Why Adoption?

This morning I was talking to my Papa, by far the kindest, truest, most steady person I’ve ever known. He’s one of those people who loves you even when you don’t think you want to be loved. Strong when strength is required and gentle when gentleness is needed. If you can’t tell I adore the man.

I’ve been asked a lot lately why we choose to found a fund in honor of Damon that assists families with adoption expenses. Why adoption? Damon wasn’t adopted.

The short answer is it never occurred to us to do anything else. Adoption was just right. It just was.

I’ve been exploring myself lately wondering if there is a longer answer. I think yes… and no. The short answer is plenty but maybe our choice tells us something about ourselves. I’ve been considering what that might be.

I’m not entirely sure where this story begins… so I guess I’ll start at the beginning. I’m adopted, in a manner of speaking. The man I introduced you to at the beginning of this post shares no blood with me. Neither do my aunt or uncle or cousins or the man who has been my only dad. The entirety of my extended family folded me in when I came to them at two years old, likely clinging to my mother who married their son and brother. Every Christmas memory, every Thanksgiving, my graduations… all populated with people who adopted me. They are the only family I have ever known.

There was pain, and brokenness and challenges. I struggled, battled, and wrestled with my identity. The desire to belong is hard enough when you’re 15 without the drama of convincing yourself you don’t even belong in your family. It wasn’t always pretty. It was hard and I was a real jerk. I think sometimes I had every right to be but that doesn’t make life any easier on the people who deal with you. Maybe because such a huge chunk of my biological family had just walked out on me I was convinced my “adopted” family would, too. Sometimes I think I tried to make them. They never did.

Very slowly, as an adult I’ve confronted my demons and begun to settle into the place my family has been holding for me all these years. This morning, talking to my Papa, I realized that it has been a long time since I’ve even thought about the fact that I’m not their blood. Papa always answers the phone “How is my Jodie-girl?” when I call. He’s called me that all of my life, his. It’s a beautiful thing.

I wonder if my ache for adoption stems from this? From knowing what it’s like to be taken in, wholly loved by people who didn’t “have” to?

I don’t know but I think this is a piece of the puzzle.

It’s just wrong, babies should be held, loved, kissed, adored. Two of the best parents I know, people who, whether they know it or not, taught me so much about how to be a parent got to be parents through adoption. I feel like people like them should get to raise ten kids if they want to.

So, adoption. It’s sooo expensive. I know what it is to ache for your baby to come home. Mine never will again but we get to help adoptive moms and dads get their babies in their arms and that is just plain good.

Until next time…