“Why do you ask?” I wondered. “Did you find the owner?” Not really wanting to know.
“Oh, no,” she said. “It’s just that we had a client in today with his sick dog that passed away. There was nothing we could do for him. It’s just a strange coincidence that Fifi looked like their dog. The old man is heartbroken,” she went on, “and we thought if things hadn’t worked out well, maybe you would be willing to let him have Fifi.”
“We could meet and talk,” I offered, “and see what happens.” After I hung up the phone, I wondered if she had told him that Fifi only had three legs. Not everybody would want a three legged animal.
The old man called me the next day and I promised to come home early from work to meet him. By this time, I wasn’t sure I could let Fifi go. She had become a part of our family.
I arrived home and waited. A short while later a car pulled up in the driveway. I walked outside to greet the old man. As I watched him exit the car, I noticed something different that forced me to do a double take. He had a cane. He put the cane out to steady himself and then dragged his bad leg behind him, pulling himself out of the car with a great deal of effort. The man was a cripple.
How could I ever doubt God’s providential hand? I was only the keeper of Fifi until her new master picked her up—someone that could understand what it was like to have three legs. Fifi’s story would live on as a testimony to God becoming a man, fully human and fully God, but one who understands our hurts and weaknesses.
For we do not have a High Priest who is unable to understand and sympathize and have a shared feeling with our weaknesses and infirmities and liability to the assaults of temptation, but One Who has been tempted in every respect as we are, yet without sinning (Hebrews 4:15).
As I paced the shoreline of the Hoan Kiem Lake, I poured my heart out to God. “You know, God, how I feel. You know.” I cried for at least an hour beside the lake that had become my sanctuary. Here, among the canopy of willows, soft grass, and brightly colored flowers, I could feel close to God and sense His presence.
Silently I told Him, “If You don’t want me to have another child, I will go home and love the child that You so graciously gave to me. After three years of trying to adopt, I give up my dream. You are my God, You know best, I will not pursue this any further, and I won’t be angry or bitter toward others or You.”
A calming peace came over me as I sensed God’s Spirit taking control of my raw emotions. He had shown me once again I must give Him my dreams. I must not let a root of bitterness take hold. I must forgive and let go. If I kept trying to force things to happen a certain way, He couldn’t transform me or my dreams into something far bigger and better.
I would embrace the other adoptive parents and support them in their adoption journey. I would quit blaming Anne and the adoption agency for all the things that had gone wrong. I would be a more compassionate roommate to Jenni. I didn’t understand at that moment, but God had a different plan for me. He wasn’t finished, but I had to give up my dreams before He could give me His.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Every good and perfect gift is from above…
James 1:17
With a heavy heart but at peace with God, I walked back to the Lillie Hotel. As I entered the lobby, I hoped to pass through unnoticed, but the lady who had helped Jenni and me with the newspaper notice the previous day called me over.
“Look,” she said. “It’s in paper.” She handed me the Lao Dong Newspaper and pointed out our ad. I couldn’t read the Vietnamese part but I recognized the name.
“Wow, that was quick, wasn’t it?” I said. “Thank you.”
“Do you want?” She asked, and shoved the newspaper towards me.
“Sure.” I took it and put it under my arm, carrying it with me to the fifth floor. Now that I had given the ad to God, I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to feel. As I unlocked the door and walked in, the phone started ringing. I didn’t get many phone calls, so I immediately picked it up. It was Anne on the other end.
“Lori,” she said. “We don’t think this adoption is going to go through. The police have found the woman and detained her for questioning. The baby isn’t even her baby. The baby was kidnapped.”
I wondered if the newspaper notice had anything to do with it, but I continued to listen to the voice on the other end.
“But there is a little girl who was supposed to be adopted by another family that planned to adopt two, but at the last minute, they decided to adopt only one. She was left behind. Her medical work-up has been done and except for a few minor, correctable things, she’s healthy.”
She filled me in on a few other details.
“The birthmother claims her baby is two and a half but she’s very small and we aren’t sure how accurate that is.”
I failed to see how that was a negative.
“Would you be interested?”
The timing of the phone call couldn’t have made it more obvious it was from God.
“Yes, of course,” I replied.
Anne continued. “We have some pictures and I will email them to you. Once you receive them, call me back and tell me what you think.”
I hung up the phone in disbelief. A thousand questions came to mind. Could I take her home on the original travel date? What was left to do on her paperwork? I wondered how old she really was. How could I ever doubt that God was the one in charge? He who holds the universe together could certainly hold me in the palm of His hand.
“Thank you, Jesus, thank you,” I said over and over.
I couldn’t wait until she sent me the email. My hope in Anne’s veracity took a turn for the better, but in reality, I was now putting my faith in God rather than in man.
As Anne promised, the pictures arrived within an hour. Van Thi Trieu, who I would rename Joylin Van, was beautiful, but I couldn’t see how it was possible that she could be two and a half. She was just too small. I felt like a new mother examining her “bundle of joy,” counting ten fingers, ten toes, and every little feature, looking for anything that would cause concern. She had a tiny swath of hair, a cute pug nose, a movie-star’s lips, and piercing Vietnamese brown eyes. A long-sleeve, striped green shirt, diaper, and no shoes were all she wore. I tried to imagine a beautiful smile across her forlorn, sad face as she was held in her birthmother’s arms. I emailed Anne back that I wanted to meet her as soon as possible.
After three days of sitting at the Lillie Hotel, any more waiting seemed unbearable. For the first time since arriving, it looked like I would get to meet my new daughter. I hurried back down to the computer room on the first floor to quickly send out emails to friends and family, asking for prayer, that God would show me if this was the child He meant for me to adopt.
It was planned that my new daughter and Luu Thi Trieu, her birthmother, would come by bus to the Lillie Hotel the following day. Jenni had decided it would be helpful to get her own room to allow us more privacy. It was now a matter of waiting till “Joy” arrived. I passed the time by making the room more baby friendly, moving breakables up high, and putting anything away that little fingers might want to grab. I went shopping and purchased a few toys to add to the collection of blocks and books I had brought from home.
That evening, Jenni and I returned to the Ristorante Roman where we had eaten with such heavy hearts three nights earlier. “Maybe our newspaper ad really did the trick,” Jenni commented, as I scooped up spaghetti and meatballs and she dove into some kind of unidentifiable Vietnamese cuisine.
Today as I pen these words, I wonder if that’s truer than I could have imagined (see Bits and Pieces at the end of the book for elaboration). Spiritually, though, I credited God with defeating the powers of darkness and giving me peace even before I knew about Joy. As Psalms 118:9 says, “It is better to take refuge in the Lord than to trust in princes.”
Thursday, December 9, arrived at last. Although the birthmother’s village, Than xa, Vo Nhai, was only a couple of hours north of Hanoi, located in the
Thai Nguyen Province, to make the bus connections and get to Hanoi was a full day’s travel.
It was late evening and dark outside as I stood in the hotel lobby peering out the window. The lights from car headlights flickered off the streets and cast nighttime shadows. I had left my hotel room and come down to the lobby early because I was so anxious and fretful. It was hard to believe I had waited almost three long years for this historic moment. Joy and her birthmother would arrive soon and I nervously paced the lobby. Jenni had offered to videotape it, and when she mercifully appeared, my rattled nerves calmed down. I had been through this once before with Manisha but it didn’t make it any easier. I reflected on how hard it was for Manisha when she left her father and stayed with me the first night at the Bleu Hotel.
At last three figures could be seen in the shadows walking up the stairs. Luu, holding Joy, entered through the glass doors along with Anne’s two messengers whom we had previously witnessed arguing. Luu was dressed plainly and looked uncomfortable standing in the lobby. She also appeared unfamiliar with Vietnamese customs involving adoption and was reluctant to trust the man who spoke Vietnamese. Her sole source of assurance was the translator who spoke her language.
They lived in a remote area in the northern hills of Vietnam where Luu worked long hours for a pittance in a flooded rice field. Their extended family was part of the Hmong Daw ethnic group whose main population center is in China (Since returning from Vietnam I have learned that the Hmong Daw language has a written New Testament and the Old Testament is in the process of being translated. Only a very small portion of the Hmond Daw population around the world is Christian and it is considered an unreached people group according to the Joshua Project 2000).
One of the two men would translate for Luu from Hmong Daw into Vietnamese and the second messenger would translate from Vietnamese into English. I didn’t know communication with the birthmother would require the translation of three languages.
It was a pregnant moment as we all stood in the lobby. None of us spoke all three languages so it was awkward to greet each other, but Joy spoke a baby language we all understood. Hers was a cry of pain. She was beautiful but her eyes were full of uncertainty and fear. She had two burn marks on the left side of her face that weren’t apparent in the photographs. I was afraid to ask what the burn marks were from.
Joy was dressed in a checkered black and yellow sweater with turquoise and yellow stripes that ran horizontally. She had on bright, orange knitted pants that were too big and a yellow knit hat that covered her ears, with a little well worn bobbin on the top.
Luu’s long, dark brown hair was pulled back in a hair tie, partially lying on her shoulder. She stood only about five feet tall as she held her baby, attempting a forced smile as she glanced at me with uncertainty. My heart went out to her, a poor, young, unwed mother, unable to provide for her baby. Would I be willing to trust her if our roles were reversed? Would I love enough to make that kind of sacrifice? I admired her bravery.
My eyes became glued on Joy. Even in the ragged clothes she wore, she was beautiful. She held on to Luu for protection as I reached out and stroked her leg over her pants. When she began crying I backed away. The two men came up and touched her and she cried louder. Luu stroked her head and gently moved her hand over the front of Joy’s face in an attempt to reassure her. The more we tried to interact with her, the more she resisted.
Luu handed her a small round item and she clung to it like it would protect her, much like a child would caress a beloved toy or blanket. Tightly grabbing the object, she studied each of us, very aware that four sets of eyes were staring back at her.
Somehow I sensed that Joy knew this whole thing was about her. It was even more painful because we didn’t know how to earn her trust. We found ourselves at a standoff. Jenni turned off the video recorder and we tried to think of a better way to separate Joy from her birthmother without causing her so much trauma.
Joy’s wails revealed only a few lower teeth. She appeared more like a one year old or maybe fourteen months. I asked the translator to ask Luu her baby’s age. At first she said two and a half, but she changed it to two when questioned again. It was obvious she didn’t know exactly. In her village they most likely didn’t keep written records of births.
After several minutes, as Joy continued crying, it became uncomfortable in the hotel lobby. Hotel guests were checking in and out and it seemed like this should be a more private affair. We decided to go up to my hotel room and give Joy and her birthmother a little more time.
It was previously arranged that Luu would leave Joy with me that night but she didn’t realize that. She thought she would have her until the ceremony. The date for the Giving and Receiving wasn’t set, but it was certain to be more than a week away. We needed more time to discuss things and upstairs we could relax and not feel pressured to make a quick transfer.
Joy continued to be fretful as Luu made several attempts to breast feed her. With the two men translating back and forth between the three languages, we tried to come to a consensus. It didn’t look like I would get Joy that night, but I wasn’t willing to wait until the ceremony. After much discussion, Luu agreed to let me have Joy the next day in a quick exchange. She would simply hand Joy to me and leave. We felt like Luu’s presence and hold on her was making it harder for everybody.
I had yet to hold her, but I could tell her skin was in poor condition. It was apparent she needed some ointment for open sores on her arms that she kept picking at. The first thing I wanted to do was take her to the doctor, have her dewormed, and get some ointment and Band-Aids to cover the wounds.
I was ready to be her new mother, longing to make her life better. Now if I could just wipe away those tears and make her “joyful,” but to use an old cliché, that would be easier said than done.
Chapter Twenty-Six
…my cup overflows
Psalm 23:5
The next morning I got up early to pray. I had no way of knowing if Luu would change her mind or if she would bring Joy to the hotel. I pulled out my Bible and turned to several passages from Psalms. I ended with rereading Proverbs 13:12, “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when dreams come true at last, there is life and joy.”
The room was quiet as I closed my eyes and contemplated the events over the past few days. I wanted the floodgates of Heaven to burst forth with angelic praise, vanquishing the evil one and casting him into the shadows from whence he came. Doesn’t God promise He will overcome evil with good? In spite of corruption, greed, and deceit, because God is all-powerful and just, I prayed my heart would be filled with joy just as I longed to hold Joy. My prayers and philosophical musings were interrupted by the phone ringing.
“Your baby is here,” the hotel receptionist reported.
When I went downstairs to receive my new daughter, Joy’s birthmother had already left. Luu’s tears of sorrow would bring me tears of happiness as Joy and I would begin our lifelong journey together as mother and daughter.
I thought of the parable of Matthew 13:45; a merchant had gone in search of fine pearls and when he found one of great value, he went and sold everything he had and bought it. The story seemed so fitting for Joy. Pearls are produced from the suffering of the mollusk as a means of survival to protect them from parasites or intruders. Joy was “my pearl of great price.”
One of the translators from the night before handed Joy to me. After three long years, my arms were full with the second of my “Children of Dreams.” I carried Joy up to my room as her wails reverberated off the walls. I knew from experience the first day would be the hardest.
When was the last time I put a diaper on a baby, I wondered? I thought about my brother’s messy diapers over thirty years ago. I had not bargained for the diaper routine on my way to Vietnam and Manisha was past that stage when I adopted her. This was something I couldn’t have imagined in my wildest dreams when I left Gainesville—a baby. I would worry later about how I would homeschool Manisha with suc
h a little one. This day I would celebrate my new daughter’s arrival. I picked out a pretty pink dress that I had bought the previous day. The difference in her appearance was stunning with clean clothes and a quick bath.
The next thing on my to-do list was to visit the doctor and have those nasty sores on her arms and legs checked out. Much like an ant bite that has become inflamed, her little fingers wouldn’t leave them alone as she scratched at them relentlessly.
In June, Joy had been brought in for a medical checkup which showed she was anemic. Luu was given medicine to treat it, but on a return appointment in October, not only did she still have the anemia, but she had also developed scabies. Anne doubted that Luu had given Joy the medicine at all and suggested I have her rechecked.
I carried Joy down to the lobby in my arms and asked the desk attendant to call a taxi for us. After the previous night’s difficulty with the transfer from the birthmother, the young lady was glad to see us together. We took the taxi to the OSCAT/AEA International Clinic in Hanoi, just a few blocks from the Lillie Hotel.
The clinic had performed Joy’s previous examinations and provided her medical information to me in one big packet. Blood work confirmed the anemia had not gone away, and the nurse handed me iron to give her. The clinic also prescribed medicine for her skin lesions. I bought some Band Aids to cover the infected sores, but Joy protested loudly when she couldn’t “mess” with them anymore. I cringed every time she dug her fingernails into the open wounds. It was a battle to keep replacing the Band-Aids she pulled off with new ones long enough for the sores to heal.
“Can you write me a prescription for worms” I asked the doctor. I knew the doctors in the States wouldn’t give it to me and after what I went through with Manisha, I was determined to deworm her.
The doctor surprisingly agreed. “Yes, I think that’s a great idea. Everybody should deworm themselves at least every six months.”
Children of Dreams, An Adoption Memoir Page 15