DATING; Daunting, isn't it?

The following five questions were put to me from a friend's blog:

1. Are you single, in a relationship, married, divorced, separated, etc?
2. When was the last time you went on a date?
3. Describe your ideal date.
4. Do you think dating has become archaic?
5. What are your feelings on online dating services?

Hard questions for me to answer from my own comfortable stance. My marriage for the majority of the time feels like the proverbial compfy old slipper. But I ask you; what's wrong with that?

For those who are young and panting for that perfect, fulfilling relationship you might assume my compfy old slipper of a partnership boring. For those married only a few years--10 or less--you may be yearning for the sparks of when you first started dating to flare up again.

There was a time back when my husband and I had been married about that length of time and we both struggled with some of those questions. We wondered if there was something wrong with us that we didn't experience those dizzy sensations that we had the first year and a half of our marriage. Had the magic gone from our love? It was during an especially stressful time in our life that my husband and I read a book, Divorce Busting by Michele Weiner-Davis.

This author and counselor had talked to many couples like us, who had been married for a while and felt the fire of their marriage had died out, and that they were left only with that comfortable slipper feeling. Like a lot of people they assumed there was something wrong with this, and maybe they should hit the divorce courts and find that sparkling effervescent feeling with someone else. But in response to that, this counselor said the same thing as me. What's wrong with feeling so comfortable in your marriage that you feel you're at home wearing your slippers?

The right answer is; there is nothing wrong with that. I should point out, I'm not talking about those marriages that have severe issues to work out.

So after my husband and I got over that hump in our marriage, somewhere around our 12th anniversary, we continued on as we had been. We loved each other, were kind to each other, both of us took our responsibilities as spouses and parents to our children seriously. And we looked to God's guidebook on everything, the Bible.

So years later, at first glance dating would seem to be a non-issue for me. But upon closer look I realize that I date and have dated my husband a great deal. Most of the time it's simply coffee or a Sunday drive, or going out for lunch just the two of us. And as our kids have grown and left the nest, or when they boomerang back to it, my husband and I love to get into our car and go wherever. Just the two of us.

But back to the questionnaire. When was the last time I went on a date. Aside from going out for coffee, officially my last date would be about a week ago. We strolled through a rose garden at Point Defiance in Tacoma Washington. The sun shone, the scent of flowers clung to the air, and we dandered. I was content. He was content. No fireworks, our relationship filling us with the pleasure of a deep flowing river.

Perhaps that's why I find question # 3 difficult. Ideal date? Champagne and a dozen roses ceased to cut it for me years ago. I suppose being filled with contentment after 29 years of marriage, I may be unqualified to have an opinion . . . at first glance. The way I see it, dating is for those who are seeking. Seeking a permanent love relationship, or seeking to deepen that love relationship. I guess God has blessed my husband and me; we've reached that point and gone further. Our life seems to be one long, compfy date. And I say that from a well of gratitude, for so many people I love do not have what I have.

Is dating archaic? Now there's something I do have strong opinions on. You see I have children who date, one is married and two are single. My husband and I encourage our married son and his wife to date as much as possible. But for my two single children, I believe the reason for dating is for them to find their partner in life--if that is what God has planned for them.

And here is where I might shock a few; I don't believe people who are not at the stage of looking for a life partner should be dating. I also believe that if you've dated someone for a while and discover that relationship is not moving toward marriage that you should stop dating. Move on. Strong opinions, but then it's filled with the passion of a mother for her kids, and from that of being a wife who has for many years dated while wearing slippers. I want my children to have what I have.

Lastly, how do I feel about on-line dating services? Again I may shock a few.

I consider myself a romantic who loves to watch the romance of life. To describe my style of romance I'd have to say it's got a strong dose of the prosaic to it. I look back in history to the pioneer days when people used to write letters to get to know a prospective mate. Then if they felt this was a worthy person, they'd travel thousands of miles on a wagon train across prairies and mountain ranges to meet that person. It was hard for them in those days. So, to my thinking, what is the difference for modern-day people to use a reputable on-line service to write "letters" to people, and then if you like them, meet them for coffee?

All I add to this is, use your brain. Just make sure you really know this person before you walk down the aisle. It's a lot easier for someone now-a-days to back out of a dating relationship. At least if your date doesn't work out, you don't have to hitch a ride on a wagon train going east.

Dating really boils down to common sense, and a lot of marriage does too. There are no short cuts, but if you're sensible and trust God, then just maybe you'll be lucky enough to have what I have, that compfy old slipper feeling when you sit on the couch and hold hands with your mate. That's what you really want, deep down.

I Corinthians 13: 4-7 "Love is patient and kind. Love is not jealous or boastful or proud or rude. It does not demand its own way. It is not irritable, and it keeps no record of being wronged. It does not rejoice about injustice but rejoices whenever the truth wins out. Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance."

TREASURE BOX

Sometimes it’s hard to count our blessings.

Sometimes it’s hard to understand why the Lord who loved us so much that He died for us to give us eternal life, would allow some of the really hard things in our lives.

Sometimes we wonder if He’ll ever answer the yearning prayers of our hearts.

Occasionally when I’m going through a rough patch—and we all fall into them from time to time—my faith can flag.

My particular rough patch has lasted for several years now. Each one of my children, including my birthdaughter, is suffering in one manner or the other. Their details don’t need to be spelled out. If you have loved ones, you know the myriad of heartaches that afflict people. It’s just that I’ve taken my children’s longings, problems, and sufferings, daily to God. And still they hurt. That’s when I can fall into a blue funk that can last me a few days. Discouragement like this used to last me months or even years. But I guess I’ve grown to understand the Lord better these days, and despair does not linger like it used to.

I’ve learned to count my blessings. Literally.

On days when I’m worried about my kids or my husband’s health, I take out my treasure box. It’s a metaphoric treasure box, but it’s full of fifty-one years of answered prayer. I have to dig to the bottom, because some of these prayer answers go back decades, while some more recent ones lay like jewels strewn on the top. I lift a few out and hold them up to the light, and admire the facets of those prayers God answered long ago.

Oh yes, I remember that one now, the Lord heard me when I was thirteen years old and my grandmother renewed her faith in Christ . . . And oh, there’s that other prayer when I was twenty-three, and that man with the heart of gold—David what’s-his-name—asked me to marry him. And there are those other prayers answered—God gave me three healthy children. And oh yes, He brought my birthdaughter, Sarah, back into my life when I was forty-one.

And just three years ago . . . the Lord did such an amazing thing in my mother’s life it shines like a brilliant diamond. Perhaps because this last answer to prayer is so recent and one overflowing with happiness that I take it out the most often to admire it.

It wasn’t that many years ago that my mother’s self-esteem had been stripped down to the bare wires of her being for a multitude of reasons. Her General Practitioner prescribed antidepressants. But due to a combination of the wrong prescription, poor follow-up on the doctor’s part, and lack of co-operation from my mum, her emotional health actually grew worse. The doctor just kept prescribing stronger medications, but she steadily became more depressed. When I saw my mother withdraw further and further from her family, and begin to walk around her apartment, fearful of going out, I began to believe her doctor that she was mentally ill. For several years this went on, until it seemed to me that my mother’s apartment had become her coffin. She was crippled by fear; fear to live on her own, fear to go out of the house on her own, fear to actually live. And I had no idea how to help her. All I could do was pray daily that God would change her life, and enter her apartment with the power of the resurrection—to bring my mother back to life.

The day came when my mother collapsed because she hadn’t been eating properly for several years. Immediately at the hospital the doctors took her off the drugs her General Practitioner had prescribed. When I visited her that day, she lay in the hospital bed, looking like an eighty year old woman with no desire to live. She could barely contain her anger with me when I prayed at her bedside and read to her from the Bible. But I saw my mother’s collapse as the answer to my prayers. As she recuperated my brother, sister, and I closed up her apartment. Two weeks later the hospital released her, and I brought her to my home to live with us. There my husband and I nursed her as if she were an elderly woman.

At first she could barely make it up and down the stairs of my home. But I caught a tiny gleam in her eye. She was going to make it up these stairs even if it killed her. I was starting to see glimpses of the strong woman my mother used to be.

For a long while all she could eat was the blandest foods, but things changed day by day. God sent us a new doctor who worked with me, and with his guidance we planned how to bring my mother back to complete health. But he urged me, this would take time, and she may remain emotionally frail. After two months in our home, she announced to me that she wanted to attend church with us. And four months after that she started to take walks by herself up the street. A half an hour later, she would return to the house with a proud grin on her face; she’d made it past a certain tree and back again.

Her doctor then prescribed that my mother join the local osteoporosis group at the YMCA, and go there twice a week to strengthen her bones and balance. I suggested to her that she was now physically strong enough to use Handi-dart—a bus service for senior citizens that picks them up at the door and returns them home.

But my mum stood, trembling at my kitchen counter and watched me unload my dishwasher. In silence she watched me load it up again, watched me wipe the counter, then followed me to the laundry room. I could feel her terror—go on the Handi-dart bus by herself?

Even I didn't have much hope for her at that time, thinking she would be an emotional cripple for the rest of her life. It took a few days, but the same inner strength that had raised us kids single-handedly, and that I’d seen a glimmer of when she pushed herself to get up and down my stairs, peeked out again. She agreed to use the Handi-dart. I knew why she made that decision. As much as it scared her, the true person inside that trembling, frightened woman was one of the most unselfish people I’ve ever known. My mum did it for me. She wanted to become my friend.

From that moment on I watched as each month the Lord did things in my mother’s life that literally floored me. She got stronger. She ate everything and enjoyed it. She began to take a healthy interest in her appearance and wardrope. And I saw this woman become younger before my eyes. She joined not just one Bible study but two. She started to go to the 55+ group at the church. She started to make friends. A year after she first came to live with us, my mum moved to an apartment five minutes away from my home—an apartment that went beyond our hopes and expectations for her. Each morning she awakens to large windows overlooking a panoramic view of mountains, and in the summer and fall a sea of waving corn.

But she’s a busy woman these days. It’s got to the point where she jokes with us that she’s so busy she can only pencil us in for certain days on her calendar. Not only does she keep up with her Bible study groups, she volunteers at a local old folk’s home to assist elderly ladies with their manicures. She has friends, who she goes out to musical and cultural events, dinners and lunches. She visits the lonely and elderly in her building, and has them into her apartment that is like a lovely oasis. And she travels. Next month I’m driving her to the airport for her second trip to Ireland in the past two years. Her coming back to life has been a miracle to me. And she's again, my best friend.

So when I fret and wonder when God will answer the prayers for my children, my husband, my other loved ones—I take out this shiny diamond of answered prayer, buff it against my shoulder and say, “thank you, Lord”. The same God who took care of my mum will answer the rest of my prayers in His perfect timing.

Philippians 4:6, 7 “Don’t worry about anything; instead pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ.”

THE STORY OF MY HEART-Guest Blogger, Crystal Laine Miller

Allow me to introduce Crystal Laine Miller. Crystal has been an incredible inspiration in my life, though we've never met in the flesh yet. A few years back, when I was seeking literary representation, my prospective agent asked Crystal to critique my work before they signed me on. So after the bio on Crystal for you fellow writers, please EVERYONE, read and be inspired by her own story--the story of Crystal's heart--her mother's story.

Crystal Miller has written parenting columns, book review columns, humor, fiction, as well as articles on writing and life. A book reviewer who has amassed over 800 published reviews, and a professional manuscript reader/critiquer for authors, editors and agents. Miller has read much of the Christian fiction coming out into the market today, and has worked with many authors to bring them to publication as a professional book doctor. She's also been a judge in both unpublished writing contests and published book contests. She’s been featured in interviews as a professional reader in such publications as Christian Communicator. Her delight is bringing the written word to publication.

If you leave a comment with your email address (Name[at]ISP[dot]com,) you will be entered in a drawing for Crystal Miller to review your first five pages of your manuscript. Leave a comment by ________________ to be entered. (Be prepared to send your five pages by MS Word attachment by email.)

The Story of My heart: by Crystal Laine Miller

You get old and you realize there are no answers, just stories." — Garrison Keillor

My mother had a very difficult time carrying a baby to term. In the 1950s she conceived and lost five babies, some going into the second trimester before she lost them. The last baby she mourned so much, she wouldn't go to surgery to have the D&C to let go of a baby who had died. She waited a week, before they could convince her that this baby was dead and for her own health, she needed to "let go."

Then, she got pregnant with me.

I have no idea why I was the baby chosen by God to go to full term(and why I’m still here.) These are the mysteries in life that we cannot answer. Her doctor gave her a drug which at the time was believed to keep mothers from miscarrying. Diethylstilbestrol">DES was taken during the first trimester to preserve a pregnancy, but because she had such problems and had lost babies in the second trimester, she took this drug into the third trimester when pregnant with me. I was delivered in December in the late 1950s, exactly two weeks before Christmas, and she became a mother, her greatest desire. (Later she would learn that DES did not prevent miscarriages and perhaps would cause problems with my health--cancer, infertility or a malformed uterus, which alarmed her further. That's another story.)

Then, before I was a year old, she was diagnosed with tuberculosis and sent to a TB sanatorium in Ft. Wayne, Indiana. She remained there for three years, experiencing some of the worst surgeries (the best of the time) to rid her of that disease, or at least get it under control. I was sent to Tennessee to live with my grandparents, my dad's people. They did not believe she would recover. I was their daughter at that point, though they did continue to tell me about her, sending her photos of me that my teenaged aunt snapped and posed and letters to let my mother know how I lived without her. My mother made my grandmother, her mother-in-law (who was like a mother to her) promise to give me back to her when she came home from the hospital. A time or two my mother left the hospital on a weekend pass with my dad, and without doctor’s consent, came to see me in Tennessee. It gave her courage and faith to survive awhile longer.

Mom often said if she had known how painful it would be and how long it would last (including the separation from me) that she could not have stood it. But she took it one step at a time. She had her faith in God. She had a will to live of steel. She had her own mother as an example. My mother was five-years-old when she had lost her own mother to TB. She didn't want that happening to me. She wanted to see me grow up.

When she finally was able to come home, she only had one lobe of one lung remaining, was malformed and severely scarred on her back and chest because they had broken and collapsed her ribs on one side to fill the cavity where her lung had been. Eventually her heart would shift from one side to the other. She was weak physically, but determined and resolved mentally and spiritually. She was going to raise me as long as she had breath in her body. So, I came back to live with her, and she was like a stranger to me, except I knew she was the lady they (my grandparents, aunts and uncles) talked to me about all the time. (It was rough on all of us!)

Then, she got pregnant again.It was her seventh pregnancy after enduring the worst that her body could've endured. She had me back. She could raise me if she just took care of herself. And, her doctor without even a discussion, got on the phone while she was still in her exam gown to talk to the surgeon. At the time abortions could be performed if the mother's life was at stake. And he was scheduling her medical abortion to “save the mother’s life.” Except he did not count on the faith and resolve of one fiery Swedish/Norwegian descendent who had already walked through hell.

She got up off the exam table, got dressed, looked him in the eye and said, "I'm having this baby, too, even if it kills us." She already knew that in a fading heartbeat my grandparents would take me back if she did die, and she would risk it to carry this child.

So, she did. The doctor stood behind her choice, but fully expected her to die, along with the baby. He was a good man and a good doctor, but he was not God. On June 1, 1961 Ricky Alan Warren (not THAT Rick Warren, but a landscaper with a heart for God, too) was born to Lillian and Wilburn Warren by Caesarian section. She had an easier time carrying this baby than she did me. His much older sister (that would be me!) who had already been through plenty of trouble of her own, dragged him around, protecting him from one disaster after another.(Somehow he survived ME.)

Mom lived long enough to see and hold and cherish my four boys and Rick's two girls. She mourned when I lost a baby in a late first trimester miscarriage (my fourth of five pregnancies,) and when Rick's full term child died at birth. ( John Andrew Warren was Rick’s first of three children.) She was the best person I have ever known. I get my love of Jesus, my faith, my love of reading and of history, and probably my stubbornness from her. Oh, and my blonde hair. Since she was descended from Swedish and Norwegian immigrants, we were all very blonde and fair.

She died just shy of her 65th birthday, content and at peace, not in a hospital, but at home. She died in her chair after a long conversation with her younger brother, Don Pierson, the child whose mother had made the same choice as my mother did—to carry a child at risk, a mother who had tuberculosis. He later was a missionary and had children and grandchildren who told their own stories of faith. The women who are responsible for me being here are the ones who endowed me with strength, courage, conviction and faith—and that stubborn steel-rod will. I’m so blessed to know their stories and to continue that tradition with my own family.

One thing I have always sought is to learn the stories of people—whether from a writer or not.(That could be considered “nibby!”) I love the stories that people tell me, whether fiction (based in a lot of truth, I find) or true stories over a cup of coffee.

They are the thing that gives us a conviction and a faith. “Hang on,” they tell us. “Yes, it’s hard, but your fight and survival brings something to us all.” Courage. Faith.

Every person out there has a story and we tell our stories in a variety of ways. One mission that I've had is to help others bring their stories to publication. But this is my story that I carry in my own heart and that drives me in that mission. Choose to tell your stories and by doing so you bless us.This is Mom, Dad, and me.

Debut of Author, Rachel Phifer--My Guest Blogger

I'd like to introduce you to one of my dear friends, fellow writer, Rachel Phifer. Rachel hales from Houston Texas, and we've become friends while critiquing each other's work through the American Christian Fiction Writer's Association. I hope you enjoy Rachel's piece, and take a look at her recently set up blog www.RachelPhifer.com. This is Rachel's debut. Send a comment her way, and encourage her to follow God's leading in her writing.

THIN SKIN by Rachel Phifer

I was born with a thin skin. One of my earliest memories is sitting on the floor, rocking, trying to comfort myself because the noise of the television and people talking in the kitchen was overwhelming. My mother says I was eight before I stopped crying about getting dressed, “because the clothes touched me.” My skin was sensitive. My ears were sensitive. My very being was sensitive. At school, the sound of pencils scratching against paper made me shiver, and even a sharp look from a teacher would start an uncontrollable flow of tears. I tried to overcome it, just as I tried to overcome being shy and gangly, but growing a thick skin seemed as possible as making my brown eyes turn green or blue.

I recently read about something called sensory integration disorder. It was me all over. Here’s the thing though. What I remember most about those early years of childhood is not tears, not trauma. I remember what the lush, green grass felt like between my toes. I remember an orange harvest moon hanging so low in the sky I couldn’t believe it was out of reach. I remember the pages of the hymnal leafing between my eight-year old fingers, and the delight I felt as the voices in chorus flowed over me. Is that a disorder?

For many years, though I had never heard of the disorder, I did believe something was wrong with me. I called it depression. It started as a quiet melancholy in childhood. Then a growing sadness and separation from those around me as we moved from place to place, as my father was diagnosed with leukemia, grew ill and died. And finally at boarding school, my 9th school in ten years, it turned into full-blown depression. I felt every pound of my body weighing down on me. It took superhuman effort to get out of bed and move through my day, as if I were trying to carry a second person with me. I moved in slow motion, while everyone else went about their business in ordinary time. I couldn’t breathe in the thin mountain air. But when I think of that time, I think of other things too: the rushing sound of the streams that ran down the mountainside, the greenness of the trees, the way a cloak of comfort settled on me when I would kneel to pray in the dimly lit chapel.

My mother sent me back to the states the next year to live with my grandparents. She knew something was wrong, and so she arranged for me to see a counselor. For a long time after, when I thought of those sessions with Barry I thought he had been careless. He knew I had come within a hair’s breath of trying to overdose on my asthma medicine. But he didn’t want to talk about suicide or depression, not about boarding school or my father’s death.

“Tell me about your writing,” he said.

For three months, every week we talked about writing, journaling, books, the holocaust, African refugee camps and then back to how I might form a career as a writer. When I returned to my home in Africa, I was a different person. I was a writer. I was strong, full of intuition and language and the senses, all the things needed to talk about what this thing is we call life.

The tide of depression rolled in and out always. My feelings were heavy, almost tangible things, full of images and weight. All it took was a change: a friend leaving, the loss of a job, sometimes just a door opening to a painful memory, and the slow darkness would cover me. Or as I began to take the responsibility of a job and providing for myself, sometimes it turned into a blinding, white light of anxiety.

I married and had two daughters, and desperately wanted never to fight depression again. I didn’t want to be a burden to my husband. I wanted to be a strong, optimistic role model for my children. And I was strong. Really I was. I haven’t had a debilitating depression in years. But sending my children to daycare, as I had to do, sent shockwaves of pain through me that other mothers didn’t seem to experience. Sitting in an office without windows made me grow agitated and desperate for a slice of sky, while my coworkers seemed content to work all day with only a sighting of the sun at lunchtime.

There’s no doubt in my mind that almost every mother with children in daycare grieves about leaving them, and almost everyone working in a dark office wishes for a window. But somehow it seemed to set something off in me that ran deep – deeper than I could contain. So from time to time I would find myself in tears, locked in my bedroom hoping my family wouldn’t see.

Finally, I accepted that yes, I do have low serotonin and a susceptibility to depression. But as much as I want to be a person of joy for my family, I made the decision not to take antidepressants. Years back, when my oldest daughter was just a toddler, I began reading the book of Jeremiah. In the very first chapter it says, “The word of the Lord came to me saying, ‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew you; before you were born I set you apart . . . .” When I read those words, I just knew. God made me the way I am. I don’t think I’m defective. If I thought it was simply a matter of low serotonin, I’d be at the doctor’s office asking for a prescription in a heartbeat. But the Lord’s gifts are double-edged: light and frothy on one side, but in our frail human condition, dark and weighty on the other. God gave Jeremiah the gift of prophecy. What an honor to be chosen by God. But Jeremiah’s life was not easy. It was a heart-rending challenge. Should he have rejected the Lord’s blessing?

Then neither will I. The slowness, the deepness, the richness of my feelings comes with something that mimics depression. Yet, when I find just the right word, it feels beautiful and whole on my tongue. A song can carry me away on a river of feeling. Touching my baby’s silky skin the first time left an imprint that is still clear as day ten years later. A prayer, the right scripture, or a thought can reach through to the deepest part of my soul. But if I’m to accept that, I must also accept that a dark room will close in on me in a way it won’t on my neighbor, and that a painful experience will reach through to me as it won’t on someone else. Maybe, I’ll be a little more scarred. I can live with that.

I don’t know why God made me the way He did. Maybe he knew what Barry knew: that He created to me to be a writer. To tell His stories, I need to feel them, touch them, taste them, hear them in a way many of my contented neighbors can’t. Maybe He created a population of poets, writers, musicians, artists, and just generally sensitive people to share the joy and sadness in His creation with Him a little bit more. Or suppose He wanted to share the Creator side of Himself, as He shares the Father side of Himself with parents and the Healer side of Himself with doctors and nurses. That’s my best guess, but I don’t know. This I do know: God has blessed me with more – more feeling, more senses, more language. And on those days when it feels like a curse and I want to beg Him for just a bit of normalcy, to please let me be like the woman next door, I will remember: the darkness only screens the light underneath, and God has blessed me.

If we had a keen vision of all that is ordinary in human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow or the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which is the other side of silence.
- George Eliot

THE FACE OF PERFECT LOVE-Adoption Ch. 20

How many times do we think to ourselves—in those moments when God takes our breath away—I should write this down so I don’t forget? Or I should take a picture so I can hold onto this moment forever.

About a year after I met Sarah, I began to work at Trinity Western University as a secretary. Each day my steps would take me from the parking lot to the building in which I worked. I would walk along the tree-lined pathway, and look down the hillside to the fountain shooting up like a geyser in the large duck pond. In the Spring, goslings would flutter their dull yellow feathers and stagger after their parents. The beautifully manicured grounds would burst with blooms; cherry blossoms, magnolias, maples—almost a small patch of perfection in an imperfect world.

Between the parking lot and my office building, I'd pass MacMillan Hall, one of the student residences. From my chats with Bob when we first started talking about the reunion I’d learned then, that this was where he and his wife had lived with their two little girls. It was also the home he'd brought baby Sarah to after I relinquished her at the hospital. This was Sarah’s first home, and it would be my working home for the next eight years.

It was in that first spring of working at Trinity that I noticed the large tree outside MacMillan Hall, starburst with small white blossoms. But I stopped on the pathway. Out of the many branches on this tree, one branch shot out from the main truck—as if grafted on at one time. The blossoms on that branch fluttered pink in the air fragrant with the surrounding cedars.

I never did take that picture with a camera, but I’ve held it in my heart, musing. Was it a snapshot of Sarah’s life grafted into her family with her mom and dad, and twin brothers? Or did it portray how Sarah would always be rooted in my heart as one of my children. Yet the schism of—she’s my child, yet not my child—churned within me for several years. Peace and healing came and it was Sarah’s own sweet nature that brought it. That first year she patiently let me introduce her to my church, to all my friends, and to each member of my family. When Kyle got over his shyness he met Sarah and Mark and now considers them family. When Kyle married his wife, Crystal, Sarah sat with us in the family pew.

When my brother, Stephen, met Sarah, he said, “That’s the prettiest hernia I ever saw.”

My sister, Irene, shied away from Sarah. For Irene, it was one of those painful memories she didn’t want to go near, but my mother always numbers Sarah in her list of grandchildren. And Sarah has a standing invitation from my aunts and uncles in Ireland to come and visit.

In the years to follow, Sarah and I got to know each other slowly through many a lunch or dinner. Several years ago she and her husband moved a few hundred miles away to work in a large city hospital in the US. But each Mother’s Day she calls me faithfully. We email several times a month. Whenever Sarah goes on a missions trip to a third world country to give medical care, she enlists me as one of her most staunch prayer supporters. Nowadays when I meet with Sarah, I’m replete with satisfaction. All of my children love her.

And David is always asking, “Any emails from Sarah this week?”

As I look back over the years through the writing of this story I see how gently God has dealt with Sarah, and Anne, and me. Our adoption and reunion story has been one of the good ones—one of the best I’d say. In sharing this aspect of my life, it has been my intention to show as honestly as I can the emotions of relinquishing one’s child. To have Anne share parts of her story has filled a place in my heart that no one else could. In reading hints of Anne’s emotional journey I have found the gentle closure I needed as a birthmother. I’ve loved and appreciated Anne’s honesty and her sensitivity towards me.

After her husband’s memorial service Anne and I held each other and cried. She thanked me for giving her Sarah. I received her thanks with great discomfort. I was only part of the means in which God wanted to bless her. And in their turn, God used Anne and Sarah to enrich my life. Through my husband and children, God has taught me the greatest lessons. But also through my birthdaughter and her mother, I’ve learned what the love of God feels like.

But there are a lot of people out there who may read this blog, whose adoption stories did not turn out as well. I’ve spoken with a great many people over the years from each side of the adoption circle. I’ve heard many an adoptee speak of feelings of abandonment. I’ve listened in horror to stories of abusive or neglectful adoptive parents. And there are so many women out there who gave up their children and feel that terrible sense of being robbed—because I couldn’t provide for my child, I had to give my baby away.

And how many good adoptive parents sit at their kitchen tables and cry, “What did I do wrong, that my child has turned out so rebellious?”

Yesterday I spoke to another woman whose close friends made the heartrending decision of abortion. She and I talked about the fear when you discover you’re pregnant—oh how I remember that fear. This lady shared with me the resulting physical trauma of abortion, and the awful mourning that her friends experienced afterward that so often lasts a lifetime.

She asked me a question that rang within me, “Why is the world so scary that a woman would go to the extreme of preventing the birth of her child?”

Recently I talked to another woman who gave away her baby girl after social services convinced her that adoption would rescue her child. But this woman’s daughter ended up with a life so scarred with sadness that the girl took her own life. When you hear stories like that you want to weep. As this other birthmother read my blog she was angered over how we could call it ‘God’s perfect anything’.

Her words thrummed inside me with the pain of an old wound, because I know how she feels. How often have I thought this through with God—in a perfect world, a girl would wait for the perfect marriage before giving her body. In a perfect world a woman in Canada or Ethiopia or Romania would never have to be parted from her baby, and every woman who desired children would have a houseful of them. In a perfect world we would not need adoption.

While in many ways my journey as Sarah’s birthmother has been much gentler than that of other women’s, it has had its share of tremendous pain and tears. It’s been a long journey, taking me years after my reunion with Sarah to come to peace over who we are in each other’s lives. Now ten years after our reunion, when we talk on the phone I feel almost normal. I think only in Heaven will I be able to look at Sarah without loss strumming across my heart.

It’s not a perfect world. It’s a world scarred and rutted with sin. But through the valleys of relinquishment and adoption I found the face of perfect love looking down at me—a Savior whose hands and feet were nailed to a cross, a Savior who died for me, so that I could be adopted into God’s family.

From that same loving heart of our God comes His solution to many a heartache. Most adoptions bring incredible joy to people. There have been millions who walked this earth, who were and are grateful to God for their mom and dad who chose them and gave them happy childhoods. There are thousands of happy reunion stories.

And this twenty-week story is of one birthmother who is grateful to God for where He placed her child.

Some people say the pink flowers were a miracle. I honestly don’t know. Or did God just whisper to me when the flowers arrived and I saw them that way? All I know is I felt like Hagar of old when she ran out into that desert, pregnant and feeling unwanted. Leaning on her hands and knees in the dust and sand, Hagar cried out to God. “You see me, don’t you, God. Yes! You saw me.” To me this is the true miracle.

This scarred and imperfect world brings a lot of pain. I don’t know where your pain comes from, but I can tell you this, “God sees you and cares deeply.”

Isaiah 49:15, 16a “Can a mother forget her nursing child? Can she feel no love for the child she has borne? But even if that were possible, I would never forget you. See, I have written your name on the palms of my hands.”

The photograph above is not that of the actual tree outside of MacMillan Hall. Below is a picture of the real tree, but my pink branch is gone now. Perhaps that too is God's perfect timing.

GOD'S PERFECT TIMING-Anne's Thread-Adoption Ch. 19

By my Guest, Anne Vandenbos

In the late 1960’s, my husband and I were attending Johnston Heights Evangelical Free Church. One Sunday we noticed a mention of a Christian adoption agency in Seattle, called Burden Bearers, in the bulletin. I began praying that Burden Bearers would open a branch office in Canada; ten years later, my prayers were answered! My husband Hans and I adopted the second baby available at Burden Bearers.

Our adoption of baby Sarah was “closed.” The birth mother, Christine, didn’t know our names; she only knew whatever our counselor, Bob, chose to tell her. At the time of the adoption, Christine knew that we couldn’t have children, that we were practicing Christians, and that we were secure in our marriage. She had other families to choose from, but felt led to choose us as Sarah’s adoptive parents. Bob made it very clear to us that Christine wanted Sarah to know that she had wanted to keep her, but decided that it would be better for her to be raised by a mother and a father.

We received Sarah when she was four days old. From a very young age, I talked to Sarah about her adoption. We believed that the longer we waited to tell her that she was adopted, the harder it would be to do it, and the higher the risk of her finding out from a cousin or other family member. Also, the older she was when she found out, she might be angry or wonder why we had lied to her for so long.

When Sarah was two years old, our adoption counselor, Bob, was at a Sunday evening fellowship at our church. I overheard him talking to a group of people about a set of twins who needed to be adopted. On the way home from the service, I told my husband about it and we agreed to submit our names as candidates to adopt the twins.

In the weeks that followed, we waited anxiously for any news from Bob. Two months later, we were told that the birth mother of the twins had chosen us! The twins were due on July 10th, so there was barely enough time to move Sarah out of her crib into a big bed of her own—but there were enough days to share the excitement with Sarah that God was giving her twin brothers. On the morning of July 9th, I fell to my knees in prayer. Sarah came and asked me what was wrong. I told her that I felt we should pray for the twins’ birthmother. When Bob phoned to tell me that the twins had arrived, he said that there was some difficulty with the birth of the second baby (ten minutes after his brother), but it was all over; the birth mom and babies were fine. The time of the twins’ birth was at the exact time that I had fallen to my knees to pray!

Sarah loved her brothers from the very beginning and we made a conscious effort to include her in their care. Whenever I would take the children shopping, people would ask questions such as, “Are they twins? What are their names? How old are they?” I would answer, and take care to include Sarah by saying, “And this is their two year old sister, Sarah.” Sarah even had her own driver’s license to push the twins’ stroller while I pushed the shopping cart when we went grocery shopping! She was totally capable of answer the common questions.

We made an effort to talk to Sarah, Matthew, and Luke about each of their individual adoption stories because we wanted them to be proud of their history and thankful to God for the way He had brought our family together. If the topic ever came up at school, they were equipped to answer questions from the other children. I made personalized storybooks that became favorites of theirs because “Sarah,” “Matthew,” and “Luke” were the main characters.

When Sarah was a pre-teen, she asked some questions about her birth mother and I shared with her and the twins all of the “statistics” that Burden Bearers had given us at the time of their adoptions. Although the boys hadn’t asked any questions themselves, I also gave each of them a copy of their birth family’s history. Sarah was surprised that there was so much information available to her, and she never brought up the topic again, even though I offered to help her find her birthparents.

When she was twenty, Bob called my husband to say that Sarah’s birth mother wanted to meet her. She had written a lengthy journal for Sarah, and also had photos and a gift for her. Bob gave us a photocopy of the journal for my husband and I read, to decide if we wanted to give it to her; I gave it to Sarah on the same day that we received it.

About a week later, Bob arranged the meeting between Sarah and Christine, her birth mother. My husband did not agree with the meeting, but he wouldn’t put a stop to it. Sarah caught me shedding a few tears on the day she was going to meet Christine; she immediately wanted to call off the meeting, but I insisted that she go. I knew that Christine was looking forward to it and Sarah had already committed herself to going.

I asked Sarah, “How would we feel if Christine had changed her mind about giving you to us? You can’t disappoint her now when you said that you would go.”

She got ready and left with an armload of photo albums and her fiancée, Mark, for moral support.

Christine and her family came to Sarah’s wedding ceremony, but the first time I actually met Christine face-to-face was two years after Sarah’s wedding, at my husband’s memorial service. I’d written her on a few occasions to express my gratitude, but it was good to meet her in person to say thank you, and share a hug…and, of course, a cry.

Matthew and Luke are polar opposites of Sarah in that they have never expressed a desire to meet their birth parents. I am convinced that their close bond with their dad, Hans, influenced them. They just couldn’t understand why Sarah would want to meet her birth mother. Two years after Hans passed away, I spoke to the boys separately and told them I would help them if they wanted to search for their birthparents; they both said no.

Christine’s presence in Sarah’s life continues to be a struggle for me. If I had it my way, there would be no connection with Christine until after I die—I realize that this is a selfish way to feel, though. I wonder if an open adoption makes this connection easier…Over the years, I’ve been thankful that our adoptions were not “open.” Christine can’t be expected to understand how I feel because she hasn’t walked in my shoes—and in the same way, it’s impossible for me to fathom why she craves a desire to have our families get to know one another.

One of my nephews, Tim, asked me after my husband’s memorial, “What did you and Uncle Hans do to have your children turn out so well?” At first I was a mouthful of teeth, but eventually I had a lot to say. A summary of my response was that, with God’s help, we were willing to take on the challenge of being responsible parents, even if that meant making some sacrifices. We knew that we were responsible to God, to each other, and to our children’s birth parents, who had entrusted us with their children to raise them with love as our own.

Without a doubt, Sarah, Matthew, and Luke have been three precious gifts from God. It has been six years since Hans passed away. The children have all struggled with the loss of their dad. They loved their father so much! But God is our strength. He never stops loving us. It continues to amaze me how God so faithfully teaches us more and more in our journey toward Heaven. He has been with us every step of the way. All we have to do is trust His plan for our future in His perfect timing.

GIVING AWAY ONCE MORE—Adoption Ch. 18

God had done an awesome thing. My birthdaughter that I'd loved all these years and met at our our reunion two months earlier was an extraordinary and sweet young woman. By all standards our reunion had been a success, the door to future get-togethers was open, and she had asked us to come to her church for her wedding ceremony.

So why was I so angry with God? In the adoption reunion books, my trauma was explained as the cold and clinical stage of negotiating the birthmother role. I wanted to throw the book across the room.

My self-pity disgusted me. Was I like David said, too impatient to wait for the good things God had in store? Or was I really afraid of what it would mean to build a relationship with the child I'd relinquished?

The house was quiet. David was at work, the kids at school. I went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. The dam burst and I cried. For weeks my emotions had howled like a storm inside me and drowned out God. But this time as I reached for the kettle I felt His voice, I have never forgotten you. I set the kettle down. That’s what those silly pink flowers meant all this time, that God tenderly loved me. He had been with me for every single one of Sarah's birthdays. He had been with me every day of the past two months as I'd shut Him out.

I lifted my face up to receive my Father’s love. Just as it was when I’d given birth to Sarah, the pains and pangs left, and afterwards came the joy of knowing I had brought a child into God’s world. For years I’d prayed to be brought visibly back into the circle of this adoption, but God did even better. He had brought me back full circle to His love. To His family.

Due to the heavy stresses I knew Sarah must be under during her final semester to finish her Bachelor of Nursing degree, and organize her wedding, I didn’t feel right phoning her. It had been the same during my search for Sarah, the tide of my courage would flow and fade.

Mother’s Day arrived and I revelled in the gifts and love from my kids and David. But still a large part of my heart was miles away with Sarah. I asked the Lord to show me what He wanted me to hope for in regards to Sarah. I got my answer at church that morning when Krystal, the adopted girl who sang a few months earlier, got up to read the poem ‘An Adopted Child’s Legacy’. I felt the pew shake slightly with my heaving emotions as young Kristal read how her mother was her Sun, and her birthmother her distant, guiding star. Here at last was my place in Sarah’s life.

After church David and the kids took me out for a Mom’s Day lunch, and we didn’t come home till late that afternoon. The phone rang and I picked it up. I didn’t recognize her voice at first; it was so delicate, even hesitant. It was Sarah calling to wish me a happy mother’s day. I gulped back tears. Oh, dear Lord, please help me talk and act normal with her? She’d been trying for several hours to call me. We talked for 45 minutes, about nothing and everything. She sounded happy to hear that we were coming to the church to see her married. I said we wouldn’t miss it for the world.

My heart went out to her. With all her pressures from school, the last minute papers and projects, and the wedding, she’d taken time to phone me this day. Sarah seemed more at ease with me too, and shared some of her hopes for what our relationship would look like. She wanted to get to know me. She wanted the Lord to lead us on the building of our unique relationship. I soared on eagle’s wings.

Sarah’s wedding arrived not long after Mother’s Day. At my urging, David, Lana, Robert and I, got to the church early. Kyle still wasn’t ready to meet Sarah, but I knew the day would come that he would. At the church only a few people had begun to trickle in. We were among the first. A young girl stood at a small table where a display of lilacs filled a vase. We all signed the guestbook, and moved to the seat I insisted we take. It was the last seat at the back of the large auditorium but beside the central doors. I sat in the place I’d thought long and hard about taking. I was sure this would be where Sarah would enter. I hoped to catch her eye briefly, to share a smile with her before she started down the aisle, as if to give her my blessing on her wedding day.

From this vantage I watched grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, friends who all knew Sarah so much better than I did enter and take their places. At last the doors at the back of the church opened and Mark stood on the threshold, his white shirt contrasting crisply with his black tuxedo. He caught my eye, smiled and said hi. From here I watched each relative come in. At last I saw Sarah’s mother, this woman I felt such a kinship with. She looked kind and sweet. I wondered what she was thinking on her daughter’s wedding day. Was she nervous, sad, elated, or her mind filled with a million details?

The doors closed . . . the family was seated . . . and then the door opened again. Bridesmaids passed by, a ring bearer and a flower girl, but I hardly saw them, for there she was on her father’s arm. So this is Sarah’s beloved Dad. Adoration for Sarah filled his eyes. He tucked her arm in his and tenderly placed his hand over hers. This was what I had wanted for her.

She was as beautiful as I knew she would be in her white gown, and bridal veil that fell to the length of her fingertips. It reminded me of the lacy white shawl I’d wrapped her in so long ago. I wanted to reach out and touch her. I wanted to tell her she was exquisite. She was so close, only a few feet away. I hesitated. No, it’s not my place. I leaned forward to catch her eye, but her gaze focused on the front of the church where Mark stood. I sat back and smiled through my tears. She had her eyes in the right direction.

My heart pounded as the strains of the song ‘Unchained Melody’ wafted over the church and Sarah and her father proceeded down the aisle. The lyrics thrummed in my heart . . . a long lonely time . . . and time goes by so slowly . . . and time can do so much . . . are you still mine? . . . Godspeed your love . . . Godspeed your love . . . And my own words, God speed your love to each other.

Mark and Sarah were married. As a newly married couple they raced up the aisle arm in arm, their smiles wide for each other. I thought Sarah caught my eye, but I wasn’t sure. The foyer was filled with what seemed like hundreds of people. I hung back, paralyzed with overwhelming emotions. But I waited too long and missed my chance. Sarah and Mark were in the car, ready to drive away for their pictures. I bit back my despair that my courage had failed me.

But God hadn't failed me. He had answered my prayers and let me see her wed, and there was the future to look forward to. Several weeks later Sarah told me she and her mother had left a pink corsage for me at the guest-signing book. There had also been a cancellation for a few people at the reception, and they had made room for us. But in the normal hubbub of a big wedding, no one recognized me to pass the message on.

It didn't matter, the joyous thing was that Sarah and her mother remembered me. On the day of Sarah's wedding, as my family and I drove away from her church, in my heart I gave Sarah back to the Lord, just like I’d given her to Him twenty years ago. She wasn’t mine to give, but all the same, when I did, I felt His peace fill my soul.