Waiting for Wings

I didn't even remember this photo, or realize how perfect it was for Perry, until after he was gone.

This post first appeared on my new blog, Too Special. 

Perry tells the story "Beautiful Rooster" at the opening

ceremony for the "Ambassador of Hope" program.

At first glance, he seemed to have so much going against him that he could have been forgiven for feeling defeated; instead, Perry, 10, smiled easily and stayed positive despite the cerebral palsy which put him in a wheelchair, and left him in an orphanage. Nearly three years removed from my last trip to Moscow with the Russian Orphan Lighthouse Project, I'd come 5,000 miles further east as an "Ambassador of Hope" to meet him in Beijing.

China runs on ritual; accordingly, our orphanage-sponsored visit commenced with opening ceremonies. Most of the kids bounced around the room before the start, but Perry and three other children in wheelchairs sat quietly. They seemed practiced in patience, as if waiting like afterthoughts was their birthright.

Later, Perry performed to a little song about gratitude making life worthwhile. Quick with thanks for every kindness, he lived those lyrics. But equally, he seized thoughtful opportunities to give. He made me a bracelet, intent on stringing each bead in exacting order; carried my bag in his lap as I pushed his wheelchair; and eagerly shared his candy with his friend and me.



Perry, front and second from right, with others kids from his

orphanage, ready to sing a song. The video of their

performance is below.

Our second day together, we went to the Beijing Zoo. Our group―an army of Chinese orphans with various special needs, American visitors, and orphanage chaperones―was conspicuous, and drew endless curious stares. Yet few people seemed to notice Perry when he sought room to see the animals, and too often he was kept at a distance. Once, by pointing urgently to a pacing lion, he "asked" me to move him closer. As I pushed him toward the other children who'd gathered, a caretaker stopped us for a photo. Perry smiled cooperatively until the lady finished; when she was done, she waved us on, so he missed getting near the lion. But he stayed smiley. He enjoyed the elephants and monkeys, and posed by the zoo's pride, their giant pandas. But he was enthralled with the peacock, whose tail was beauty itself. And those wings! Even in a Chinese zoo, the peacock seemed free.

Perry must have been unusually sheltered. Everyday occurrences―things most people might never notice―appeared new to him, awe-inducing experiences to be soaked up and savored. It rained one morning as we were leaving the hotel. As I pushed him toward the bus, he looked up, mouth wide in wonder, and joyfully outstretched his arms as if receiving a gift. A well-intentioned caretaker rushed an umbrella over him. Though she meant well, her kindness seemed misspent. Someone knowledgeable said later that his orphanage kept its kids close, and guessed that, prior to our visit, Perry had never once left its grounds in the three or so years he'd been there.

I'd under-appreciated the Americans with Disabilities Act until I spent time in China with a child in a wheelchair. Public toilets are generally squatties, ramps infrequent, and doorways

Perry, with the panda far in the background

narrow. Everywhere we turned, we were forced to navigate barriers thoughtlessly erected by a culture which preferred that disabled people stay invisible. Thursday afternoon, we ate pizza at a restaurant whose only restrooms were on the second floor. There was no elevator, and Perry's caretakers couldn't carry him up the steps. Without other options, they gave him an empty water bottle to use in a corner. The dehumanizing indignities I saw him endure repeatedly―wearing a weary smile―broke my heart. I confided in another traveler how Perry's ceaseless degradation troubled me. Surely he was used to it, she replied, supposing I'd be comforted at a humiliation so commonplace it had rendered him numb.

Perry's intelligence was evident, even with the language barrier, so it shocked me to learn he'd never gone to school. A Chinese lady on staff with an American adoption agency told me that since public schools seldom have facilities for students with special needs, they often receive no education. So Perry, who had a knack for reproducing designs he saw on paper, and told me that our president was Obama, could read only a few Mandarin characters, a deficiency not many Chinese seemed to find remarkable.

Even small things, like tasting samples in a grocery store, were

new and special to Perry.

In China, orphans become unadoptable on their 14th birthdays. If Perry did not find a family, the same lady said, he would leave the orphanage soon after for an adult institution, where he would stay forever. People much older than he would live there, too, and potential for abuse would be rampant. At best, he might learn a handcraft to do day in, day out. He'd have no education, no future, no chance at self-betterment, no hope for escape. Hidden from sight, he'd be far from the collective mind of a society scarcely bothered by niceties like wheelchair accessibility or education for the disabled. It was already awful; then she froze me with the words "human farm."

Our last evening together, I interviewed him, wondering if his optimism was genuine, or if he had some premonition of what the Chinese lady had prophesied. We asked a question, standard for orphans I'd advocated for: what career would he pursue? But as soon as we asked, I felt so cruel. It was grievously apparent he'd never been encouraged to believe in a

Perry smiled almost all the time.

future for himself at all. How could he fathom an answer? He could not even fathom the question.

For all his cheeriness, this endearing boy finally teared up when asked if he wanted a family. He told me he'd "try [his] best to be in a family," and that he hoped to warm the hearts of the parents who might adopt him. He sighed deeply when I asked what he would do to change the world. Eventually he said he'd help his parents, but added he never dreamed he could change the world. Having been assured beforehand by the agency that nothing was off-limits, I asked the question that exposed his soul: what was life like in a wheelchair? Looking down, he softly shared his fondest wish: to be active himself, and to have wings to fly.

Perry is everything wonderful that orphan blurbs tritely bandy about: kind-hearted, intelligent, helpful, smiley. But those descriptors shed little light on a soul who has consciously made the best of a situation so heartrending―so beneath his abilities―because it is the only choice he sees. So he smiles through gut-wrenching indignities; through lack of education; and through marginalization by a culture which assumes he has little to live for, and nothing to offer. He can keep the smiles coming, until he mentions the family he yearns for. And those wings!

Is there a family with wings to spare? Perry aches to fly. 

                                                                                   *******

Perry's file is currently on China's shared list, meaning that interested families may adopt him through any Hague-accredited agency they wish. World Association for Children and Parents (WACAP, www.wacap.org), an agency we have worked with and loved for three of our adoptions, offers a $4,000 grant for Perry's adoption, based on funds availability, to families meeting income eligibility requirements. A $5,000 grant toward Perry's adoption is being offered by a church, good friends of Too Special, L.L.C., to be disbursed shortly before travel. The church grant is offered to Christian families only, and requires a simple application and approval process. Altogether, up to $9,000 in grants are available for Perry's adoption to families meeting eligibility requirements. For more information on Perry, or to learn about the grants available for this specific child, please contact Becky De Nooy at (616) 245-3216.

Videos of Perry

Perry and his friends signing a song

Perry and his friends signing a second song

Perry telling the Beautiful Rooster story

From Russia to China...With Love

Thirteen precious orphans, plus one child who traveled

with us, on our November 2010 Lighthouse Project

trip to Moscow. Six of these children were adopted

by our families. But one of these souls was never

able to join his waiting family due to the 2012 tensions

between the United States and Russia. Russia has

not since reopened to American adoption.

(Photo by David LaRocque)

I expected to stay with it forever. The Russian Orphan Lighthouse Project had been my life for six years, though I'd volunteered for longer. It stoked a passion for Russia, brought me there 14 times, gifted me a son and a daughter, and allowed me to find adoptive families for 80 older orphans. Any list of the joys I found with Lighthouse would include some of my life's most fulfilling moments.

Love of Russia could not blind me to its idiosyncracies, though. Russia never stopped feeling untamed, like a roller coaster just barely skimming its tracks. The country was touchy about everything adoption-related, yet I never imagined our program would end as it did, crushing a million tender dreams in the process.

A cruel tit-fot-tat closed Russia to American adoptive families at the end of 2012. Aiming to punish the United States for the Magnitsky Act―a piece of legislation wholly unrelated to adoption―the Russian government devastated hundreds of orphans who had adoptive families working to bring them home. Eighteen of those children―all older, two HIV-positive, and two sibling foursomes―were headed to Lighthouse families, moms- and dads-in-waiting who had met and already adored them. It killed us to leave them behind, especially since it seemed so unlikely that they'd be adopted by Russians. In time, some of our kids did find Russian families, so at least they'd be loved. But to the best of our knowledge, few of our lost kids were so blessed.

Dear Artem almost made it home to the

family who would have changed his future.

Every child left behind broke my heart, but

none like Artem. He was such a gentle,

innocent victim of a political situation he

would never even understand.

(Photo by David LaRocque)

We brainstormed ideas, then participated in nationwide family-agency-U.S. State Department conference calls which happened frequently at first, then slowed until hope died altogether. It would not have helped our Russian kids, but eventually we began looking to other countries for work. I traveled to Ukraine, and was on the verge of going to another country. Nothing materialized. And though my heart never moved on, my life finally had to.

On my trips to Russia, I'd never actively looked for children to adopt myself, though my eyes were incessantly open. During those years, three kids endeared themselves to me so much that I would have adopted any of them had I been able to arm twist my husband. But as much as his no's grieved me, I realized that the Lighthouse Project was all-consuming, and that by not adopting one orphan, I stayed able to serve many. Then it all dried up anyway, not by my will, but seemingly by Vladimir Putin's.

In September 2013, when expectations for Russia were running on fumes, my friend showed me a photo of a young Chinese girl. Even with unwanted free time on my hands, I still wasn't looking to adopt, hoping Russia might reopen. Further, the child was blind, which terrified me. So I did all I could: just prayed that the Lord would call a family. In mercy He answered―by calling mine. After a maddeningly tortured path, Eliana joined our family in February 2015, through a process so circuitous that its ultimate success scuttled any doubt that she was meant to be ours.

Randy and I meeting Eliana for the first time

Ironically, while battling for Eliana's adoption, I still greatly feared bringing home a blind child. Several parents encouraged me, claiming that their blind children were children first, and that blindness was the least remarkable part of who they were. I hardly dared believe it, but soldiered on out of duty. After her homecoming, though, I became the staunchest of believers; Eliana swiftly and gracefully compelled me to view her as only my daughter. Home ten months now, she has greatly exceeded my most optimistic expectations; her joy, positivity, sweetness, intelligence, and 20/20 heart vision define her so much more accurately than "blind" ever could. Every day since she's been home I've felt thrilled by the gift she is. So much that we are adopting again―another blind girl from China.

Eliana loves to help, and is entirely capable.

As Eliana flourished, my soul began aching for orphans with special needs like hers. Nine weeks ago, the friend who'd showed me my little one forwarded information about a trip to China quite similar to the Lighthouse Project trips I'd run in Russia. With two intensely personal connections to China through my daughters, I already loved the country, so my desire to travel was kindled. My Eliana had opened my eyes to children with special needs, and now I yearned to help them move from orphanages to families. At the beginning of November, I arrived in Beijing to meet Perry, ten, a winsome boy who would make advocacy for him easy once I got home. After our time together, I spent the last days of my trip at a foster home for visually impaired children. Blind children are among the most difficult to place; if only potential adoptive families knew what I know now!



A photo I took as I left my Russian kids' orphanage

on my first trip to Russia, back in 2005. It became

theme photo for this blog. It poignantly embodied

the need I saw in there, and motivated my work until

the country closed to adoption. I drew immense

inspiration from these faces, and I pray that some

joy has come to their lives.

Thus, my Lighthouse Project chapter of life is over. Like closing a spell-binding book of endless surprises, I deeply regret its too-soon ending. But I'll forever treasure the profound joy it brought me in those few years; a billionaire with ten thousand lifetimes would be less blessed. The Lighthouse Project―which was really only about the kids we helped―and those at the end who we couldn't―has already begun shaping a new work in China.

From the bottom of my heart I thank you, dear families, children, supporters, and readers―friends!―for sharing with me this amazing Russian story. As I say goodbye to Russia, I invite you to come meet China's unloved, but lovable, orphans with special needs. I'll be introducing them on a new blog, Too Special. I'd be honored if you subscribed. There are more kids we can love and help together, and that journey is just beginning.

Someone Else's Kid

Our first Sunday together

Shielding my eyes in horror whenever Caroline Ingalls labored to give birth on Little House on the Prairie, I would beg my mom to mute the sound; I owe my desire to adopt to her refusal. Good reasons to build families through adoption abound, but for me, it all began with Ma. 
 
Randy was washing clothes in our dormitory laundry room when we met my freshman year at Michigan State. Solicitous, polite, and a patient listener, he was almost perfect.  His only flaw was a doozy, though: he did not share my desire to adopt.  I badgered him mercilessly, but no matter how often we discussed it, he was adamant he couldn’t love “someone else’s kid.”  I took a risk and married him anyway. After graduation, we began talking more seriously about children, but Randy remained mired in his opposition to adopting; he was sure he could only love his “own” offspring.

One Sunday in late 1996, a family from our church arrived carrying their new three-year-old daughter from India.  At her baptism a few weeks later, our minister preached about adoption, which I’d never considered a religious subject.  But as he weaved into his homily plenteous biblical examples of God’s compassion for orphans, he opined that since all Christians were themselves adopted by God, more should thank Him by adopting.  Inspired, I ignored the impulse to elbow Randy’s ribs.

Shortly thereafter, I taped a Turning Point special on Romanian adoption.  The next day, I pleaded with Randy to watch it with me, and not to refuse the request I’d make afterward until he’d prayed for at least one week.  While he viewed the episode with seeming indifference, he kept his vow of silence when I asked again about adopting.  Six days passed; then January 23, 1997, he confessed he’d been considering adoption since the sermon, and had already realized it was in our future a week before Turning Point.

Nicole's referral photo

I danced from the mailbox to my house a few days later when documents from the local adoption agency arrived.  After extensive discussion, we choose Guatemala as our country.   Our families were thrilled, though my mother-in-law could not understand our decision.  “Can’t you have your own kids?” she prodded, as if no one would adopt if they didn’t have to.  I rejoiced at Randy’s complete conversion when he pretended not to understand the question.  As she elaborated, he corrected her that the child would be our own.

Guatemala’s mañana culture consigned us to a nearly two-year wait for a referral.  In October 1998, our social worker phoned me at work to announce a baby girl, Nicole, had been chosen for us.  Randy left work immediately for the photos, but promised not to look until I got home.  When they heard the news, my parents rushed over to see their first grandchild, then treated us to a celebratory dinner; my mom kissed Nicole’s photo before leaving that night.  Randy’s parents lived in Iowa, and drove to see the pictures a few days later.

Randy playing with Nicole
the day we met her in Guatemala

We flew to Guatemala City to meet our daughter and her foster family 27 months after deciding to adopt.  After glasses of lemonade, which we guzzled before the ice could melt, the foster mother presented Nicole to us.  Sleeping when she was placed in my arms, she opened huge eyes, shook her head, blinked, and looked into my face, as if yearning to learn who her mama would be.  She was adorable in her yellow dress, with dark eyes and curly, doll-like hair.  Randy was smitten, overcome to see a real child gazing at him, and craving his love and attention.  “She’s ours,” he told me.

Nicole the day we arrived home with her

Guatemala required two trips, and we tormented our agency with calls as we awaited permission for our second visit.   A day before Nicole’s first birthday, she was in our arms forever.  Arriving home, a festive throng assembled on our lawn to greet us. As we turned down our street, my uncle, a Grand Rapids policeman, veered out in front of us to escort us with flashing lights and wailing siren.  After we showed the baby her new room, my mom spread a picnic feast outside.  My mother-in-law carried Nicole everywhere; when the time came for her return to Iowa, she sent my father-in-law home alone, and told him to come back in a week.

Emily's referral photo

Two years later, it was Randy’s idea to look to China for a child. When our agency warned us of an impending holdup due to bird flu, Randy and I left on vacation.  Checking in for our flight in Detroit, the clerk told us to call home.  Nicole, 4, answered, “Hi, Mama!  Adoption’s ready!”  I phoned the agency, and they read little Jin Su Li’s documents to me.  They’d e-mailed her photo, but in the era predating ubiquitous WiFi, we had to fly to Philadelphia before we could access the Internet.  In our giddiness, $7 for five minutes online seemed a bargain when we saw our precious daughter in her padded suit, with an incongruous poolside backdrop. We signed acceptance documents in the airport, and US Airways staff faxed them to the agency for us.

 

A cultural tour in Nanchang, China;
This man has a mallard duck, two
pigeons, and four turtles, among
other unusual items in his baskets.

Traveling with a group of families getting daughters from the same province, we arrived in Beijing two months later.  In a stifling room, as children were presented alphabetically by adoptive family surname, we rejoiced at being D’s.  Soon, the room resounded with crying: the babies, disconsolate at their abductions by strange-looking people, and the parents at receiving such wondrous gifts. Our daughter, now named Emily, weighed 12 pounds at 11 months, and was starved for love. As we cradled her, she arched backward at the waist, desperate to move as far from us as possible.  She didn’t smile once, and sobbed almost the entire trip. Randy cuddled her constantly; my nerves could scarcely suffer the incessant wailing. Even new parents in our group started offering suggestions which, as an experienced mom, galled me immensely.  At night, Randy paced the hallway with her, showing her things from our high rise hotel overlooking the Gan River.  Whispering gently, holding her close, he trusted the crying would cease; he reassured me that once she figured out we weren’t leaving, she would love us back. 

Emily's very first smile for us

As our week in China progressed, Emily hardly warmed up, though her active rebuff of us subsided.  Borrowing a stroller from our hotel, we wandered the streets on excursions we dubbed “cultural tours.” She stopped crying during the tours, so we went out daily.  On those riveting walks, we witnessed the most fascinating sights we’d ever seen.  The day before our departure home, Randy clapped as Emily rolled over, garnering a half-hearted clap-clap in imitation.  It was her first interaction with us, and a most glorious memory.  After our trip, our family welcomed us with signs, balloons, and cake at the airport. When we strapped Emily into her car seat for the ride home, Nicole bounced in beside her.  “It’s very fun to have a sister,” she chirped, as Emily's first smile crossed her face.

Our referral photo of Julia and Michael;
We knew they were ours by the time the photo
had opened to the level of the black line.

Only a few weeks home from China, we had no business attending an adoption fair, but I went anyway and met a coordinator for the Lighthouse Project.  She detailed their efforts with older child adoption, my lifelong passion.  While the resultant path was circuitous, I coordinated my first Lighthouse Project hosting trip out of that serendipitous meeting, ultimately deciding to adopt a sibling group. Despite expeditious work on the adoption, obstacles repeatedly arose; eventually, Lighthouse Project director Hope asked us to consider switching regions. Though we refused, after an unusually despondent message from me Hope e-mailed a photo of another sibling group.  I was initially annoyed, but downloaded the photo. With dial-up Internet, it opened just a few lines at a time, but by the time the freckles on the little girl’s cheeks appeared, I was captivated.  Randy concurred. 

Michael and Julia on the couch,
the first time we saw them

Five weeks later, we were in Russia. When we entered our hotel’s lobby, Julia, 8, and Michael, 6, were on a couch before us. Randy especially was appalled that such little ones had no parents caring for them, and wondered what could possibly have been more important to them than the two.  No one introduced us, so we sat down next to them, then scooped them into our laps. They warmed to us immediately, easily accepting the toys and candy we offered.  We hadn’t even left the couch when we knew they were ours.   They soaked up all the love and attention we could lavish, then did whatever necessary to earn more.  Our time with Julia and Michael was unspeakably rewarding, because they were old enough to want us. 

Julia crying at her desk in the orphanage school when
we left her. She is trying to smile here for my photo.

When it was time to return the kids to their orphanage, leaving them behind was gut wrenching. We were still outside the building when Julia started sobbing; seeing this, a caretaker scolded her as we walked in the door.  Our visit did not increase our desire to leave the kids there. The building housed Julia’s school, and she sat at her desk for a teary-eyed photo.  Witnessing this, Randy implored me to "pull out all the stops" to get the kids home quickly.

Back at the hotel before leaving on the train for Moscow, it was distressingly quiet in the cafe where we had shared all our meals. Reminiscing about the blessed commotion the last time we ate here, I broke down, then Randy followed.  We’d blown through all the napkins on the table, and were puffy-eyed, red-faced messes when our server arrived.  Though he’d seen us with the kids several times, he was perplexed about why we were so distraught.

Julia and Michael come to us.

We rushed to finish our process, returning to Russia in early 2006.  Back at the orphanage, we waited in the director’s office for the kids.  Growing impatient at the protracted delay, we opened the office door to look into the hallway; right then, Michael was striding down the hall.  Seeing us, he exploded into a run, leaping joyously into Randy’s arms.  That memory burns in our hearts, bringing a smile to both of us whenever we recall it.  Julia lagged behind, torn over leaving the teacher she lived with.

During the next weeks in Moscow, we anxiously anticipated gathering our entire brood under one roof at last.  After 25 days in Russia, a crowd cheered our final arrival home. Three countries and four children later, we were a family, in every sense of the word.

Now six years have come and gone, yet after all of our adoptions, one thing hasn’t changed: Randy still can’t love someone else’s kid.

He’s far too busy loving his own.

*****

At least 90% of our first-time callers are women.  A common lament among them are husbands who are not fully on board with adoption. If you're a man and would like to speak with an adoptive dad, we have several who are willing to share their experiences. Please call me at (616) 245-3216, and I will put you in touch with one of them.  It might be one of the best calls you ever make!