The opportunities to drown our hearts in America are endless.
It’s been almost six months since I stood by a bed and cried for a boy who is not my son. Sometimes I even wonder how I got there, and why. What a crazy thing to want so desperately to see. So desperately that I would board a plane and stumble my way into the halls of the mentally broken and physically shattered. What was I doing? What have I done?
Now I’ve seen. So what? I ask myself that question only when my defenses are down. Late at night, when I need coffee, when the mask slips. I try so hard not to rage against the beauty of my life because it’s not the agony that I want. How strange.
This is the secret my heart carries; what if in the end my life didn’t matter.
My hands are full, so full of blessings I find it hard to grab hold of brokenness. Beautiful people adopting children, I know a dozen at least. But I don’t join the ranks and I don’t know why. I think inside I want something different, not better or more, just different.
I wish with all my heart I could do something that would keep moms from letting loose their babies, something that would help dads lead and not turn away. I want to be a part of something that works to stem the tide of the need for last ditch and extreme measures. Because let’s face it adoption is extreme.
Adoption is so beautiful and will always be with us. But I’m not naive enough to think that in many adoptions there could have been a better way, had the story been different from the beginning. I’m looking for the place where the heart of redemptive inclusion (adoption) and engaged cultural transformation (prevention) meet and hold hands.
In the meantime, while God keeps writing my story and weaving it into the bigger picture, I bang on the doors of heaven and plead “don’t forget”. At the very least Jesus don’t forget the boy I can never parent, even though I wish I could, and whose parents can’t or won’t either. At least remember him.