The Hero of Our Adoption Story (Part 3)

I see many empty seats up front. A judge sits high with authority. Our lawyer approaches him for the purpose of making our three girls part of our forever family.

Our family and friends flood the back seats and our older three children and a son-in-law who has been on this journey with us, joins us at the table.

Bears and balloons fill the jury box, as well as the Guardian Ad Lietems who unbiasly worked to balance positions between birth mom and foster parents, advocating for the law and best interest of these children.

My thirteen-year-old has seen this judge before. She had this same lawyer and same judge when she was adopted on National Adoption Day eleven years ago.

Our lawyer asks her to speak, be the mouthpiece for a family who has traveled highs and lows, to get to these seats. A day dreamed of often, but almost in disbelief that it had finally come.

We are not new to the reality that adoption is about loss, not just the present day adoption.

There is a loss of the first families for the adopted children and a loss for the birth families of immeasurable porportions.

And although we will never share biology, my husband and I are commited to forever love, care for and devote our lives to these children.

Our teenager tells the judge the names of each family member sitting at the table. Then, the lawyer reminds my husband,  adoption isn’t just about raising a child until they are eighteen.

Parenting is for life.

The lawyer nods at our adult children, assured we are aware of the lifelong commitment that inevitably comes with parenting.

My husband states the full legal names of our girls. Our family will finally share the same last name. No more having to explain why the paperwork for school or doctors, ballet class or medical appointments carry two different last names.

Yet, the blood inside these three tutu’d girls will always carry their heritage; Samoan and Micronesian. And we will do everything in our power to make sure their culture is treasured, their ethnicity, valued and represented.

Islanders are some of the most beautiful people on earth, often gentle and kind. Personable, sensitive, creative and musical. They can connect to music, their own spirits and nature in the most incredible ways.

No, I am not Samoan. Just like I am not Hispanic or African American like my husband or children. But I do get, love doesn’t need to match in skin color to be real, authentic.

And…

If anyone practices a belief system where skin color is strong enough to segregate….My assumption is, their love wasn’t real to begin with.

Isn’t our world too small for segratation, biased based on outward appearances?

“Families Don’t Have To Match”. Period.

Dark grey shirts announce the message to the press standing in front of the courtroom.

Words declare it to the judge who has seen families form from grandparents adopting grandchildren, teachers adopting their students and every shade combined, connected to create a family.

Families don’t have to match.

Our six-year-old walks up towards the judge, with all of us in tow. We are a presence…this family of ours.

My husband and I fiercely love these three girls we are adopting.

The judge asks our Overcoming One to write her name on a document for confirmation.

Slowly, methodically, our little girl writes down her new name. It’s as if it’s just her and this paper and the world stands still for a little while.

It was her time to own her story, declare in writing what it looks like to take authority over a life that has been love in a system for far too long.

No more would social workers sift through her life, placement workers and guardian ad leitems meet with her reminding her of her past.

She was starting over.

It’s as if everyone in the room could feel it.

Each letter, every stroke of the pen carefully articulated. She was aware, intentional…declaring a new beginning.

She would be a new girl with a new name; now writing her own story in a home that allows freedom and expression, a voice that would empower her to become everything she ever dreamed.

Then, the judge asked her if she wants to do the final thing that would finalize her and her two sisters adoption.

She nods. Then picks up his heavy gavel, lifts it with careful focus…then drops it down with a heavy “thud” upon the gazing judge’s desk.

The audience in the courtroom…all who had came to see her…give a thunderous clap.

It was done. Finished. She was ours, forever.

Three biological sisters, never having to be separated. Never needing to go back and forth and not know their place in a world that cares more about question marks than periods or exclamation points.

It was over.

A journey I lost myself in. One I had gripped tightly, let go of and was remade in. One I learned to really love from, despite the rollercoaster ride.

It was a pathway that created a village of people who all contributed to these three little lives. Years spent learning to ask for prayer, teaching me to draw strength on my knees when no one else was watching.

One I learned to trust the God in heaven, who saw the dark fearful places in me, as well as the high hopes and courtroom spaces.

It was here, I was taken from my own throne to the crashing space of my own fleshly weakness, recognizing fully, there is nothing good in me, apart from The One who kept me.

He alone sustained me, when the voices of the ones we love could not be heard, when everyone seemed to have doubted or betrayed me.

Yes, I was not the hero of this story.

The judges, state workers, or even the family who released these three angels into our arms are not sole praise-worthy.

We all had failed in one respect or another; ourselves and eachother.

Yet, there was family created. And I knew at this point it wasn’t my doing. It was all in fulfillment of His will and plan.

There was a little girl I saw in a dream so long ago. Two dreams, really. One prepared in heaven, before she was born. Designed in the womb to reside in our family.

The other, the night before she came. I saw her face. I would have never taken her if I had never seen her eyes and heard the exact words the state worker asked of us before we said “yes” to this placement.

And now, two years and eight months later, God alone had woven a beautiful tapestry of His grace and portion.

Grace. Nothing but grace.

Yes, there are no heros in this story, except for Him. He alone called us and equiped us and made us one big family.

He alone touched the hearts and shifted them perfectly. He carried and sustained us. He turned judges and workers.

He brought down the proud, which included us, many times along the way…

And HE has risen to a place of beauty.

Three tutu’s, two parents, and four siblings, step down from the judges quarters. Now a family. Never to be separated again.

It was official. Our adoption was final. These girls are our forever daughters.

1737 days in foster care and now for our little one and her two sisters…it was over.

A new tomorrow had begun.

(The newspaper happened to be at the courthouse the day of our three girls adoption as a result of it being National Adoption Day. They ended up capturing our family’s story. If you want to read their article, you can find it here)