What God Can Do With a Nudge
I remember I was nestled on my parents’ bed watching one of those tv specials. I was a sucker for Lifetime shows filled with intense family conflict. This particular drama was about a young woman who’d found herself facing an unplanned pregnancy. After navigating many confusing and turbulent conversations with her family and the father of her child, she ultimately chose to place her newborn baby for adoption. My mom walked in towards the conclusion of the show. She sat on the edge of the bed, quietly watching the screen. As the credits rolled she turned to me with a nervous look on her face. Apparently, the story featured in the tv show could have very well been her own. With bravery I couldn’t possibly comprehend at the time, my mom proceeded to tell me about the baby girl she placed for adoption eleven years before I was born.
I remember feeling blindsided. I’m ashamed to admit I did not respond with grace, empathy, or the support my mom needed at that moment. I was just twelve years old, egocentric to the thousandth degree, and full of raging hormones. I don’t remember what I said exactly, but I know I raised my voice and spewed unfair accusations. I asked lots of aggressive questions. I was fixated on the fact my mother had kept my half-sister’s existence from me. I made my mother’s past pain all about ME.
“Why are you telling me this, now, after all this time?” I asked, finally.
“When we were watching that show I just felt like God was nudging me to share my story with you. He was telling me it was time.”
I processed the details of my mom’s confession in stubborn silence for weeks. We didn’t speak of it again for years. I regret that deeply, but I know I lacked the maturity to handle my mom’s fragile heart and so I think, ultimately, my withdrawal was a gift. Even so, my mom’s story of adoption took root in my heart, and the existence of my half-sister nestled firmly in the back of my mind and took up permanent residence. I never stopped wondering about her.
That night I made up my mind. Someday I would find my half-sister and I would hear her story. Somehow adoption would be part of my story too.
As I grew into my teenage years and early adulthood, an innumerable number of people crossed my path whose lives had been touched by adoption. Some were birth parents like my mother, others had been adopted by a loving family, while others had adopted children into their homes. Like the story played out in the tv special when I was young, I found each adoption story to be uniquely fascinating. I asked every question I could think of. I gleaned wisdom and perspective from each one of their stories. My heart was always bent to listen, understand and offer empathy. By the time I reached college, I was also feeling my own nudge from God; I knew I was supposed to be an adoptive mother.
When my husband and I began to pursue adoption, the door I had slammed shut between my mom and me began to inch open again. Little by little I was able to offer an empathetic ear as I revisited the details of her story, this time with merciful maturity. As I met birth mother after birth mother, all facing seemingly impossible situations, my respect and admiration for my mother grew by leaps and bounds. In the spring of 2015, I watched my son’s birth mother meet him and then surrender him within the span of ten minutes; the significance of what my mother had done all those years ago came full circle. She had performed the most courageous, selfless act of love for her daughter. She had given her child a life she couldn’t offer her herself. I couldn’t begin to imagine the strength it required. My mom had earned the right to choose to keep her experience locked safe in her heart or share it with the world. I counted myself blessed to have been trusted with her remarkable story.
My mom is extraordinary. She held my hand as I waded through two years of disappointment and loss, watching helplessly as my motherhood hung in the balance of another woman’s decision. Not once did my mom make it about her. She could have justified, defended, and explained away the choices of the birth mothers who continually changed their minds about us. She of all people understood what it was like to walk in their shoes. But instead, she selflessly held me up and held my tears. Now her two grandchildren, both adopted into our family, are jewels in her crown.
In the years since adopting my children, my mom and I have talked openly about her story. I still wondered about my half-sister, but I never pushed my mom on the subject because I understood now that my sister’s existence is part of my mom’s narrative, not mine. I also fully understood what was at risk in reopening a closed adoption. There is so much to consider. I had resigned myself to the fact that I would never know more than the few details my mother could give me about her biological daughter. All my questions would go unanswered: Do we look alike? Does she know she was adopted? Is she healthy? Is she happy? Does she wonder if she has any other siblings out there? Does she have a family of her own? Until three years ago.
My mom texted me one summer afternoon. Her message said that her biological daughter, Lynn, had found her and reached out to her via email. They’d been communicating back and forth for a while. After I picked my jaw up from the floor, I sat on my couch and sobbed. They were tears of relief and sheer joy. I thought of what it meant for my mom, Lynn, and Lynn’s adoptive parents. My mom graciously understood I would need time to process it before I’d be ready to call and talk about it. I immediately grabbed a pen and paper and began to scribble all my thoughts, feelings, and questions (of which there were dozens). Internally I could hardly contain myself. Of course, my first question was, “When can I meet her?!?!” but I was determined not to make the same mistake by shifting the focus off my mom and onto myself. A few days later my mom and I talked at length over the phone, unpacking the details of how Lynn had found her and everything my mom had learned. I was overwhelmed with pride. My mom was navigating an absurdly emotional situation with such dignity and grace. I remained quietly and calmly on the sidelines for several months as she found her bearings in this unexpected turn of events. Later that year, I received an email from Lynn.
God had nudged her, she said, to reach out to me, just like He had nudged my mom to share with me all those years ago. My heart raced as I soaked in every single word. I eagerly replied, assuring her I was very interested in having a relationship with her. We started exchanging emails, learning each other’s stories, and uncovering the gift of a friendship that had somehow always been there, waiting to be unearthed. I loved her instantly, but then, I realized I always had. She had been residing safely in a corner of my heart since that night when I was twelve. In my heart, I’d had a sister ever since. The emails later turned into video messages. We learned one another’s voices, faces, families, and scenes of homes in the background. We sent small gifts, silly text messages, videos of our children, and prayers of encouragement. Finally, last week, two and a half years after we connected for the first time, Lynn and I met face to face.
Lynn’s family was on vacation just two hours from my home on the Gulf Coast. I could tell you it was like what you see on those tv specials, an emotional reunion, staring into each other’s faces like long-lost siblings do, but it wasn’t like that at all. It was more like welcoming an old friend, a familiar presence. There were no tears, just grins. She was family, plain and simple. To anyone observing us they would’ve thought we saw each other every week, it was that “normal.” Still, it was surreal, looking across my living room at this woman who had always been more like a daydream of mine, who was the first piece in putting together my own adoption story, and who shared half my genetics yet grew up in a completely different world than me. Surreal yet so very sweet.
In Lynn, I’ve gained a priceless resource. As an adoptive mother, I ask about the questions she faced about her identity growing up, about what she wished she had known or been told, and about her desire to find her birth family. She can provide wisdom and understanding for my two children that I will never have. Her perspective is a gift I will never take for granted. But more than that, I’ve gained a sister; a woman who cares deeply and loves her family as fiercely as I love mine. She will be a faithful presence in my life from this day on. I’ve gained a piece of me I didn’t know was missing, a piece that represents the strength and sacrifice of our mother’s love.
I am in awe of what God can do with a nudge.
Lynn & Anne, “sisters from another mister”
I’m not at all annoyed that the voluptuous hair gene skipped me entirely. God knew I couldn’t handle a sister until I had named and claimed my issues with comparison. But still.