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by Jen Hatmaker
Five years ago, I could not locate Ethiopia on a map. Today I am
raising two Ethiopians and have been to the country twice, Brandon four
times, and I’ve told God He may never move me from my beloved Austin
unless it is to Ethiopia. (These “deals” I make always work out with
God, except for not that.) Ethiopia is my favorite country, favorite
people, favorite food, favorite everything.
Being an adoptive parent is a whole thing. Much bigger than you think
when you first feel your heart bend toward the orphan. You know so
little at the beginning, mercifully. You know enough to move, to engage.
You’re unaware of the full picture, just like anyone who decides they want to parent. “I want to be a Mooooom,”
says the starry-eyed newlywed who has no concept of colic. The beauty
of the big picture draws you in, as well it should. Veterans tell you it
is worth it, every moment, but it is harder than you know. (Maybe for YOU, you think, because you are dumb in these matters.)
Two years in, we know more. We’ve figured out that trauma and
abandonment jack you, breaking something deep, creating a vacuum that
can only be healed by Jesus and will never fully disappear. We
have these two new beautiful children, they are so dear; everyone who
knows them would confirm their preciousness. They are special and
beloved and lovely and smart and important, just like every child born
on earth.
And their little hearts are broken.
That happens when you lose parents and are left in courthouses when you’re five.
We went to Encompass Adoption Family Camp last week in Montana. All five of our kids gave us the side eye before the trip, pre-assigning adjectives: “lame,” “awkward,” “weird,” “random.”
(<—Our brown children participated in this advance disparagement.)
Brandon and I were convinced that spending time with other families who
looked like ours and needed no explanation would be healing and
powerful, not just for our little survivors but the whole family.
We were right. (BOOM, kids. We OWN you.)
Different skin, languages, countries of origin, accents, birth stories, siblings, experiences: nothing to see here. The kids mixed and melded like it was the easiest thing they’ve ever done.
We thought maybe the bio kids would find common ground and the adopted
kids would circle up, or perhaps the Ethiopians would form a tribe or
the Sierra Leone gang would combine, but instead it was one big mosh pit.
The teenagers were inseparable, says the mom who sent her
husband over to the cafeteria at midnight to check on their (endless)
poker game because I AM A MOM AND WORRYING IS MY TERRITORY. The littles
never stopped playing; all the whites and tans and browns and blacks. I
don’t even know who was adopted and who wasn’t. I couldn’t even find my
own kids in the pack. Everyone looked the same. And different. Which in
our families is the same.
I got a taste of heaven, and I mean that in the most non-overspiritualized way ever. Through our kids, we glimpsed a world where the playing field is level, everyone is welcomed, all are valued, everyone is in.
The dividing lines that mark our adult lives are absent. Your ethnicity
is honored and fully celebrated, but it doesn’t separate us. Are you on
Instagram? Then you are a part of the teenage tribe. Can you traverse
monkey bars? Then you are a part of the elementary crew. Are you a cute,
pudgy baby? Then every human at camp will try to hold you. (And kiss
you behind your mom’s back even though it violates the rules of
attachment.) (Okay, that was just me.)
Don’t we belong to each other? Isn’t that what Jesus tried to tell us a hundred times?
When He crossed lines and touched untouchables and ate with sinners and
honored outsiders, when He obliterated social conventions and taught
women and held babies and loved Samaritans, when He healed and loved and
connected and respected people, He showed us the way.
When doctrine and issues threaten to bog me down, Jesus is my plumb line. Love God, love people. Everything else hinges on these.
This is not confusing. This is not ambiguous. Jesus leads the way, and
like He insinuated often, so do children. Their faith is easy,
uncomplicated. They lead us well.
We should watch them love without
fear, connect without restrictions. Like the darling 2nd
grade girl told me after Ben was in school for one month: “Hey, Ben’s
mom? I am his friend. We help each other. I am teaching him English, and
he is teaching me Spanish!” Well, bless it all.
I left camp even more hungry for racial reconciliation, orphan advocacy, and human care. I
so deeply want to connect across ethnic and racial lines, not imaging
that our differences should be ignored but celebrated…and then relationally transcended.
I want the mosh pit.
I know it is complicated. This isn’t an issue to whitewash or
oversimplify. Orphan care, ethnic identification, racial healing: these
are deep waters. But I am beyond certain that in heaven we will sing together, one voice, one people.
We will not be divided by race or ethnicity or country or tribe. And
the carpenter from Nazareth told us how to pray: “God, your kingdom
come, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven…”
I don’t know what the language will be.
But we’ll all sing it.
May it be on earth as it is in heaven.
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I continue to have a lady crush on Jen Hatmaker. She just pulls the words right out of my heart and puts them down on "virtual paper". If you're not following her blog or her twitter feed, you are missing out.
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