Adoption Blog
Not a Sparrow Falls February 7, 2011
At work this afternoon I felt my eyes slowly blinking and easing shut. I shook my head, and glanced at my coffee cup, wondering if that might be the best way to address the mid-afternoon tiredness. It’s been a hard week, full of parenting struggles, paperwork, and looming deadlines.
Although my writing deadline had been extended, and my list of dossier forms had been reduced (see God’s Dossier Handling Service story, below), I still have a full load of work. I have three teenagers, who, between them need pickups from drumline practices, drop-offs at worship rehearsals, assistance with math homework (definitely not my forte), and chauffeuring to orthodontist appointments. In addition, there were seemingly endless requests for, “Can ________ (fill in teenager’s name here) come over? And, can you take her home later?”
This week, on top of my normal parenting duties, I found myself having to rearrange the house in order to accommodate one more child. I own a three-bedroom house, which would soon be home to five people. I have one bedroom, my daughters share a second bedroom, and my son occupies the third. To make space for my soon-to-be-adopted son, Alyssa and Jenna were going to move downstairs into a room I had converted from a one-car garage.
So, a little over a week ago, I went to Lowes and bought a gallon of "Lovely Lilac" paint, along with some other painting supplies. My daughters and I (mostly I) spent that weekend cleaning the room, and then painting the top section white, and the bottom section lilac. I finished at around midnight on Saturday, and then used Sunday for the rest of the household chores and paperwork.
During the week, I stayed up late working on the manuscript for the book I’m co-writing, as well as filling out dossier paperwork, checking on adoption loans and loan paperwork, and finishing up my 2010 taxes. The 1am bedtimes, combined with the 6am morning alarm, were beginning to dull my senses and cause mid-afternoon sleepiness.
This last weekend, I had planned an even bigger workload. In order to complete the dossier paperwork, I had to take pictures of every major room in the house, including the room for my new son. And, that room had to have his bed and furniture. Yikes! The furniture was in pieces down in the spiderweb-infested garage, and the bedroom was still painted pink for its former occupants (Alyssa and Jenna). Plus, the room was a mess! Sigh…
So, back to Lowes I went, to pick up a gallon of light, grey-blue paint, a gallon of primer, another gallon of white paint, and more supplies. Then, déjà-vu, I spent almost the entire Saturday with a paint roller in my hand, or squinting as I tried to carefully paint a straight blue line along a white wall. Once we finished painting, my son Brandon and I cleaned dust and spiderwebs off the furniture (ok, I did all the cleaning), and then carried the furniture up to the newly-blue bedroom. It was a long, physically strenuous day, but at the end I stood in satisfaction in the doorway of my soon-to-be son’s room, looking at the fresh paint and the newly-assembled furniture. The bed had a mattress decorated with dinosaurs. There was a play table in the corner, ready for a wooden train set, and a six-cubicle organizer against the wall was already filled with books, rubber farm animals, and Legos. Saturday night, I flicked off the bedroom light late in the evening and went to bed, anticipating a Sunday spent at church.
The next morning, I went through my normal routine—taking Alyssa and Jenna to church early so they could practice with the worship team, eating breakfast with a book, and then heading upstairs to get ready. Most mornings, I have my little dachshund Ally in my bedroom with me, and I take out my Senegal parrot, Rafa, so he can have some playtime. This last Sunday, though, I also included our four-year-old dachshund, Mocha, since he had been left alone downstairs. After I opened his cage, Rafa climbed out onto my finger and I carried him to his usual hangout on my bathroom counter. The dogs were busy eating from their bowls.
A few minutes later, I opened the shower door and started to step out. Then, shocked, I stared at the bathroom floor. There were puffs of green and white feathers everywhere. I froze, frantically trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Rafa has started to shed, maybe he flew down and the dogs chased him? Did they pull out some of his feathers? Why isn’t he on the counter? Within a few seconds, though, a horrible thought came to me, and I ran into the bedroom. There, lying on the carpet was Rafa, limp and silent, with feathers scattered around him and Mocha standing nearby. I began to scream and cry, and as I reached for him all I could think was No, no, no, no! This can’t have happened. He can’t be dead. Maybe he’s just hurt badly. Maybe he’s not dead. Please, let him not be dead! I slid my hand under Rafa and as I picked him up his head flopped back limply. By that time, the sound of my loud crying had reached Brandon and he ran into my room. Together we knelt on the carpet and cried over Rafa’s still body.
As I held the bird, I realized how much I had come to love him in just the six months he had been my roommate. He was barely weaned when I picked him up from the bird store, and it took several weeks before he tried to talk. Over the last several months, though, he had learned a number of words and phrases. He started with a wolf whistle and then added the phrase, “Pretty bird!” I would lean over and kiss him on the beak while he played on my bathroom counter, and he quickly learned to repeat, “Gimme a kiss!” Then, one day, I heard him call, “Mommy, c’mere!” I hadn’t even taught him that; he had heard the kids call me Mommy, and had also heard me say, “c’mere,” as I picked him up. He pieced together that I was, “Mommy,” and “c’mere meant to come toward someone. He would use the phrase in context when I was out of the room. “Mommy,” he would call.
“What?” I would reply.
“C’mere,” he would implore.
Rafa was a character. He slept hanging upside-down in the corner of his cage. He had little orange “shoulder pads” that highlighted his bright green sides and back. He had a favorite YouTube video—a video that showed an owner talking and singing with her seven-year-old Senegal parrot. From that video, he learned to say, “Hey, birdy! Merry Christmas.”
The day before he died, he had gotten startled and flown off the bathroom counter. My Mom and I tried to keep him from falling, but he was flapping so hard we missed him and he ran into the wall. I quickly scooped him up off the floor and held him near my face so I could check that he was all right. With comedic timing worth of Saturday Night Live, Rafa tipped his head and said, “Uh oh!” We burst out laughing at the beautiful, little green and orange bird with the oh-so-smart sense of humor.
Now, before he had even turned a year old, he was dead.
We buried him in the backyard, at the base of the bird feeder and surrounded by flowers. As we prayed over him, I thanked God for the beauty of this bird that He had created, and finished with, “Please accept him back now, Lord.”
I cleaned his cage and stored it in a closet, not quite ready to think about having another bird. On that Saturday afternoon, I didn’t want another parrot. I only wanted the one I’d lost. There’s just something about a small creature that learns to call, “Mommy, c’mere,” and who rubs his face against mine.
As I put away his cage and glanced at the flowers around his grave, I was reminded of how temporary life is in this world. We have another home waiting for us.
The dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it. (Ecclesiastes 12:7)
Even so, as my cell phone and Facebook profile filled with sympathies from my friends and family, I began to feel a little of God’s comfort and plan for eternity. Rafa was only with us for a while, but I am comforted by the God who taught, “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies ? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God.” (Luke 12:6)
Although my writing deadline had been extended, and my list of dossier forms had been reduced (see God’s Dossier Handling Service story, below), I still have a full load of work. I have three teenagers, who, between them need pickups from drumline practices, drop-offs at worship rehearsals, assistance with math homework (definitely not my forte), and chauffeuring to orthodontist appointments. In addition, there were seemingly endless requests for, “Can ________ (fill in teenager’s name here) come over? And, can you take her home later?”
This week, on top of my normal parenting duties, I found myself having to rearrange the house in order to accommodate one more child. I own a three-bedroom house, which would soon be home to five people. I have one bedroom, my daughters share a second bedroom, and my son occupies the third. To make space for my soon-to-be-adopted son, Alyssa and Jenna were going to move downstairs into a room I had converted from a one-car garage.
So, a little over a week ago, I went to Lowes and bought a gallon of "Lovely Lilac" paint, along with some other painting supplies. My daughters and I (mostly I) spent that weekend cleaning the room, and then painting the top section white, and the bottom section lilac. I finished at around midnight on Saturday, and then used Sunday for the rest of the household chores and paperwork.
During the week, I stayed up late working on the manuscript for the book I’m co-writing, as well as filling out dossier paperwork, checking on adoption loans and loan paperwork, and finishing up my 2010 taxes. The 1am bedtimes, combined with the 6am morning alarm, were beginning to dull my senses and cause mid-afternoon sleepiness.
This last weekend, I had planned an even bigger workload. In order to complete the dossier paperwork, I had to take pictures of every major room in the house, including the room for my new son. And, that room had to have his bed and furniture. Yikes! The furniture was in pieces down in the spiderweb-infested garage, and the bedroom was still painted pink for its former occupants (Alyssa and Jenna). Plus, the room was a mess! Sigh…
So, back to Lowes I went, to pick up a gallon of light, grey-blue paint, a gallon of primer, another gallon of white paint, and more supplies. Then, déjà-vu, I spent almost the entire Saturday with a paint roller in my hand, or squinting as I tried to carefully paint a straight blue line along a white wall. Once we finished painting, my son Brandon and I cleaned dust and spiderwebs off the furniture (ok, I did all the cleaning), and then carried the furniture up to the newly-blue bedroom. It was a long, physically strenuous day, but at the end I stood in satisfaction in the doorway of my soon-to-be son’s room, looking at the fresh paint and the newly-assembled furniture. The bed had a mattress decorated with dinosaurs. There was a play table in the corner, ready for a wooden train set, and a six-cubicle organizer against the wall was already filled with books, rubber farm animals, and Legos. Saturday night, I flicked off the bedroom light late in the evening and went to bed, anticipating a Sunday spent at church.
The next morning, I went through my normal routine—taking Alyssa and Jenna to church early so they could practice with the worship team, eating breakfast with a book, and then heading upstairs to get ready. Most mornings, I have my little dachshund Ally in my bedroom with me, and I take out my Senegal parrot, Rafa, so he can have some playtime. This last Sunday, though, I also included our four-year-old dachshund, Mocha, since he had been left alone downstairs. After I opened his cage, Rafa climbed out onto my finger and I carried him to his usual hangout on my bathroom counter. The dogs were busy eating from their bowls.
A few minutes later, I opened the shower door and started to step out. Then, shocked, I stared at the bathroom floor. There were puffs of green and white feathers everywhere. I froze, frantically trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Rafa has started to shed, maybe he flew down and the dogs chased him? Did they pull out some of his feathers? Why isn’t he on the counter? Within a few seconds, though, a horrible thought came to me, and I ran into the bedroom. There, lying on the carpet was Rafa, limp and silent, with feathers scattered around him and Mocha standing nearby. I began to scream and cry, and as I reached for him all I could think was No, no, no, no! This can’t have happened. He can’t be dead. Maybe he’s just hurt badly. Maybe he’s not dead. Please, let him not be dead! I slid my hand under Rafa and as I picked him up his head flopped back limply. By that time, the sound of my loud crying had reached Brandon and he ran into my room. Together we knelt on the carpet and cried over Rafa’s still body.
As I held the bird, I realized how much I had come to love him in just the six months he had been my roommate. He was barely weaned when I picked him up from the bird store, and it took several weeks before he tried to talk. Over the last several months, though, he had learned a number of words and phrases. He started with a wolf whistle and then added the phrase, “Pretty bird!” I would lean over and kiss him on the beak while he played on my bathroom counter, and he quickly learned to repeat, “Gimme a kiss!” Then, one day, I heard him call, “Mommy, c’mere!” I hadn’t even taught him that; he had heard the kids call me Mommy, and had also heard me say, “c’mere,” as I picked him up. He pieced together that I was, “Mommy,” and “c’mere meant to come toward someone. He would use the phrase in context when I was out of the room. “Mommy,” he would call.
“What?” I would reply.
“C’mere,” he would implore.
Rafa was a character. He slept hanging upside-down in the corner of his cage. He had little orange “shoulder pads” that highlighted his bright green sides and back. He had a favorite YouTube video—a video that showed an owner talking and singing with her seven-year-old Senegal parrot. From that video, he learned to say, “Hey, birdy! Merry Christmas.”
The day before he died, he had gotten startled and flown off the bathroom counter. My Mom and I tried to keep him from falling, but he was flapping so hard we missed him and he ran into the wall. I quickly scooped him up off the floor and held him near my face so I could check that he was all right. With comedic timing worth of Saturday Night Live, Rafa tipped his head and said, “Uh oh!” We burst out laughing at the beautiful, little green and orange bird with the oh-so-smart sense of humor.
Now, before he had even turned a year old, he was dead.
We buried him in the backyard, at the base of the bird feeder and surrounded by flowers. As we prayed over him, I thanked God for the beauty of this bird that He had created, and finished with, “Please accept him back now, Lord.”
I cleaned his cage and stored it in a closet, not quite ready to think about having another bird. On that Saturday afternoon, I didn’t want another parrot. I only wanted the one I’d lost. There’s just something about a small creature that learns to call, “Mommy, c’mere,” and who rubs his face against mine.
As I put away his cage and glanced at the flowers around his grave, I was reminded of how temporary life is in this world. We have another home waiting for us.
The dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it. (Ecclesiastes 12:7)
Even so, as my cell phone and Facebook profile filled with sympathies from my friends and family, I began to feel a little of God’s comfort and plan for eternity. Rafa was only with us for a while, but I am comforted by the God who taught, “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies ? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God.” (Luke 12:6)
God's Dossier Handling Service February 2, 2001
The Russian adoption process has several phases:
Phase 1: Home Study—After filling out an initial application, the prospective parent(s) submit references and paperwork regarding their income, financial assets, employment, and health. A social worker interviews the family, inspects the home, and completes a certified report.
Phase 2: Dossier—The prospective parent(s) compile a set of documents required by the Russian government. The documents must be duplicated, notarized, “apostilled” (certified by the state government where the parent resides), and translated into Russia.
Phase 3: Referral—Once the dossier is complete, the paperwork is sent to Russia. The adoption agency then receives a “referral” for a child, which generally includes one or more photos, the child’s medical history, and information on why the child is available for adoption. The prospective parent(s) then needs to decide whether they want to adopt the referred child. If so, the parent flies to Russia to meet the child and officially request the adoption.
Phase 4: Adoption and Immigration—The parent(s) again travels to Russia, this time to formally complete the adoption and immigration process.
On January 27, I received an email from the adoption agency director, telling me that the draft of my Home Study was complete. Happy and relieved to have completed the first big step in the adoption process, I quickly reviewed the draft and sent back my comments.
The following week I received another email—this one with a zipped folder containing forms and instructions for the thirty-five documents required for a Russia dossier. I stared at the email, reluctant to open it and find out just how bad it was going to be. I have a friend who, along with her husband, adopted a half-brother and sister from Russia. As I was considering my own adoption, she told me that on the morning she received the dossier paperwork, she reviewed it, then went into her bedroom, lied down on her bed and stayed there for the rest of the day. Great…
Knowing I had to face the infamous dossier, I took a deep breath and unzipped the folder.
The dictionary defines dos-ee-ey as: A complete file containing detailed information about a person or topic. After reading the documents in the folder I knew better. In fact, “Dossier” is actually a term for a tortuous process that requires me to:
But, the next morning when I woke up, the reality of the situation soaked into my brain like vinegar into fish and chips. Within the next four weeks I was going to try to complete twenty-five of the thirty-five required documents, visit a psychologist, two doctors, the police station, a CPA, the county assessor, and the courthouse. Then, I would notarize at least thirty-nine documents and send them by courier to Sacramento to be “apostilled.” (Hopefully by someone who actually knows what that word means.)
At the same time, I needed to paint most of my daughters’ furniture, move them into a new room, then paint and decorate their new brother’s room. Plus, I had to fill out the paperwork for the adoption loan and send it in to the credit union.
Today was February 2. On February 4, I was supposed to turn in manuscripts for two new, 120-page books. I might be able to beg two more weeks, but that was the limit of the extension.
And, that was in addition to working full-time and managing a household with three teenagers, two minature dachshunds, a cockatiel, and a parrot (we sold off the partridge in a pear tree a while back.)
Despair began to creep in, and I tried to push away the thought of the sheer volume of work I was facing. Just do it one thing at a time. If I stay up late every night, I can get through it. I’ll just treat it like finals week at college—cram for it and the next thing I know it will all be done.
I had two key meetings on the morning of February 2: one to review the schedule for my manuscripts, and the other with the dossier manager at the adoption agency. The manuscript meeting was first. As we reviewed the schedule and I stared at the February 4 date, the production manager leaned over the paper, “Wait a minute. What happened to April? I totally skipped April in this schedule.” As we peered at the schedule, we all saw it—there was month left out. In other words, there was another month added to my February 4th deadline. Whoo hoo, a reprieve! One more schedule error we discovered added another two weeks, for a total of six more weeks before I had finish the books. I laughed and relaxed into my chair.
Two hours later, I was on the phone with the agency, reviewing the dossier checklist. I had gotten most of my questions answered when the coordinator pointed out, “The medical reports expire in three months, so don’t even do those until you come back from Russia. As a matter of fact, the only paperwork you need to do now are the forms you fill out yourself. Everything else can wait until after you go to Russia and meet your child.” What? I thought. All of those difficult appointments can wait? Did she just say the bulk of the paperwork could be spread out over the next two months, when I will be done with the loan paperwork, the manuscripts, and the home decoration? Thank you, God!
“How much does the apostille process cost?” I asked. I already knew the state of California charged $20 per document, and the courier was an extra $70. “Plan on $1,500,” the coordinator replied.
“What? What did you just say? I didn’t have that in my budget.” My heart accelerated a little, even as I told myself to calm down.
“It’s there in the fees,” she told me. I pulled up the fee schedule, and there it was—dossier preparation: $2,500. I realized what that meant. I did have it in my budget, and it wasn’t $2,500, because I needed fewer documents than a married couple and was getting a discount on the notary services. The amount wouldn’t be $2,500; it would be more like $1,100—$1,400 less than I budgeted.
Hope began to creep in, and my heart lifted a little. As the coordinator went over the documents I needed immediately, the list shrank to only eight items. I ran a yellow highlighter over the last item, and then realized one very important fact. All of these items could be done, notarized, and back from Sacramento in about two weeks. And … when the documents were done, I would receive a referral with a picture of my son. A little more than two weeks to a picture. Then, just over three more weeks before I would sit beside my son with a Lego Bionicle set in my hand. So close!
As I hung up the phone, the joy bubbled up in my throat and tears welled in the corners of my eyes. The morning’s meetings meant two things. One, it was going to be ok. I would get through it. And, two, difficulties and financial challenges would only get swept out of the way like this if God had really called me to adopt this child. Only He could make it all work so easily.
As I mentally thanked God, I realized there was one thing still left to do: head down to the toy store and look for the Lego aisle.
Phase 1: Home Study—After filling out an initial application, the prospective parent(s) submit references and paperwork regarding their income, financial assets, employment, and health. A social worker interviews the family, inspects the home, and completes a certified report.
Phase 2: Dossier—The prospective parent(s) compile a set of documents required by the Russian government. The documents must be duplicated, notarized, “apostilled” (certified by the state government where the parent resides), and translated into Russia.
Phase 3: Referral—Once the dossier is complete, the paperwork is sent to Russia. The adoption agency then receives a “referral” for a child, which generally includes one or more photos, the child’s medical history, and information on why the child is available for adoption. The prospective parent(s) then needs to decide whether they want to adopt the referred child. If so, the parent flies to Russia to meet the child and officially request the adoption.
Phase 4: Adoption and Immigration—The parent(s) again travels to Russia, this time to formally complete the adoption and immigration process.
On January 27, I received an email from the adoption agency director, telling me that the draft of my Home Study was complete. Happy and relieved to have completed the first big step in the adoption process, I quickly reviewed the draft and sent back my comments.
The following week I received another email—this one with a zipped folder containing forms and instructions for the thirty-five documents required for a Russia dossier. I stared at the email, reluctant to open it and find out just how bad it was going to be. I have a friend who, along with her husband, adopted a half-brother and sister from Russia. As I was considering my own adoption, she told me that on the morning she received the dossier paperwork, she reviewed it, then went into her bedroom, lied down on her bed and stayed there for the rest of the day. Great…
Knowing I had to face the infamous dossier, I took a deep breath and unzipped the folder.
The dictionary defines dos-ee-ey as: A complete file containing detailed information about a person or topic. After reading the documents in the folder I knew better. In fact, “Dossier” is actually a term for a tortuous process that requires me to:
- Go to the police station and ask them to prove I’m not a child molester.
- Drive a long distance to the county assessor’s office, wait in a line, and ask them to confirm that I actually do own a house.
- Pay a psychiatrist to swear I don’t have any noticeable mental problems (other than the standard ones caused by being a working parent.) Fortunately, apostillemania and excessive notarization disorder are exempt from the report.
- Drive all over three cities, picking up reluctant teenagers and taking them to appointments so a doctor can swear they don't do drugs or have communicable diseases. Beg the doctor to fill out a form, write a letter, and produce a medical license. Pay a notary to come along for the trip.
- Track down a friend who is a notary public and pay her to say she knows me.
But, the next morning when I woke up, the reality of the situation soaked into my brain like vinegar into fish and chips. Within the next four weeks I was going to try to complete twenty-five of the thirty-five required documents, visit a psychologist, two doctors, the police station, a CPA, the county assessor, and the courthouse. Then, I would notarize at least thirty-nine documents and send them by courier to Sacramento to be “apostilled.” (Hopefully by someone who actually knows what that word means.)
At the same time, I needed to paint most of my daughters’ furniture, move them into a new room, then paint and decorate their new brother’s room. Plus, I had to fill out the paperwork for the adoption loan and send it in to the credit union.
Today was February 2. On February 4, I was supposed to turn in manuscripts for two new, 120-page books. I might be able to beg two more weeks, but that was the limit of the extension.
And, that was in addition to working full-time and managing a household with three teenagers, two minature dachshunds, a cockatiel, and a parrot (we sold off the partridge in a pear tree a while back.)
Despair began to creep in, and I tried to push away the thought of the sheer volume of work I was facing. Just do it one thing at a time. If I stay up late every night, I can get through it. I’ll just treat it like finals week at college—cram for it and the next thing I know it will all be done.
I had two key meetings on the morning of February 2: one to review the schedule for my manuscripts, and the other with the dossier manager at the adoption agency. The manuscript meeting was first. As we reviewed the schedule and I stared at the February 4 date, the production manager leaned over the paper, “Wait a minute. What happened to April? I totally skipped April in this schedule.” As we peered at the schedule, we all saw it—there was month left out. In other words, there was another month added to my February 4th deadline. Whoo hoo, a reprieve! One more schedule error we discovered added another two weeks, for a total of six more weeks before I had finish the books. I laughed and relaxed into my chair.
Two hours later, I was on the phone with the agency, reviewing the dossier checklist. I had gotten most of my questions answered when the coordinator pointed out, “The medical reports expire in three months, so don’t even do those until you come back from Russia. As a matter of fact, the only paperwork you need to do now are the forms you fill out yourself. Everything else can wait until after you go to Russia and meet your child.” What? I thought. All of those difficult appointments can wait? Did she just say the bulk of the paperwork could be spread out over the next two months, when I will be done with the loan paperwork, the manuscripts, and the home decoration? Thank you, God!
“How much does the apostille process cost?” I asked. I already knew the state of California charged $20 per document, and the courier was an extra $70. “Plan on $1,500,” the coordinator replied.
“What? What did you just say? I didn’t have that in my budget.” My heart accelerated a little, even as I told myself to calm down.
“It’s there in the fees,” she told me. I pulled up the fee schedule, and there it was—dossier preparation: $2,500. I realized what that meant. I did have it in my budget, and it wasn’t $2,500, because I needed fewer documents than a married couple and was getting a discount on the notary services. The amount wouldn’t be $2,500; it would be more like $1,100—$1,400 less than I budgeted.
Hope began to creep in, and my heart lifted a little. As the coordinator went over the documents I needed immediately, the list shrank to only eight items. I ran a yellow highlighter over the last item, and then realized one very important fact. All of these items could be done, notarized, and back from Sacramento in about two weeks. And … when the documents were done, I would receive a referral with a picture of my son. A little more than two weeks to a picture. Then, just over three more weeks before I would sit beside my son with a Lego Bionicle set in my hand. So close!
As I hung up the phone, the joy bubbled up in my throat and tears welled in the corners of my eyes. The morning’s meetings meant two things. One, it was going to be ok. I would get through it. And, two, difficulties and financial challenges would only get swept out of the way like this if God had really called me to adopt this child. Only He could make it all work so easily.
As I mentally thanked God, I realized there was one thing still left to do: head down to the toy store and look for the Lego aisle.
Maxim(um) Control January 28, 2011
I learned about the orphan photolisting while doing some online reading on Russian adoptions. One blog mentioned a large database of orphans, maintained by the Russian Ministry of Education. The blogger explained that this database (with a little help from Babelfish, an online translator) made it easy to look through information and photos of orphans available for adoption.
Wow, I thought, an official Russian photolisting. How irresistible is that?
One of the toughest parts about the adoption process is the “referral” system. As the agency (and adoption websites) explained it, once all of my paperwork was complete, I would receive a referral of a child. The referral would include a little boy’s picture, medical history, and probably some information about why he was available for adoption. Then, it would be up to me to make a big decision: Yes, the child in the one- to two-page referral was my future son, or no, he wasn’t. If I said yes, the process would move forward. If I said no, then some time later I would receive another referral. There would be no “choosing” from a roomful or children, or from a database of pictures. Or, would there? Maybe, I thought, this Russian database could enable me to choose a child with whom I felt an emotional connection.
Feeling a budding excitement, I typed in the web address. Sure enough, there was what appeared to be a search capability. I copied the puzzling Russian letters into Babelfish and was able to figure out how to search for a boy born in 2005. I typed in the year, and then clicked the button labeled искать.
As the web page appeared and I began to browse through the pictures, I thought, there are so many… Page after page of pictures, first names, regions, and birthdays. Each boy’s description included a line for “nature.” One little boy was described as “calm,” the next one as, “merry,” a third as “obstinate but sociable.” There was a dark blond with big, sorrowful green eyes. I could have seated him beside my son Brandon, and anyone would have accepted that they were brothers. In many cases, the orphans reflected the poor conditions of the orphanage. There were red marks on their faces that looked like they came from bug bites. Most of them had haircuts that had been done quickly; many had mis-matched clothing. There were so many sad eyes, so many signs of medical issues and poor conditions.
Then, my eyes locked onto a particular boy. He was an six-year-old with blond hair, a wide, charming smile, and twinkling gray-green eyes. His hair stood up in the back in a wild cowlick that would have caused most barbers to despair. My heart melted immediately, and I quickly pasted his information into Babelfish.
His name was Maxim. He was in an orphanage in Moscow and had been born in January of 2006. The listing said he was “calm, affectionate, inquisitive.” There was something so familiar about his face. He reminded me of someone, but I just couldn’t think of whom. He was just, familiar.
After studying his picture for a while, I shot off a quick email to the adoption agency director. Was it possible, I asked, to request a child? Could I apply to adopt Max?
An hour or two later, I had my answer back. No, the database was meant for domestic adoptions, and the orphanages would be offended by the request. Plus, it was $5,000 more to adopt a child in Moscow.
I sat and struggled with the answer. Maybe I could reduce my travel costs by only having to fly into Moscow. The Moscow orphanages had a website and an email address; maybe I could email them myself, and even translate the request into Russian so they would answer. Maybe I could push the agency and ask that they try. There had to be a way.
As I struggled and schemed a quiet little thought inserted itself into my mind: Hadn’t I been praying for God to choose the right child for our family? My constant prayer had been that God would choose a child He knew would choose Him. Over and over I had prayed for God to have his hand on the Russian officials and have them offer me exactly the right child—the one who would bond with our family. And, hadn’t I asked my friends and family to pray that same prayer?
My eyes drifted back down to Max’s picture—the wild hair and the shining eyes. In my impatience and anxiety, was I trying to control the situation and choose a son out of a photo database? My emotions told me to choose a child myself. God's Word told me to trust Him, even when it didn't feel comfortable.
Slowly, I put the computer cursor over the picture of Max I had pasted into a document, and with one last glance at his smiling face, hit Delete.
The choice is yours, Lord, I thought. Choose a son for me.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him and he will make your paths straight.” (Proverbs 3:5-6)
Wow, I thought, an official Russian photolisting. How irresistible is that?
One of the toughest parts about the adoption process is the “referral” system. As the agency (and adoption websites) explained it, once all of my paperwork was complete, I would receive a referral of a child. The referral would include a little boy’s picture, medical history, and probably some information about why he was available for adoption. Then, it would be up to me to make a big decision: Yes, the child in the one- to two-page referral was my future son, or no, he wasn’t. If I said yes, the process would move forward. If I said no, then some time later I would receive another referral. There would be no “choosing” from a roomful or children, or from a database of pictures. Or, would there? Maybe, I thought, this Russian database could enable me to choose a child with whom I felt an emotional connection.
Feeling a budding excitement, I typed in the web address. Sure enough, there was what appeared to be a search capability. I copied the puzzling Russian letters into Babelfish and was able to figure out how to search for a boy born in 2005. I typed in the year, and then clicked the button labeled искать.
As the web page appeared and I began to browse through the pictures, I thought, there are so many… Page after page of pictures, first names, regions, and birthdays. Each boy’s description included a line for “nature.” One little boy was described as “calm,” the next one as, “merry,” a third as “obstinate but sociable.” There was a dark blond with big, sorrowful green eyes. I could have seated him beside my son Brandon, and anyone would have accepted that they were brothers. In many cases, the orphans reflected the poor conditions of the orphanage. There were red marks on their faces that looked like they came from bug bites. Most of them had haircuts that had been done quickly; many had mis-matched clothing. There were so many sad eyes, so many signs of medical issues and poor conditions.
Then, my eyes locked onto a particular boy. He was an six-year-old with blond hair, a wide, charming smile, and twinkling gray-green eyes. His hair stood up in the back in a wild cowlick that would have caused most barbers to despair. My heart melted immediately, and I quickly pasted his information into Babelfish.
His name was Maxim. He was in an orphanage in Moscow and had been born in January of 2006. The listing said he was “calm, affectionate, inquisitive.” There was something so familiar about his face. He reminded me of someone, but I just couldn’t think of whom. He was just, familiar.
After studying his picture for a while, I shot off a quick email to the adoption agency director. Was it possible, I asked, to request a child? Could I apply to adopt Max?
An hour or two later, I had my answer back. No, the database was meant for domestic adoptions, and the orphanages would be offended by the request. Plus, it was $5,000 more to adopt a child in Moscow.
I sat and struggled with the answer. Maybe I could reduce my travel costs by only having to fly into Moscow. The Moscow orphanages had a website and an email address; maybe I could email them myself, and even translate the request into Russian so they would answer. Maybe I could push the agency and ask that they try. There had to be a way.
As I struggled and schemed a quiet little thought inserted itself into my mind: Hadn’t I been praying for God to choose the right child for our family? My constant prayer had been that God would choose a child He knew would choose Him. Over and over I had prayed for God to have his hand on the Russian officials and have them offer me exactly the right child—the one who would bond with our family. And, hadn’t I asked my friends and family to pray that same prayer?
My eyes drifted back down to Max’s picture—the wild hair and the shining eyes. In my impatience and anxiety, was I trying to control the situation and choose a son out of a photo database? My emotions told me to choose a child myself. God's Word told me to trust Him, even when it didn't feel comfortable.
Slowly, I put the computer cursor over the picture of Max I had pasted into a document, and with one last glance at his smiling face, hit Delete.
The choice is yours, Lord, I thought. Choose a son for me.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him and he will make your paths straight.” (Proverbs 3:5-6)
Adopt a Child? That's Not Me ... Right? January 20, 2011
I was in beautiful but cold Abiquiu, New Mexico, attending a writer's conference. The speaker for the evening was a man who had founded an organization to minister to orphans across the world. His story went like this: He and his wife had gone to a Russian orphanage on a mission trip, and while there the couple had met and bonded with a little ten-year-old girl who needed a home. Even though they were just in their twenties and newly married, they decided to adopt her. Months later, with the reams of paperwork and expensive legal process complete, the man returned to the Russian orphanage to pick up his daughter. He walked into a large room in the impoverished institution and saw one hundred orphans watching him intently, all of them knowing that he was--or could be--someone's father. In the awkward silence, he gave them a wave and said the only word he knew in Russian, "hello." At that, two little girls detached themselves from the silent crowd of children, ran across the room and wrapped their arms tightly around his leg. As his heart clenched and he stared down at them, one little girl looked up at him and simply said, "Papa." What she understood was that he was a father and he was coming to take someone home. Maybe, just maybe, if she let him know how much she needed parents and a home, he might take her too.
It was a heartbreaking story. The man took his new daughter home, but left the other two little girls, and ninety-eight more children behind. As the speaker talked with our group he explained the plight of Russian orphans. There are approximately 700,000 of them in orphanages and even more living on the street. Most orphans actually have parents, but have either been turned over to the orphanage by a parent or other family member, or have been taken away from their parents due to abuse or neglect. Some of the orphans, particularly the babies and toddlers, are adopted by Russian families. But if a child has a disability or special need, or if he or she is an "older child" and no longer a baby, it becomes increasingly harder to find that child a permanent home. What's even more heart wrenching is what happens if an orphan grows up and isn't adopted. When the child reaches the age of sixteen or seventeen, they have outgrown the orphan system and are turned out into the streets. A recent study conducted in Russia found that only one out of every ten of those teenage orphans will become a productive member of society. The other ninety percent will fall prey to prostitution, suicide, crime, drugs, alcohol, or human trafficking. Ninety percent of the lives are ruined or lost.
As the speaker ended his talk he reminded us of James 1:27, "Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress..." (NIV) Then he offered us three ways we could help: We could donate money to the organization, we could go on a mission trip to a Russian orphanage, or we could come talk with him after the conference session and get some information about adopting a child.
I didn't have my checkbook or much cash with me, but I dug out what I had and gave it to the organization. That was all I could do, right? After all, I didn't have thousands of dollars for a mission trip, I already sponsored three children with World Vision, and I was definitely not in a situation to adopt a child. I had three teenagers at home. Plus, I was in my late forties, and here's the big one: I was divorced. There wasn't even a "Papa" to help raise a child. The parenting stage of my life was winding down. My kids were going to go to college, get a job, and I was going to have time to write and finish my second degree, right? My life was set.
But as the week went by, that little girl looking for a parent stayed in my mind. The thought of ninety percent of teenage orphans left without hope caused a dull ache in my chest. God began to break my heart for the things that break His. And, at that point I began to have a quiet debate with God.
"Adoption isn't for me."
Why not you?
"Children should have two parents. I'm single."
Is it better for them to have a mother, grandparents, siblings, and a church home, or live in a Russian orphanage?
"I'm in my late forties. Adopting another child doesn't make any sense."
You're able to parent one more.
"I have plans. I was going to finish my second Master's Degree.
My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.
"Adoption is incredibly expensive. I don't have that money."
You know that my Word tells you that I am able to do exceedingly, abundantly more than you can ask or imagine.
In the end, it came down to Jesus' words in Matthew 25, "For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in... Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me." (Matthew 25: 35, 40)
Within two weeks, I had talked with my kids and my parents, prayed, investigated adoption agencies and fees, prayed, met with friends who had adopted children, read adoption websites and articles, and prayed. Finally, I downloaded the adoption application, filled it out, wrote a check, put them both in an envelope, added a stamp, and slipped it into the mailbox.
Like I said, adoption isn't for me. But, as life turns out, sometime late this spring, I will arrive at a Russian orphanage, sit down beside a five-year-old boy and whisper a Russian word I've learned, "Zdra-stvu-eetee. Hello ... my son."
It was a heartbreaking story. The man took his new daughter home, but left the other two little girls, and ninety-eight more children behind. As the speaker talked with our group he explained the plight of Russian orphans. There are approximately 700,000 of them in orphanages and even more living on the street. Most orphans actually have parents, but have either been turned over to the orphanage by a parent or other family member, or have been taken away from their parents due to abuse or neglect. Some of the orphans, particularly the babies and toddlers, are adopted by Russian families. But if a child has a disability or special need, or if he or she is an "older child" and no longer a baby, it becomes increasingly harder to find that child a permanent home. What's even more heart wrenching is what happens if an orphan grows up and isn't adopted. When the child reaches the age of sixteen or seventeen, they have outgrown the orphan system and are turned out into the streets. A recent study conducted in Russia found that only one out of every ten of those teenage orphans will become a productive member of society. The other ninety percent will fall prey to prostitution, suicide, crime, drugs, alcohol, or human trafficking. Ninety percent of the lives are ruined or lost.
As the speaker ended his talk he reminded us of James 1:27, "Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress..." (NIV) Then he offered us three ways we could help: We could donate money to the organization, we could go on a mission trip to a Russian orphanage, or we could come talk with him after the conference session and get some information about adopting a child.
I didn't have my checkbook or much cash with me, but I dug out what I had and gave it to the organization. That was all I could do, right? After all, I didn't have thousands of dollars for a mission trip, I already sponsored three children with World Vision, and I was definitely not in a situation to adopt a child. I had three teenagers at home. Plus, I was in my late forties, and here's the big one: I was divorced. There wasn't even a "Papa" to help raise a child. The parenting stage of my life was winding down. My kids were going to go to college, get a job, and I was going to have time to write and finish my second degree, right? My life was set.
But as the week went by, that little girl looking for a parent stayed in my mind. The thought of ninety percent of teenage orphans left without hope caused a dull ache in my chest. God began to break my heart for the things that break His. And, at that point I began to have a quiet debate with God.
"Adoption isn't for me."
Why not you?
"Children should have two parents. I'm single."
Is it better for them to have a mother, grandparents, siblings, and a church home, or live in a Russian orphanage?
"I'm in my late forties. Adopting another child doesn't make any sense."
You're able to parent one more.
"I have plans. I was going to finish my second Master's Degree.
My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.
"Adoption is incredibly expensive. I don't have that money."
You know that my Word tells you that I am able to do exceedingly, abundantly more than you can ask or imagine.
In the end, it came down to Jesus' words in Matthew 25, "For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in... Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me." (Matthew 25: 35, 40)
Within two weeks, I had talked with my kids and my parents, prayed, investigated adoption agencies and fees, prayed, met with friends who had adopted children, read adoption websites and articles, and prayed. Finally, I downloaded the adoption application, filled it out, wrote a check, put them both in an envelope, added a stamp, and slipped it into the mailbox.
Like I said, adoption isn't for me. But, as life turns out, sometime late this spring, I will arrive at a Russian orphanage, sit down beside a five-year-old boy and whisper a Russian word I've learned, "Zdra-stvu-eetee. Hello ... my son."
An Adoption Rollercoaster January 20, 2011
I’m just about to finish the first phase of the adoption process—the home study. This phase includes ten hours of online classes, financial disclosure, reams of paperwork, FBI and DOJ background checks, social worker visits, home inspection, tuberculosis tests, and at least one argument with the pediatrician's office. (I'm pretty sure the process is meant to scare off the faint-of-heart.)
It's been an emotional rollercoaster, and I wrote a little summary of the ups and downs, below. Enjoy.
Up: Putting an adoption budget on paper, and seeing a way to work for, or borrow most of the money.
Down: Realizing while paying my bills that the amount in my savings account allocated for the initial adoption costs could pay off every debt but my car and house and wondering What am I doing?
Up: Buying two Russian cross medallions—one from me to wear until I put it around the neck of my new son, and one for my teenage son, Brandon. Seeing Brandon wear the medallion every day in anticipation of his little brother’s arrival.
Down: Trying to figure out how to fit one adult and four kids in a Volkswagen Beetle that seats four.
Up: Finally deciding on selling charm bracelets and t-shirts as a fundraiser, and spending two hours with my Mom hand-assembling the bracelets.
Down: Anxiously trying to figure out what’s appropriate and what’s not appropriate with fundraising. Is it ok to discuss it at work? Is it not?
Up: Having a friend and family member use their own time to develop a professional logo and t-shirt design for the fundraising efforts.
Up: Having my senior pastor and youth pastor both tell me it would be their pleasure to write a reference letter.
Down: Having to switch medical insurance just in time to take all three kids for four appointments, three physicals, three TB tests, and paperwork listing a plethora of hereditary and communicable diseases.
Up: Thinking about how to decorate my son’s room—would he like a sports motif, or should I go with jungle animals?
Down: Staring at the four- and five-year-olds in their Sunday school room at church, and realizing the volunteers in the classroom are probably wondering what I’m doing.
Up: Starting to learn Russian through a set of audio CDs and laughing at the first phrases I learned, “I don’t understand Russian,” and, “Yes, I’m an American.”
Down: Struggling to say, “zdrufts-vwitcha” (hello) and wishing I could buy a vowel.
Down: Going through a two-hour online course on medical issues in adoption and learning about the prevalence of HIV, syphilis, lice, fetal alcohol syndrome, and scabies. Wondering what I’m getting myself into.
Up: Reading in the Bible that we’ve been adopted into God’s family and knowing that God is true to His promise that all things work together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose.
Down: Learning that some orphans are reported as HIV negative and then have HIV positive results on being testing in America.
Up: Finding peace in the fact that I would adapt and love a son who turned out to be HIV positive.
Up: Looking forward to being able to pick out Lego sets again.
Down: Paying $150.50 for seven certified copies of my birth certificate and vaguely wondering if the Russian authorities know anything about identify theft.
Up: Looking through picture after picture of orphan Russian boys and realizing that almost every one melts my heart.
Down: Wondering how to explain when my kids spend time with their father, and my new son doesn’t have one.
Up: Buying a children’s book called A Mother for Choco and liking how the little yellow bird with the big cheeks and the striped feet helps explain adoption.
Up: Praying with friends, and realizing in the midst of that prayer that I have a SON, somewhere in the vast expanse of Russia.
It's been an emotional rollercoaster, and I wrote a little summary of the ups and downs, below. Enjoy.
Up: Putting an adoption budget on paper, and seeing a way to work for, or borrow most of the money.
Down: Realizing while paying my bills that the amount in my savings account allocated for the initial adoption costs could pay off every debt but my car and house and wondering What am I doing?
Up: Buying two Russian cross medallions—one from me to wear until I put it around the neck of my new son, and one for my teenage son, Brandon. Seeing Brandon wear the medallion every day in anticipation of his little brother’s arrival.
Down: Trying to figure out how to fit one adult and four kids in a Volkswagen Beetle that seats four.
Up: Finally deciding on selling charm bracelets and t-shirts as a fundraiser, and spending two hours with my Mom hand-assembling the bracelets.
Down: Anxiously trying to figure out what’s appropriate and what’s not appropriate with fundraising. Is it ok to discuss it at work? Is it not?
Up: Having a friend and family member use their own time to develop a professional logo and t-shirt design for the fundraising efforts.
Up: Having my senior pastor and youth pastor both tell me it would be their pleasure to write a reference letter.
Down: Having to switch medical insurance just in time to take all three kids for four appointments, three physicals, three TB tests, and paperwork listing a plethora of hereditary and communicable diseases.
Up: Thinking about how to decorate my son’s room—would he like a sports motif, or should I go with jungle animals?
Down: Staring at the four- and five-year-olds in their Sunday school room at church, and realizing the volunteers in the classroom are probably wondering what I’m doing.
Up: Starting to learn Russian through a set of audio CDs and laughing at the first phrases I learned, “I don’t understand Russian,” and, “Yes, I’m an American.”
Down: Struggling to say, “zdrufts-vwitcha” (hello) and wishing I could buy a vowel.
Down: Going through a two-hour online course on medical issues in adoption and learning about the prevalence of HIV, syphilis, lice, fetal alcohol syndrome, and scabies. Wondering what I’m getting myself into.
Up: Reading in the Bible that we’ve been adopted into God’s family and knowing that God is true to His promise that all things work together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose.
Down: Learning that some orphans are reported as HIV negative and then have HIV positive results on being testing in America.
Up: Finding peace in the fact that I would adapt and love a son who turned out to be HIV positive.
Up: Looking forward to being able to pick out Lego sets again.
Down: Paying $150.50 for seven certified copies of my birth certificate and vaguely wondering if the Russian authorities know anything about identify theft.
Up: Looking through picture after picture of orphan Russian boys and realizing that almost every one melts my heart.
Down: Wondering how to explain when my kids spend time with their father, and my new son doesn’t have one.
Up: Buying a children’s book called A Mother for Choco and liking how the little yellow bird with the big cheeks and the striped feet helps explain adoption.
Up: Praying with friends, and realizing in the midst of that prayer that I have a SON, somewhere in the vast expanse of Russia.
