Chinese crackdown nets thousands of 'stolen' children

Chinese crackdown nets thousands of 'stolen' children
As many as 60,000 children missing each year

By Aileen McCabe, Asia Correspondent,
Canwest News Service
October 29, 2009

Sixty sad, scared kids stare out at you from an official Chinese government website called "Babies Looking for Home".

Many still in diapers, they are the faces of kidnapped children rescued by the security forces during a crackdown on child trafficking that began last April. Police netted some 2,008 missing children in their raids.

So far, they have been able to return many of them to frantic families across the country. The 60 faces peering out from the website are the first public attempt to identify the rest. Most of those pictured were stolen from their parents when they were so young, they have no idea of who they are or where they come from.

Police are hoping their parents might be able to identify them now, even though in many cases years have passed since they last saw their child.

When the pictures went up on the web late Wednesday, security officials from Beijing phoned Tang Weihua at her Shanghai home. One of the boys they couldn't identify was 15 years old they told her. He might be the five-year-old son she lost in 1999.

Tang rushed to her computer and searched the faces. "Looking at those kids, I thought I might be lucky enough to find my boy among them," she said in an interview Thursday. "It gave me a lot of hope."

It wasn't to be. Local police told her soon afterwards that the teenager had been identified.

"His own parents found him," Tang said.

Tang, 40, is part of a loose network of parents of kidnapped children who refuse to give up hope of finding their offspring and are personally searching for them long after the police have abandoned their cases.

She says that among her contacts, she's heard of about 70 kids who have been returned to their parents since the police crackdown began and it's giving her hope.

"I think, finally, the ministry is doing a great job. Many children have been rescued. Many families have been reunited. Though it is not my child, who doesn't hope for that?" she said.

This is the first time the Ministry of Public Security has taken such an active role in solving a problem that is nothing short of a national tragedy. There are 30,000 to 60,000 children reported missing every year in China, according to the ministry. But people like Tang, who are involved in the search for these kids, say the number is closer to 200,000.

Many, if not most cases are not formally listed because local police are unwilling or unable to investigate crimes that usually involve crossing provincial borders. As well, many of the parents think police might be complicit in the kidnappings. It is a lucrative business that can net about $4,000 for each boy sold and about $1,000 per girl.

The abducted children are mostly boys and are sold to families who want a son. The girls are often sold into marriage or to agencies that arrange foreign adoptions.

Since the crackdown began last April, Chinese media have reported a series of successful rescue operations and the arrest of many human traffickers.

Just last week, newspapers reported that 42 people were detained in northern China, suspected of trafficking 52 children.

So prevalent are the instances of and stories about child snatching at the moment, that parents around China are hyper alert to their kids. In a tragic incident this week at Yuhuan Chumen Primary School in Zhejiang province, next door to Shanghai, one book salesman was killed and four others injured in the schoolyard by a mob of parents who mistook them for kidnappers, according to local police.

© Copyright (c) Canwest News Service

Three Decades after Adoption, DNA reveals painful Truth

Three decades after adoption, DNA test reveals painful truth
By Frank D. Roylance

Baltimore Sun reporter
October 12, 2009

For Cockeysville businessman Ron Ryba, the long walk from the parking lot to the stadium in Philadelphia was a 29-year trail of memories.

He had come to meet the son he and his high school sweetheart had never seen when they gave him up for adoption nearly three decades earlier. Now, the baby was a grown man. What would he say to him? What would he look like?

For Phil Bloete, too, the 2004 meeting at a Phillies game, was the culmination of a lifelong dream. He was 28, a high school English teacher in New Jersey. He had enjoyed a happy childhood, and was well-loved by his adoptive parents. But he had always wondered about his birth parents.

Mostly, Bloete said, he wanted to know more about his genetic heritage. He and his wife wanted to start a family, and "if there were any inherent risks, I wanted to know about them."

Their meeting was warm, if a bit tentative. "We laughed a little bit, and talked, and hugged," Ryba recalled. And he was astonished at Bloete's appearance.

Bloete is 6 feet 2 inches tall, 240 pounds with dark hair. He's been a swimmer, lifeguard, soccer coach. Ryba played football in high school and college, but he's blond, 5 feet 8 inches tall, and tips the scales at 175.

"I'm thinking to myself ... 'Man, did he get the good genes,'" Ryba said.

As it has turned out, Bloete, Ryba, and Ryba's high school girlfriend, Kathleen Butler, share no genes at all.

More than three decades after Ryba and Butler gave up their baby son to Catholic Charities of Trenton, N.J., for adoption, and four years after the agency facilitated their "reunion" with Bloete, genetic testing revealed last year that none of them are related.

Lisa Thibault, a spokeswoman for Catholic Charities of Trenton, acknowledged that the situation is "tragic," and that a "mistake" was made somewhere. But she said the agency has done all it is legally able to do for them.

That has shaken Ryba's lifelong faith in the Catholic Church, or at least in those who lead it. And, it has launched him on a thus-far fruitless quest to find the son he believes Catholic Charities has "lost."

Their story began in 1975.

Ryba was a high school football star. Butler was a cheerleader. They were crazy in love, but when Kathy became pregnant at 16, they knew they were both too young to provide a proper home and a secure future for their child.

So, they agreed to give their baby up to Catholic Charities, which arranged an adoption. They were promised updates on the boy's well-being, and assured the agency would mediate a reunion -- if the boy were willing after he grew to adulthood.

"The solace for me was the fact I would someday reunite, and know that the journey I took was for a good reason," said Ryba.

Catholic Charities' assurances were "a very big reason why I believed that what we were doing was the right thing. I never lost faith in that," he said.

Ryba went on to graduate from high school and earned a degree from Glassboro State College. In 1982, he moved to Maryland to open a sporting goods store in Cockeysville. Now 51, he lives in Timonium with his wife and two children. He owns and operates a business that sells uniforms to the U.S. Department of Defense.

But he has never forgotten the boy he and Butler gave up for adoption. And for three decades, Catholic Charities seemed to have kept its promises to Ryba and Butler.

Their baby was born Nov. 25, 1975, at Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital in Camden. On Dec. 1, according to documents given to Ryba, the infant was transferred to St. Elizabeth's Home in Yardville, a home for unwed mothers run by Catholic Charities. And on Jan. 7, 1976, Phil -- identified on the state adoption consent papers as "Baby Boy Butler" -- was adopted by Anne and Edward Bloete, of Brielle, N.J.

Ryba and Butler split up after high school, and went off to college. They stayed in touch, but married others and lived separate lives. Both have their own children.

Over the years, Catholic Charities case workers sent Ryba baby pictures and information on his son's progress. And in 2004, the agency contacted Bloete and mediated the first direct communications between him and Ryba, which led to the "reunion" in Philadelphia.

Phil Bloete is 33 now, with a wife and daughter of his own. He said he had a happy childhood, and was well-loved by his adoptive parents.

"My whole life I grew up believing that Ron's story and Kathleen's story was the story of my [birth] parents," he said. "Catholic Charities had provided that all along."

Ryba said his long dream of a reunion with his firstborn son, and a resolution to decades of heartache and hope, seemed to have been realized in 2004 when he and Bloete agreed to meet for the first time at a Phillies game.

For Bloete, too, it was the culmination of a lifelong dream. "I had sorta prepared myself my whole life for the possibility that this day would never come," he said. "When it did, I was just surprised."

In the years that followed Ryba, Bloete and Butler grew closer, visiting, sharing photos and family stories and introducing relatives. They set aside the difficulty they all had in seeing family resemblances.

Ryba thought maybe Bloete got Butler's eyes. "You try to make it fit, in a way," Ryba said. "They told me this was my son, so it's my son. You want to believe."

They all tried, but Butler said there weren't any tall genes on her side. Ryba's wife and their 16-year-old son didn't see much resemblance either. Doubts nagged.

So, four years after they had become "family" and friends, as Ryba prepared to add Bloete to his will, he asked for a paternity test. Bloete, with his own doubts, readily agreed.

When the initial test found a "zero percent chance" that he was Bloete's father, Ryba called Butler, and posed the difficult, but inevitable question: Was there someone else? Butler told him, in no uncertain terms, "If you're not the father, then I'm not the mother."

So, they all agreed to a $1,200 DNA test that would stand up in court, if need be. The results again were conclusive. None of them were genetically related.

"We were all just stunned; shocked," Ryba recalled. "Now I realize we don't know who or where our son is. And then I realize Phillip has no origins."

The next call went to Catholic Charities.

"I said, 'You told me for 30 years this was my son. Can't you just go in your files? Maybe you mixed up some files,'" Ryba recalled.

Catholic Charities did provide some documents, but there was nothing to reveal who Bloete's real parents were, or where Baby Boy Butler might have gone.

A meeting was arranged for Ryba, Butler and Bloete with Catholic Charities director Francis Dolan. Ryba was hopeful.

"I'm feeling we're all in this together," he said. He expected that Catholic Charities would agree to search its files, find his real son, and uncover the records for Phil's birth parents.

Instead, the meeting with Dolan ended for Ryba in disappointment and anger, with few answers to his biggest questions. "I finally said to him, 'Are you here to help us?' His recollection is that Dolan replied that his agency had no further obligation to help.

"I don't think there was anything he could have said that could have been more hurtful," Ryba said.

Dolan chose not to speak directly with The Baltimore Sun. Lisa Thibault, his spokeswoman, said that throughout Catholic Charities' contact with Ryba, Butler and Bloete, "we have been mindful of the tragedy inherent in their situation, and have on numerous occasions ... expressed sympathy for them and their situation."

Ryba felt no such sympathy from this agency of the Catholic Church, to which he had belonged all his life.

"The one time I've turned to them ... for their cloak of comfort and help and justice, and they slowly closed the door on me, and said, 'We can't help you,'" Ryba said. "It doesn't diminish my faith in God. It diminishes my faith in the men who lead us to God."

Thibault acknowledged that the situation is "tragic," and that a "mistake" was made somewhere, although she suggested it may have been made before the Butler baby was moved to Catholic Charities' custody at St. Elizabeth's.

Adam Pertman, executive director of the Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute in New York, a leading research and policy organization in the field that has long advocated an end to secrecy in adoption records, said, "The secretive ways of the past don't yield very good outcomes."

The mix-up in the adoption of the baby given up by Ryba and Butler -- and the mystery of Bloete's origins, even his true date of birth -- is "an abject lesson on how to not conduct good, strong, ethical adoptions," he said.

Catholic Charities did take one other step to try to shed light on the mystery. In September 2008, the agency went into Superior Court in Mercer County, N.J., asking for permission to release information from its files that is normally barred from disclosure under state or federal law -- information it said "would be helpful to [Phil's] search for his identity.".

In April, however, a judge denied the request, and in a June 5 e-mail, William Isele, Catholic Charities' attorney, told Ryba that the documents in the case were sealed. So were the judge's reasons for the denial.

"You can, of course, use your own counsel if you want to petition the court to unseal the Statement of Reasons and the underlying medical documents in the file," Isele told Ryba. "Our client, Catholic Charities, tried to do just that and was told 'no' by the Court."

Contacted by The Baltimore Sun, Isele declined to discuss the case, noting that records in the matter were sealed.

For Catholic Charities, Thibault said, the court's refusal to open the records was the end of its legal options. But perhaps not for Ryba, Butler and Bloete.

Birth records that reveal the identities of adopted children in New Jersey were sealed by a law passed in 1940 and are closed to both the general public and the parties to an adoption. The laws were designed to protect adoptive families from the interference of birth parents.

But there are exceptions when parties to an adoption can show "good cause" to have them opened, according to Steven Sacharow, an attorney with extensive experience in New Jersey adoptions.

"In the case of adult adoptees," he said, "the burden of proof should shift to the state to prove that good cause is not present. I would think the state would have an interest, in the best interests of all the children potentially involved in this situation, to determine what occurred, and as to the integrity of the adoption," Sacharow said.

The experience has sown the seeds of doubt in Ryba's mind. He wrestles with dark suspicion about what happened back at St. Elizabeth's. "How do we not let our thoughts go that way when they're not willing to help us?" Ryba asks.

Angry, and worried about his first-born son's fate, Ryba consulted with a private investigator. He even tried to file missing person and kidnapping reports with the New Jersey attorney general's office. He said he was turned away.

As Ryba continues to search for answers, he recognizes that a lawsuit may be his only option. But so far, he has been unable to find an attorney willing to take his case. He also worries about the cost.

Still, he said, "I would like to know where my son is."

A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words



These pics may not seem to anyone else to be adoption-related.

But to me they are intricately woven together with adoption.

My entire life, experience, being, emotions, connections, and decisions are all intricately, life-long, and personally tied to adoption ~ my own.

When first hearing these devastating words back as a young, naive college-graduate, from my newly-found Grandmother Carolyn:

"But Norma didn't have a girl, she had a boy," followed by "I'm so sorry ~ she passed away."

 

I never realized how they would dramatically affect me, as my reunion unfolded over the next minutes, months and years.

Although inside I felt numb, overwhelming grief came gushing out as I found myself almost doubled-over in uncontrollable sobs. Part of me undoubtedly died with that phone call. My Mother had been searching for me too, when she died of breast cancer at the age of 32. None of the "adoption registries" worked because she wasn't "allowed" to see me and was told I was a boy.

 

It has taken years of working through disenfranchised grief, while trying to go about everyday life, work & marriage, pursuing connections with my reunited family and incorporating these in my own identity; while also helping my Mom (adoptive) overcome the same disease that took Norma's life ~ to finally accept that vulnerable part of me, and lovingly coax her out of fearful hiding. To trust God enough to teach me (my name means "teachable") how to risk living, even when it brings unspeakable fear of loss.

Think about it. For adoptees, to love means to lose. We lost ourselves as connected with our very mothers. Words can't express how thankful I am for God's mercy in holding me through this journey and the connections I have finally found. With myself and my entire family. I truly could not embrace myself or my family until He led me on this roller-coaster ride of a journey.

Most of all, I'm thankful for my son. My only blood-relative I have the privilege of enjoying natural family-life with. With all these delayed developmental tasks to accomplish, I regrettably waited in paralyzing fear to have a child, until my 14th year of marriage. I am thankful for hearing Alison Larkin (another adoptee) as she eloquently and emotionally described her own battle to motherhood; leaving that conference in tears, realizing I was surely not alone in this journey. Thank you, Jesus, that it is never too late for miracles.

I gave birth to Andrew three months early. Leaving him alone in that NICU every night was like yet another slow death for me, triggering grief of my own relinquishment, along with overwhelming mother-guilt, knowing instinctively how shattering this was to my baby.

*The hospital (interestingly enough, he was born in the same hospital as my own birth) has yet to release the medical records (in spite of countless requests from my OB) that may give vital answers as to why my mother had to give birth to me by c-section and could have aided my own doctors in making decisions during my prenatal care.

I would literally have to peel myself from bed each morning by devouring Words of hope from my Bible; somehow finding the strength to rush back his side, where I found the most peace. Holding him was like a healing balm for both of us. Still is.

His little 1.4 pound spirit fought valiantly through heart surgery and numerous blood transfusions. I'll never forget his first Valentine's day, turning one-month old and coming down with a severe staph infection; looking into those tiny, intense eyes and declaring "Live Andrew!" as the doctors and nurses hurriedly worked to help him breathe.

Then watching him endure weeks and weeks of strong antibiotics daily pumped into his tiny veins (he was the first baby at Hillcrest to receive Zyvox, a brand new antibiotic at that time; I often wish the doctors had not insisted on giving him this particular one since it wasn't even started until the day his blood culture finally came back clear). It produced a severe drug-induced jaundice which lasted far longer than what the infection caused alone. By the end of his hospitalization I was a complete wreck emotionally, so wanting to rescue him and run. The only sanity I got was from continually journaling and speaking healing scriptures at his beside, which brought hope.

"He forgives all our sins and heals ALL our diseases, He redeems our life from destruction and crowns us with loving kindness and tender mercies." Ps. 103

It is images like these that will be forever imprinted in my heart and mind. And the amazing, life-giving grace of God that brought us through and is still bringing us through.

What a difference a year makes! And learning to hold on through the darkest journeys of life, because joy truly does come in the morning.

At the Cross

He came to his own, but his own did not receive him.
He was despised and rejected; full of grief and familiar with suffering. Like one from whom people hide their faces, we didn't consider him to be worth anything.
But it was for us he was wounded and crushed; he took the pain by which we have peace, and by his wounds we are healed and made whole.
For we are all God's children (sperma/offspring), through faith in Christ Jesus.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He is the Lord who goes before you; He will be with you, and will not take away his help from you or give you up: He will never abandon you, so have no fear.
(John 1:11; Isaiah 53:3,5; Galatians 3:26; Deuteronomy 31:8)

Diary of WHAT?

© Photographer: Camptown | Agency: Dreamstime.com

Wow. I just watched an episode of WE t.v.'s reality show called "Adoption Diary's" tonight, (ironically, on right after "The Locator") and am sitting here trying to wrap my mind around exactly what it was we witnessed. It seems so obvious. "Open adoption" could be coined "open abduction" if this is how it's done.

I can safely say my family wasn't entertained by this suspense-thriller, fraught with fierce competition ("Dear Birthmother" aka 'give me your baby' profiles), hand-wringing nerves (will she change her mind?) and downright desperation as one woman exploited another out of her very flesh and blood.

A helpless human was legally transferred within hours of birth, right in a hospital room. Fresh meat, before his own mother had a chance to stop bleeding or God-forbid recover from delivery to bond with her baby.

Relinquishment papers pushed before her hurriedly, yet riding on the back of weeks spent "befriending" and "mentoring" this more than capable, pregnant mother. The obvious unspoken intent of this "relationship" to cement her feelings of obligation to "follow through with the plan", even while experiencing questioning grief.

Where is the ethical principle of "non-directive" counseling in adoption? No where. It is undoubtedly pounded into the breeders head (aka, one-sided "options counseling") that she is making the "unselfish choice" for her baby, the voiceless third-party in this contract, who certainly can't speak for himself.

And in exchange for trusting her own motherhood, she is lauded a "hero" with the power to "build a family" for those who "can't thank her enough." At least until the papers are signed, that is. As she tearfully walks away broken-hearted, empty-armed. Except for that trinket of appreciation and possibly the promise of a few token pictures. If she is lucky, maybe even a visit or two. At least until her child gets old enough to start asking those pesky, uncomfortable questions.

What a costly exchange. How many thousands is paid for this precious commodity, who she has been led to believe will be "better off" without her. A baby (human-being) with no rights. No voice. A forever-child in the eyes of the law. Birth certificate falsified (amended). Identity "sealed". Heart torn. Sold.

"Open adoption" is not protected by law and can become "closed" at any time. Mothers are exploited from beginning to end, with no separate legal representation or counseling - except through the very agencies whose business it is to procure babies for paying customers. Blatant, unethical conflict-of-interest abounds.

This emotion-laden drama of legalized child-trafficking and state-sanctioned identity theft unfolded right before our eyes. But I guess the sappy lullaby background music is supposed to make it right? Society at its best.

© Photographer: Htuller | Agency: Dreamstime.com

An elderly Chinese woman had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole which she carried across her neck.

One of the pots had a crack in it while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water.

At the end of the long walks from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

For a full two years this went on daily, with the woman bringing home only one and a half pots of water.

Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments.

But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it could only do half of what it had been made to do.

After two years of what it perceived to be bitter failure, it spoke to the woman one day by the stream.

'I am ashamed of myself, because this crack in my side causes
water to leak out all the way back to your house.'

The old woman smiled, 'Did you notice that there are flowers on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side?'

'That's because I have always known about your flaw, so I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back, you water them.'

'For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table.

Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house.'

Each of us has our own unique flaw. But it's the cracks and flaws we each have that make our lives together so very interesting and rewarding.

You've just got to take each person for what they are and look for the good in them.

SO, to all of my crackpot friends, have a great day and remember to smell the flowers on your side of the path!


© Photographer: Drbouz | Agency: Dreamstime.com

Get Rid of "Gotcha"

Get Rid of "Gotcha"
by Karen Moline

I could hear the whine coming closer and closer, until I could stand it no longer.

"Gotcha!" I said in triumph. Another mosquito swatted to oblivion.

"Gotcha" is my typical response when I've squashed a bug, caught a ball just before it would have rolled under the sofa, or managed to reach a roll of toilet paper on the top shelf at the store. It's a silly, slangy word.

As such, it's the last word I'd think to use if someone asked me to describe my feelings on the day, in a tiny orphanage off a dirt road outside of Da Nang, when I saw my child for the first time.

I find the use of "gotcha" to describe the act of adoption both astonishing and offensive. Aside from being parent-centered ("C'mere, little orphan, I gotcha now!") it smacks of acquiring a possession, not welcoming a new person into your life.

Yet many adoptive parents have elevated this casual word into shorthand for "The Day I Got You." This past year, one parent went further:

The word smacks of acquiring a possession, not welcoming a new person into your life.
Margaret Schwartz declared September 15, 2005, the first International Gotcha Day, a day to celebrate adoption.

This was bound to happen, as "gotcha" has become thoroughly entrenched in adoption-speak: There are "Journey to Gotcha" blogs, and "Happy Gotcha Day" cards, banners, keychains—even crowns—available for sale on the Internet. At last Google, there were 2,480,004 hits for "Gotcha Day." Curious, I clicked on "Noah's Gotcha Day."

Noah is a cat.

It didn't surprise me to find that adoptees have a slightly different feeling about all these gushing gotchas. Eight-year-old Becca Lampman, who was adopted from China, said, "It sounds weird to say that—call it ‘Adoption Day' instead." Her 17-year-old sister, Elena, adopted from Romania, agreed: "I wouldn't like hearing ‘Gotcha Day' used in my family. To me, it sounds like someone snatched you away from your birth family, or almost like you are a prize that was won...it has a gloating, ha-ha tone to it."

Adult adoptee Hanna Sofia Jung Johansson pointedly asked, "What is being celebrated [on Gotcha Day]? Parenthood and the new family, I guess. But do adoptive parents acknowledge their child's losses at the same time? ‘Gotcha' for parents means ‘lost-ya' for children who have been separated from familiar faces, smells, and surroundings."

Another adult adoptee, Eun Mi Young, is equally blunt. "While endearing to adoptive parents, ‘Gotcha' is downright disrespectful to adoptees," she says. "What does this term imply? We use it when we grab someone who is running from us, or when we save someone from something, or when we're playing a game. We shouldn't use it for an event that recalls the loss of culture, country, and birthparents."

I ran this concept past Margaret Schwartz, founder of International Gotcha Day, and she conceded that perhaps "Gotcha" wasn't the best word. "I wanted to raise awareness with the general public about the joys of adoption," she told me, "and I'm open to changing the name of the event."

Why not simply call it "Adoption Day" or "Family Day," or, if there are already kids at home, "Siblings Day"? Why commodify and demean adoptees—and ourselves—by using a silly, slangy term to describe the day we became families?

Save "gotcha" for mosquitoes.

KAREN MOLINE is a novelist, journalist, and ghostwriter. She lives in New York City with her son, Emmanuel Thanh Sang, adopted from Da Nang, Viet Nam, in August 2001.

They are both my heroes.
Both overcame a brave fight against breast cancer.

One I am blessed to still have.


The other I will be blessed to meet in Heaven.
I always knew I was adopted. The minute after college graduation, my heart led me on a search. Unfortunately, she passed away while searching for me, to give me this crucial medical information and to tell me she always loved me.


"Sealed records" law prevented our reunion. I can't wait for the day all states join the six that have restored the rights of adult adoptees to obtain their original birth certificates.

Until then, I will continue to thank God I found my family and for both my Mothers. My Pink Ribbon Heroes.

Concerns Arise

© Photographer: Kiryay | Agency: Dreamstime.com
Concerns arise over children adopted during Lejeune water contamination

October 18, 2009
HOPE HODGE

More than 7,500 former military and family members believe their health
problems can be traced to exposure to contaminated drinking water aboard
Camp Lejeune from the 1950s through the 1980s.

But Roberta MacDonald believes there could be thousands more who may never
know they were exposed. MacDonald, the chairwoman for the North Carolina
Coalition for Adoption Reform, has worked for years to overturn the state’s
closed adoption policies, which stipulate that birth parents are granted
full anonymity — and that birth and medical records are sealed to children
once they are adopted, even as they reach adulthood.

Children who were conceived, carried or born on base before the 1990s and
then relinquished for adoption might never know they had been there. Until
recently, birth certificates of adoptees were altered to reflect the
residences of adoptive parents, rather than the true location of a child’s
birth. The original birth certificates of those adopted in North Carolina
are sealed forever.

Diane McCarty is, therefore, worried about the health of the son she placed
for adoption. McCarty, a former Marine, was stationed on base for parts of
1967 and 1968 and spent the first trimester of her pregnancy there. At the
time, pregnant women were discharged from the Corps; so McCarty moved off
base following the first trimester, returning to Jacksonville only briefly
to give birth. Her baby, a boy, was born March 3, 1969, at Onslow Memorial
Hospital.

McCarty, who now lives in Colorado Springs, lost touch with many
Jacksonville contacts in the decades that passed. She had other children,
but she decided she also wanted to find her biological son and pass family
medical information on to him. In the course of that search, she met
MacDonald, who was the first to give her information about the suspected
link between bad water on base and a number of diseases.

“I started reading about it and, of course, became a little alarmed about
it,” McCarty said.

She registered her information with a number of agencies and began to look
for local records that might give her further information. But her search
was short-lived. Neither Onslow County nor the state had records of her
son’s birth.

“Apparently, when a baby is born and adopted it is recorded and then crossed
out,” she said.

MacDonald calls the North Carolina adoption system a “good old boy network,”
structured during a time when adoption was stigmatized to protect adoptive
parents. But instead, she said, the laws enmesh adopted children in a
lifelong net of red tape that prevents them from learning their history and
may even harm their health.

“Health problems don’t just affect the adoptee, they affect the generations
thereafter,” MacDonald, herself an adoptee, said. “I feel very strongly
these adoptees really need to know that they were born in Jacksonville. They
need to know there’s a possibility their birth parents were stationed at
Camp Lejeune, and they should be able to get their records open to find out
what their medical history is.”

According to officials at the Onslow County Department of Social Services,
current statutes allows adoptees over the age of 21 to request birth and
family information through a “confidential intermediary” if the agency that
handled his or her adoption is willing to participate.

Adoptees with proven medical issues can also petition in court for certain
records to be opened. MacDonald said she knows of adoptees who have
petitioned and been denied.

It’s difficult to know how many children were adopted in Onslow County
during the time of the contamination, and virtually impossible to discover
how many of those might have been on Camp Lejeune after birth or during
gestation.

MacDonald has spent hours combing through original county records to get an
approximate count and said the science is less than exact.

“You go into that birth index and you go through it page by page, and you
look for blacked-out names, exed-out names, whited-out names. Those are
adoptees,” she said.

In the Onslow County birth records from 1966 to 1979, and from 1980 to 1987,
she found more than 2,000 children placed for adoption.

Since McCarty’s adoption was privately contracted, she thinks she may never
be able to find her son and give him the vital information about where he
was carried and born. But she plans to write letters to local newspapers and
post on blogs related to the water contamination in the hope that he will
happen to find her.

But for others with similar stories, she hopes that raising awareness may
help to make the process a little easier. She also encourages adoptees to
search for information about their birth parents, to find out if they had
contact with Camp Lejeune and its contaminated water.

“I have no idea how many women Marines were affected, but there has to be
some other than myself,” she said. “These children need to know.”

Visit the Camp Lejeune Contaminated Water Resource
Center
http://www.jdnews.com/sections/lejeune-water/ to
learn more about the Lejeune Water Contamination.

Carried to the Table

"I have upheld you from birth, and have carried you since you came out of your mother's womb", says the Lord. "And I will carry you even to your old age when your hair is white with age. For it is I who made you and will carry you and deliver you, my child." (Isaiah 46:3-4)

A Life or Death Search

A life or death search for her family ties
4/10/2009
By Diane Carlton
The Monmouth Journal

ATLANTIC HIGHLANDS — Carol Barbieri, a resident here, and her twin
sister, Kathi, were told they were adopted around the third grade by
their parents. Not having much interest in finding her birth parents,
Barbieri said, “There was a part of me, as some adoptees will tell
you, that had a chip on my shoulder — ‘Well, she left me. Why should I
look for her?”

That is until 1991, when Barbieri’s then 14-year-old son, Jonathan,
now 31, was diagnosed with Wolff-Parkinson- White Syndrome — a cardiac
condition that causes the disruption of the heart’s normal rhythm.
During one of Jonathon’s episodes, he presented with an excessive
heart rate of 320 beats per minute.

When the cardiologist asked the Barbieris if there was a history of
the illness or sudden death on either side of the family, she
recognized that obtaining her husband’s medical history was as simple
as making a phone call to his mother. But, being adopted, Barbieri had
no way of knowing — or any easy means of finding out — about the
health history of her biological family.

Whether or not Wolff-Parkinson- White Syndrome was hereditary decided
Jonathan’s course of treatment and, ultimately, a life or death
scenario for the young boy. Essentially, sporadic — or non-inherited
cases — cases showed a higher risk for sudden death at the time and
the Barbieris were hoping for heredity.

The owner of two pure-bread Yorkies, Barbieri said, “I could more
easily find my dogs’ medical history than my son’s.”

The singer, songwriter, and performer, now 53, has spent nearly 20
years becoming an adoptee advocate for access to original birth
certificates in the state of New Jersey, something the state has
denied since 1940.

On Wednesday, April 1, Barbieri held a presentation at Borough Hall,
here, to tell the story of her race-against- time quest to locate her
birth family, inform other adoptees how they can help petition state
legislators and present her new song entitled, “Your Secret’s Safe
with Me” — a heartfelt piece that she considers her legacy.

Because the current law concerning adoption records in the state of
New Jersey was passed nearly 70 years ago and continues to reflect
social attitudes at that time regarding illegitimacy, shame and
secrecy, Barbieri’s search was daunting one.

She was told by doctors that Wolff-Parkinson- White Syndrome “skips
around in families” and that, if her son had it, it was very likely
that a sibling of hers would have it too. She knew that at least one
of her siblings, her twin sister, and her children did not have the
syndrome.

If the syndrome did not run in the family, Barbieri was told that
Jonathan would run an elevated risk of sudden death and that
corrective surgery should be performed right away.

The odds for survival, at the time, were 50 percent and it was advised
that the family wait as long as possible to allow for advancements in
treatment and procedure of the rare disease.

With the support of Jonathan, as well as son additional son
Christopher — then age 10, and supportive husband, Joe, 58, on the
home front, Barbieri set forth to question her adoptive relatives,
petition bureaus of records and vital statistics, and explore library
microfilms searching for any hint of her past.
The secrecy and privacy issues of the existing law forced Barbieri to
commit slightly dishonest transgressions which included lying,
cheating, stealing and assuming different identities. She did not care
if she got caught, Barbieri was strictly consumed with the process of
keeping her son alive.
“I was a victim of a system that was set up to protect everyone in the
adoption triangle except me,” she said. “And that system was now
making my son a victim too.”
After learning her mother’s maiden and married names on various
documents, Barbieri could still not locate the whereabouts of her
mother or ascertain if she was even still alive.

“When Social Security doesn’t know what happened to you, you pretty
much fell through the cracks or are living in Australia,” she said
with a laugh.
But the undisclosed tales Barbieri uncovered were no laughing matter.

She was abandoned as an infant and separated from her twin sister for
nearly the first year of her life, and that was not the only secret
Barbieri discovered during her search. She found out the hard way that
she is one of seven “confirmed” siblings from three different fathers
and, that in addition there was potentially, another set of twin
siblings.

Learning about her birth mother through accounts that included arrest
records, police reports, mug shots and newspaper clippings detailing
child neglect, Barbieri learned about her mother’s affliction with
alcoholism and was told by her mother’s friend — found on a marriage
certificate, still residing at the same named address — that her
mother had committed suicide 12 years prior to Barbieri’s search.
“I felt like my heart dropped to my feet … it was stunning,” she said.
“At this point I had gotten to know her through her paper trail. I
wanted to meet her, but the chip was gone.”

Judy Foster has helped Barbieri’s mission through NJCARE — a
grassroots organization that supports honesty in adoption through
educational outreach and legislative advocacy. Foster is the state
representative to the American Adoptive Congress (AAC) and is a birth
mother who remained silent for 37 years, fighting diligently for
adoptees to be able to gain access to their original, not amended,
birth certificates.

“I am an advocate because I believe this is a civil rights issue,” she
said. “Adoptees deserve the rights to their heritage and updated
medical information.”

After three successful heart surgeries, Jonathon Barbieri is now
healthy and living in Lyndhurst. He received his most successful
surgery two years after his mother’s search began when the procedure
was better studied than it had been at the condition’s onset.

Ironically, Wolff-Parkinson- White Syndrome research now shows the
reverse findings are true: heredity cases have a higher risk for
sudden death.
After her son’s ordeal, Barbieri learned a second cousin died suddenly
of a heart condition the doctors believe was Wolff-Parkinson- White
Syndrome. About the advocacy towards amending the New Jersey state
law, Barbieri said, “Many people believe that it’s just birth families
being able to help adoptees — it’s not. Adoptees and their children
have the ability to help birth families too. It’s a two-way street.”

In addition to writing her catharsis in song, Barbieri is in the
process of telling her long and arduous truth in a book currently
titled, “Adopted and Clueless” and will be giving her presentation on
April 26 at the 30th Annual National Adoption Conference in Cleveland,
Ohio.

Petitioning the state legislature each month by telling her story in
Trenton, Barbieri hopes her presentations will move other adoptees to
assist in getting Bill A752 passed in the Assembly.

Acknowledging the rights of both adoptive and birth parents, Barbieri
questions the rights of adoptees and said, “We were too young to voice
our opinions and desires at the time of our surrender, so our
decisions were made for us. The passing of this bill would give rights
not only to adoptees, but to their children, also.”

For more information about Bill A752 or to find out how you can
petition the state legislature, visit www.nj-care.org.

Here's to FB...

I am following my birth father on Facebook
I have never met my birth father, but now I am following his every move on Facebook

The Guardian, Thursday 30 July 2009
Photograph: Sam Frost

Thanks to Facebook, I have turned into an online stalker.

My mum's on Facebook. She constantly leaves messages for me on the social networking site, reminding me to put my bins out, or water my houseplants – even though I'm 27 and have lived away from home, unscathed, for 10 years. She also does it to my little sister, who suffers a constant stream of web-nagging.

My dad's on Facebook too, but he doesn't leave me messages. I can't see his profile, just a blurry photo and the stern injunction: "You must be friends with this person to see his full profile." This is because we are not friends – either online or in real life. We have never even met.

My father was gone from my mother's life before I was old enough to be aware of his existence and, as far as I know, has never attempted to get in touch with me or offer any support in my upbringing. This isn't particularly unusual, certainly in my generation. I consider my mum's long-term partner, who came into my life when I was 13, to be my father in every practical sense of the word. Although I was an angry teenager I have never felt particularly anguished about my biological father's lack of interest. If divorced-child trauma were measured by a scale, like earthquakes, mine would barely register – just a tremor really. I've got lots of family on my mum's side – plenty for anyone.

But a few months ago, as I logged on to Facebook, my eye was caught by a familiar surname in the "People You Might Know" application. This little box points out to the user people with whom you have friends in common. It was my father's surname that I glimpsed, which is reasonably unusual, and the first name Lee-Anne. The thumbnail-sized image was not of a person but a grainy black-and-white pattern. Without even thinking I clicked on her name, and because Lee-Anne left her profile public, so anyone can see it, I was taken straight to her page.

My eyes slid down the page. She's younger than me. She lives in the same town. She's pregnant. And in the space of two or three minutes I realised that she is my half-sister.

Facebook has another helpful feature – an add-on application that lets people display a family tree on their profile page. She had filled in her father's name. It's the same name as my biological father. There was another thumbnail picture, which I couldn't really make out because it was tiny. There were more photos, one captioned "Dad", which I clicked to enlarge. I was breathing shallowly.

I have my mum's hair, her mannerisms and her ways of speaking. We look a lot alike. Everyone says so. But here was a man with the same eyes, eyebrows, cheeks, even ears, as mine. This was my father, the man I had never known, and there he was staring back at me. The shock of it hit me suddenly, and I felt tears running down my cheeks as I read the comments he had left on Lee-Anne's wall – how excited he was about his impending first grandchild, how he hoped to make it back to Wales to see her very soon. I was so overcome that I switched off the computer and retreated to bed, where I lay awake with my mind in overdrive.

Two months later, I have turned into an online stalker. That first accidental glimpse has turned into a low-level obsession. I check Lee-Anne's Facebook page every day, reading her complaints about the discomforts of late pregnancy. I have followed a link to a video blog that my father updates regularly with clips of himself doing karaoke and telling jokes. I now know where he lives, works and drinks, all information I never had before and all just from looking at web pages. I haven't got in touch, but I can't seem to do the sensible thing and consign the web bookmarks to the recycle bin.

I am fascinated by these people even though I know that what I'm doing is borderline odd. I don't want to meet a man who is only biologically my father, but I can't stop watching him either. I like the fact that I know more about him than he knows about me. I can satisfy my curiosity, without the fear that he will reject me. Nothing has actually changed in my life – and yet everything is different somehow.

And this week, Lee-Anne had her baby. I'm an auntie. She has already uploaded hundreds of photos to her Facebook page and I have been sitting at my computer, watching this brand-new person's life unfold over the first few days, feeling an odd combination of excitement and horror. I hope Lee-Anne's boyfriend will stick around to raise this child. Out of sight, out of mind is not an option for absent fathers anymore, at least not for mine. I am watching him now, and I can't seem to stop.

What's In A Name?

Growing up, I hated my name. It was a little on the unusual side, and the last thing I wanted was to "stick out". I just wanted to be like everyone else. But I wasn't, 'cause I was adopted.

It wasn't until I became an adult and found my first family, and then grieved losing my first family, my first identity, my first life, that I finally came to embrace my name and actually learn to like it. And, although I grew up a smiling, "loyal" daughter (my "Best Mom in the World" cards were quite prolific), I truly wasn't able to embrace my family until I searched, and grieved being adopted.

I remember the first time I saw my original birth certificate. I was a young, 20-something "in the fog" adoptee, (early 90's) sitting alone on a big concrete bench in a cold Bureau of Vital Stats office. As I opened it up, it felt like I was moving in slow motion. After all the hoops I had to jump through, it was finally in my hand, and I almost felt like a criminal holding my own record of birth. Like reading a stranger's birth certificate, literally. Who was "Baby Girl Lowe" anyway? Me? Oh my gosh. The first thought that hit me was that I was somehow related to Rob Lowe. Double oh my gosh. lol

It turns out that (no, not related to Rob Lowe) Lowe was my first mother's step-father's name, whose she had taken when her mother re-married. My maternal grandfather's last name was really Terrell, and grandmother's maiden name was Price. It took many years for me to actually FEEL a part of these names. But thank God it happened. I have a precious genealogy book made by the Price family that goes back to the 1600's! It is truly amazing to see the lineage I come from. More than words can describe. I'm human.

As a little girl I loved to play school. I would have my little grade books and named all my students, keeping excellent records of assignments, grades, and lessons. One of the students in my pretend class would always have the last name of McGee. I had no idea why I felt so drawn to that name, but I did. As I've researched my family names now, I ran across my great-great-great (not sure exactly how many greats, but close) grandmother whose name was Pleasants McGee. Is that not a wonderful name, or what! She had 10 children. For some reason I just feel close to her, and I've never met her or any of her family that I know of. Except me. Shivers.

I've heard wonderful stories (from both sides of my first family) of my Great- Grandparents. I have pictures. An old black & white photo of Susan Terrell when she was just 16, and whose jaw-line I share. Her son, Buster, was my first mother's father who died before our reunion. He worked as a chef for many years at our hometown country club. How I wish I could have sampled his gourmet creations. I learned about the Terrell side of my heritage mostly from my Great Uncle Eddie, who was a retired Post Master, and such a sweet man.

Thank God for him, and my first Mother's siblings and their families, Ron, Patty, and Rick, who were the best Aunt and Uncles I could have ever found.

I truly feel part of them. Uncle Ron lived in San Francisco when we were first reunited, but his beautifully penned letters welcomed me into the family so warmly, and articulately described my first Mother and her personality, love, and passion. It was from those letters I was able to "know" her and her life, and realize just how much of myself I was finding. I'll never forget the difficulty with which I devoured them; having to set them aside periodically, simply because of the emotion and revelation they brought. Even so, I still feel a profound reaching and longing inside, because she is not here.

Even better than pictures & stories, I got to embrace my Great-Grandmother Grace, before she passed away. What a beautiful, sweet lady. A treasure and heritage that I will never take for granted; it is so rare for an adoptee to have this many years of reunion. I am in awe.

My husband and I spent one memorable New Year's Eve ballroom dancing with my grandmother Carolyn (Price). Her mother was Victoria Smalley. A "praying woman" of whom I am so thankful.

And then there are my grandparents on my first father's side, Papa Sid (from whom I got my Jewish heritage) & Grandma Mary. They passed away just a few years ago. I will never forget my grandmother Mary's reaction when I told her I was having a baby. She threw her head back in a huge smile and shouted "Finally!" The last time I saw her, her health had deteriorated quickly but she had pictures of her newest great-grandson on her wall, whom she never got to see in person. She passed away just a few weeks before I got to bring him home from the NICU. Tears.

That same year I had to bury my adoptive grandmother, Evelyn (Nanny), who helped raise me and from whom I got my middle name. She only got to see my son one time.

My adoptive family comes from a long line of "Shepards" (family name). When going through this journey of search and discovery, God seemed to be reminding me that He has always been my Shepard, my Comforter. He restores my soul.

What a sad summer that was. But full of hope and joy, also, with becoming a new Mother to my miracle preemie. It all seems like a blur now, those first anxious months in the hospital. And the relationships and mourning I had to put on hold in order for me and my son to survive. Just now revisiting that fateful year and these bitter-sweet memories.

As I get older names are so much sweeter to me. All these precious names. Family names. We named our son Andrew Bryan. Andrew is my sweet brother's middle name (one I am reunited with) and after my wonderful husband, Brian.

So many connections and reconnections I am thankful for. These pictures are some of the many beautiful cousins in my life. Some I grew up with and am still close to, and others I didn't meet until adulthood, but have become so very special to me.

My adoptive Great-Uncle Olan walked me part-way down the aisle at my wedding, almost 20 years ago. To me, it represented my childhood, and how special those relationships with my adoptive family are. Then my first father walked me the second-half, to the altar. We were recently reunited, and I'm so thankful I was on his arm that special day; representing my new-found identity and treasured connections lost and found. We are so much alike in our mannerisms, looks, stature, and personality. Amazing. Thank you, Dad, for being in my wedding. It means more to me than you could ever know.

Uncle Olan was a barber here in my home-town. As a child I would spend time in the Anchor Barber Shop on Harvard Ave., not knowing his fellow barber friend who owned a shop around the corner on Peoria Ave., was actually my birth great-grandfather, Ernie Terrell. Not until I became an adult and reunited with my entire first family did any of us know.

My china cabinet graces my First Mother's beautiful china with tiny, delicate purple violets, right along side my adoptive Mother's heirloom china, and some beautiful dishes from Grandma Mary and my adoptive Aunts Kay & Hazel, who were so special to me growing up.

These beloved heirlooms, from both my families through adoption and birth, all mingled together in my home and heart, represent the blend of bitter-sweet heritage which is "me."

Names who mean so much, some close in childhood, some in adulthood, and some I grieve not ever knowing. My own family. My own name(s).

I'm not related to Dr. Seuss (that I know of), but even his name holds a special place in my heart. A few years ago I took an art journaling class and the assignment was to read his book, "Oh, the Places You'll Go" and write a new version of the poem about your own life journey. Then draw a picture to match. I had never connected to my artsy side before, or the deep emotions over my relinquishment, adoption, and reunion. It was truly amazing to experience myself delve into hours and hours (that seemed like minutes) as I let these locked up words and emotions flow onto the paper in colors I didn't understand. It was so true that creativity does help you "tap" into emotions and experiences that are more easily avoided or stuffed. What came out was a picture of many eyes, all blue, like mine. They represented the family, ancestors and identity that surround me all around, yet I was separated from for so long. And the poem went like this:

"Oh, The Places You’ll Go...A Journey Through the Eyes of An Adoptee"

You’ll wake up one day

And find yourself floating on rivers of golden tears...

In deep scars of black and purple, too,

Streaming from your hidden view

Amidst eyes of blue.

Encircling your heart is crimson red,

Blood of the fathers you never knew

Heart enshrined...

Finally you’ll find the "real" you

Safely hidden in the prison of blue,

Your only chance now is to ride the hues

Grief unlocks the colors of life...

You’ll find your "purple" deep inside,

After the ride.

So, close your eyes and feel the depth;

You’ll find you’re not alone...

Surrounded by the throng ~ the unseen tears...

Hold on.

I must visit the eyes of my forefathers...the pain of my unknown

Connect with the blood with whom I found life;

Love through the tears of my own.

by Peach

After the Honeymoon

                                   © Photographer: Linqong | Agency: Dreamstime.com

 

"What's in a name?

That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet..."
Shakespeare

 

When I first started blogging back in '07, I made sure to use an email addy and name that would not show up on a search engine connected with my real name.

I was still worried about pleasing people and fearful of offending people.
I needed "approval", and sadly, I guess, still do.

As I've written out my feelings honestly, I've grown, and realized something.

To the people who care, it won't matter.

 

Somehow I think this blog now comes up in a search engine when my name is googled. I've tried to get it to disappear, but short of deleting the whole blog site, I don't know how to change it.

 

I've finally come to the point of not caring who reads this.

Yet caring immensely.

I have tried so hard to be positive about my entire "reunion" experience. Because it meant so much to me.

 

Unfortunately, I missed the whole "honeymoon" part; completely "numbed out and smiling", trying to be whatever everyone wanted me to be.

I missed those crucial years when my first family wanted to get to know me.

I couldn't open up enough to be real, or to really get to know them, either.

I just attended family functions and tried so hard to soak it all in.

I was slowly waking up to the real me, that could only be completed with truth of my origins and family connections. 

Finally having the courage to walk through the grief in my heart (I tear up just thinking about how dark those feelings are), I came out as a real person.

On my paternal side, my first grandparents really worked at including and knowing me. 

 

After my son was born my first father and I grew a lot closer.

 We spent more time together, and my son grew to love his "Papa" very much. It warmed my heart more than words can describe to see this, and feel it.

 

After 20 plus years, I have had the blessing of gaining insight into the family dynamics that are behind many of these issues. 

The truth really does set you free, but sometimes hurts.
 

After the "Welcome" parties 20 years ago, and the newness wears off,
 it seems as if the hypothesis of adoption holds true

When adoptees face our realness, our pain, our dual identities,
it scares people off.

 

We get the "deer in the headlights" look from people if we dare mention we are adopted, or searching, or God-forbid, would like to own our own birth records.

 

 Because of the secrecy and myth of "confidentiality" and "sealed records", all of society sees adoption as a secret, a hush-hush way of supplying "want to be parents" who can pay, with paper "orphans" (illegitimates) whose slates are wiped clean with "amended" names.

Reunions are set to fail, because everyone feels shame.

 

Adoptees, for wanting to search.

Birth families realizing they lost their own flesh and blood.
It causes shame just to look into our eyes, hear our voices, see our smiles, and realize they mask pain, like their own.

 

It is easier to block it out. Pretend we still don't exist,

just like the business of adoption promotes.

"Get on with our lives".

We were born in a difficult time,

and asked to fulfill another role and identity to be accepted within society.

 

If we try to "go back" and capture who we are; lost connections, it is a risk.

It hurts to our core. After the honeymoon.

I drove around last night with my cell phone in hand.

It was the first day in several that I felt well enough to leave the house, after fighting through the flu. It's hard to explain, but I had a "new lease" on life somehow, after being so sick and feel better again.

 

Tears were running down my face because I just wanted to talk. 
To family. 

Maybe I just needed this 20 year journey to realize who I am.

I've had the laughter and the shared times that somewhat healed my relinquished heart and taught me who I was in my family.

On both sides. Mother & Father.

That is so much more than most adoptees can fathom.

For that I am so thankful.

 

When I look in the mirror, I can see both my grandmothers. Easily.

Even my great-grandmother. I can hear their voices in mine.

I can feel my First mother's passion as I write.

I can even understand my own ambivalent ways and accept myself and my first  father because I see how much we are alike. It brings comfort.

But it also brings sadness. Because I miss him.

I miss my aunt and uncles and cousins.

I miss my sweet-faced brothers and their funny wit.

I miss my grandparents and the huge family gatherings I took for granted the first years of my reunion.

Those times sitting around their kitchen table filled with family and stories and missing pieces.

 

I didn't think I belonged there for the longest time. But as I look back, I belonged from day one. They tried so hard to show me that.

But I didn't know who I was, so I couldn't understand or feel the primal identity or connection with those of my own.

A rose belongs on the vine. Even though crushed, it's still a rose.

 

Thank you, God, for my reunion.

Like a flower opening ever so slowly, I can finally recognize my own scent.

As I sit here I can smell the clean scent of light rain falling outside my window, and hear distant rolling thunder as it passes over.

Lord, thank you for your cleansing mercy, making everything new.

Even crushed flowers can bloom again.

Thank you for the voice of my son calling me to come play.

For my faithful husband who loves me. For giving us this life and this journey, and helping me grow. Even in the midst of loss and loneliness, help me not to miss or take for granted the friendships and love all around me.

Help me to open my heart. Even when it hurts. So that I can feel to the full. Your Love.

*post script ~ Writing this post was cathartic, even though difficult. 

 I found myself reaching out again this evening. 

 My aunt, my (first) mother's sister, whom I grew closest to in the early part of my reunion, was home tonight. 

 

 We had a wonderfully familiar "catch up" conversation, reminding me of the warm feeling of family (again). Also spoke with my Mom (adoptive) who is sounding more and more like her self, optimistic and finally "at home" in her new senior housing. What a relief, after many months of struggle for her health. I'm so overwhelmed by God's mercy and grace. He's helping me learn to trust. And for that I'm most grateful.