Ripples

The world may not change if you adopt a child, but for that child, their world will change. ~unknown

For the past seven to eight years, my siblings and I have enjoyed a family tradition that we call FaceBlasting on Facebook for birthdays. Sometimes we upload new and embarrassing photos from years past. Sometimes that means we "like" every picture they have ever posted, which brings old photos and posts to the forefront, and all our collective friends join in and add to the blasting. This tradition has become one of my favorite Leaphart rituals. I would feel slighted now if I didn't get this massive Facebook attention each year on my birthday. Some years it is all fun and games. And other years, the sentiments are profound and heartfelt. A few years ago, one of my sisters posted the above quote and wrote that there are many such quotes about how an adopted child's life is changed. But little is said about the lives the adopted child touches and changes. In her own words,

"And I'm sure Caroline's world was changed as the quote says. What you never see are quotes about how the adopted child impacts their family. Caroline changed my world. I can't imagine a life without her and how I would have made it through childhood alive and in one piece. She is my sister, friend, cohort, defender, silliness buddy and everything in between. She was a gift to our family and filled a hole that was missing and made us complete."

 A year or two later, my other sister posted this on my birthday,

"… my siblings are one of my greatest blessings - especially Caroline! If you don't know, Caroline was adopted but I honestly can't even remember when I "found out" that's how she became a part of our family. She just always was MY SISTER, always deeply loved and always a part of the Leaphart family DNA. I celebrate her today because I love her so much - she is hilarious and infinitely creative (if you haven't seen her dog's TikTok you are really missing out!), she is a beautiful writer, she loves with her whole heart, she works hard to bring health and joy to her residents at work and she cares so deeply for each of us "Leaphart siblings." Caroline, I am so lucky to be loved so deeply by you. I love you more than you can know and I'm so glad you have become a part of who I am!"

And from my brother this year,

"Fifty-four years ago I got a baby sister. It was a little different process than normal in that I got to help pick her out. She's always been special and I love her so very much. I am also proud of all the great things she has done personally and professionally. Love you Luce!!"

All families have tough times, ups and downs, and life with an adopted child is no different, except maybe there are a few more ups and downs. Or maybe there will be more smiles and laughter.

I love watching the movie It's a Wonderful Life at Christmas. A story about a man, George Bailey, who gave up his dreams to help others, and for most of the movie, he considers what life would be like if he had never been born.

And after my sister wrote her words to me on my birthday those years ago, I tried to imagine what my family would look like if I hadn't been there. Would life have been easier? Harder? Would there have been as much mirth and silliness? Their lives would have been different. But thankfully, I was there, and while life wasn't always easy, there were many adventures and Leaphart shortcuts along the way.

Each of us is like a pebble tossed onto a pond, creating ripples that go on and on. I found my birthmother in the late 1990s. That reunion filled a hole in my heart that I didn't know was there, and that story is for another time. I wished she had kept me for many years, but that wasn't part of my life plan. My life would have been different, maybe not better or worse, but different. But, most notably not part of the plan.

From my half-sister, who I consider a whole-sister and with whom I have developed a loving and meaningful relationship,

"I know you love me. I know you love my children and I know you want what a sibling wants, for her sister to be happy. I love you for so many reasons. Thank you for being there. I love you."

I am forever grateful that He placed me in the Leaphart family, not only for myself but for my treasured siblings and our parents. Although we haven't always been close, you know, those ups and downs I mentioned earlier, I can't imagine growing up without them. I may have filled a hole in their lives, but they became my life, my whole world. After I connected with my birth mom, I was conflicted – who was I now? It took a little processing, but I realized that while I will always be a Leaphart, I'm also part of my birth mother's family. You've heard of blended families; I'm a blended person. I'm a product of the love and environment I was raised in, and the love and DNA I was born with. If my birth mom hadn't chosen adoption, I might not have the relationship I treasure with her and my sister. Truthfully, I might not have a lot of things. But adoption was part of my plan.

I've not only accepted that fact, but I also revel in the words of Jeremiah 29:11: "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you." He set my plan in motion, as He does for everyone, but maybe adoption has helped me realize the truth of these words more easily.

Whether we realize it or not, we leave an imprint on the lives and relationships we encounter. Our pebbles continue creating ripples as our lives touch and impact others. 

What is Adoption?

"Does anyone know what adoption means?" my Sunday school teacher asked. Being adopted myself, I was pretty sure I knew what it meant, but I wasn't talking. I don't remember how old I was when this happened, but based on the classroom in the church I think we were in Kansas, so I would have been in third grade. Or close enough if I've got the wrong church in mind. With so many moves from the Army, it is easy to get them kind of confused in my head.

Anyway, I wasn't about to give an answer because I didn't want to draw attention to myself. None of the other kids answered, so the teacher answered herself. Turns out the word adoption means you can inherit from the parents. Well, that didn't sound quite right at all to me, so after church I asked my mom what she thought. She didn't agree either. And now, years later, I suspect she had a talk with that teacher. But I also recognize the teacher was trying to make the point that as God's adopted children, we can inherit all the good things He has for those He loves.

My parents have died, and yes, there was an inheritance, but being adopted means so much more than being able to inherit. From the dictionary, the word means to legally take (another's child) and bring it up as one's own." Simple words to describe a complex concept. There are three sides to understanding adoption. The child, the birth parents, and the adoptive parents. Adopting.com has a great article about this but allow me to paraphrase here based on my situation.  

From my perspective (the child), adoption was a loss in order to gain. I suffered a profound loss before I was ever adopted. I lost the one person I knew in the world, and at five weeks old was given to strangers for the rest of my life. My heritage and genetic makeup were the only things I took into this relationship. But for years, they would only surface sometimes at the doctor's office. So while adoption is almost always for the child's good, it took much time for me to sort out this realization. Over time, I saw my adoption as an act of love – from my birth mother, who gave me the gift of a better life, and from my parents, who chose to love me, one not of their flesh, as their own. They loved me as their own, and I love them as my own.

For my birth mother, adoption was a heart-wrenching decision, even though she knew it was the best and right thing. Until we reunited, she lived with loss and grief for years. However, she never stopped thinking about me or loving me. Her love for me drove her decision to consider adoption.

My (adopted) parents took me by choice into relationship (Webster's dictionary). By the way, I dislike the term adopted parents. My parents are my parents. They may not have brought me into this world, but they loved me into life and cared for me as their own. My parents had one child but wanted more and didn't think they were able to conceive again. So, as generous as they both were, adoption was a natural fit for them. They had lots of love to give and loved me from the moment they saw me. Mom said that when she held me in her arms for the first time, she knew I would belong to her forever.

I recently read a story about a man who has four children, and he forgets which two were adopted. This sentiment mirrors my life. My parents never treated me any differently than my siblings. I was disciplined the same, cherished the same, had the same amount of time and money spent on me, and was loved the same. Well, maybe they loved me just a little bit more sometimes, but I suspect we all felt that way in my family. What a blessing that is – to feel you are the favorite child. My father wrote letters to all of us during our lives. I treasure the letters he wrote me; I have one where he said I was the answer to all his prayers. My dad had the innate ability to make everyone he connected with feel unique and worthy. My heavenly Father is the same. We are all His favorites. He whispers this truth in our ears, and if we dare to believe, it will change everything.  

What does adoption mean to you? If you aren't adopted, have a relationship with anyone who is adopted, or put a child up for adoption, you may not have given it any thought.

I see earthly adoption as a tangible picture of God's love. It's a selfless gift of love that doesn't always receive recognition. And the act of adoption from my adoptive parents and my birth mother is courageous kindness, a term I have come to know recently. My parent's love and generosity brought me into a life I never could have imagined. My birth mother's act of intentional kindness changed my life. She did what she thought was best for her and me, and it was the right decision. And I thank her for being brave enough to allow my parents to take me into their home and into their hearts.

Odd Girl Out

For most of my growing-up years, I felt like I was on the outside looking in, the odd man out, so to speak. For instance, I noticed when I was the only one in a chair while others lounged on a couch. Or maybe others were on the floor, and I was on the sofa. If I was on the right, the others were on the left. And so on. Ridiculous, I know. It makes me sound very over-sensitive, and I guess I was, on the inside. And I certainly wasn't one of the cool kids. I think I was often invisible, which is worse than being overlooked. My dad being in the Army, we moved a lot and changed schools. When I think about all that moving now, I realize it helped me learn to adapt and be flexible. But it didn't feel like that at the time. Sometimes it seemed like we were constantly the new kids. Most of my feeling left out was in my head and my heart. It wasn't accurate, but I perceived it to be real. And that made it so. We are what we think (paraphrased Proverbs 23:7). 

I never felt like I didn't belong with my family, but there were noticeable differences. I had a nose that was small and turned up ever so slightly on the end. My siblings had long noses that were either straight like my dad's or hooked under like my mom's. So whose nose did I have? Did I look like anyone? There weren't just physical differences between my sisters, brother, and me. My sibling's college studies were analytical (math and political science), and I studied recreation therapy. I was not like them, not in looks or interests. I loved them, and they loved me, but there were more differences than similarities. Most of the time, we didn't see the differences. At least, I'm pretty sure they didn't. Sometimes we even forgot I was adopted, like when my mother took me to the doctor when I had allergy problems. Mom said, "well, I guess she got those from me; I have lots of hay fever." And the doctor said, "Pat, wasn't Caroline adopted?" But when I did notice the ways I was different, they were magnified in my mind times one hundred.

My mother was musical - she sang and could play the piano. And she wanted all her children to be musical too. My brother sang and played the guitar. My sisters both sang and played the piano and the flute. And my youngest sister went on to play other instruments as well. They were all in musicals. I never auditioned but was always there to pass out the programs. I was excellent at handing out programs. They were on the inside, and I was looking in from the outside.

The guitar is the only instrument I wish I had kept playing. I could have gotten the hang of it after a few more decades. Next was the piano. I could play Chopsticks reasonably well. And Home on the Range was appropriate as we lived in Kansas while I was learning. I didn't practice as much as I could have, but I didn't not practice. Playing instruments can be a learned skill, but then there are the ones who have an aptitude for music. Music flows, it's not hard for them, and from the outside, it looks easy. Unfortunately, I didn't have the knack. I didn't want to play an instrument. I don't remember mom or dad asking me if I wanted to play. They only asked me which instrument I wanted to learn. And I wanted to please them. So I kept trying and kept picking a new one.

Last was the clarinet. I was almost decent. In 8th or 9th grade, our band had a competition, and all the players had to perform their parts individually for our band director. In my section, there were first, second and third chairs. I think I was probably seventh or eighth chair. There were only seven or eight clarinets. Well, I played my parts for the director. And after I finished, he let out a big sigh. Then he said, I want you to play the first two lines, and then from the third line on the first page to the middle of the fifth page (or something like that), I don't want you to play. You can restart on the last page until the end.

Not long after this competition, and I don't remember how we placed, my clarinet went missing from my school locker. A few days before, I was walking in the school hallway, and a boy my age ran into me on purpose; he almost knocked me down. I was carrying my clarinet in its case, and I hauled off and hit the boy with my case as hard as I could. I knocked him into the lockers and kept walking like I did this sort of thing all the time, and it was no big deal. However, my heart was racing inside, and I had reacted without thinking. I didn't put it together until years after that this kid was probably behind my clarinet going missing. I also didn't realize until years later that rage lived within me, and this incident was just a little steam escaping.

A few weeks later, the band director summoned me to his office. He was gleeful when he told me my instrument had surfaced, and "let's go get it, shall we? Of course, I wasn't nearly as thrilled as he was, but we retrieved it, and I don't remember playing it again after that incident.

Sometime later, my mother wanted all her girls to sing together. Since the instruments weren't working out for me, I think this was her last hope for me being musical. I was not looking forward to this endeavor. My youngest sister was taking classical voice training – that's a fancy way of saying she was learning to sing opera, in Italian and everything. At the first (and only time I attended) lesson, Mrs. Baker asked us to sing the scales together, which we did. Then, she looked at me puzzled and asked me to sing the scale on my own. My heart pounding, I knew I couldn't back out unless I flat out refused. But she didn't live near us, so I couldn't bolt out the door and run home. So I was stuck there in this humiliating experience. I've always known I can't sing. I like to sing, but it's sometimes a joyful noise, and I do it because I want to, not because I'm any good. But, anyway, I sang the scale, kind of laughed my way through it, because that's what I did. I used humor to cover emotions that scared me.

The teacher looked at me, sighed (many adults sighing in my presence), and asked, "Have you considered an instrument?"

I can tell this story now for laughs because it IS funny. At the time, though, it was another way I didn't fit in. My parents were doing what they thought was best. They didn't know to find other things that I might enjoy. In the 1970s, there weren't a plethora of afterschool activities for children. It wasn't until college that I tried all kinds of endeavors. Then my father proudly told everyone that I was blooming. And in a way, I was coming out of my shell. I simply started finding things I was good at and enjoyed. My confidence grew as I learned who I was and could be.

We did finally make our mother's dreams come true. My sisters and I, with our brother, sang at my father's Army retirement party. We sang Home on the Range and Elvira (Oak Ridge Boys). More than anything, it was entertaining and memorable. There were two encore performances of Elvira. The first was on our parent's 50^th wedding anniversary. And the last one was when my siblings and I, our parent's financial advisor, and two Ft Jackson, SC Cemetery workers interred our mother's ashes. We sang Elvira at the columbarium site. The advisor joined us on the chorus, "giddy up, oom poppa, omm poppa, mow mow, heigh-ho silver away." After we said goodbye to mom, one cemetery staff took off his cap, looked me straight in the eyes, and said, "That's the best memorial service I've ever attended."

I began believing I am fearfully and wonderfully made on my path to healing from rejection. I no longer see the world from the outside looking in. Instead, I revel in ways I am different and appreciate the talents I see in others. Once I started accepting my differences, rather than trying to conform, I did indeed bloom. And my Father is proud. 

Random Rememberings

It was probably fourth or fifth grade when the wonder of being adopted started wearing off. Sure, my parents told me they chose me. But, grade-school-me realized they were choosing a baby, and at the time, it happened to be me. It could have been someone else, but I was available when they wanted a baby. Now, I'm not saying it was random because I know it wasn't. God placed me in my parents' lives and them in my life, and it truly was a match made in heaven. That became truth to me years later.

But when I was old enough to understand that I was available to be chosen only because someone else didn't want me, it hit pretty hard. My elementary self was incapable of entertaining the thought that my birth mother thought she was doing what was best for me, and maybe for her too. All I could repeatedly hear in my mind was, "Why didn't she want me? Why? Why?"

So, being the child I was with a pretty active imagination, I created a scenario that explained why she could not keep me. My birth mother was a homeless person. She lived on the streets and fought for every scrap of food she could find. This explanation was the only reason that made sense to me.

I became obsessed with these thoughts, and one day, my mom asked me what was wrong while we were both in the car. Unable to keep my feelings inside about this facet of my adoption, I spilled out the words. "She had to be a street person, homeless. Is that why she gave me up?" I was crying, and my mother, not one generally blessed with patience, was abnormally patient with me. She held me, let me cry, probably cried with me, and tried to explain that she was sure my mother had wanted to keep me but just couldn't. She didn't know her circumstances, but she didn't think she was homeless. This may have been the first time mom told me that if I ever wanted to find her, she and dad would help.

My mother was kind that day, and I don't mean for it to sound like she wasn't always kind. On the contrary, she and dad were very kind and generous. However, she wasn't always patient.  This time, though, she was kind and patient, but even so, a root took hold of my heart and mind. The root of rejection. It would be years before I realized this for what it was, and more years finding the tools to uproot this negative influence in the core of my being.

I'm not unique in feeling rejected from being adopted. And of course, any unhealthy relationship can breed rejection, but I’d say many adoptees feel deep rejection at some point. And often following rejection is performance-based behavior. Yearning for acceptance, I learned to play the "please like me" game. I would act the way I thought people wanted me to, so they would like me. I learned to perform. Now, I didn't have to perform for my parents to love me. I know that now. But I didn't believe it when I was 10, 15, 20, or 25. I started believing in my 30's. Unfortunately, while generous and loving, my parents didn't make it easy to believe either, as they had strict behavior requirements. If we didn't behave correctly, there were consequences. When we were good, there wasn't a lot of praise or encouragement, so there was a lot of striving to be better and better.

For several years I tried to be good. Really good. Really, I tried. But by seventh grade, I was worn out and started imploding. I could be pretty good at school, but my emotions were running wild by the time I got home, and I often exploded in anger at my family. Mom and Dad were always in awe of how my teachers spoke about me so lovingly. I'm sure they wondered about my two personalities. I wasn't that same person when I was home. But I realize now that I must have felt safe at home to allow all those emotions to run free. I must have known somewhere deep inside me that no matter how angry and mean I was, they wouldn't give me back. I wasn't going to get kicked out. They were showing me a version of God's love that I wouldn't understand for years to come. 

The Beginning

It was never a secret from my siblings or me that I was adopted. I always knew. My parents told me from the beginning that although I wasn't their flesh and blood, I was most definitely their child. I was five weeks old when my parents brought me home to live with them forever. This makes me sound like a rescue puppy, and when I think about it, indeed I was rescued. My older brother, Russ, was six and, as stories go, "was thrilled to have the most beautiful baby girl in the world" as his sister. He was wise beyond his years.

When I played with my sister (who came along 11 months later) and felt I needed an
advantage, I would say things like, "well, you were just born-ed, and I
was adopted." My sister would run to mom, crying, "I want to be
adopted too," having no idea what she was begging for but convinced it
must be something magical. 

For a time, mom and dad affectionately called me their little rented baby. This
phrasing would undoubtedly be frowned upon in current society, but it was a
sweet term of endearment in the late 1960s. I know without a doubt there are no
two people on earth who could have loved me better or more than the pair I
called mom and dad.

Medical reasons prevented my parents from having other children, which prompted them
to consider adopting. There is a spiritual principle laid out in the Bible that
says we will reap what we sow. And I've heard this testimony from others –
after adopting a child, they then conceive a child of their own. And that is
what happened in our family. Eleven months after adopting me came the first
sister, then seven years later my second sister. God knew what He was doing in
putting together this family of four siblings. There were times when it didn't always look and feel like there was much going on between us, but a solid rock foundation was being
built that would hold us together after our parents left this world. I cannot
imagine growing up with any other parents or any other brother and sisters.

I haven't always been okay with being adopted. I have experienced many emotions
along the way ranging from feeling chosen, rejected, treasured, neglected, wanted,
thrown away, given away, and the list goes on.

This blog will delve deeper into those emotions as I tell you my journey from being the rented baby to the daughter of a King.