The Lucky Few

by Heather Avis

  On the drive home from our training, Josh and I tried to process this.

  “What’s your ideal relationship with our future child’s birth parents?” I asked him.

  He answered without hesitation. “Pictures and letters.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “Me too.” I picked up our giant adoption binder and began to flip through it. “If I’m being really honest—”

  “Nothing has ever stopped you from being really honest,” Josh said teasingly.

  I gave him a sideways look. “As I was saying, being really honest, I want to pick up my baby and run. I want to be in the room when our baby is born. I want a nurse to hand me the baby. We can give everyone a high five and then throw up some deuces. That’s what I really want.”

  Josh looked at me and smiled. “I hear ya. This whole birth-parent relationship thing feels like an inconvenience.”

  My hope for future visits with birth parents, or lack thereof, was a reflection of my ignorance at the time. I was looking at this adoption as a way to grow my family, period. While I felt deep, deep gratitude toward our daughter’s birth family, I was also steeped in our culture’s ideas of what a relationship between an adoptive family and birth family should look like. I was putting my trust in my limited knowledge on the topic rather than in God’s best for everyone involved.

  I was in for a big surprise.

  As we opened the door and stepped into the room with Macyn to visit our daughter’s birth parents that first time, all these thoughts swirled around in my head and my heart. Then God gently reminded me of how we had come to this moment in time. The only thing I could do when face-to-face with mystery was hold on to him and his proven faithfulness.

  We stepped into the room and my feet walked me straight over to Vickie. “Do you want to hold her?” I asked. When she nodded, I placed Macyn in her arms and draped the oxygen tank over her shoulder. I backed away and found a seat on the black sofa, then breathed in deeply.

  Josh walked over to Macyn’s three-year-old sister and sat on the floor, picked up the toy next to her, and began pushing the buttons and encouraging her to do the same. With little to no effort, he displayed all the fatherly qualities any parent would want for his child. I watched Josh take on the situation at hand with such ease, and my heart fell in love with him all over again.

  Vickie held Macyn and joined me on the couch.

  “She’s doing good?” she asked in her thick Armenian accent.

  “She’s doing great!” I reached over and brushed Macyn’s hair out of her eyes.

  “Can you tell us about the oxygen?” Kaapo asked from a chair across the room.

  “Come sit here.” I got up from my seat on the couch and ushered him to sit next to Macyn and his wife. “We don’t know how long she’ll need the oxygen. We go for testing every six months.” I took the rocking chair that Kaapo had vacated.

  “But it doesn’t bother her or limit her abilities much at all,” Josh added from his spot on the floor.

  As Kaapo and Vickie held Macyn on the couch, I couldn’t help but look into their faces and wonder what was going through their minds. My heart began to soften toward them.

  “Josh, Heather,” Kaapo looked up at us, “we would like to take you to an Armenian lunch. Let’s leave from here.”

  I wanted to shout no! While this meeting was going splendidly, I had come for their sake, not ours. Even though I knew the moment was blanketed in God’s goodness, it was still terribly uncomfortable. I wanted to head to the car with Josh and congratulate ourselves on a visit well done.

  But before I could come up with a weak excuse, Josh said, “We would love to.” He glanced my way to see my reaction.

  I gave him a wide-eyed look and then politely smiled at Kaapo. “Sure, I guess that would work.”

  We followed them to an Armenian restaurant down the street from their home. As we entered, they were greeted familiarly by the people working there, and they exchanged pleasantries in their own language. We sat at a small table near the large window. On the wall above the counter were large photos of plates full of Armenian foods. Some looked familiar, and they reminded me of our time in Romania and Greece; others I didn’t recognize.

  Kaapo and Vickie proudly asked if they could order for us. Josh and I have always been adventurous eaters, so we were happy for them to choose the foods that would be placed before us that afternoon. As Kaapo went to the counter to order, Josh pulled two high chairs up to the table and placed them side by side. I pulled out our antibacterial wipes and wiped down Macyn’s high chair and the table in front of her. Vickie watched, bewildered.

  “We do this all the time.” I smiled. “Her lungs are so weak that if she catches even a cold, we could find ourselves in the emergency room.” I hoped she understood the words and felt assured she had made the right decision in making me Macyn’s mom.

  The food began to arrive, and we feasted on roasted veggies and tender meats. We wrapped these up in soft flatbread called lavash and smothered everything in tart hummus. Macyn and her sister sat in their high chairs, and we laughed as they stared each other down. Vickie gasped and apologized when the older girl pulled one of Macyn’s pigtails. The language barrier prevented us from having deep and meaningful conversation, but as these birth parents spoke to each other in their native tongue, I felt at peace, knowing we were all doing the best we could. I watched them look at my daughter with such deep love, and I began to love them deeply as well.

  As lunch came to a close, we packed up the food left over from our feast, and Kaapo insisted we take it home. Then he said, “Please come to our home for some ice cream. We live only a few blocks away.” Josh and I glanced at each other, and this time I spoke up first.

  “Thank you so much for the invitation, but we really need to get Macyn home for a nap. It has been a long day for her.” I could see the disappointment in their eyes. But not only had it been a long day for Macyn; I selfishly didn’t want to be stretched any further. I simply wasn’t comfortable with the idea of going to their home. Not yet.

  They walked us to our car. Kaapo was quick to open the doors. He gently took Macyn from my arms, and as we loaded up our leftover food and the diaper bag, he and Vickie gently kissed Macyn’s soft cheeks. Then he carefully placed Macyn in her car seat and buckled her up.

  “Josh, Heather, thank you so much for coming.” Vickie said. “Thank you for everything,” she whispered with tears in her eyes.

  “Yes, thank you,” Kaapo chimed in. “Can we get your phone number? We want to see you again, but we like this better than at the agency office. Can we call you and meet up again?”

  This request made me feel so uneasy. At this point, I was confident that Macyn’s birth parents were good, safe people. I’m a pretty good judge of character and trusted that they were neither psychopaths nor stalkers. But if I gave them our phone number, what then? What if they started to call us every day? What if they used that information to find out where we live? What if they showed up unannounced? What if they wanted us to be a part of their lives? These were the scenarios I hoped to avoid.

  Pictures and letters, I thought to myself. All I wanted were pictures and letters.

  But in that moment, I also knew I needed to be careful not to let my own comfort get in the way of others’ needs. I was reminded that when I’m uncomfortable, I have the chance to know God more fully. So I grabbed a paper and pen and wrote down the ten digits they asked for.

  After one more thank-you and a hug good-bye, we headed home, feeling strangely grateful.

  Josh broke the silence. “I know this wasn’t the relationship we initially hoped for, but they seem so great, so . . . normal.”

  “I know,” I agreed. “I’m having a difficult time letting go of what society has convinced me is the most acceptable relationship with a birth family. I’m wondering if I’m uncomfortable about the idea of a close relationship simply because that’s how others would expect me to feel.” I looked back at Macyn, who had fallen a
sleep, and smiled. “I mean, look at what we get! We’re the lucky ones. We get to drive away with this baby as our own. The least we could do is give them our phone number and our time. Right?”

  Josh took my hand and nodded. “It’s been a crazy journey, and I’m pretty certain it’s just beginning.”

  Months went by, and life went on. Christmas came and went, and a new year started with no word from Macyn’s birth parents. My fears of them constantly calling us or showing up unannounced were exposed as unfounded. I was thankful for that, thankful for the normalcy in this anything-but-normal circumstance.

  Then in June, a few weeks before Macyn’s second birthday, the phone rang.

  “Hello, Heather? This is Vickie, Arpi’s mom.” I knew it was Vickie at hello. At the time, she was the only woman in my life with a thick Armenian accent. And she was also the only person who still referred to Macyn as Arpi.

  “Vickie,” I exclaimed, “so good to hear from you!”

  “How is Arpi?” she asked.

  “Macyn’s doing great,” I answered, gently reminding her of the new name. “She’s getting big and staying healthy. She’ll be two in a few weeks—”

  “Heather,” Vickie interrupted, “I have a favor to ask.”

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “Kaapo and I would like to give Arpi a birthday party.”

  That was the last thing I had expected. I could understand them wanting to see her on or around her second birthday, but throw her a party?

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “We want you and your family to come here for an Armenian barbecue. It will be with my parents and my sisters too. Is that okay?”

  Her request seemed perfectly reasonable and completely insane all at once. Never had it crossed my mind that we would meet any of the extended family. But by now, “reasonably insane” seemed to sum up our lives quite well, so I accepted the invitation. She let me know a date she had in mind, and it worked for us.

  “What time, and what can we bring?” My mom had raised me right, and I knew better than to show up at an event like this empty-handed.

  “Come at ten, and just bring Arpi.”

  I quickly realized there were some cultural differences in play. In my Western head, we would show up, have some food, hang out, and then head home. But Vickie and her family were extending an invitation for a full-day affair. Though I liked Vickie and Kaapo a lot, spending an entire day with a bunch of strangers who could very well feel entitled to my daughter was not something I was ready for.

  “We have church that morning, and then Macyn will need a nap. The best we can do is two o’clock. Will that work?”

  “Okay, come at two. I will see you then. Thank you, Heather.”

  By the time the date rolled around, Vickie and Kaapo had changed the party location from their home to a park because they didn’t have enough space in their apartment for everyone. The only person from our side of the family who could join us was my dad, so I wasn’t sure who Vickie meant when she said “everyone.” Counting her parents and sisters plus our family, I expected fourteen people at the most.

  We arrived at a huge park in Glendale right at two o’clock. As we pulled up, I said to Josh, “We just need to look for a large group of Armenians.” We got out our lime green umbrella stroller, buckled Macyn in, and hung her oxygen tank on the stroller handle. Macyn was wearing a multitiered romper, each tier a different pattern of pink and white flowers. She looked as adorable as ever, like a little birthday cake with pigtails.

  As we walked from the parking lot, we quickly realized the park was full of large groups of Armenians. It was going to be more challenging than we thought to spot the family we were looking for. We walked down one of the sidewalks and scanned the groups until I spotted a familiar face. Kaapo was walking toward us, waving.

  “Hello!” he said. “Come, follow me.”

  We did as we were told and followed him to a group of picnic tables full of strangers. Vickie ran up to us and gave us all big hugs. “Heather, Josh, thank you for coming!” Her smile revealed heartfelt gratitude and pride.

  “Thank you for inviting us. This is my dad, Kim.”

  My dad, being a hugger like me, embraced Vickie and through tears said, “It is so nice to meet you.”

  Then Vickie picked up Macyn. I handed her the oxygen bag, and we made our way to the table of faces that were new to us. Vickie introduced us to the family who had come to meet and celebrate our daughter.

  There that day were nineteen of Macyn’s biological family members. Nineteen! Along with Vickie’s parents and three sisters were Kaapo’s parents, the brothers-in-law, all of Vickie’s nieces and nephews, and a couple of sets of cousins. We exchanged names, and everyone gravitated toward the reason we were all there.

  As Vickie and her family spoke loudly and excitedly in a language I did not understand, an epiphany hit me. When Kaapo and Vickie made the decision to create an adoption plan for their child, they were not the only ones to experience a loss. The people there that day lost a granddaughter, a niece, and a cousin—just as our families had gained a granddaughter, niece, and cousin. This life we were living was about so much more than our little nuclear family of three. At that moment in the park, I began to see the beauty that could only be created through the interweaving of our lives with theirs. And I would have missed it all if I had refused to get uncomfortable.

  After introductions were made, I sat with the women on the blankets laid out on the grass while Josh and my dad joined the men, who were at the barbecue preparing a feast. Mostly Armenian was spoken, so I spent a lot of the time sitting back, smiling, and trying to read facial expressions. I spent little time worrying about Macyn, because she was more comfortable than any of us and loved all the extra attention. At one point, family members brought over gifts for her, and we spent about thirty minutes opening presents. As Macyn pulled colored tissue paper from bright bags, I was blown away by the love being showered on us. I found myself at times thankful for the language barrier, because I didn’t have words beyond “thank you” to express my gratitude.

  When the food was ready, we all gathered around the table. Before we ate, one of Vickie’s brothers-in-law poured everyone a shot of vodka and held his up for a toast: “To Josh and Heather. We thank you, and we honor you for all you are doing. You are now our family too!” This was followed by loud cheers all around, and everyone threw back their liquor. Then we dug into the feast awaiting us. Huge plates of roasted lamb, barbecued pork, and chicken. Stacks of soft lavash, piles of fresh herbs, bowls full of roasted vegetables, hummus, and olives. Along with a half-dozen bottles of vodka were liters of tarragon-flavored soda and a cooler full of aloe vera juice.

  As we all piled the barbecued meats, fresh herbs, and tangy hummus onto soft lavash, the men took turns giving toasts, always honoring Josh and me, always full of gratitude. From time to time, I would feel someone looking at me and catch the eye of one of the grandparents or aunties. I would smile and think I’d give anything to know what was going on in their heads.

  More than once, I caught Vickie’s father, my daughter’s biological grandfather, looking my way. He had the face of a man whose life had required hard work and sacrifice. I learned he had spent most of his life in Armenia. His eyes were kind and told a story of love for his family. I wanted to get inside his head. I wanted to know what this moment was like for him.

  As our time with our daughter’s biological family went on, layers of preconceived ideas were peeled away from my heart. If Josh and I had given birth to a child naturally, our lives would have grown by one person. But with this adoption, for better or worse, we would need to make room for more than just our daughter. As I watched these strangers celebrate and love on my girl, God stretched and expanded my heart to include them. This whole time I had believed their loss was our gain, but that day at the park, I began to wonder if their loss could be their gain as well. And maybe my gain would ultimately result in the best kind of loss of a
ll—the loss of my selfish desires.

  The sun began to set, and we had a sleepy little girl on our hands. As some of the women in the family began to pack up the leftover food, I laid Macyn down on a blanket and got her into her pajamas. We were ready to leave when Vickie’s father came and sat next to Macyn, acknowledging her face-to-face for the first time that day. He smiled at her with his kind eyes, and Macyn stared back at him as he spoke gently to her in his native tongue. I joined them on the blanket. Our eyes met, and I smiled at him.

  I pulled Macyn up onto my lap and said, “Macy, can you wave bye-bye and blow him kisses?” She raised her hand and with excitement began to open and close her tiny fingers. Everyone watching laughed out loud. I looked at Vickie’s father and said, “I am so sorry, we have to go now.” He gave me an understanding nod.

  The next few minutes were full of commotion. Family members took turns passing Macyn and her oxygen tank around, careful not to pull on her cannula. I made my way around the crowd, hugging aunties and uncles and cousins. Each expressed their gratitude and said something about how now we were all family.

  We were just about to make our exit when I spotted Vickie’s father standing a few feet away. I went over to shake his hand, and when I approached him, he gently grabbed me by my shoulders and looked straight at me. I saw he had tears streaming down his face, and my eyes began to well with tears of my own. Then this man, who had only watched me from afar all day, said to me in broken English, “You are like my daughter now.” Then he pulled me in for a hug.

  We held each other and cried, and I thanked God for pushing me to this place of total discomfort. I thanked God for the grace he had extended to me as he continued to push me away from my own ideas of what is best, ideas that usually involve my security, and toward the blessings I can experience when I die to myself. As I cried in the arms of an old Armenian man, I began to see more clearly how this whole adoption, this whole notion of motherhood and growing a family, was about so much more than just me.