.
Christian Adoption agencies and Christian adoptive parents can offer answers to questions about adoption. The process of adopting – whether internationally or domestically – is far less daunting than the prospect not fulfilling God’s perfect will and the promise of a loving family to a child.
*This is a commissioned article for a Christian Women's Magazine
Friday, March 27, 2009
An Unexpected Adoption
It’s late at night and I’m up against my deadline. I should be packing, but instead I’m writing my column. The day-after-tomorrow I leave for my second of three required trips to Latvia to adopt my adorable 13-year-old twin boys.
Three trips?! Yes, three trips.
I had the same reaction when I first heard what it was going to take to bring my boys home. Just three short months ago I couldn’t imagine leaving Towne Lake, much less flying nearly 5,000 miles across the globe three times. I couldn’t imagine why it was necessary to spend so much money and time when all I want to do is bring these kids home. [Couldn’t someone just FedEx them here?]
I have a completely different disposition now as I pack my suitcases full of things to take to new friends in this far away little treasure box tucked into the shores of the Baltic Sea at the edge of Russia. I’m packing funny things like peanut butter, Red Hots, a wall calendar Legos and some John Grisham books – all luxuries in Latvia.
You see, last December while I was on the first of my trips to Latvia, I gained a new perspective on the importance of immersion in my boy’s culture. For the first 13 years of their lives they have been shaped by the pace, food, attitudes, architecture, customs and general atmosphere of a place that is literally half a world away. Because I spent several weeks in their country of birth I now understand why they are ravenous at lunchtime and never eat a thing I prepare for dinner. In Latvia, they eat their big meal in the afternoon and dinner is usually just soup – good soup!
Because I spent time getting to know their orphanage director and social worker I now understand why they are so sweet and loving, and why they are eager to help set the table. Their passion for fruit juice makes a lot more sense now that I’ve been to the grocery store in Latvia and realized that while oranges are more than two dollars a pound, a liter of juice costs just a few cents.
The best discovery, however, was probably the fact that no one is Latvia yells. They don’t even raise their voices. I watched as parents called running children back into line with a softly spoken word. I stood mere inches from people as we conversed far inside my American bubble of impenetrable personal space. I walked down crowded city streets and could still hear my husband remark about the beauty of the architecture. The quiet of that country has shaped my boys in ways my loud American self will probably never understand.
So, I’m ecstatic about my second trip to Latvia and am looking forward to the third as well. But I’m pretty sure it won’t stop there. I’ve already begun to plan to go back. What was once just a far-away country is now, because of these two sweet boys, part of my homeland. I guess you could say that while I’m adopting these boys, they’re adopting me as well.
Three trips?! Yes, three trips.
I had the same reaction when I first heard what it was going to take to bring my boys home. Just three short months ago I couldn’t imagine leaving Towne Lake, much less flying nearly 5,000 miles across the globe three times. I couldn’t imagine why it was necessary to spend so much money and time when all I want to do is bring these kids home. [Couldn’t someone just FedEx them here?]
I have a completely different disposition now as I pack my suitcases full of things to take to new friends in this far away little treasure box tucked into the shores of the Baltic Sea at the edge of Russia. I’m packing funny things like peanut butter, Red Hots, a wall calendar Legos and some John Grisham books – all luxuries in Latvia.
You see, last December while I was on the first of my trips to Latvia, I gained a new perspective on the importance of immersion in my boy’s culture. For the first 13 years of their lives they have been shaped by the pace, food, attitudes, architecture, customs and general atmosphere of a place that is literally half a world away. Because I spent several weeks in their country of birth I now understand why they are ravenous at lunchtime and never eat a thing I prepare for dinner. In Latvia, they eat their big meal in the afternoon and dinner is usually just soup – good soup!
Because I spent time getting to know their orphanage director and social worker I now understand why they are so sweet and loving, and why they are eager to help set the table. Their passion for fruit juice makes a lot more sense now that I’ve been to the grocery store in Latvia and realized that while oranges are more than two dollars a pound, a liter of juice costs just a few cents.
The best discovery, however, was probably the fact that no one is Latvia yells. They don’t even raise their voices. I watched as parents called running children back into line with a softly spoken word. I stood mere inches from people as we conversed far inside my American bubble of impenetrable personal space. I walked down crowded city streets and could still hear my husband remark about the beauty of the architecture. The quiet of that country has shaped my boys in ways my loud American self will probably never understand.
So, I’m ecstatic about my second trip to Latvia and am looking forward to the third as well. But I’m pretty sure it won’t stop there. I’ve already begun to plan to go back. What was once just a far-away country is now, because of these two sweet boys, part of my homeland. I guess you could say that while I’m adopting these boys, they’re adopting me as well.
Help! I Don't Speak Latvian!
I’m an intellectual. I don’t mean to imply that I’m particularly smart – you’ll soon see that’s not the case. I simply mean that I over-analyze everything and most things in my life remain cerebral, not emotional. Last summer, as I began to prepare to participate in a cultural exchange program by hosting two 13-year-old boys form Latvia, I never imagined that these adorable boys would eventually become a part of my family forever.
As we prepared for them to arrive, I read everything I could about Latvia and cultural exchange programs and made lists of tasks and lists of those lists. I bought all of the recommended items, including clothes, toys and even a Latvian phrase book.
The day they were to arrive we headed to the airport. I was excited and so proud of the lovely sign I had made that read “Welcome” in both Latvian and Russian – since we weren’t certain which language they spoke. I had even gotten pins made with the boys’ pictures on them so that we could easily be identified as their host family. Everything was perfect until I saw the group of kids come up the escalators and a panic rose from the very depths of my soul – I didn’t know how to speak Latvian! What was I going to do? How on Earth was I going to get them to come home with me? What about breakfast? What if they didn’t understand me? What was I thinking! Where’s my Mom when I need her? Surely someone else was going to have to take over here, I DON’T SPEAK LATVIAN!
There was no time to run. The program director shoved two very tired-looking boys into my arms and proceeded to the next family. And there we were – those two very frightened boys and my very frightened self. I looked at my husband, half-expecting him to suddenly have the gift of speaking Latvian. I pulled out my nearly useless Russian picture dictionary and tried to figure out how to ask the boys if they had luggage. After handing each of them a plastic grocery bag and pantomiming vomiting into it (we had been warned that motion sickness was common), I helped the boys climb into the back seat of our car and the four of us silently drove the long road back to Woodstock.
Still in a stunned stupor, we managed to get the boys into their bedroom and pointed out the bathroom. Frankly I don’t remember whether I slept at all or not. But I do remember the next day the boys woke up and smiled. And that was it. I was in love. It didn’t matter if they spoke Martian, I could communicate with them just fine. What little uneasiness that was left after the morning smiles completely dissipated when we took them to a buffet for lunch and told them they could eat whatever they wanted, including a whole plate of desserts.
It turns out that they spoke Russian and Latvian and even some English. The five weeks flew and by the end, they were able to communicate fluently in the language of broken English, smiles, gestures and sound effects. Now, I’m not going to claim that there has never been a misunderstanding, or that everything has been effortless, but the truth is, I can’t remember a time when language has been a real problem.
As we prepared for them to arrive, I read everything I could about Latvia and cultural exchange programs and made lists of tasks and lists of those lists. I bought all of the recommended items, including clothes, toys and even a Latvian phrase book.
The day they were to arrive we headed to the airport. I was excited and so proud of the lovely sign I had made that read “Welcome” in both Latvian and Russian – since we weren’t certain which language they spoke. I had even gotten pins made with the boys’ pictures on them so that we could easily be identified as their host family. Everything was perfect until I saw the group of kids come up the escalators and a panic rose from the very depths of my soul – I didn’t know how to speak Latvian! What was I going to do? How on Earth was I going to get them to come home with me? What about breakfast? What if they didn’t understand me? What was I thinking! Where’s my Mom when I need her? Surely someone else was going to have to take over here, I DON’T SPEAK LATVIAN!
There was no time to run. The program director shoved two very tired-looking boys into my arms and proceeded to the next family. And there we were – those two very frightened boys and my very frightened self. I looked at my husband, half-expecting him to suddenly have the gift of speaking Latvian. I pulled out my nearly useless Russian picture dictionary and tried to figure out how to ask the boys if they had luggage. After handing each of them a plastic grocery bag and pantomiming vomiting into it (we had been warned that motion sickness was common), I helped the boys climb into the back seat of our car and the four of us silently drove the long road back to Woodstock.
Still in a stunned stupor, we managed to get the boys into their bedroom and pointed out the bathroom. Frankly I don’t remember whether I slept at all or not. But I do remember the next day the boys woke up and smiled. And that was it. I was in love. It didn’t matter if they spoke Martian, I could communicate with them just fine. What little uneasiness that was left after the morning smiles completely dissipated when we took them to a buffet for lunch and told them they could eat whatever they wanted, including a whole plate of desserts.
It turns out that they spoke Russian and Latvian and even some English. The five weeks flew and by the end, they were able to communicate fluently in the language of broken English, smiles, gestures and sound effects. Now, I’m not going to claim that there has never been a misunderstanding, or that everything has been effortless, but the truth is, I can’t remember a time when language has been a real problem.
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