My son is adopted.
He spent all but two weeks of his first 21 months in a Russian orphanage.
After more than 10 years at home with us, we still spend time in therapy each week. Most often, we’re trying to work through the issues of abandonment and rejection by his birth mother. My husband and I have tried to portray a woman we don’t know in the most positive light. To assume the best, if you will. We’ve even tried to ascribe some nobility to her actions: “She loved you enough to know she couldn’t take care of you.”
Following God is anything but easy.
Every day seems to bring news of tragic events. In recent days, it’s struck closer to my circles in the forms of the kidnapping and murder of an elementary student, and the suicide of an eighth grader. I looked at my own eighth grader through tear-filled eyes, thankful for her every breath. I recalled the scare we had this time last year with my younger daughter and was moved again to gratitude. The happenings of the last week have touched me deeply because of their proximity, but injustices the world over paralyze me with their enormity and pervasiveness. Evil seems rampant and I’m tempted to question both the goodness and power of God.