A few months into the COVID-19 pandemic, after putting my three children to bed one night, I streamed a production from the Théâtre National de Jane Eyre while exercising on our stationary bike. A chill came over me as I found myself identifying not with Jane but with her vindictive aunt, who reluctantly becomes Jane’s adoptive mother.
I was horrified to share Mrs. Reed’s resentment toward Jane because she was an outsider, an intruder, a source of trouble. It was the same feeling I battled daily towards our five-year-old adopted son, who we had welcomed into our family over a year before. Watching my own feelings manifest on screen in Mrs. Reed – a villain – made me realize how flawed my moral compass had become.
As a child who always wanted to make the world a better place, I had taken to heart the value that Christians, from the early Church to modern American evangelicals, placed on the care of orphans. And the way adoption was described in the Christian sermons and books I read was universally positive: adoption was a metaphor for God grafting us into God’s family (Rom. 8:14-17, Eph. 1 : 5); adoption met a crucial need; adoption was a beautiful act of love. Being a gregarious evangelist or a kneeling prayer warrior may not be my strength, but welcoming a child I could do it.
When I started dating my future husband, I had just returned from a summer volunteering with disabled children at a Chinese orphanage. Adoption has always been a part of how we envisioned building our family and extending God’s overwhelming love to children in need.
After getting married and having two biological children, with my medical training finally complete and our lives relatively settled, we thought we were ready. We had read books about adoptive parenting. I had joined online adoption forums. We knew other families who had adopted.
At the time, reviews of adoption became more and more significant. Adult adoptees and their defenders have rightly pointed out the systemic flaws of both domestic And international adoptions. From corruption to coercion, from transracial family dynamics to legal battles, adopting a child was more difficult than just the image I was sold at church.
Yet I remained convinced that the need for families was still present, particularly among older children with stigmatized health conditions. So we continued to pursue adoption through a reputable foreign program and agency. We thought we were kind-hearted people and caring parents. Surely it would be easy to love any child like ours, especially if they share the same racial and cultural background.
Yet the actual experience of introducing our third child, adopted from Taiwan, into our family felt like a bomb exploding in our previously peaceful home.
We hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to offer our new four-year-old the same easy affection we naturally shared with our two older children, especially since he seemed determined to reject our overtures. love and tenderness – and making everyone feel as bad as him, torn from his guardians, his country and his familiar surroundings. While this is common when it comes to adoption, the emotional rollercoaster left us exhausted and frayed. I was constantly reminded that we chose this, while our son lacked any freedom in the situation.
What was even more difficult was how difficult it was for our older children, then aged five and seven, to adjust. They hadn’t asked for this, and suddenly they had a younger brother who was breaking their toys, stealing their Halloween candy, and deliberately poking them to get a reaction. There had been no sweet childhood phase for them to become attached to. There was a flash, and then, suddenly, their lives, their families, and their homes were irrevocably changed.
My protective instincts were at odds with each other: my youngest, newest, most vulnerable child needed unconditional love, tons of positive affirmations, and individual attention. Meanwhile, my eldest, previously calm and happy, repeatedly banged his head against the floor, taking out his anxiety on himself because he knew he wasn’t supposed to hit his brother (even if that happened too, and yes, we have tried therapy in many cases). shapes).
This dynamic lasted well beyond the initial months-long adjustment phase we were told to expect. Four years later, I still often despaired.
We have been fortunate to have an understanding church community; our senior pastor and his wife adopted 11 children. They created a small monthly adoption group where vulnerability and honesty were modeled. Hearing the stories of other parents who were further along in their journey – but still faced immense challenges – was both intimidating and comforting.
But even with this precious space and other supportive friendships, the deep shame of struggling with adoptive parenthood was overwhelming. Since childhood, I had been taught that adoption was beautiful, valuable, and ordained by God. Why didn’t I feel this way?
I needed to unpack the theology that had led me to this place. Often in churches the adoption of children is compared to our “adoption” by God into His spiritual family. But this metaphor, frequently used without worrying about how adoption has changed over the last 2,000 yearsdraws the unfortunate parallel of adoptive parents “saving” the child.
It also repeals the abandonment at the origin of the adoptee’s journey. Our adopted children, especially older children, experience so much loss and grief in their lives, which can manifest as attachment disorders, blocked trust, and traumatic reactions. We are not God and we cannot miraculously heal these cracks.
When churches oversimplify adoption – treating it as a glorious reflection of God’s plan, as a response to abortion, or as a form of mission – we distort a complex relationship and lead adoptive parents to failure by placing us in a role that was never ours. . Adoption is not a panacea; rather, it is the beginning of a long journey.
Churches would do well to present a more nuanced and realistic portrait of adoption. While some adoptive families thrive from the start, others feel under siege for years.
By reframing how we talk about adoption, recognizing that it is rooted in breakdown, and presenting a range of adoption stories rather than just those that are easy or resolved, we better prepare prospective parents and normalize the difficulties that adoptive families may face. The aim is not to discourage or discredit adoption, but to ensure that it is undertaken with realistic expectations.
And instead of viewing adoption as the only, or even the best, way to care for vulnerable children, churches should take this issue seriously, too. preservation of the family efforts. We can work to counteract the systemic inequalities that force biological families to abandon their children and support single parents. When a pregnant woman worries about how she will provide for the child she wants, our first response should not be to suggest adoption but to come together as a Church to share resources so she can pay for housing, childcare, clothing, and food, and to commit to being a supportive social network – a kind of extended family.
Practical help is also essential for adoptive families. I would be fed for life if I had a homemade dinner for every person who said to me, “Oh, I always wanted to adopt!” »
Respite care – when trusted adults care for the adopted child for a few hours or days to give adoptive parents a chance to recharge – can be a lifeline for overwhelmed parents. And trauma-informed pastoral care before and after adoption can help shift expectations. This should become the norm, just as premarital counseling is expected, even required.
What pained me the most during this journey was the deep shame I felt for not being the mother my children deserve. I didn’t want to recognize that this screaming, angry, crying, bitter person I saw in the mirror was me. I didn’t want to admit that I had become Mrs. Reed.
And the verb “become” belies the truth. My wells of selfishness have always been there; it was simply necessary to adopt a child to reveal them. This is perhaps the biggest judgment adoption has imposed on me: looking in the mirror after my veneer of patient, selfless parenting has been shattered. Once the surface was cracked, the self-condemnation became relentless, amplified by the imaginary comment from acquaintances and Internet users: I shouldn’t be a parent. A better person would handle this with grace.
Indeed, it was the grace that I lacked – for myself and for my children. But God did not miss him. His response to my feeling of freefall was a limitless reach of grace that caught me again and again.
We are all ordinary, broken humans doing our best. As my friend and fellow adoptive mom says, adoptive parents should not be treated like saints when adoption goes well, nor should they be marginalized as deviants when we are honest about our struggles. God is in dissonance as well as harmony, and our family may never fully arrive at the tonic chord.
In our sixth year of adoptive parenting, we have glimpsed joy, developed authentic connections, and begun to heal, but there may still be unresolved grief and suffering – not only from the painful origins of my youngest son, but now also because of the imperfect way I did it. he was a parent to him and his siblings.
Meeting other adoptive parents like me has made me feel less alone and less overwhelmed by shame, and I want to offer this consolation and wisdom to other parents earlier in their adoption journey and urge my fellow Christians to do likewise. When churches paint an overly simplistic picture of adoption – without recognizing the grief and loss experienced by the child and their birth family as well as the serious challenges adoptive parents may face – we unintentionally encourage prospective parents to launch into adoption without being prepared. We can even effectively silence those who are struggling.
God calls us to care for orphans, but God does not promise it will be easy. Nor should we.
Kristin T. Lee writes at the intersection of faith, belonging, and solidarity on The embers and provides lively reflections on various books on Instagram. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and is working on her first book on Asian American Christianity.
