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My ninth grade yearbook photo
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Dear Bill,
You might not remember me; we met
so long ago. But what a difference you made in my life! I was the new girl in
your class when we both were in ninth grade. At 14, I worried about making
friends in a small school where almost everyone else had been together since
kindergarten.
Though I shyly yearned to
fit in, I had to sit next to you in class. You taunted me―many times daily―"Everybody
hates you!" and sneered almost as often, "Becky, you're so
ugly!" You never tired of this
material, and the gusto with which you heaped on abuse seemed boundless. You
made every single school day a hopeless referendum on my personal value, or so I
thought. My reaction was silly, but you know how impressionable young teenagers
can be.
It probably looked as if I was
taking it, but inside I seethed, and from the bottom of my heart I despised you
and your loathsome little school. For nearly 20 years afterward, I never
breathed a word about how you'd tormented me. I cared nothing about protecting your
reputation; I just couldn't shake the fear
that what you'd said was a reflection of me. But deep into my thirties, I
finally grasped that your words reflected you alone.
Why the bullying of a cruel
misfit would have outweighed the positive messages from my family, I can't say.
But your pitiless persecution left me feeling unworthy, unloved, and unneeded. I
escaped you and your school after ninth grade, but your sadistic insults
haunted me. I worked endlessly to achieve, to show my worthiness. I hated
mirrors for years, slumped my shoulders, and studied the floor as I walked to my
classes.
But things got better.
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My kids―from Guatemala, China, and Russia―are a rare gift.
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Somewhere along the way, I
learned about orphans in other countries, kids who truly had no one to love or value
them. After what you did to me, their pain resonated so viscerally with me that
I wanted to comfort them as soon as I was in a position to do so. And I did:
I've adopted five children, and have a sixth on the way. My children are a gift
from God, but that I ever came to want them was a gift from you.
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For all the kids it thrilled me to find adoptive families for, it
was this girl whose adoption meant the world to me.
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Later, I began to help orphans
from Russia―with some of them, the mean teenaged version of you would surely
have had a field day! These poor kids
were alone, friendless. They lived in cold orphanages, suffered at the hands of
some of their caretakers and peers, and―just like me―felt worthless, and that
no one cared. Before Russia closed to American adoption, I helped 80 of these
kids find families―my all-time favorite was a beaten-down girl someone dubbed a
"crushed little blossom." How my heart sang when she went home to be
cherished by the family I found for her! I poured my heart into this work, because
of what you taught me. I would gladly have done it forever.
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In Russia, with some of the precious kids I tried to help
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Once Russia shut down, I had
spare time, so I adopted an eight-year-old girl from China; she is blind, but the
light of my life. This remarkably winsome child tells me often that before us, not
once, not ever, did anyone tell her
that she was special. So I remind her of her preciousness every day. And her
blindness has been such a minor issue that we are adopting another blind
daughter. Adoption agencies say that blind children are among the most
difficult to place, and you definitely drilled into me a compassion for the
underdog!
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What lies have others told poor Jon?
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Despite my joy, though, I do have
sadness. Several days ago, I saw another child from China. I can't open every
email message I receive about waiting orphans; it would overwhelm me to face
all that I can't do. But the subject line "Nine-year-old Jon wants a
family so badly!" grabbed me, and I had to look. Coincidentally, I found the
boy was blind. But his caretakers said he has "sunshine in his mind,"
which reminds me so much of my daughter, who no one had noticed was unbelievably special.
It was Jon's video that really seized my heart and wouldn't let go. That little boy, desperate for a family, was folding his blanket meticulously, then wiping a table with such urgency, that I understood him instantly. Surely made to feel insignificant because of his disability, he doesn't feel worthy, so he performs in hope of demonstrating his value. After all these years away from you, it's still easy for me to recognize, and it burned a hole in my heart. I wanted that boy for my son, and I wanted to make him know he has value, no matter what other people in his life might tell him.
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Jon, age 9, on the blanket he
worked so hard to fold
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But after prayer and reflection,
it appears that with five children already, one of them blind, and another
blind child on her way, I am stretched thin. And homeschooling keeps me busy; I
could never entrust my kids to a formal school, after spending a year with you
in one. As badly as my heart aches to bring Jon home, and help him heal from all
the lies he's been told, I worry I just can't do it right now. So I pray
that someone else will find this little
treasure, and protect him from the people who'd make him feel like a nothing.
If I can't adopt him myself, I will look for someone who can.
My ability to talk about this, then
to appreciate your role, has been 30 years in the making. You never meant your
heartless words to help anyone, but God turned them into good―good for me, and
good for others. I have the most amazing children any mother could ever hope
for. And I am living a blessing-drenched life focused on helping kids who
believe that each day that goes by without a family is a hopeless referendum on
their value.
I know what that feels like, and
it changed my life.
For that, Bill, I say thank you.
Sincerely,
Becky
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Update: Jon has since been adopted by a loving family, and is thriving in his new home.
