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Adoption: The New Country of Fatherhood
Biskek, Kyrgyzstan. The name of that foreign city went through my mind over
and over as I lay in bed. Biskek, Kyrgyzstan. Panic gripped me as I kept
wondering why I had applied for a job in a country about which I knew nothing.
I had battled a similar kind of panic when my wife and I decided to adopt a
baby. Adopting a child and becoming a father scared me as much as moving to
an unknown country. I knew there would be joy and excitement as we began
the adoption process, but I was caught off guard by the attack of the “what
if’s.”
What if the child isn’t anything like me? It’s natural for parents to look
for their reflection in their children. Fathers often want sons who will
love football, fishing, or other hobbies like they do. I was an English
teacher and feared adopting a child who hated to read. Fathers are easily
tempted
to live their lives vicariously through the achievements of their children.
But the more I thought about not being able to boast in my son’s genes, the
more I believed that having my ego less wrapped up in my son was probably a
good thing. Today, however, I cheer just as loudly as any other dad when my
son scores a goal in soccer. He’s my son even though he doesn’t share my
genes.
Six years of teaching in grade school also taught me that a child with his
parents’ genes could be just as much an unknown bundle as any adopted
child. I had students who were completely different from the brother I had
taught the year before. I saw unathletic children whose fathers were
professional athletes. Recessive genes even eliminated any guarantee that
children would
look like their parents. I realized all children were a wonderful adventure
of discovery.
But what if I don’t love this stranger? I had known my wife for years
before making the decision to marry her and love her forever. How could I
just decide to love a child who (in our case) wasn’t even born yet?
Although we completed our adoption in what we were told was record time,
the forty days
leading up to it was like forty days of emotional labor as we got
physicals, did interviews for the home study, filled out forms, talked to
lawyers, and watched friends and relatives give generously to help us with
the cost. My wife had not carried this baby in her womb, but we had
certainly carried this
baby in our hearts and prayers.
Because of the “intensive labor” of the adoption process, my son didn’t
seem like a stranger when I first held him three days after his birth. With
one arm gently cradling his whole body, I looked into his eyes and knew
that my heart belonged to him. All doubts about my heart being large enough
to love
this child vanished as I gazed down into his blue eyes and said, “Peter
James Wilson.”
But what if he later has all kinds of questions about who he is and why he
is adopted? I had seen some adopted high school kids struggle with a sense
of identity and a lack of connection with their parents. This was not a
“what if” I could completely work through in advance. But since our
adoption was open and we had met the birth parents, I decided to keep a
written record of the whole process.
I recorded how we sat in the hospital cafeteria with the birth mother as
she said, with streaming tears, “I want him to know that I gave him up for
adoption not because I don’t love him, but because of how much I do love
him.” I have also written of how much joy and love he has brought to our
lives. I’ve now been writing in his journal for seven years. If he is full
of questions and confusion when he is sixteen, I hope to hand him this
journal and at least answer any questions about the depth of our love. Of
course other “what if’s” came that threatened to diminish our love and
courage. My wife and I are about three weeks from adopting three more boys
ages five, six, and seven. A whole different army of “what if’s” are
attacking. But all the “what if’s” are in the future and can be answered or
overcome. “If only’s” are the real enemy because they attack from a past
where we cannot do
battle. I would rather face all the “what if’s” in the world than live with
one “if only.”
I never made it to Biskek, Kyrgyzstan, but we did adopt a child whom I
wouldn’t trade for anything the world. And I discovered this new country of
fatherhood that has become my heart’s true home.
Mark Wilson
“Today’s Father 6.1″
(Mark Wilson teaches English at Southwestern Oregon Community College. He
lives in Myrtle Point, Oregon with his wife Teckla and their son Peter.)
Dad, I Miss You
Your arms around me I’ve never felt
At least not that I remember
I was born in late July
You died a year later in September
I wish you could have waited
Until I could remember your voice
But death came to you by surprise
It really wasn’t your choice
I had to grow up without you dad
My children you’d never see
But through my life and through my heart
You’ll always live in me
The others say you’re not my dad
Because I never knew you
But even though you were not there
I still am part of you
I forgive you dad for leaving me
You didn’t ask to go
I really wish I’d known you dad
I just wanted you to know.
P.S. Dad… I love you.
Author Unknown
In the Big Inning
The spiritual lessons of baseball.
Randy Petersen
Father’s Day, 1964. My dad was watching the flickering images on our
black-and-white Zenith television. He called me into the room. I was 7
years old. It seemed that Jim Bunning, the ace pitcher for our hometown
Phillies, was nearing the end of a “perfect game.” I had no idea what
this meant, but I watched as the final outs were recorded for posterity.
And I was hooked. I’ve had a love affair with baseball ever since.
Every April, hope is reborn, and nearly every August it dies.
Especially when you’re a Phillies fan. We shift our attention at this point to
the teams that have a chance to win it all. Will their late-season
trades put them over the top? How will their hotshot rookies handle the
pressure of a pennant race? Will their seasoned veterans grow weary in the
heat of summer? What statistical records will be threatened this year?
But baseball is more than standings or stats. There’s an inner beauty
to this game that parallels the intricacies of human life. In my fourth
decade of watching players round the bases, I’m coming around to some
observations about the spiritual meaning of this game.
Baseball is situational. To the novice, it might seem monotonous:
Pitcher throws to batter 300 times a game. But every pitch has a different
situation, with slightly different strategies and expectations. The game
is a kaleidoscope, with minor pieces turning to create brilliant new
designs. Outs, base runners, balls and strikes, inning, score, and place
in the batting order–these mathematically create a quarter-million
different situations–and that doesn’t even include the strengths and
weaknesses of the individual pitcher and hitter. It’s a new game with every
pitch.
Of course, life is situational, too. Every moment we face decisions
that present us with a range of options. What should I do when the light
turns yellow, when that guy wants to clean my windshield at a city
intersection, when someone calls asking me to change my long-distance
service?
Baseball has a “book” and a “spirit.” The “book” is the collected
wisdom of a dozen decades of baseball experience. That’s how most managers
deal with the myriad situations of the game. Bring in the left-handed
pinch hitter to face the right-handed relief pitcher–because percentages
show that opposite hands favor the batter. If the leadoff batter gets
on in a tie game, have the next batter bunt. Don’t make the first or
third out at third base.
Every so often, a brilliant manager like the Cardinals’ Tony LaRussa
tries to improve on the “book.” A few years ago, he tried batting the
pitcher (usually the weakest hitter) eighth instead of ninth. He was
trying to put more men on base in front of the slugger Mark McGwire.
Computer models show that his experiment should have worked, but it didn’t.
You cross the “book” at your own peril.
You’ve already figured out the spiritual lesson, no doubt. Most of the
world’s great religions have a “book” that offers the wisdom of the
ages. As a Christian, I study the Bible for guidance in life’s varied
situations. LaRussa-like, I occasionally try to tinker with its teachings,
but it usually doesn’t work.
And yet baseball has a spirit, too, which flows through the game beyond
the constraints of the book. Sometimes baseball defies explanation, the
coincidences are so great. Players talk about the whims of “the
baseball gods,” and there’s something to that. Hardcore atheists become
believers as they watch the quirks, streaks, and high drama of this game. The
Phillies were clearly cursed in 1964, my inaugural season, losing 10 in
a row to blow the pennant. Conversely, the “Amazin’ Mets” were charmed
in 1969, as an unlikely lineup forged past supposedly better teams to
win the Series. Talk about curses! Many Red Sox fans are convinced that
their team still suffers from trading away Babe Ruth in 1919, and
they’ll point to the grounder that trickled through Bill Buckner’s legs to
lose the 1986 Series.
Occasionally, there’s a manager who senses the spirit of the game, like
the Giants’ Dusty Baker, who has an uncanny knack for finding the hot
hitter or the charmed pitcher. Amid all the mathematics, there’s a lot
of luck, and the best teams seem to roll with this mysterious spirit of
the game.
I’ve found a similar aspect in my spiritual life. Yes, I need to follow
the wisdom of the Book, but that wisdom is energized and applied as I
keep in step with the Spirit of God. The Book by itself leads me to a
stale legalism, but the Spirit helps me roll with the ups and downs of
life.
Baseball is a team sport of individual matchups. Teamwork is as
valuable in baseball as in any other sport, but each pitch pits one pitcher
against one batter. At any given moment, the spotlight is on one
player–catching, throwing, hitting, running. In that moment, your teammates
can’t help you. It’s up to you.
And yet baseball requires many different skills and few have them all.
You have sluggers and slap hitters, starting pitchers and closers,
pinch hitters and defensive replacements. Yankees’ manager Joe Torre built
one of the game’s greatest teams ever by using their different gifts.
To be sure, the Yankees have some great players, but they’re not a team
of superstars. Their glory is in the way each player plays his part.
Life, too, is a team sport, but the pressure is still on individuals to
do their best at any given moment. I am part of a church, but I can’t
expect the church to do my religion for me. I need to be seeking God in
my own life and fitting my own gifts with the gifts of others. None of
us can make a dent in the world’s problems single-handedly, but as a
team we can pull together to play a pretty good game.