The Choice

We were eating dinner when my ten year old daughter asked the question: “What’s abortion?”

It hung in the air – over the dinner table – waiting for an answer. How do you explain something so horrific?  “It’s when they take a baby out of a Mommy’s tummy before it can live on its own…and let it die.”

She couldn’t understand, why people would make a Mommy take a baby out of her tummy before it was ready to be born.

I tried to sound gracious; but there isn’t a gracious way to truthfully explain abortion.  Both my children were unable to understand what they were hearing. I quietly, stated it in a term they could understand:   “It’s murder.” 

My husband explained that some people don’t believe a baby is a baby until it can live outside of the mommy’s tummy on its own.  That some people say that it is just a mass of cells until it is born. That some people feel that if a mom doesn’t want it in her tummy – it’s in her body and she has the right to take it out. He explained that some moms choose to have an abortion because they find out that something is wrong with their baby. 

Anna’s response was short but profound, “But that’s selfish.”

It’s true, if you tell a lie long enough and loud enough, people will believe it.  But history has proven that one of deception’s greatest enemies is time.  Time has a way of revealing truth.  Truth exposes liars for who they are.  Time revealed Hitler’s wicked heart -- the blood of thousands cries from the grave begging for justice.  God Himself will avenge their deaths – justice will be served.  History will repeat itself, abortion will have its day of reckoning.

My son’s emotions rose within him and his words spilled out, “That’s stupid – no, that’s way beyond stupid!  How many babies does this happens to?”    I told him a lot, but his autistic mind wanted a number.  So, Rob pulled out his phone and googled the question.

The awful statistics came up:  in America alone, three thousand babies’ hearts are made to stop beating – every single day! Let that number sink in – 3,000. 

Zak’s mind was starting to connect the dots, “Like with me – and autism?   So, some people would find out that their baby has autism and would just kill it?”

I explained that things like autism can’t be seen in the tests they do before birth; but genetic issues like Down syndrome or birth defects would show up before a baby was born.

“Do I have that…Down syndrome?”  His fork has stopped midair.

“No,” I thought, but didn’t say, “you have Autism, Tourette’s syndrome, Cognitive and Developmental delays, Chronic hypertension – caused, most likely, from Fetal alcohol syndrome which has also caused the hearing loss that necessitates your two hearing aids.”  

I looked into his eyes, and answered truthfully, “No, you don’t have Down syndrome.”

“I have lots of issues…why wasn’t I aborted?” I marveled at his deductive reasoning. 

My words came out with conviction, “Because your biological mom made the choice - to let you be born!”

For a moment, I thought of all the children that will never be.  All the laughter that will never be heard.  All the beauty that will never be enjoyed.  This ‘way beyond stupid’ thing called abortion has changed life more than we realize.   

Each year, around the world, over fifty million babies’ hearts are made to stop beating – and while their lives are tragically gone, we rarely contemplate that our lives suffer because of it.  So many wonderful things that could be added to life, and family, and community are just - gone.  Life goes on without realizing how much - or how many - are missing. 

The four of us began clearing off the table - adoption has made us a family.  Both of them were “unplanned” and had mothers who had to make a choice.  They chose life.  

Every single day their choice makes my world more colorful, more beautiful, and more wonderful! I will forever be grateful they chose life – and in turn added richly to mine. 

Out of the Mouths of Babes

It was a Saturday morning.  I was getting ready for my appointment;  she had been snuggling with me in bed earlier and was now joining me in the bathroom as I was putting on my makeup.

She held up the thick brush and with pleading eyes she asked if she could put on some blush. 

It was Saturday, so I nodded and continued on with my eye shadow. 

She brushed with enthusiasm and her little cheeks grew pinker and pinker and she brushed and swirled the blush on her small little face.  She kept chatting and I kept attempting something new with my eye lids.

“Ann’s skin is so beautiful, Mom. Did you notice how pretty her skin was when you saw her at my school?”

I nodded my head and gave some small agreement.  I remembered Ann.  She was the friend that shared her name.

“And my other friend’s skin is pretty too.  So pretty.” 

I decided to enter into this conversation with some motherly words of wisdom, “ Anna, your skin is beautiful. You have very beautiful skin.”  

“But Ann doesn’t need makeup.  I will – just like you.  I have white skin, but Ann has brown skin.  I wish my skin was dark like Ann’s. Don’t you think that black people and brown people have the most beautiful skin in the whole world?”

It was then that I realized what she was comparing –  and indeed she was correct – both of her friends had beautiful brown skin.  I agreed, “Yes Anna, dark skin is absolutely beautiful.  Sometimes when I see their skin I just want to touch it because it looks so smooth.  I think you are right, black and brown people have the most beautiful skin.”        

We stood there for a few moments in silence. I assumed the conversation was done.   She was still swirling and I was still working with the mascara brush.  Suddenly her voice was tense and her words were laced with fear and concern.  There was panic in her little voice when the words came tumbling out, “Would you have adopted me if I had been black?”

 The words hung thick in the air. 

The week she came to live with us. 

As soon as her terrifying words were said, deep sadness filled my heart.  Even the question of us not choosing her as our own caused my heart to skip a beat.  Just the thought of her not being mine caused me to feel like a part of me ceased to exist.  I immediately stopped what I was doing and leaned down close and met her gaze. I looked straight into her big beautiful brown eyes. 

“Yes, Anna.  We would have adopted you if you were black. We didn’t adopt you because of the color of your skin.  We adopted you because we wanted you.    We loved *you* – not the color of your skin.”   

“Oh good!” I could hear the relief in her voice.  “I wish I had black skin; but I’m so glad I have you as my Mom; and if I was black I would still want you to be my Mom.     She continued to talk about how when she is a teenager she will need to have extra time in the bathroom in the mornings when she is old enough to wear makeup.    I assured her that we will be able to accommodate that when the time comes. 

 Sometimes the most profound conversations happen when you least expect them; this one reminded me how all of us are the same.  Regardless of skin color – we all are people needing to be loved and accepted.  Had Anna been black or brown or white she was a little baby in need of a family to love her and care for her.  I am so glad God brought her to us.  I cannot imagine our lives without her. 

Jesus loves the little children

 All the children of the world

Red and Yellow, Black and White

They are precious in His sight.

Jesus loves the little children of the world. 

Zak's Next Chapter

Zak's Adoption Day

I have a feeling that all parents who have a special needs child feel the balancing act that comes with trying new things to take their child to the next level and accepting that there child will never be ‘normal’ (whatever that is).  I’ve read as many books as I could get my hands on about autism; and I have tried many things.   

Through the years there was one thing I always wanted to try – I wanted to send my son to a school that would meet his special needs -  and build his faith in God. 

I had grown up hearing about Pastor Vaughn and his wife and daughter who were badly burned in a house fire.  I was seven when I heard about the little girl who had been burned so badly.  I had prayed for her – and for her mother.  I had thought about how horrible it would be to suffer so badly.  Through the years, I had heard about how she had miraculously recovered and how her Dad had started a Christian school for children with special needs.  

When Zak was diagnosed with Autism I went on their website and looked at the school way down in South Carolina; and I wished so badly that we lived closer so that Zak could go to that school.  Then I realized that even if we lived closer – there was no way we could afford to send him to a school like that.  I can’t count how many times in the past ten years I have pulled up Hidden Treasure Christian School’s website and dreamed about how wonderful it would be if Zak could go there; only to exit out of the site knowing there was no way it could ever happen. 

The first time my husband and I walked through the school I had to keep the tears in.  To be standing on the property of the school I had longed for so many times was overwhelming.  Watching as the teachers worked with the children I knew that this school would be so wonderful for Zak.   While we were touring campus I came across a quote made by the founder of the school.  I knew as soon as I read it that God was going to somehow move us to Greenville and was going to have Zak go to the school. 

“Every child has everything he/she needs to do the will of God for their lives.”

As soon as I read that quote I burst out into tears.  The quote touched me deeply; because there have been so many times in the past ten years I had wished for the autism to be gone and Zak to be normal.  Through the Holy Spirit’s guiding I have realized that Zaks’ autism and all his other diagnosis’ are not mistakes - they are part of God’s sovereign plan for his life and for ours. 

August 2016

Zak has everything he needs to do the will of God for his life. 

Zak started school there two weeks ago.  As we walked through the school for the open house, I fought back tears. I was reminded again the significance of Zak’s name.  Zechariah means: God Remembers.    

Indeed, He does!  

On the Day He was Born

On the day he was born - I had no idea that he would become part of our family in a little more than a year.

I have tried, in vain, to try to piece together where I was and what I was doing on the day he was born.  I was busy cleaning the house, doing laundry, teaching kids, perhaps practicing piano or writing; and at the very same time miles away from where I lived a little baby boy (my son) was taking his first breath.  A little boy that would change my life - started his life without me.

How much did he weigh?  What was his apgar score? 
Was he born in a hospital or at home?
Seconds after he was born did he cry loudly or softly?  Did he cry at all?
Did someone hold him in their arms?  Was anyone awestruck when looking at his little face and hands that life is precious and beautiful?
Did he feel loved and cherished or alone and helpless?

All these questions will remain unanswered on this earth.

I don't know all the little details surrounding the moments and hours after he took his first breath; but I know that God was there.  God heard his first cries and was mesmerized by this one so little and tiny; because God had a plan for his life.  The all loving God of the universe watched him as he slept and loved him.  I have no doubt in my mind that God's protection surrounded him as a baby; and while I was just going through the everyday routine of my day - God was keeping him safe for me, and preparing my heart for him. 

I was so fearful when we started the adoption process that we would "end up" with a child that had debilitating issues because of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.  It was the one reason I was afraid to adopt.  I begged God to make sure He protected us from getting a child with FAS.  If there was one reason I would have not adopted it would have been that reason.  I was also terrified of autism.  I told God that I would trust that He would make sure that we did not have a child with autism.   

I have learned that God does not keep us away from the things that scare us - He delivers us from our fears.

Zak has Autism, and FAS, and TS, and Celiac Disease - and perhaps the list will grow.  I am not as afraid of those words as I was thirteen years ago.    Sometimes, the uncertainty that comes with those words still scares me; but those words are teaching me just how big my God is.  He has the power to cure autism and spare growing brains from the effects of alcohol; but sometimes He chooses to do something even bigger -  He chooses to let us see that He is more powerful than these disabilities.

 I have learned about my God through Zak's disabilities. 

On the day Zak was born - God was preparing a beautiful gift for me.  I have learned about faith through Zak.  I have been given a beautiful gift from God in this boy.  His eyelashes are still long and beautiful.  I love his smile and when he laughs it envelops the entire house.  But most of all, Zak is a boy who is in love with his God.  He talks about Him all the time - and there is nothing God cannot do.  I have watched Zak depend upon God to meet his needs and been challenged by his faith. 

God delights to deliver us from our fears; not always by removing us or keeping us from the things that scare us; but by pouring out grace upon us as we live in dependence on God in the midst of our fears.  

This week we celebrate his birthday - I cannot believe we have entered the teen years already!   Happy Birthday, Zak.  I am so glad God put you in our family!  You are, without a doubt, God's gift to me.  I love you! 

The Dilemma

The sun was coming in the kitchen window and I had positioned my coffee cup to the chair next to the kitchen door.  I can see the bird feeder there – and the morning light shines just right.  The windows were open, the birds were singing and my bagel was toasting in the toaster oven.  There was still steam coming from my coffee cup on the table when she walked in.  Her hair was rumpled from a night of sleep and dreams and she still had that ‘just awakened’ look in her eyes.  (I love looking at my kids in the morning).

 She came up and hugged me tightly and I held her close to me for just a minute close.  The toaster dinged indicating the bagel was ready; and as soon as she heard it she asked me if she could eat breakfast with me.  “Just you and me?” she begged.   I told her she could with a nod and she quickly went to the refrigerator and got out a yogurt.

We sat at the table.  She was chatting away as we started our breakfast together.  My mind was drifting from watching the birds coming to the feeder to my plans for that day.  There was laundry that needed to be done, a blog post that needed to be written, school work that needed to be assigned and tomato plants that I needed to water.  I was busy planning; when I heard her statement:

“When I get older, I don’t want babies to come out of my tummy – I want to adopt lots and lots of babies.”

I stopped my agenda planning and looked at her.  My little adopted one sitting at the table talking about her plans for the future.  It just makes sense that she would want to adopt a baby – she understands adoption.  It’s part of her story. 

“That would be wonderful.  I would love to have lots and lots of adopted grand-babies…”  I told her and then started thinking some more about the day ahead of me. 

“Where do you get babies to adopt?”

“From adoption agencies,” I answer.

“Is that where you got me?”

“Kind of…”  I answer.  “We got your from the state foster care program; but they used and adoption agency for the adoption.”

“What are those children’s homes called for kids that don’t have parents anymore?” She quizzed.  Her yogurt eating had stopped; she was sitting on her knees waiting for my answer.

“Orphanages.”

“Where do you find that babies that are on the streets?”

My mind began to wrap around the fact that she was not just chatting with me over breakfast.  Something deeper was going on in her heart.  Normally this time of day I hear about her dreams from the night before or what she wants to do for the day; but ‘babies on the streets’?  Where did this come from?

I answered her as best I could, “That would probably be in other countries.  There are other countries where babies are left on the streets.”

She picked up my cell phone that was sitting beside my coffee cup and asked if I could show her pictures of the countries that have babies that are living on the streets.  “Where are they, Mom?  Can you show me a picture?”

I quickly racked my brain for how I would Google that?  I then remembered the story my friend told me about the child she found on the streets.  The little girl who had no one.   The little girl who found a missionary to be her Mommy.   I started telling her about my dear missionary friend. 

“Do you have her picture?” 

I pulled up Facebook and search her name.  I showed her my missionary friend and told her how her daughter is all grown up now and has started an orphanage for children who live on the streets just like she used to.  “Perhaps God will have you go to another country and start an orphanage for babies who are left on the streets.  Then you can tell the children about Jesus and how He loves them!” 

Her eyes opened wide, “China!  Do they have orphanages in China?”

“Yes, I am sure they do; but missionaries cannot go over to China.  It is against the government rules.   

Perhaps you should pray that God will make the government change its mind and allow missionaries to come and tell the children about Jesus.”

“Does the government ever go on vacation?  Then I could sneak in and start an orphanage and tell the children about Jesus.”  She stopped and thought for a moment, her look of hopefulness changed to despair.   

“But I don’t know how to talk to the children about Jesus in their words.”

“You could learn.”

“But it would be really really hard.  What if I couldn’t do it?”

I realized at that moment, that this was going to be the most important conversation I had all day long.  “Anna, if God wants you to go to another country and tell the children there about Jesus – He will help you learn to speak their words.”

“Where do you go to learn how to speak their words?”

“Language school.  Missionaries go to language school all the time.  They teach lots and lots of missionaries how to speak the languages of other countries so that they can tell people about Jesus.”

With the language barrier taken care of she continue talking, “So there are babies that live in the streets?”

“Yes.”

“But what if soldiers came and didn’t want me to tell the children about Jesus?”

 She was counting the cost.  It almost took my breath away.  How do you answer this – how do you explain this to a seven year old?  “There are lots of counties where the soldiers want you to come and help the babies that live in the streets – because they are good soldiers. They want the children there to be taken care of and know they are loved.”

“In China?”

“I don’t know about China.” I answer.

“Probably not in China,” she said contemplatively, “In China they don’t want missionaries.  You know that man and lady that got married and went to China?”

I knew to whom she was referring to because she has mentioned them before - many times before.  “Yes, John and Betty Stam.”

“They went to China to tell people about Jesus; and the soldiers came and cut off their heads.  They hid their baby from the soldiers.  They died when they went to tell people about Jesus.”

“Yes, but when they did they went right to Heaven.  Jesus took them right to Heaven.”

“What if go to help the babies in the streets and tell them about Jesus and the soldiers come and cut off my head?”  Our eyes locked and I could see tears in hers.

“You would go right to Heaven.” I looked her straight in the eye.  I refused to assure her that something like that would not happen.  It could.  It does.  Even as we were having breakfast there that morning – there are people somewhere in this world who are paying a price for the cause. 

“I don’t want my head to get cut off.”  She sat in silence for a few moments then she said, “But the children need someone to tell them about Jesus.”

She is seven.  I don’t know how old I was when I first counted the cost.    I am pretty sure I was not in first grade. 

If we claim the name of Christ then we must take time to count the cost.     

The dilemma:  The cross of Christ could cost us all we have on this earth (even our very lives) – but the children need someone to tell them about Jesus.