My Story

Once upon a time there was a beautiful Garden, the perfect setting to hold God's first story of flesh. It was a story about a man named Adam and the woman, Eve, that he loved.  There inside the protection of God no tears fell nor heartache burned. Every need met was met in the Presence of The Perfect God.  He had every detail of their lives provided for, and they lacked nothing.  Everything was perfect until the villain appeared.  He slithered onto the scene and told a story of his own.  Hidden within half truths, Satan convinced his first human to trade in the Truth of God for a lie.

Did God really say....

Genesis 3

He convinced these two that there was something better than the story God had written for their lives.  And, well...we have been falling for the lie ever since.  This was the first story of man and it was true. 

If you will allow me to make a simple connection, while understanding that there is no comparison, the stories of this world are somewhat similar to the Garden of Eden. The fairy tale stories we've heard since childhood with princesses needing rescue, settings involving castles, evil forces defeated by handsome princes point to a deeper state of our souls desiring a perfect story.  Fairy tales try to recreate with human hands what is only capable in God's Hands. We look at the reality of our life story and some of us are disappointed.  We want the fairytale.  And we, as believers, know at some point in our lives, we have exchanged the Truth of God for a lie because we would rather write our own story.  Between the Garden of Eden in the beginning and the day the believers in Jesus reach heaven, our stories are not perfect.  Being an adopted child was not the story that I wrote for my life. 

Papers that arrived from DFCS asked me to write the story of my life in order to gain access to the stories of my past.  Filling in what I knew to be true from the starting point of my adoption would be the details needed to point me to the beginning.  As I completed these papers, I thought about the person who would open my letter.  Would they understand how important this was?  Would they hurry up and fulfill my request simply because they could feel the weight of my questions?  I looked long and hard at the envelope in my hand before I let it go.  I said to my husband before I sent it on its way, "Once I do this, my life will never be the same."  I knew I would never be the same.  

My story was about to change. 

Facing uncertainty, letting go must be decided in the heart before it leaves the hand.  

Truth be told, I felt so helpless when I dropped that small package down into the cold, blue steel box.  

Hurry up, mailman.  

Hurry up, person.  

Hurry up.  

I have waited my whole life to read my story.

The wait was supposed to be 3-6 weeks.  That was the timeline the office in Atlanta gave me.  How in the world would I ever wait 3-6 weeks? Forget the 3-6 part, they had exactly 3 weeks until I began to call.  When I went to my mailbox at the 3 week mark, and there was no return letter, I spun around and walked straight to the phone.  

Hello, Atlanta?  Yes, it is me.  I am the girl who will be calling everyday until you answer me.  No joke.

Another few weeks went by and still no reply.  

Hi, yes, me again.

And then, a curve ball comes that I didn't expect.  It was definitely not a part of the story I imagined.  The reason my wait was a bit longer than normal is because the office of adoption reunions had been waiting on the vital records office to send over my original birth certificate.  They needed the original birth certificate to match with my sealed file.  Okay.... What does that mean?

The lady delivered two bombs back to back in the nicest way she could I guess.  

Bomb #1- I was not born in Georgia.  Excuse, me?

Bomb #2- They have no sealed file on record for me.  Wait, say #1 again, please?

I was so shocked over this first news that the second part didn't really register.  So, the obvious question here ladies and gentlemen is, where oh where was I born?  As causally as you say, "Good morning, how are you today?", this stranger says with no fan-fare, "You were born in Tennessee."  Five words in and my story had already changed.   

She was very upbeat about this wild, unexpected news as she shared how the laws in Tennessee were different than Georgia.  Turns out, they have open adoption laws.  Things unavailable to me in Georgia were mine for the asking there.  

I wasted no time digesting all this, but immediately called the number she gave me for Tennessee.  God's Hand was at work there too as my call connected to the nicest man named Jerry.  Jerry filled me in on the specifics.  Yes, if I was born there then my birth certificate, the sealed adoption record, names, everything was mine for the requesting.  One little, tiny snag though...  As you might imagine, there was a long line of adoptees wanting their biological data.  

I would have to get in line. 

And so, I did.  I officially joined the line two days later as my request arrived in Nashville, TN.  Jerry and I became friends that day.  He really didn't get much of a choice in the matter.  I would call and ask for him every month and that was before caller i.d.  Poor guy couldn't even screen my call.  Three months after I got in line, the office was working on requests filed in 1999.  It was a very long line.  

I waited for exactly 1 1/2 years, before I made it to the front of the line.  Jerry and I were close by then.  Eighteen months had passed when the gal in the Georgia office had given me two new twists.  

Those months were hard months.

Jerry told me once that maybe all this was happening so that I could learn a lesson in patience.  I won't say what I replied back but just know that Jesus had to forgive me.  Never one to mince words, Jerry and I came to an understanding about his unrequested counseling advice.  

Looking back, he was right.  I was in such a hurry to know my story that I didn't realize God was writing another one.  I was rushing right passed it all driving hard to reach my goal.  

Making it to the front of the line was supposed accomplish my goal.  Get the papers, know the names, hear my story, and finally be free.

A paper did arrive that fall day marking the end of my wait, but the news inside was devastating.  Tennessee was ready to process my request, however their "files do not indicate that we maintain a sealed agency record."  Remember what Georgia told me?  

No sealed files in Georgia.  No sealed files in Tennessee.

No story.

The letter also gave me a deadline.  I had 6 weeks to send in my payment for processing or my request, my year and a half, would be discarded.  

All this time wasted or so it seemed that day.  But God wastes nothing.  He works out everything.  Romans 8:28 is one of my favs. "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose."

Sadly, that day I wasn't quoting scripture.  I was too busy "shining out" as my Grandmother used to say.  I had placed all my hopes in a timeline.  God said, no, not today.  Today is not the day when you read your story.  Every time I thought I had it all figured out, in His Great Mercy and Love for me, He would throw a roadblock in my path forcing me to wait more and grow more.  

What feels like a waste of time may be the very place you need to grow. 

While I cried and screamed and thrashed about that day, God knew in a matter of three months, my hands wiping tears would be holding my story.  He had miracles to perform during those three months.  

Yes, miracles happened.   

The details that happened next, while so thrilling for me to relive in the beautiful view of hindsight, may be very boring to you.  Just know they involve many more characters.  There were a few judges, a lawyer, many folks in government, and a few more social workers just to keep the story interesting.  

I will skip to the unbelievable part.  

As a part of a legal process I was pursuing, it became necessary to recontact the Georgia office to obtain proof of registry there way back 21 months prior.  The lady I had spoken to before was no longer employed so I made a new friend.  Apparently she was more "observant" than my old friend because she saw something the other girl had missed.  My sealed file had been there ALL THE TIME.  

Hidden from view 21 months ago, it had been there all along.  

You see, God decides.  If you have been waiting for something for a long time, and you are in His Will, He will decide.  Don't lose hope while you wait. He knows what He's doing.

Twenty days later, a 4 page letter arrived.  The story I was waiting on finally made it, and it was more than I expected I could know.  Although there was no identifying information as far as names or cities, there was a summary of my beginning.  That old sheet of information I had carried around all of my life was a glimpse.  This letter was a much bigger look.  

My nervous system took a major shock that day.  Waves of reality crashed into fantasy as I tried to make it all fit somehow.  So many tears fell.  My eyes burned from staring at the words. There were answers there on the page, and yet more questions, too.  I kept reading the words over and over as if saying them and hearing them out loud would make them real. 

      

This past Sunday in church, we sang a beautiful old hymn, "Blessed Assurance".  

You have to stop reading right now and listen to Greater Vision sing this song on YouTube.  You. Will. Have. Church.   

http://youtu.be/TvzYrBN8XyU

As I was singing, this one line kept repeating, and I felt the Holy Spirit nudge my heart.  "This is my story, this is my song..."  The emotional surrender of writing my story on this blog met the spiritual surrender of obedience right there in my pew and all of a sudden I understood.  

My story is my SONG to Jesus. 

Your story, the one He has written with your life, is your song to Him.  

When we lift up our stories with open hands before a Holy God and give Him the pen, our lives become songs of praise.  The notes He will arrange can ring out to a dark world still listening to a snake selling fairy tales. 

No matter what has happened to you or what your story was, is, or will be, God can use it for His Glory if you will let Him write.  Stop buying the lie that our stories here on earth can be perfect. In my strongest southern twang...it just ain't so.  

Between the Garden and heaven when the story isn't perfect, the world needs us stand up and praise Him with our stories and call out that Jesus is mine.  

Jesus IS mine!

JESUS is MINE!

We can come into His Temple with thanksgiving and into  His Courts with praise because Jesus is mine!!!

Let go of the fairy tales the serpent is selling and sing it out...

Jesus is mine! 

JESUS is mine!

"This is my story....this is my song.

Praising my Savior, All the day long."

I Can See

The first year  with my birth family felt like I was feeling around a dark  room that seemed somewhat familiar.  The challenge of adoption reunions is you know so much about your birth family based on self-knowledge, but you know nothing about them based on life experiences.  

I spent hundreds of hours on the phone with my birthfather working my way through these relationship hurdles.  Yes, hundreds.  Each time we talked, it was a minimum time limit of one hour.  Usually it was more.  He liked to talk.  I loved hearing his voice.  Nothing thrilled me more than hearing him answer the phone with “Hey there, Babygirl!”  

We were working our way through the awkwardness all new relationships bring and establishing a friendship.  

As I have shared before, he was legally blind.  His eyesight had been diminished by a rare disorder, and seeing me was literally one of his last views.  So, when he called around midnight one weekend shouting into the phone, “I can see, I can see!!!”, I was stunned.  The hubs took the call and quickly brought the phone to me.  Something had happened and amazingly, my birthfather regained some vision.  He was practically shouting into the phone.  His voice was several octaves above his normal pitch and his raspy, slow rhythmic drawl was replaced with a rapid staccato.  He was running through his house describing every detail that his once faded sight was now beholding.  “I can see every little cut and edge in the glass of the light fixture!”, he yelled into the phone.  He was breathing heavy and shouting descriptions of every object in his path. I gripped the phone listening as my eyebrows crinkled and my eyes darted from side to side.  I honestly didn’t know what to make of the call.  A mixture of happiness combined with concern filled my heart.  Was this real?  Was he okay or maybe totally losing it?  I wasn’t sure.  

We stayed on the line for a while.  I sat in my dark, quiet house listening as he ran through his house turning on all the lights and laughing and looking.  He was beside himself.  I was of course thrilled, but confused.  I asked him to go see a doctor, and he promised that he would.  We ended the call, and I had a hard time going back to sleep.    

When I talked to him the next day and his vision was still the same, I began to breathe a bit.  He had calmed down some, but the utter joy over his returned sight was radiating from him.  

I praised and thanked God with him for this miracle.  

The next week his life was different.  

He did several things that years of blindness had prevented him from doing.  

One important thing he did was take a cab to visit his mama at the nursing home.  Without sight, he had been without transportation for many years. Tears well up in my eyes thinking about him going on this visit.  

Oh, how he loved his mama.  

With some of his vision returned, no longer held back by darkness, his first trip was to see her.  They never shared the details of this visit with me.  I can only imagine.  Some moments are better left to one’s own imagination.  I do know that during his visit his gave her his gold necklace with a gold cross pendant.  She put it around her neck that day and that is where it stayed.  

My friend and fellow private investigator, Laura, came through town the next weekend and stopped in for a visit with my birth father.  She was the first one to make contact with him during our search and rescue mission.  They talked on the phone quite regularly.  He named us the “Mutt & Jeff Detective Agency.”  When he told her about his new vision, she promised to come by and see him.  

During her visit, they took a long drive. He wanted to go out into the world he’d missed.  

As they drove along back country roads with the windows down, he took off his favorite cowboy boots and threw them in the back seat of her car.  He told Laura to give them to her son. I don't know what prompted him to give away his favorite boots, but my guess is he had plans for a new pair.  

New vision leads to new journeys, and new journeys need new boots.  

He propped his bare feet up on the dashboard of her car as they rode around.  There’s a phrase I think of when I imagine their road trip together.  

They were on a “joy ride”.  

He was overflowing with joy as he rode and looked out the window drinking in sights that most of us take for granted.  God blessed him with big time joy that day.  

As he adjusted to his new level of sight, he spent most of his days outside on his back deck basking in the sunlight.  He wrote me letters from there.  One said this…

Hey, Babygirl,
    
I am sitting my old “behind” on the deck with my toes in the sunshine, smiling and thinking of YOU!

So, when you get this—-SMILE Babygirl!

Love always,
Your Old Man

All was bright and brilliant in his life  as a lonely, blind man who had been trapped in darkness turned his face into the light of day.  

His world had changed.  

And then, within a few days of the one year anniversary of finding my birth father, I lost him again.  

Without warning, he died. 

      

  

#FMF The Device In My Hands

As my hands reached for the iPhone, I found the timer app and set the limit to five minutes.  The moment I touched the device, my thoughts ran from the idea I'd decided to write about to this question.

How long each day do I hold this device in my hands?

A life measured by moments created by a device in my hands is a life missing real moments.

My baby son reaches for my hand during church, and he holds it.  He is in middle school.  That fact alone makes our hand holding precious.  I don't want to miss real moments of hand holding, tear wiping, hug gathering because my hands are full of devices.

Jesus, today would you help me put down the devices in my hands, and go grab real life?

The Stage

On the stage, your posture changes.  You stand taller, straighter, & do your best to hold your gut in all the while trying to appear calm and relaxed.  You feel every eye pointed your way.  The stage is frightening and exhilarating.  Prickling heat from the spotlight blasts against your skin as the white glow temporarily blinds you to the many gazing, penetrating eyes.  My heart beats wildly like the wings of a hummingbird when I stand on any stage, and yet strangely, I love it there.  Like most of my life, it's yet another area where I just don't make sense.  

I discovered my first stage in a Southern Baptist church where I grew up singing my first solo in a Christmas recital.  I pretended to be just like my beautiful voice teacher who was also our youth choir leader.  She had recorded an album of songs (which I still have), and in my mind, she was a superstar.  Her love for Jesus flowed into the lives of the young hearts around her.  I wasn't that good of a singer, but she made me feel like I was far better than I actually was.  With her encouragement, I took the stage and sang my heart out.  Thankful to have survived, I found that the experience was quite enjoyable after the nervous shaking subsided.  

During my junior year, the local pageant came to town and all my friends were taking part.  So, I decided to join in the fun.  It was a hoot.  I had the best time being part of the rehearsals and learning the routines on my high school auditorium stage.  No one in that building was more shocked than me when the announcer called my name as the winner.  What?!?!  Standing in the middle of my gorgeous friends (all wearing the state level required white evening gowns) looking like a giant lobster in my hot pink satin dress I'd designed for my junior prom, my shocked response was completely legit.  I had won, and the stage had won me. 

The next level of competition was the state pageant.  As I prepared, my parents and all their friends in our small, rural town gave me incredible support.  I was reminded of this recently after running into an old family friend I haven't seen in over 18 years.  This friend reminisced about all the supporters who came to cheer for me as I represented our fair city on the stage in Macon.  I hadn't thought about it in a long time.  As my mind drifted back to the competition, one thought rose up to the surface of memories.  My parents have a dear, dear friend that was a huge help and support during my preparation.  We wouldn't have known what to do without her.  She was instrumental in my success. She was also the loudest voice in the audience.  Every time I entered the stage she'd start screaming my number with a booming, commanding voice.  "16!"  "16!!!"  "16!!!!!"  While I waited on the judges' final decision (which miraculously turned out to be another success),  I was literally glowing in the love coming from those cheering voices shouting my number above all the other sounds in the crowd.  On that stage, the little girl inside of me unsure about exactly who she was in this great big world, felt a few precious moments of validation.  

On my 34th birthday, I sat on another stage of sorts.  There was no microphone or bright spotlight, but the event was one of the biggest in my life.  This stage was actually a back porch off my kitchen.  It’s a small area with two wooden chairs anchored by a red brick floor.  I sat in one chair surrounded by my adopted family and my birthmother and her family and 34 presents.  In the chair facing me sat my birthmother.  It was my birthday party, the first one we'd celebrated together in the same place since begin reunited.   

My birthmother and the hubs had planned this event.  It was a dream come true for me as my adopted family met my birthmother and her family.  Under my roof, I was surrounded with the past and the present.  The air was thick with nervous tension.  In all honesty, not everyone present for the party really wanted to be there.  I knew this day would not easy for some.
  
Doors that have been kept comfortably closed don't open easily.  

I was not blind to the different emotions swirling through the air like  tornados.  I knew it would happen this way, but the risk was worth it.  I'd asked my families to do this for me.  I needed them to meet.  I needed to have one birthday with us all together.

My birthmother had brought the 34 presents to celebrate each year of my life that she had missed.  When she told me there were 34 gifts, the steady flow of tears that had taken residence in my eyes fell a bit faster.    I sat on my porch "stage" as all of my family gathered around to watch.  It was the stage of all stages.  She’d numbered the gifts in a special order each one holding a specific purpose and requiring a description.  We sat facing each other as I started with present number one.  She announced each gift with carefully chosen words.  In each package, a precious treasure laid quietly until the veil of tissue was removed.  Each one I opened unveiled a layer in my heart.  As I listened, unwrapped, and cried, the packages revealed pieces of china from both her grandmothers, a square of fabric from her wedding dress, and of course the hidden pink outfit.  These are just a few of the treasures showcased on my stage that afternoon.  I took my time as I soaked in the meaning of each gift and soaked my face with tears.  It was beautiful time. The friends and family watching us were so gracious, but they got tired after the first hour of my present opening marathon.   Some tried to drift off and sneak away, but I would yell and call them back.  Nobody was leaving.  This was my day.  I was shining on my birthday stage, and everybody had to watch.  (I’m kind of a brat sometimes).  I tried really hard during the party to be coherent and respectful of all the jitters and emotions each person was having, but I felt like I would burst.  I LOVED us all being there together and wanted to scream with joy and grab everybody into a huge group hug.  My emotions were going wild and it was pure bliss as past, present, and future pages of my life story talked and ate and breathed under the same roof.  

Being such an emotional person, when I think back to my party, mostly what I remember are the feelings.  I had to call my birthmother and ask for the details.  She never forgets a detail.  She says that when she and her entourage arrived on that sweltering July afternoon that I wouldn't immediately open my front door to let them in. She says I hid behind the door not wanting to open it.  I don’t remember that detail.  She says I called out, "I'm scared!"  She says she replied, "I'm hot, open the door."  It's strange to me that my fear of opening the door isn’t part of my current memory.  The only memories burned in my brain are the moments afterwards.  As I twirled that forgotten detail around, I wondered what if I had kept the door closed?  What if I’d allowed fear to dictate my movements?  Opening a door is deliberate act.  Your brain tells your arm to stretch and your hand to grab hold and pull.  What if I had allowed fear to stop them from coming through my door?  The powerful, life changing  party on the other side of the door would've never happened.  What if I had allowed fear to stop me from searching for my birth family?   Oh, what I would have missed.  Lord, help me in times of fear to move forward with faith, to stretch and reach out grabbing hold of You.  Help me to see the hand of the enemy at work in my life and apply the Truth of Your Word.  

Fear is the devil’s playground, and he knows just what it will take to stop you.  

The stage of your life has been set by God and His divine planning.  Keep moving forward, pushing past fear.  Don't miss the party on the other side of fear.

No spotlight could've out shined the brightness burning in my eyes on my birthday “stage”.  Surrounded by my family, I inhaled with deep, satisfied, thankful breaths. God had filled my cup to overflowing and shown me that He is the only One worthy to take the stage of my life. The little  girl inside of me that had faced 33 other birthdays with questions and empty places stood up and began cheering in a loud booming voice.  “34!, 34!!!, 34!!!!!”  

Three months before this party took place, something terrible had happened.  There had been another gathering.  I never saw it coming.   

         

Steel Hands

He shuffled in on quiet feet.  

Years of hard work had curved his stature, but silent power remained in his steps. Steel blue eyes set their gaze directly into mine as my birthmother’s father and I spoke our first hello. He'd come 90 miles to my home to join the birthday celebration planned by the hubs and my birthmother.  

I was his only granddaughter born & married on his wedding anniversary. God had aligned the calendar so that we shared this date not only for my birthday and his wedding anniversary, but my wedding anniversary, too.  The air between us was unsteady.  I reached out to hug him, welcome him, and invite him in as I pushed past the questions between us hanging like heavy clouds.

Until this moment, he had never laid those icy blues on me.  

It was a big day.

Way back when time was another day, young, unmarried, pregnant girls faced difficult choices.  For many southern women, giving their babies up for adoption was the only option.  They made these decisions out of love for their children and oftentimes with direction from their families.  Sometimes young girls were hidden away in maternity homes until delivery with ultimatums from their parents.  Don't come home until the baby is gone.  It was simply another culture.  Families were not able to accept these young mothers.  They all did what they had to do and what was deemed right to them at the time.  

It's just the way it was.  They did the best they could.

What I never figured into this cultural equation was the long term impacts of adoption on my birthmother's family.  

As time marched ahead and cultures changed, families changed, too.  After many discussions with my birthmother about my life story, she had told me about the role her parents played.  

She had come back from giving birth to me and never talked about it again.  She'd especially never brought it up to her daddy.  Their relationship had been strained with the news of the pregnancy even though they loved each other fiercely.

The day she told him I had found her was not an easy day.  I have said many times that she is a brave woman. When she decided to tell him I was back in her life, the enormity of his possible reactions loomed high.  He was in great health, but she worried about telling him. News like this could cause even a strong heart to take a shock.  I listened to her tell me about their conversation with eyes wide.  

He hadn't forgotten a thing.  

Not one thing...

When she gave him the news, a handkerchief grasped by strong, steel hands wiped away silent tears. He wasn't a man who cried much.  Emotions stayed tucked away in secret places veiled behind hard labor and integrity.  He didn't talk much either so you knew if he said it he meant it.  

He said wanted to meet me.  

I'm holding back quite a tsunami of tears as I tell you about him because I have a soft spot for grands.

Growing up, I only remember one granddaddy.  My mama's daddy died when I was very young.  I have a few pictures and the stories she's told me, but I have no memory of him.  My daddy's father was the only granddaddy I remember.  He was a quiet man, too.  In denim overalls except for Sundays, he would take me to the country story down the road and buy me all the candy I could fit into a little brown bag.  My sister and I shoved as much as we could into space of that paper sack.  

He was always smiling at me.  

I could sit beside him on the porch swing and lean against his big round belly.  Something happens in a little girl's heart when she feels totally safe and completely loved by her granddaddy.  

My heart was tied to him.  

He passed away suddenly when I was in middle school.  On his last night on earth, he took out a picture of my sister and me and stuck them into the wooden tail of a rooster figurine sitting on the fireplace mantle.  He told my grandma how much he loved us.  

The next day he was gone.  

In the old white church across the road from the graveyard where he would rest, I gazed out the window feeling my first empty hole of death.  Frozen in my mind are the hay bales standing in the field like angels guarding that moment.  

Losing him wrecked me.  

The wails of pain in my grandmother's cries echoed the tremendous amount that this man was loved.  

I'd spent more of my life without a grandfather than with one, and God knew how much I needed another one.  

This beautiful, gentle soul came walking into my home on a hot summer day.  My birthmother and my husband had planned a birthday party for me.  (That is a story in itself.)  I wasn't sure what to expect from him.  He probably wondered the same thing about me.  After normal pleasantries had passed and we'd all gotten comfortable, he and I went into the living room to talk alone.  Sitting side by side on the sofa, he began to tell me things that took my breath away.  In his words, the pressing of pain and regret pressed into my heart.  He wanted me to know that he was sorry.  He'd spent my lifetime wondering about me and regretting decisions passed. The weight of blame he'd put on himself had followed him.  And I was not prepared...  

It was hard to listen.  

Even though I held nothing against him, I never considered that he would hold things against himself.  

I never considered that he would think of me.  

Never once.  

For 34 years, he'd kept the memory of me and nobody knew.  

Here on a plaid sofa next to his only granddaughter, he spoke words of sadness from his heart and tried to accept all the blame.  

Oh, Jesus, only You know these things...these heavy weights lugged around in hearts...

I did my very best to explain to him that nobody was to blame.  My search was not one of accountability.  It was one of family.  

I didn't want him to apologize.  

I only wanted to know him if he was willing.  

I told him that God had given me a wonderful life with loving parents.  I tried to ease his hurts the best I could.  I am not sure I made any difference that day because he was hard to read, but what I do know happened that day is we both fell in love with the other.  I mean it.  

On that sofa in those moments, that sweet old man became my Papa.  The name rolled off my tongue like it had always been there waiting to be said.  

Papa.  

I noticed his hands that day during our visit.  Steel hands formed by mountains and valleys of flesh and bone attached to strong arms had plowed many fields and carried heavy loads.  I loved those big hands.  He wrapped them around me as we hugged goodbye that day, and I kissed him on the cheek.  

I said, "I love you, Papa."  

He said, "I love you, too."  

I felt the air change around us as the look in my birthmother's eyes intensified.  

I found out later why.   

He didn't say those words often.

Every single time I saw him after that day, I would kiss his face and tell him I loved him, and he would do the same.  We didn't need a bunch of words because we'd found what mattered.  

Thank You, Jesus for allowing me to know this beautiful man.  He was one of the best surprises of my journey.  

I keep a picture of us on my desk so I can look at him every day.  We are on the sofa in my birthmother’s house.  Our arms are linked together; hands intertwined like our hearts.  

It reminds me that I serve a faithful, loving God who loved us both enough to put us together.  In Psalm 136:12, scriptures describe God’s love like this: “with a mighty hand and outstretched arm, His love endures forever.”  

The hands of the Father are always wrapped tightly around His children.  Although God’s Hands are beyond earthly comprehension, I wonder what they look like.  I won’t know until I get to Heaven, but I think I got a glimpse of them with Papa.  

   

Hidden

After 5 days without deoderant, the demon lurking in my armpits made her presence known.  Climbing invisible ladders into the depths of my nasal cavities, stink monsters assaulted my senses.  The smell proved beyond a doubt that what is hidden will emerge. 

Deoderant is necessary.  It's non-negotiable.

In a house full of teenagers, two of which are boys, it's a mantra we repeat regularly.

Why would I stop wearing deodorant?

Because.

Because it was Spring Break.

Because I wanted to do the complete opposite of my normal routine. 

Because I could.

Because I am one of those people who says, "why not"?

Seeing how long I could go without deodorant was only one difference in my Spring Break routine. I also swore off wearing makeup for 5 whole days.  I had been reading online about the coconut oil craze and wanted to test the hype for myself. 

Would coconut oil really moisturize deeply and give me a youthful glow? 

I don't know if it was the coconut oil, or just going without makeup, but by week's end my skin never looked better.  Thankfully, my glowing skin was the only thing my family noticed after five days. Immediately, I resumed the use of deodorant.

Gross, right?  Yes, gross, but completely true.

I learned a valuable lesson after going without deodorant for 5 days.

Hidden things don't lose their power.  

You can cover them, keep them secret and tucked away, or disguise them, but hidden things still hold power.

In the pit of your arm are tons of tubes that produce sweat when your body is overheated.  These tiny, sweat glands are hidden within the skin, but they hold great value and tremendous power.  If you don't believe me, just stop using deodorant for a few days.  You'll see.

I am certain that somebody is wondering why on earth I am writing about something so crazy.  I have tried to write this several different ways, but keep coming back to this deoderant story.  God must have a plan for it.  He made a donkey speak so He can use this too I suppose.

It  does seem natural to begin with a stinky tale as I introduce you to my brother.  Armpits, deodorant, and brothers are words that seem to fit well together.  

It was on the one year anniversary of finding my birthmother, that my brother and I met for the first time.  He hadn't always known about me.  

Many birthmothers keep the secret of giving up a baby for adoption hidden in their hearts.  Sometimes their families don't even know. It's their secret, and they have their reasons for hiding it away.  

The culture today isn't like the one 40 years ago.

Birthmothers themselves were often hidden away.

Places like maternity homes kept pregnant girls tucked away from the world.  They experienced deep wounds from a society that didn't accept them.  It is a sad, hard reality to comprehend.  I certainly don't understand that kind of pain.  Until my search I had never even heard of a maternity home.  These homes were organized as temporary living arrangements for young mothers until they gave birth.  I have a brochure of the one my birthmother lived in while waiting on my delivery.  My heart breaks as I think about her there alone.  She was so brave. 

After giving birth to me and going back to her normal life, my birthmother was given a gift.  It came from her mother's friend.  It was given her so she'd have something tangible to hold on to as she faced the difficult days ahead.  The gift was a pale, pink, crocheted baby shawl and blanket  gift set from JCPenney. It was nested in a cardboard box with a white bottom and a clear lid wrapped in a white ribbon.  She would look at it and pretend to see me in it.  The meaning of this gift was a deep hidden place in her life.

Over the years, the box found its way to a drawer in my brother's playroom. He found it and asked my birthmother about it.  She'd told him that he was "supposed to be a girl".  Something about that box registered in his heart.  It was like he could sense that there was more to the story.

The connection with my brother was instant and strong.  When he came to my house for our first meeting, the most powerful moment for me was hugging him. It was like two old friends being reunited.  He's this tall, handsome fellow with a full head of dark hair, olive skin, and deep, kind eyes.  His smile lights up the whole room.  He reached out to hug me with big, open arms and a huge heart.

I was mesmerized by the sight of him.

In my family, I was the loud, animated one who was always putting on a show.  When my brother walked into my house, there were now two of us.  We were the same.  Same voice, same intensity, same laugh, same heart...  We looked at each other for a long time.

I loved him instantly.

He is so funny.

Another time when we were together, he told a story that made me laugh harder than I have ever laughed in my entire life.  Seriously.  I thought I might  pass out.  

When he is around all I do is laugh and smile.  I smile because I love being with him.  I smile because he makes me happy when he calls me "sis".  I tell my own kids that if I ever need back-up, he'd be one of my first calls.  I know he'd come running.  He knows I'd do the same.

My brother had grown up as an only child.  He told me that whenever people asked him if he had brothers or sisters, he would say "no", but he felt "yes".  He just knew something was missing, hidden.

It was during my search for my birthfamily that God arranged it so that my brother finally learned about me.  My birthmother had the opportunity to tell him about my existence.  When I heard about this event and the timeline, I was again reminded about God's Perfect timing.  My brother was a big part of God's timing.  Being accepted and loved by him meant so much to me.  I am so thankful that God gave me a brother.

There is a parable in Luke chapter 8 that has been on my mind lately.  Jesus told a story about a lost coin and a woman searching for it.

"Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one."

Luke 15: 8a. NIV

This woman in the story had started off with ten coins.  In losing one, she still had nine coins. She could have just cut her losses and been happy with the nine, but the value of this one coin sent her on a search. She turned the house upside down looking for one hidden coin.

"Does she not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it?"  Luke 15:8b. NIV

The coin was hidden, but it's value didn't change.

It was the coin's value that motivated her to search.  My NIV notes say that searching would not have been an easy task.  "Near Eastern houses frequently had no windows and only earthen floors, making the search for a single coin difficult."  (Zondervan, 1985)

Jesus searches for the hidden.  He not only searches for lost souls, which are valuable to Him, but He searches our hearts for those hidden hurts that only He can heal.

Why?

Because we are valuable to Him, and He knows the power that those hidden places can hold over us.  He knew that nothing would satisfy me until I had found those hidden from me.  God used the reunion with my birthfamily to heal several hidden places in my heart. It was a gift of love allowing me to find them. The beauty of God's healing the hidden parts in my heart is the gifts I received along the way.  He gave me the gift of learning how to wait, learning how to forgive in light of my tremendous need of forgiveness, and the gift of learning to love like He does.

And, He gave me another gift that I didn't expect...a brother.

In His plan for my life and His plan for yours, there are hidden treasures along the way.

You cannot imagine.

If you haven't given your heart to Jesus, please let Him in.  If you have, please let Him shine His Light on the hidden parts of your heart.  He wants to heal you.  There is such freedom in Jesus.

Everyday with Him is a gift.

The gifts would keep coming my way as more family members were added to the story.  One man came walking into my life that had hidden hurts in his heart that nobody knew were there.  I pray that God will give me the words... My throat is tightening as tears roll down my face just thinking about him.  He was a precious gift, too.  

Face to Face

Dreams do come true.  

Today is the 11 year anniversary of finding my birthmother.  Eleven years ago today, my husband walked into her workplace and saw her face to face.  In 6 months after their meeting, my dream of seeing my birthmother face to face, at long last, became real.  After years of searching and months of struggling, we would stand face to face and eye to eye after 33 years apart.  

It was a reuniting long overdue.  We may have been physically apart for these 33 years, but we never were apart in our hearts.  

The hubs went with me for this trip.  We traveled  along the same roads that I had journeyed to meet my birthfather months earlier.  He'd seen me crumble after we fell apart.  He'd seen God put me back together, but I am sure he needed to be certain that this would all go according to plan.  I had changed so much thanks to The Lord.  My faith was in Him as I traveled familiar roads leading me back home.

We were meeting at her house.  I was doing pretty good on the ride over until we made our last turn. The final turn came right on the same road we had used to get to the nursing home.  She'd been right there within reach on the visits I had made previously.  I was reminded of how important it is to live within the safe boundary of God's timing.  Just like the times He had me wait during my search, He had pressed pause on our meeting.  Today, however, was a new day.  The pause button had been repressed and the play button was live.  

This was happening.  

She'd described her mailbox as a small, red barn.  I was looking intently up and down the street for this little barn when suddenly it came into view.  

We had arrived.  

The house was your normal suburban home.  In the driveway sat two vehicles.  The yard was very well maintained with the greenest, weed-free grass I'd ever seen. We pulled in and gave each other one last look.  I took a deep breath and stepped out. There in front of me was a glass door.  All I had to do was walk in.  On the other side of the glass was my dream.  My legs felt like cement.  Boy was I glad the hubs was with me.  I remember arriving, but I don't remember walking in.  I know that God was gracious in scheduling the meeting with my birthfather first.  That was traumatic enough.  Had I met my birthmother first, my nerves would have melted or fried or some other devastating action. 

Her husband met us in the driveway and ushered us in the house.  His open arms and gracious smile were a welcome sight.  As he took us inside, he called her name and said, "She's here."  

Worlds collided as we stood face to face.  

I just can't seem to figure out how to tell you about that moment.  The English language doesn't have words that can contain the overflowing, indescribable joy that surged through my heart.  There are no words.  We were standing eyeball to eyeball looking deep and long into each other’s eyes.  I knew those eyes.  She had beautiful dark, powerful eyes.  They hold emotions and feelings that touch you and grab you and rattle you with only a look.  I just stared.  We hugged each other for the first time, and we both knew it was our very first touch.  

When I touched her then, I knew like I know now, we would never be separated again.  

Never.  

No matter what happened with us in the future, we had touched and connected and nothing would be able to divide us in our hearts.  The tie between us that I had felt since I was old enough to process my life story, reached out and attached to her like a link on a chain.  Two hearts that had held on to each other since the beginning held each other's gaze for the very first time.  

We sat side by side on the sofa in her family room and peace covered me.  It wasn't just the peace that God was providing me, but a quietness of being right where you are supposed to be draped over me like a blanket.  It reminds me of a funny saying that she taught me.  She and I both like to wear “happy pants.”  Happy pants are those kinds of comfy pants you wear at the end of a hard day’s work.  They are the clothes that you put on when you relax.  They aren't necessarily cute or even in good shape, but when you put them on they make you happy.  You know the ones I mean?  The happiness and freedom and comfort I get from my “happy pants” don’t hold a candle to the feeling I had sitting beside her that day.  I wanted to just crawl up in her lap and sit there a while.  

I was home.  

She said, "You have his eyes...cat's eyes."  Wasn't the first time my eyes had been described as cat's eyes.  They look brown at first glance, but if you get close you will see flecks of gold and green. When I get really mad they go green.  Of course, you wouldn't want to be that close to me when I am mad to see the green, but that is just free info right there.  Thank The Lord He has worked me over about my temper, and my fits are few and far between.  (Hopefully no one in my family will comment about that.  Eeek!)  Her eyes were darker than mine, but the laser sharp gaze they could muster was the look I see in the mirror.  

We had the same hands, too.  Our hands are big with super long fingers.  I remember one afternoon when I had fallen asleep on the sofa at home, my parents had come into the room and were talking about me in hushed voices.  They were looking at me sleeping, and mama commented about my hands.  She said to daddy, “She has the longest fingers.”  I had been asleep, but I woke up to hear her say these words.  That conversation came rushing in my brain as I stared at another set of big hands with long fingers.  

I have her hands.  

I tear up typing those words...I have her hands.  

Thank you Jesus for allowing me to hold her hands again. Our same hands touched for the first time that day as eyes met and lives were changed.

We took pictures together; a mother and a daughter sitting side by side.  Two hearts reunited on the outside.  We were sealed.  

We had a wonderful time talking and staring at each other. It was beautiful. The moments quickly passed and it was time to go.

When we said goodbye, I didn't want to leave.  I never do.  Every moment I spend with her is never enough.  Our first meeting would be one of many more.  I hope I can get them all in some kind of order so that I can share them with you.  I took meticulous notes as I searched for her, but once we got together I didn't write down too many notes.  I was too busy living.  We were too busy living and growing and getting to know each other.  

Today, won’t you reach out to the ones you love and just say hello?  Life is too short and too miraculous to miss a single opportunity to tell your family that you love them.  God has blessed me with a huge family.  Hey, family...I LOVE you all!!!  

In the body of Christ, we are all family.  

John 15:12 “This is My commandment, that you love one another just as I have loved you.”

The love we had for each other continues to grow to this day.  There would be more family added into our story in the months that followed.  I got something I had always wanted...a brother!