THE GIFT - By Renee Williams

“Mama…is Michelle going to get me a Christmas present?”

I glance in the rear-view mirror at my four-year-old son John and search his face for signs this was more than a simple —albeit slightly consumeristic — question.

Michelle is my son’s birth mother.  While “open adoption” (where the birth family has contact with the adopted child and family) has been the trend in adoptive relationships, John’s adoption has essentially been closed.  John’s birth father preferred no contact and Michelle is comfortable with very limited contact.  We include Michelle’s picture in a book of pictures of friends and family and we see her around town about once a year.  We have been upfront with John about who Michelle is and what role she has in his life, which forced us to have rather straight-forward conversations about anatomy early in John’s development: “You grew in Michelle’s uterus and after you were born, she chose us to raise you.”  I wish she and his half-brother could be in his life, though that will have to be in God’s (and Michelle’s) time.

Back to the car. I read books on how to talk to your kids about their adoption.  We read children’s books on adoption.  We did our homework yet I hadn’t anticipated this particular question.

I feign deafness to buy time: “What did you say, sweetie?”

He repeats his question.

My brain whirrs.

What am I going to tell this child?

This child who loves to get presents to the degree that he is already planning what we will give him for his birthday in August.

It’s October.

Do I tell him what I think is the truth?

“No, she’s not. It’s not because she doesn’t love you. I’d bet she thinks about you all the time—imagining you playing sports and wondering what size of shoes you wear.  She has thought of a thousand gifts she would like to give you, it’s just too painful for her to send you a Christmas gift knowing that she won’t be the one who gets to read that book with you or see you in that hat.”

Do I pontificate?

“Michelle may not give you a toy this year, though she has already given you the most astounding gift of self-sacrificial love—she trusted me and your Dad to provide you with the opportunities that she wasn’t able to offer.”

Do I lie?

“No, honey. I don’t think she has our address.”

Michelle has been to our house.

Do I offer a vague hope?

“Maybe?”

I settle on honest and concrete:

“Some adults give you presents like me and Dada, Granny and Papa, and Grandma and Grandpa and some other adults who still care about you very much, don’t buy you presents. Michelle is one of those adults. She cares about you very much though you probably shouldn’t expect a Christmas present from her.”

He looks out the window and considers this quietly.

Then, true to form, responds: “Why?”

Before I had children I loved that simple question.  I even got a minor in college in philosophy which considers “why?” at length.

Now, I dread “why?”—often because I don’t know the answer.
“Why?” indeed.

I know he’s trying to understand relationships — why some people are closer to him than others, why some can show love easily and others cannot, why some people will accept him and others will turn away from him.  It’s going to take a lifetime to puzzle through those questions, kiddo.

Yet, my thoughts settle in the larger questions...

Why do we live in a society where a mother is shamed for her decision to place her child in an adoptive family?
Why do adopted children — even those in the most caring homes — often live with deep wounds?

My faith tradition does not offer easy answers to these questions, which are ultimately questions about suffering.  We center our faith on Christ crucified and we speak of a God who is no stranger to suffering.  As disciples of Christ, then, we are called to be present in suffering with people whenever we encounter it.

I know John will have more questions about adoption — one day I anticipate the ultimate “why” question: 

“Why was I placed for adoption?”

I don’t anticipate our answer will be sufficient, though I pray our compassion will suffice.

There is joy that comes with adoption as well. Just as we care called “to weep with those who weep,” we are called “to rejoice with those who rejoice”.  Our family, our church and our friends celebrated John’s arrival in our lives.  My family has been created through the adoption of two beautiful, incredible children and I am so thankful this is possible for us and for many other families.  Michelle and all of the birth parents of my children are daily in my prayers in thanksgiving for their courage and love for their children — my children.  John may not see a wrapped present from Michelle under the Christmas tree this year; though we certainly receive him as a gift every day.