Rose Petals

Dark hair, brown eyes...dark hair, blue eyes...That is what I knew of my birthparents, a handful of physical characteristics and some scant family information. That was enough.

Born in the early 1960's, I always knew I was adopted. As the oldest of three children, I thought the way you "got" a baby was to go and pick one up. Over the years I loved to hear the story recounting the day when Mom and Dad brought me home. Over the years they tenderly spoke of my birthmother as a person who "loved me so much" that she would let go of me and let God work.

When I became a mother myself, I gained a deeper understanding of how difficult it must have been for my birthmother to make the adoption decision. What a heart-wrenching time that must have been for her. I needed to let her know that she had given me the ultimate gift: I had been raised in a loving Christian home with parents who cherished me. I wanted to thank her and give her the peace of knowing she had made the right decision. My search began.

I felt nervous about starting the process. Would my contact upset her life and family? Would I uncover something better left undisclosed? Would this quest somehow change or hurt me? I reached a point where I felt I was ready to face those unknowns. As always, I clung to the belief that God's timing is perfect.

Time marched on. My Mom passed away, my Dad followed eight months later, and within a few weeks I received the phone call from Lutheran Social Services that my birthmother had been found. My emotions went into overload, a combination of raw pain over the loss of my parents, mixed with anxiety and excitement. It was time to move forward.

The process of connecting with my birthmother was a fascinating roller coaster of emotions. It felt right. That first hug at the airport was filled with forty years of wonder, longing, and relief. We laughed, we cried, and looked into each other's eyes and love was there.

Six months later my birthmother asked me how I would feel if she contacted my birthfather. He knew of my existence but no contact had been made between them for four decades. She felt he had a right to know. I was comfortable with the idea but guarded in my expectations. This man seemed so far removed. Again, I feared I would upset his life in some way.

I received a late Christmas present this year: my birthfather called me December 27th. My heart literally stopped when he identified himself. Never did I dream I would hear his voice. This spring, I met him and his family. As with my birthmother, I felt an immediate connection, perhaps filling in holes in my soul that I never knew existed.

I am living a miracle story. Like the petals of a budding rose, my story has may layers yet to unfold. It is a story of God's grace and love. I grew up in a home with the most wonderful parents I could have been given; I have a guilt of hearts on my bed mad for me by my birthmother and my new family; and I have the memory of a long leisurely walk holding onto my birthfather's hand.

Happy Birthday

I wasn't allowed to see my newborn child. Signing a paper for adoption in 1962 was signing away my rights with the knowledge I would never see him again. From the moment he was born he was a mystery. Whisked away at birth, we were so disconnected that I walked away from the hospital as singular as if I had been a visitor.

Every instinct told me the picture was wrong. Walking away from my child sight unseen was unconscionable in my young mind. Faced with the word "never" I found some internal force and balked at the refusal for a visitation with my child. Three days later, though unusual and discouraged, a visitation was granted. It allowed me the only image I would carry forever. So I believed then.

During that visit I silently spoke to my baby. I apologized to him, I wished for him, I assured him he would be better than with me, I said "good-bye, my baby." Purposely, I had avoided naming my unborn child because it seemed anonymity would make it easier to forget. Faced with the reality of my living, breathing, precious bundle in from of me I remember feeling I shouldn't touch him, lift him, trace his little features or slip my fingers into his as he was no longer mine... but in my heart he was still "my baby." This was my memory for 42 years.

Over the years, I had contacted agencies that said they could find anyone but they needed more information than I was able to provide. An online search led me to Lutheran Social Services and the Confidential Intermediary service in 2004. Once locked files could now be opened. When a gentle voice asked me questions I wasn't prepared for my reaction. Speechless, unable to communicate, I could only cry as she spoke. Promptly her to keep talking, I assured her I was listening. Emotions were skin deep; it was 1962 again. Tears would flow many more times during the search all having to do with repressed emotions, past hurts, and fears but with the realization that what had seemed impossible now had taken wings. If he could be found, it was now possible to find him.

Mine is a success story. Successful not only that lost was found, but that we have found the two persons who belong together. There is peace of mind, almost a relaxation in the midst of the intensity and anxiety of finally putting the puzzle together, of sharing history, biology, families, memories, and completing two lives.

I applaud the process administered by LSS. Not only did they find my son, they smoothed the communications and encouraged us with appropriate methods to proceed. This easing to melt two persons is credited with a comfortable transition into familiarity. My first phone conversation with my son lasted three and one half hours and was filled with laughter.

Forty-three years after his birth I finally met my son. He is an artist, a sculptor, an outdoorsman, a cowboy. Gentle, compassionate and kind. He is mine. My birthday gift to him was a keepsake box with the engraving, "Never forgotten." Those two words meant more to him than anything I have ever said.

Days after our meeting, when he called me Mom, I knew it was intended to connect, it was meaningful, it was right. We are close. He shares his life, his troubles, his joys, and I want to hear it all. After our meeting he wrote, "It was a happy birthday for me to spend it with the one person I have always thought of on each birthday. You are in my thoughts every day and I'm glad what we did the way we did it. Your loving son."