I’m not good with sharing my goals and dreams with people, let me just start with that. Mostly, I just forget. I’m off accomplishing it. This past weekend, I was having coffee with a friend and mentioned my plan for adopting kids in a rambling for future plans. She had no idea and wondered why I never talked about my plans. I guess after sharing with family and my immediate circle, I never really saw a point to telling anyone else. Which I’m not happy about that I would think such a thing because I’ve always been a proponent of people sharing their lives with others. Stories are blessings, why hold that back?

Maybe it was my mom and dad having me in the delivery room at the age of 7 to watch my younger sister be born, maybe it was growing up hearing my dad talk about his experience being put up for adoption at nine years old and what that felt like to have a family say ‘We’ll take him’… and maybe it was all just God placing a burden on my heart, but for whatever reason, I’ve had a yearning to adopt children since I was prepubescent. As the years rolled on several events occured that funneled me down the path toward adoption. I was diagnosed with thyroid disease at 18 and told it would be very difficult to get pregnant. At the age of 24, I was raped by a man I trusted more than anyone in the world, causing me to struggle today with any form of sexual intimacy. Just two years ago, former roommates enlightened me to the statistics of 8-year olds to age 18 who go the rest of their lives without a family because most parents want newborns or young children to adopt.

My heart broke at the thought of these children spending their ‘growth years’ feeling unloved and navigating life without parents to share their experiences with. I have no longing to give birth to my children, I just have a longing to show love and help nurture and grow people through Jesus.

My brain is always setting plans. So I looked at my life goals and what this would look like if I adopted children between ages 8-12. Here’s my thought: I would definitely have some time to accomplish a few more personal goals in the next 10 years without feeling as if I’m not giving enough time to my children, holding myself back or that I’d be limping on the practice fields trying to be a good mom and keep up with young children. Also, I wouldn’t have to worry about pushing 60 before my kids were to leave the nest. Theoretically, I could be 40, adopt kids (8-12 years old) and by 50 they would be out of the house, off to college, just in time for me to finish up a dozen more working years before retirement. That actually sounds pretty great.

I think I’ve mentioned in past posts that my mind and heart have been centered around my future. I’ve been keeping a healthy lifestyle (eating right, working out at the gym, nurturing myself) so that when the time comes that God gives me children, I’ll be more ready than ever. And maybe that time won’t come. In this event, it’s okay. I’ve been absorbing every ounce of time I have with my friend’s babies and children, soaking up their laughter, ‘firsts’, smiles and cries.

Interestingly enough, I’ve always been a magnet for young children. I’m not sure why, but kids love playing with me… probably because I get lost in their world of imaginations with them. So it’s not like I don’t like young children, quite the opposite! Another interesting thing is at the age of 7, after my sister was born, I was introduced to the world of babies, diapers, feeding and such. Four years later, another sister was born. By this time, I had some training. Both sisters slept in my bed with me. I remember waking up in the middle of school nights to a sick sister and having to handle the situation while wiping their tears. I would strip the sheets from the bed and start a load of laundry while drawing a bath at 2am. After new bedding was laid and their bodies were clean, I’d switch the laundry over to the dryer and we were back to sleep until the alarm clock sounded for school. I recall several nights like this. Mom and dad worked and needed their rest.

During the summer months I was ‘mom’. I signed my sister’s up for swimming lessons, teeball practices and library programs. I couldn’t drive yet, so I peddaled around town with one sister strapped into my bike car seat and the other at my side on her little Huffy. I had a routine. I would wake up, make breakfast and then quietly slip back into the bed and wake my sisters up with whispers and kisses. At breakfast I would go over an itinerary I planned for the day, which included all the activities mentioned above, plus arts and crafts that I put together myself and of course some cleaning before mom and dad came home. For arts and crafts, we tried to make candles once and melted a whole box of crayons in the oven on one of mom’s cookie sheets; don’t worry, I had wax paper over the pan. Many times we made bracelets, necklaces, anklets and rings out of thread, fishing line and beads. We also made decorations for the house out of yarn and paper. We had fun. And cleaning, that part was probably most fun. We would play fun music and dance around the house… it was fun helping to grow my sisters. I think God gave me that experience for a reason.

Another thing that is interesting is that for a dozen years, I served as a camp counselor working specifically, year after year with 5th and 6th grade kids. It was an age I was very good at working with. And each year, it never failed, I was served up some of the most challenging situations with this age of children. It became a joke after a while; God put me there in those situations for a reason. Perhaps it will be years before I ever conclude why, but for now I sure do enjoy pondering the purpose behind it.