November is National Adoption Month and as we sit on the approaching eve of our own adoption I am riddled with feelings of conflict. There are so many voices, images, songs, shows, movies, stories that express the beauty and redemption of adoption. It is truly beautiful...for me.
I am not coming at adoption from the heartbreak of infertility. I have lost a pregnancy, but I haven’t grappled with what it is to choose adoption out of the tears of my flesh. I haven’t lost a parent or a sibling or a friend and chosen to love their child as my own while secretly mourning and navigating my own grief. I don’t know what it’s like to raise my own grandchild. I have not been the adoptive parent of a spouse’s child abandoned by choice or by death. I don’t know that pain, and I won’t pretend to. To pretend to know how it feels to have a child woven into the fabric of a family by any of these needles is unfair. I have seen it in every way, but I won’t pretend to know what it feels like.
I am not, and have not been a child that has felt the loss of family. I don’t know what it is like to huddle in my bed at night alone and cold wondering if someone will come. I’ve never packed my belongings in a garbage bag for another “hopeful” situation. I can’t begin to imagine what it is to be left in a dumpster, by the side of the road, in a public bathroom, on a doorstep, at an orphanage, or with a family member because the burden of me is too much for my parents. I don’t know what it’s like to have the message that “you are unloved” or “you are utterly alone” play over and over inside my head. I can’t imagine the pain and loss that is felt when your own flesh gives you up. I’ve never lost a parent, let alone both of them. I’ve never seen my parents struggle to feed my siblings so much that they have given me away to someone who can. I don’t know what war and poverty and hunger and injustice can do to me from the inside out, shaking the very foundation of my family until we tear apart. I don’t know. I won’t pretend to.
Adoption is beautiful but it is born out of the ashes of tragedy, out of a life that has been ravaged by the fires of hell. It is a redemption song that should never have to be sung. But yet, here we are, singing at the top of our lungs. The same song that Jesus sings over us, He sings to those who are sitting now in a closet, or backseat, or at a funeral, or tied to a crib or in the loving arms of a foster parent, or orphanage worker. He sings the song of the Cross, He sings, “It is Finished” - your pain, your heartbreak, your tragedy - they are real - but I am REAL-ER!
Jesus cries out to the fatherless in a way that only He can. Jesus heals our broken hearts and redeems our crooked paths. He takes all that is shattered and makes it whole. He puts back the pieces of a twisted humanity and He calls us - you and me to do the same.
There comes a time in our lives when we look at the ashes around us and we dress in sackcloth and rub them into our hair, our skin, embed them under our fingernails and feel them between our toes. We wear our ashes and the ashes of others, we feel the heat of the embers still flickering and we wail for the injustice of sin. Sitting in ashes we cry out and we pray.
As the ashes turn to dust, the rain begins to fall. The wind of the Spirit rushes and the dry bones take on flesh. The beauty of the resurrection is this - We no longer sit in ashes, we are no longer covered in dust. We look at the grit beneath our feet and realize it is beginning to sprout. We know, deep inside, that newness is coming. Out of the dust, He is making us beautiful. A life that has been burned to the ground is being rebuilt on Kingdom footings, a heart torn apart is being forged back the way it was always intended.
This beauty, this newness is coming; on the backs of children and parents, in the arms of foster families and welcomed orphans, by the feet of relief aid workers and walking invalids, through the tears of healing babies and legal advocates. Hearts are being restored by signed documents, and shared struggles. The redemption song is being sung by every Mother, Father, Sister, Brother, Grandparent, Aunt, Uncle, Husband, Wife, Niece, Nephew, Friend, Pastor, Child...In the voice of every motherless orphan, every childless father, every husbandless wife, every where, in every corner of the world this song is being sung.
We are being restored. And our restoration rarely comes in the lonely hour. Someone has sat in our ashes. Someone has seen the flowers beginning to bud at their feet. Someone is helping us grow the Garden of God in our life. Others are fertilizing, pruning, planting, nurturing, loving us with the very love of Jesus. We need each other if we are to be whole. We need to reach out so others can see and feel what it is to be made whole.
There is beauty in ashes, and the beauty is this. Nothing that has ever been, or ever will be the tragic tale of your life is beyond the redemption of Jesus. Your heartache, your loss, your pain, your abandonment, your flickering ashes are the breeding ground of Grace. Jesus hears your heartcry. He weeps. He mourns. He heals.
It is right to rejoice in the story of adoption, the story of redemption and renewal. But it is also right to rejoice in sober reflection and respect for those things we know nothing about. Love and peace and truth and grace are all found here. Beauty from ashes...from ashes.
To follow our adoption story or to support our adoption please visit Youcaring.com/chiaramonte
