Adoption isn’t just for kids
Since November is National Adoption Month, I thought this would be the perfect time to tell you my adoption story. It’s probably not what you think, but the heart couldn’t be more true.
I have brothers and sisters who are adopted and their stories are beautiful and covered in God’s fingerprints. I can tell you that the love you have for these is no different than the love you have for biological siblings. I can tell you that you think you’re changing them, but they are changing you.
But this isn’t about them.
It’s about me.
I am adopted.
No this is not a spiritual metaphor.
Legally, I am adopted.
I know rejection. This rejection is more than having been picked last for kickball or not being invited to a party. This rejection comes from one of the two people in the world that are never supposed to reject you. They’re supposed to be your sure thing. Only, he wasn’t; even still, he isn’t. Ironically, as much as I don’t want him to be anything for me anymore, I still hurt.
Parents are always supposed to be there. Only my father wasn’t, he isn’t. So I made a choice. I chose the one who has been there faithfully every time since I met him. I never asked him to prove himself to me, but he has time and time again. I made a conscious decision for me and my life as an adult. Some people may not understand it, wondering why I waited until I was an adult. Others may not like it. But this was never for them. It was one hundred percent for me. I chose Brian, the man I have known as my dad since I was thriteen. I walked into a hearing and said that he is my dad. I suppose as much as I am chose him, he had already chosen me.
He had chosen to be there and love me as his own from the beginning of his relationship with my mom. Everyday he has had a choice. He has been there for science projects and rides to see friends, teaching me to drive and moving me to college. He made sure that every teenage angst filled argument be followed by an embrace. He was there as I lay in a hospital after my accident, cooling and calming with his hand. He didn’t miss a graduation or a party to follow, and he was there to give my hand and embrace the tiny hands of my babies. He never cared whether the moments were big or small; they were moments that meant something to me, so he was there.
I am blessed to have had the opportunity to choose. I chose who my dad is and will be for all of my days, and for that I am grateful.
It’s been six years now, and I know I took the less traditional route. To those that know me that will be of no surprise. My roads have never been paved and the street signs have never been clear. One thing has been clear on this path, however. I haven’t walked a step of the way alone.