A note from Jamie: This post was originally published on November 16, 2009, and is one of my personal favorites.
Adoption has become a "buzzword" in some circles now and on occasion, seems almost "trendy." I'm all for more people adopting, without a doubt. At the same time, our family is fully acquainted with the ins and outs of this complex, complicated issue. In the end, for us, it came down to growing our family the way God intended.
I wouldn't change a thing.
It's hard to imagine a time in my life when adoption wasn't part of it. Hard to believe that years went by when I didn't live, breathe, and dream about this issue.
Only five years ago did I hold my first adopted child in my arms.
What beauty and richness, what depth it has ushered into my world.
And what brokenness.
Because adoption is a broken system. It would be so much better if there was no need for it--if all children were born and raised in families where they were loved, nurtured, provided for.
Where the harshness of neglect, poverty, and abuse never entered in.
I wish that was the case for all children around the world. But we know it isn't.
Adoption is a miracle for the one, but not a solution for the masses.
It's a beautiful, broken, imperfect solution.
Such beauty--such joy they've brought to our home.
And yet my Indian daughter wonders why we didn't come for her sooner.
At night she asks me to pray that God will take away all her anger.
I've had to teach her to say "I love you, Mommy."
What should come naturally to her, doesn't.
My five-year-old son tells me he's sad sometimes. He asks if he can have light skin, like Jonathan.
He wonders why he won't be able to meet his Liberian mother one day.
My children--lovely, beautiful children--with hearts a little bit broken.
A different mother. This beautiful process helped me find myself, helped define my family, changed me.
I'm a broken mother as well--having cried tears of joy, sadness, anger, and pain over this beautiful system with its imperfections.
Yes, I am broken. And it's worth it.
My heart is not my own anymore. It belongs to the children.
All of them.
Those who cry.
Those who hunger.
Those who wish.
Those who dare to hope.
Those who dream of family.
Those who wait.
Could it be that one of them is waiting for you?