My Plan B Family

My most influential spiritual teachers have been, without a doubt, my children. I have three adopted children and two foster children. All my children, for various reasons, did not end up with their birth families. Being raised by your birth parents is what I would call Plan A. When that doesn’t work, then you have to go to Plan B. I am a Plan B parent.

People say to me, Oh, what a wonderful thing you have done for these children. No, I am the lucky one. My children have been God’s greatest gift to me. Each one has given me a gift like no other. On Mother’s Day several years ago, I wrote a letter thanking each one. What I said to each child is private, but I will share the gifts.

James gave me the gift of motherhood. The night before I got James I kept thinking, This will be the last night of my life that I am not a mother. The next day I would become a mother and I would be a mother for the rest of my life. Being a mother broke open my heart.

Mia gave me the gift of connection. Before her arrival, I lived a very isolated life. But Mia never met a stranger. A trip to the grocery store became a social event. Through her, I became connected to the world around me.

Dan gave me the gift of acceptance. Dan joined our family as a 14 year old autistic teenager. I had to accept him just the way he was. Because of Dan, I learned to accept James’s autism as well. And to accept other people, too, just as they are.

Grace gave me the gift of ... grace. Grace is God’s invitation to us to experience His unconditional love. To receive God’s gift of grace, we must have faith. Faith that God loves us even when others don’t or when we can’t love ourselves. Faith that God’s angels hold us in the light when all we see is darkness. Grace taught me to trust God.

Lily gave me the gift of peace. Her presence radiates serenity and calms the air she moves through. Because she is my last child, my heart feels full and complete. Through Lily, I have learned to rest in God.

To others, my family might appear, well, complicated. When my adopted daughter and my foster daughter both had babies this year, a friend asked me who I was to these babies. Was I their grandmother? At first I was angry at the question, which seemed at best insensitive (especially with respect to an adopted child, as any adoptive parent can appreciate). Of course I am their grandmother. And yet, I have to admit that the relationships in our family are not always so easy to identify.

For example, my foster son Dan joined our family after his parents died. Although he has been part of our family for almost twelve years, I have never tried to replace his mother and he has never called me mom. But I claim him as my own and he and James are brothers.

Although I rarely use the labels “adopted” or “foster,” or even think of them, sometimes I do when it seems important to explain the various connections, as I have in this post. The kids do the same. For example, Grace will sometimes call me her mom, but other times her foster mom if she is distinguishing me from her birth family with whom she is still connected. The labels are fluid and used when useful.

But sitting around the table at Thanksgiving, there were no labels. My heart was full as I looked at all of us – all five kids and two grandkids, plus Mia’s boyfriend, and Grace’s dad and two little half-sisters. We all came from different families of origin, different ethnicities, even different countries. Yet here we were, a family, not made by blood but by God, bound not by genes but by love.

Thank you, God, for blessing me with my Plan B family.