by Heather Avis
My dad saw how tense the situation was becoming and spoke up. “The word I keep hearing is grips,” he said. “At first I thought we needed to come to terms with the situation. But while praying over you, God told me this isn’t about coming to terms with what’s happening, but rather coming to grips with it.”
He explained: “When you come to terms with something, two parties present their case and make compromises until an agreement is reached that everyone accepts. The situation with this baby is not one of coming to terms. This isn’t the kind of situation we bring before God with an expectation that he will compromise. Adopting this baby does not hinge on our terms. The Lord is showing me we need to look at what God is calling you to, calling all of us to, and grip it tightly with both hands.”
“You’re right, Kim,” my mom said as she squeezed my hand.
“Thank you, Dad,” I whispered through tears, but this time tears full of hope and peace.
As we headed home that evening, I began to think about the difference between coming to terms and coming to grips. I thought about all the times I had failed to grip the thing God placed in front of me or the thing he allowed to pass through my door. How many times had I made demands about what God was calling me to do? How many more times would I try to negotiate God’s best rather than grip what was right in front of me, no matter how terrifying?
Friends, we are talking about God. God, who loves us more than we can ever understand. God, who wants more goodness and wholeness for our lives than we could ever want for ourselves. What a fool I am when I look at what God is calling me to and say, straight to his face, “Okay, God, I’ll think about it, but only if . . .”
We said yes to adopting our daughter! We said yes! As an act of tightly gripping her and the situation at hand, we named her Macyn Hope, a name we had been holding on to for our firstborn. She was no longer “the baby girl with Down syndrome” or “Arpi.” She was Macyn Hope . . . our Macyn Hope.
We said yes on October 8, 2008, and Macyn came home to be ours on October 28. Those twenty days between were an emotional whirlwind. While we gripped our yes as tightly as we could, numerous were the moments in which we wanted to let go. I was still feeling as though God had remained mostly silent. True, I had the vision of him handing us a gift, but I began to wonder if I had made it all up.
On October 10, I headed to Oceanside to celebrate my mom’s birthday. My parents had rented a condo on the beach and invited us to stay with them for the weekend. Josh had some work to do, so I went ahead of him. He would meet up with us the next day.
The following morning, I sat on the deck of the second-story condo with a steamy mug of coffee in my hands and a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. The sun had come up, but the sky was thick with a blanket of coastal fog. Hours would pass before the sun broke through. I sat there thinking about the decision we had made, still feeling pricks of doubt. Yet as I listened to the waves crash on the shore, I tightly gripped God’s bigness, knowing he is greater and stronger than any kind of sickness Macyn might face. I trusted he was holding my daughter tightly even at that moment.
“Hey, Elizabeth.” My dad stepped out onto the patio. “Josh is on the phone.”
I took my phone from my dad. “How’s it going?”
He got right to the point. “Have you read today’s Oswald?” A favorite daily devotional of ours is My Utmost for His Highest by Oswald Chambers, which we often refer to simply as Oswald.
“Not yet, why?”
“Oh, Heather, it’s a word straight from God to us. Just go read it and call me back.”
“Okay, I’ll call you in a bit.”
I went into the condo to get my devotional. I opened to October 11, and the title jumped off the page: “After God’s Silence, What?” I went on to read, “Has God trusted you with a silence—a silence that is big with meaning? God’s silences are His answers . . . If God has given you a silence, praise Him, He is bringing you into the great run of His purposes.”*
I read and reread the passage, each word speaking directly to my heart. And just like that, his silence was broken. Could it be God was silent because he had already equipped me to make the right decision?
I returned home from my weekend at the beach with the clarity and confidence I needed to move forward in our adoption of Macyn. The clouds that had been hanging over our heads since we learned about this baby began to part, and the doubts in my heart made way for a mother’s bright joy.
When we announced to friends and loved ones that the baby we were adopting had Down syndrome, you could see the confusion and discomfort on their faces, but we didn’t let it get to us. We simply smiled and said something along the lines of, “Not many people get a child with Down syndrome. Aren’t we lucky?”
Because Macyn had spent almost three months in a foster home, we transitioned her slowly to placement in our home. The purpose of a slow transition was to make sure Macyn didn’t feel she’d been thrown into the arms of strangers. We spent days going back and forth between our home and our daughter’s foster home for “visits.” During these visits, we got to know our new baby girl. More importantly, she got to know us. We learned how to turn on the oxygen tank and why it was important to let all the oxygen out before turning it off. We filled up tiny syringes with nasty-tasting medication, and her foster mom showed us how to best administer it. But mostly we held her in our arms and stared at her perfect little face.
During these days of preparing for Macyn to come home and be ours forever, our social worker let us know that Macyn’s birth parents would need to sign relinquishment papers. It is illegal in the United States for parents to abandon their children, so those creating an adoption plan cannot relinquish their rights until there is a family in place to adopt the child.
The day before Macyn’s birth parents were scheduled to sign their relinquishment, our social worker called to tell us about what would take place. There was nothing unusual about this procedure, Lindsey said. She did not expect any complications, because the birth parents had chosen to place Macyn in foster care until a family was found. The people who had given her life hadn’t seen her or inquired about her for almost three months. She would call us when the paperwork was complete.
The next day, I woke up feeling anxious. As I got ready for work and drove to the school, I could think of nothing else but getting that phone call.
It wasn’t even lunchtime when my phone rang, and the caller ID flashed Lindsey’s name. I held my breath and picked up the phone.
“We’ve had a bit of a setback,” she said. “Don’t worry, it’s not a big deal, but the parents don’t want to sign relinquishment without meeting you and Josh.”
I was in shock. Meeting the birth parents was never on my agenda. “Are they going to change their minds?”
“I really don’t think so. They just don’t understand why you would want to adopt their daughter, and they have some questions for you.”
“What kind of questions? Lindsey, this makes me nervous.”
“Don’t worry. It’s completely normal for adoptive parents and birth parents to meet. This happens all the time. We just hadn’t expected it in your case.”
We set a time to meet that afternoon, and then I hung up and quickly called Josh.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Are they changing their minds?”
“Lindsey doesn’t think so. But what if they are?”
I officially started to freak out. We had been a part of this adoption world long enough to hear parents’ heartbreaking stories of being chosen for a child, only to have the birth parents change their minds. It’s a reality of adoption. The child you have longed for, the one you fall in love with and think about constantly, is not legally and officially and finally yours until the final adoption papers are signed—and that can take months, sometimes even years. Once the birth parents sign relinquishment papers or have their rights terminated, it’s rare for an adoptive family to lose the child. However, the first few weeks and months,
especially before relinquishment papers are signed, are fragile. Any number of complications might snatch this baby girl out of our arms before she was even able to fill them, and birth parents changing their minds was at the top of that list.
When the school bell rang for lunch, I had about an hour until my next group of students would be in their desks. I couldn’t handle feeling out of control any longer, so I did the only thing I could think of: I jumped into my car and drove to a local shopping center.
A social worker once informed Josh and me that it was customary for an adoptive parent to get a small gift for the birth parent. This custom sprang from the idea that when an adoptive parent walks away with a baby in her arms, the birth mother’s arms are empty. While a small gift or token can never replace a baby, it’s nice for a birth mother to walk away with something. We would not be taking Macyn home today. She was still living with the foster family, and this meeting with the birth parents was only a necessary step toward bringing her home—at least I hoped. But I drove to the shopping center anyway because I like to buy gifts. I am good at giving gifts, and I have control over gift giving. Just then, I needed some control.
I chose a store full of knickknacks and sentimental tokens. Twenty minutes later, I found myself circling the store for the hundredth time. I must have picked up and put back fifty items. Nothing felt right. What do you give to the people who are giving you their baby? I didn’t know the answer, but after thirty minutes of shopping, I came to the conclusion that such a gift does not exist. I kept picking up sweet and heartfelt items and imagined myself saying, “Thank you for giving me your baby; here’s a heart-shaped pillow in return.” Or, “Thank you for the baby; here’s a piece of jewelry.” It just felt so strange.
I was feeling defeated and sick to my stomach about the meeting that would take place in a few hours, but I refused to leave that store empty-handed. With my heart on the ground and my stomach in my throat, I spotted, out of the corner of my eye, a colorful string of fabric birds. Birds! We had decided on a bird theme for Macyn’s room, and this decoration would fit perfectly. I thought about giving a string of these same birds to Macyn’s birth parents and telling them that Macyn had a matching set. She would wake up every morning with them hanging above her bed as though they’d flown in to greet her for the day. I would invite them to hang the string of birds in their home as well, a symbolic way for us to remain connected.
It was the best I could do, so I grabbed two sets and proceeded to the register.
A few hours later, Josh and I pulled into the parking garage at our adoption agency’s office building. We were about twenty minutes early. We punched in the code for the gate and drove to the basement parking area. I found myself scanning the dimly lit lot, nervous about running into the birth parents before we were scheduled to meet in our social worker’s office. I dreaded the thought of riding in an elevator with them. I’m not good at silence, and I could just picture myself saying something like, “So, you’re giving us your baby, huh?” Or, “Sure do hope you give us your baby; here’s a string of fabric birds.” But I didn’t see anyone else getting out of their car, so we hurried inside.
Lindsey met us as we stepped out of the elevator.
“What’s this meeting really about?” Josh asked as we followed her to her office.
“It’s common for birth parents to want to meet the adoptive parents. It just normally happens before the baby is born.”
“Are they going to change their minds?” I blurted out again.
“I really don’t think so. They haven’t seen the baby since she was born and haven’t shown a desire to parent her. But as you know, there are no guarantees at this stage.”
Really? No guarantees? Our social worker had always been to the point and never sugarcoated things, but these were not the reassuring words I was hoping to hear.
We entered Lindsey’s tiny office. An interpreter was already present. Macyn’s birth parents are Armenian, and English is not their first language. Given the gravity of the situation at hand, I was thankful to have an interpreter help us communicate our best intentions. We smiled at her and exchanged pleasantries.
Josh and I sat side by side on a small, black leather couch. In front of us was a coffee table with pens and a box of tissues on it. Circling the coffee table were chairs for everyone to sit in. We weren’t holding hands because our hands were too sweaty for that. I watched as the clock on the wall above the door read 5:00, then 5:15, 5:20. Every minute ticked painfully by. Finally, we heard some commotion out in the foyer. I heard three voices, thick accents, apologies, and explanations involving traffic. Then the birth parents’ social worker entered the room, followed by Macyn’s birth parents.
I will forever remember my first meeting with Vickie and Kaapo. I can’t say I felt at ease when they came in, but there was something about their presence that gave me a sense of calm. As we shook hands and said our hellos, I suddenly began to think about how they must be feeling. How the past few months must have been for them. I could see brokenness in their eyes, and it broke me.
I had found myself at times critical of some birth parents who surrender their children, including Macyn’s. How could someone choose an adoption plan over parenting their own flesh and blood? But as we sat down with this couple, compassion overwhelmed me. I believed they were doing the best they could with what they knew and what they had. To me these two people were no longer just “Macyn’s birth parents.” Now they were Kaapo and Vickie.
As they took their seats in the chairs across from us, I noticed both Kaapo and Vickie were an inch or two shorter than I am. Their olive-toned skin, dark eyes, and dark hair instantly took me back to the Eastern European country that had stolen my heart just months ago. Vickie was about ten years older than me, and Kaapo ten years older than her. Kaapo wore glasses that sat crooked on his face, the arm for his left ear missing. They both spoke with thick accents but made an effort to speak English as much as they could. As our time went on, I learned that Vickie had an infectious laugh.
Lindsey had told us in advance to ask as many questions as we could think of. She said many times adoptive and birth parents meet only once, so it’s important to try to ask questions the child might want to know answers to as she gets older. So I sat through the meeting with a notebook in my lap, writing down bits of information. Some of it seemed extremely important. Macyn has three half siblings living in Armenia, and Kaapo and Vickie have a daughter who is only eighteen months older than Macyn. Other bits of information didn’t hold the same weight but felt important anyway. Vickie’s favorite food is dolma (one of my favorite foods as well). She loves to dance, and she danced a lot while she was pregnant with Macyn.
Kaapo spoke at length about his love for his home country. He told us how beautiful the land was and how proud he was to be an Armenian man. We assured him Macyn’s heritage was important to us, and that we’d like to learn more about it and incorporate it into her life as much as possible.
After an hour or so of conversation, a hush came over the room.
“Tell us about the name Arpi,” Josh asked, knowing we would be changing her name.
Kaapo answered through the interpreter. “Arpi is a common Armenian name meaning ‘sun.’”
“We think it’s a beautiful name, but we’ve always wanted to name our first child Macyn. We want to give her that name.” I began to fidget with a string on my pants. “If it’s okay with you.”
They looked to the translator as she told them what I said and then looked at me with gracious smiles.
“Macyn is a beautiful name,” Vickie said in her best English.
Again, silence. We were letting the birth parents lead the conversation, so we waited. Finally, Kaapo spoke up.
“We want her to know us. We want to see her. I can be like her uncle.”
With this request, I realized their idea of adoption was not the 2008 American idea of what an adoption looks like. They had been in the country less than ten years and w
ere living in a part of Los Angeles that was basically Little Armenia. They were still steeped in the culture and ways of their home country. I was beginning to realize that Kaapo and Vickie needed to meet with us because they were afraid we would take their child and never tell her about where she had come from. They needed to be certain she would know about her Armenian roots, about her sister, and about the people who gave her life. I saw a fear in Kaapo that we would never let them see her again. Kaapo offered to be an “uncle” in case we wanted to keep the truth of who they were a secret.
“Kaapo,” I quickly replied, “we will always tell Macyn who she is and where she came from. This adoption will not be a secret.”
Josh added, “You will always be her birth father, and, Vickie, you will always be her birth mother. And we will tell her about you with love and pride. She will know who you are, because who you are is a huge piece of who she is.”
The interpreter repeated all of this in Armenian. Kaapo’s face softened, and his eyes welled with tears.
“Thank you.” I could see our response to his concern was a huge relief.
As we began to wrap up our time together, Vickie asked me to write down their address and phone number. I glanced at Lindsey, knowing information like this is highly classified in most adoptions. She didn’t seem to have any concerns. I uncomfortably wrote down their address and phone number. Then they asked for ours.
At this point, they didn’t even know our last name, and as far as I was concerned, I was going to keep it that way. When I woke up that morning, I was planning on nothing more than exchanging pictures and letters with our daughter’s birth parents through the adoption agency. Now we had agreed to let them be a part of our lives. I wasn’t ready for them to know where we lived.
“I hope this doesn’t offend you, but we’d like to get to know you better first.” I looked at their faces as they listened to the interpreter.
Kaapo was quick to reply. “Oh yes, of course. That is fine.”