In the Shadow of an Angel

I first felt the shadow while rocking quietly with my son, just weeks after his delivery into our family.  The stork brought us to him, in the hardened courtyard of an Ethiopian foster home.  He was slight in stature, playful by nature and very curious.  We were enamored.  Our journey together began.

Within our first month together, as we snuggled in the rocking chair one night before bed, I was overcome by feelings of sadness and uncertainty.  How could he come through such big losses?  How could I truly become a mother to this complete stranger? Is it okay to change the backdrop of a child’s life so vastly?  I could feel his losses as if they were my own; my heart ached.  As the tears freely flowed down my cheeks, I wondered if I was actually ‘up’ to becoming his mom. On paper, and in pictures it seemed doable, but more than that, the process felt like a joining with the divine, that some might call fate. But now, with the weight of his two-year-old body in my lap, I wasn’t so sure. 

In that moment of weeping and wondering, I felt something else in the room.  My skin prickled and my breath simply hung, expectantly.  It was a presence without form; a being without breath. It was as subtle as a morning breeze, sweeping in, almost unnoticed.  I felt awe. I was sure that it was his birth mom.  Her presence created a fleeting moment of kinship.  She was gone, but not absent.  There was a moment of shared desire; I felt the glory of grace.

Through the years that I have parented my adopted children, first our son and then (later) his ten-year-old birth sister, I have felt the shadow of their mother many times.  Whenever my children ask me a question that I cannot possibly know the answer to, such as – What was it like on the day I was born? – I pause and pray.  Then with calm confidence, the words and descriptions appear to me, and I am able to honor that truly special moment in my child’s life even though I was not there.

Our son was almost three when he joined our family; he did not appear to have any conscious memory of his birth mother.  However, since we did not initially share a language, it was difficult to tell.  He so quickly became ‘one of us’ that it was alarming.  Prior to his adoption, my husband and I had discussed the importance of keeping him connected to his Ethiopian-ness, but he was resistant to it, and eager to fit in to Canadian life.  However, when he returned to Ethiopia with us, to bring his older sister into our family, he was completely at home.  He embraced his ethnicity in a way that we could not have orchestrated for him – he simply breathed it in and lived it every day that we were there.

We were remarkably blessed on that trip when we were serendipitously connected to their remaining birth family, who were hundreds of miles away.  On our brief visit to the area of their birth, the indistinct shadow of their birth mother gradually took shape.  First we saw, what could have been her eyes in the weathered face of her mother (my children's maternal grandmother). Then we heard the possible pitch of her voice, in the melodic musings of her younger sister (my children's aunt). Eventually, a photo album appeared.  It seemed an unlikely object in this dusty courtyard, filled with manicured mud huts, clotheslines airing out the day’s laundry, and a fire pit surrounded by pots and utensils, which served as the community kitchen. 

This was a place without running water, or electricity; this was a place where the chickens and goats wandered freely in the courtyard; this was a place where working hard did not guarantee access to basic necessities. And yet, there was, at some point, a camera, and pictures.  We gathered eagerly around the album like birds to a feeder, wondering who had taken the pictures and how they could have been developed.  But there, before us, appeared baby pictures of our son, and also pictures of their birth mother, in Ethiopian dress, staring back at us – as if she too were interested in how it was that we came to be there.

Returning back to Canada after that trip, with our new 10-year-old daughter was difficult.  It felt more uncomfortable standing in the shadow of their birth mother now.  Before, she was an apparition; now, she had a face and a distinct shape.  Though I felt immense gratitude for having met the family, and filling in some of the blank spaces in my children’s family tree, now there was no denying her existence or the vast differences between her and I.  And for our daughter, the memories were so close, and the grief and injustice of such a loss was painfully present.  I felt an intense need to honor that initial relationship while simultaneously building my own bond to a daughter I didn’t know.  At times I felt crowded by her presence. 

I bumped into her shadow, when my daughter (in a moment of disharmony) painfully pointed out that I was not her mother – that she already had a mother.  I tripped on her shadow when I tried to soothe this child who was longing for something else.  I stepped on her shadow when I inadequately tried to describe the circumstances precipitating the (need for) adoption.  And occasionally I gracelessly shoved her shadow out of my way as I tried to get to know this child who had already had ten years of life, without me in it. 

Awhile back, my then twelve-year-old daughter asked me, “Mom, do you think an adoption mom can be the same as a birth mom?”

“No, not the same”, I logically answered, “No two people can be the same.”

“Well, do you think that an adoption mom can love the same as a birth mom?” she continued.

“Yes, I think so” I responded, “not in exactly the same way, but in how much they love you – I think that can be the same.”

She sat quietly, and then asked – “Well, do you love me as much as you love [your birth child]?”

“Yes, I love all of you very much, more than my arms can stretch” I answered.

She paused and sighed deeply, “I don’t think it is the same.”

I too paused; I took a deep breath before responding.  “Each child is made special.  And because you are all special, you are all different.  So my love might look different because I want to love each of you in the way that you need to be loved.”

“So, do you love me?” she finally asked.

“Yes, I love you very much.” I replied.

I still feel the shadow of an angel frequently as I parent these children that God called to me, and at times it provides comfort, support and direction while at others, it is a tremendous source of sadness, loss and anxiety.  Ultimately, nature has been interrupted, and the result is that we have children to parent that were not born to us.  We were not there when their lives began, or when their lives were so suddenly changed by loss.  We joined them part way on their journey, and vastly changed the path that ran before them.  But they continue to be supported by their birth parents, through us and through their own memories and visions.  I am deeply aware that there are things at play that I cannot see or control.  There are angels; they do have a role in our lives.  And what I have come to realize is that two mothers, one living, one not, can stand within the confines of the same shadow, and neither one has lost any part of themselves.