Christine's blogs

Happy Mother’s Day weekend – just about. Welcome to my new website/blog if it’s your first time visiting. I’m so glad you’re here.

As we look forward to our special day of recognition, for our adopted children—especially those internationally adopted with no background information—let’s take care. It may be a day that’s difficult for them. While they love you moms out there who are raising them, the day might be conflicting for them. 

We were in between churches at the time. We had recently walked away from a congregation where we’d found wonderful connections but also experienced deep church hurt. Struggling to find a new place to call home, we decided to simply stay in that Sunday.

There was no breakfast in bed when I awoke that Mother’s Day. Neither my ten-year-old son, Lucas, nor my eight-year-old daughter, Liv, came to wish me a happy day in the hours after I got up. In fact, at eleven o'clock, I finally went to wake them.

As I walked into Liv’s room, I saw that she was already awake. As I looked at her, I felt it—that maternal intuition God places within us to intervene for our children. Something in her demeanor seemed heavy. Initially, my flesh felt a twinge of annoyance; I was frustrated she had slept in, and disappointed that my husband hadn't rallied the kids to prepare breakfast, or at least present the expected cards, flowers, and chocolates. The day was slipping away, and I felt overlooked.

But as I wished her a good morning, her face was morose. The annoyance faded, replaced by a sudden burst of clarity.

“Are you thinking of your biological mother today?” I asked.

The question hung in the air. I had identified the elephant in the room without even thinking; it was as though God had simply placed the words on my tongue.

My mind flashed back to when she was five years old. I was in the kitchen packing school lunches when I heard it: that signature, heartbreaking, soft wail. I spun around to find her face nearly pressed into her cereal bowl.

The sight of her nose touching her Cheerios mirrored her very first bath in a China hotel when we adopted her. Frightened by the water, she had hunched forward until her face nearly touched the surface, her tiny spine protruding—a fragile, haunting image of a thirteen pound, thirteen-month-old child who must have felt she had no solid ground.

“Liv, what’s the matter?” I had asked, abandoning the lunches as my mind racing through possibilities. A lost tooth? A bug bite?

With her head still bowed over the bowl, she sobbed, “My own mother didn’t even want me!”

I was stunned. I felt her grief, but I also felt the sting of my own insecurity: Am I not enough for her? I had to quickly push aside my own sense of rejection and shoot a "rocket prayer" to the Lord for wisdom.

“Liv,” I said, sitting next to my five-year-old. “Look at me.” I smoothed her hair, desperate to fix the unfixable. “No mother wants to give up her child—ever.” I wanted to say, “But I am your mother,” but I knew that wouldn't touch the wound. She was mourning a severed attachment that goes deeper than words. I tried to explain government policies and the "One Child" rule. Then I chastised myself for possibly making her wonder if she was a second-born child with a sibling.

Now, three years later on this quiet Mother’s Day, those memories flooded back. I realized what this holiday must feel like for a child with no information, no contact, and no connection to the woman who gave her life.

“A little,” she finally answered.

“I understand,” I said, though there was no way to fully comprehend her feelings.

Liv keeps things close to the vest. Perhaps in that moment she was worried that her thoughts of another mother would hurt my feelings. I reiterated what I’d told her years before: her first mother had given her the greatest gift of all—life.

“She carried you, took care of you, and put you in a safe place to be quickly found,” I said. After a pause, I added, “She loved you then, and I’m sure she thinks of you still. She would be so proud of the girl you are today.”

That elicited a tiny smile. Words of affirmation are her love language.

“Do you know what the best part is?” I asked. She shook her head. “We can pray for your biological parents. We can pray to see them in heaven, and there, you can have a reunion that lasts forever.”

I had prayed for them privately for years, but never with my children. A conviction stirred in my heart. I dropped to my knees by her bed. “Join me?”

She knelt, and I prayed: “Father God, we lift up Liv’s biological mother and father. If they don’t know You, we pray they will. We pray they accept Jesus so that one day, they and Liv can have a great celebration together in heaven. Amen.”

Later that afternoon, the cards and gifts appeared. But for the first time, I didn't care about the fuss. I was more moved by the quiet breakthrough that morning. The Holy Spirit had given me insight into a hidden hurt, and we had taken it to the only One who can truly heal.

Today, Liv is a lovely young adult. She is a gifted listener, smart, and her cards to me over the years have been filled with words that tell me I’m the best mother she could have. I still pray for her biological parents to come to a saving knowledge of the truth. And now, those prayers extend to my two children, who have yet to fully claim that faith for themselves.

I trust the Lord to do whatever it takes to draw them in. I hope Liv remembers that Mother's Day prayer—how we took her deepest despair to the Father, trusting that He hears us, remembers us, and never overlooks our pain.