Eyes That See

(Note: Due to the sensitive nature of this post, some names and identifying details have been changed.)

Eliana's adoption was incredibly difficult; for 13 of the 16 months her process took we had no human reason to believe it would happen. I learned to truly pray during that trial, but on those days when my faith flagged more than usual, I begged God: if not us, then at least another Christian family! As obstacles mounted and I seemed already to be asking the impossible, I frequently added a more audacious plea: that in communist China, Eliana might meet someone―anyone―who would share the gospel with her while she waited for us.

When Eliana at last was ours, it was heartwarming to find her as bubbly with happiness as her

The day we finally got Eliana

photos and videos had promised. But she'd never even heard the name Jesus. Six weeks home, I took her to Missouri to meet my friend, Elaine. She had a Chinese Christian friend, so with Eliana's English still rudimentary, we'd asked him to share the gospel with her in Mandarin.  Eliana listened politely, but was more curious about why we'd adopted her. The man translated my answer: it was because we loved Jesus and thought that He wanted us to do it. "Then I love Him, too," she said matter-of-factly, as if no other reaction could possibly have made sense.

Eliana's joyful presence in our family made the decision to adopt again fairly easy when I heard about Maria six months later. And as bumpy as Eliana's adoption process was, Maria's was smooth; from start to finish took just over seven months. Of course I prayed for Maria as I waited: that she would receive good care in China; in our morning, that she'd have a good night's sleep; in our evening, that she'd have a good day at school; that she would come home soon; and that she'd be a blessing to our family. But not once did I pray that she'd meet someone in China who might share the gospel with her; she was in an enormous government-run orphanage. And I was still so embarrassed by my request for Eliana's salvation that I hadn't told anyone I'd prayed it, and often.

In late 2015, I went to China to meet a boy to advocate back home for, similar to my old work with Russian orphans. After the first part of my trip, Elaine joined me, and we visited an orphanage for blind children, as I now yearned to help blind kids find adoptive families. The orphanage housed us in a little cottage, home to three pre-teen girls. The girls attended a school for the blind, and the youngest, Li Ling, was in Maria's class there. Li Ling knew Maria, she said, but I'd been warned to stay quiet in China about my own adoption plans, so I had to be content with just meeting someone who knew her.

The orphanage caused Elaine and I great distress that first day and night. The need of the children there was strength-sapping, and I didn’t know where to start. To make matters worse, there was no supervision in the cottage, and one of the girls played a single Mandarin song endlessly, spinning in circles as she listened. The next morning, I awoke to her belting out the chorus every time it played. My pillow was too skimpy to muffle the noise, and I wanted to grumble to Elaine, but somehow she slept. Suddenly, the Lord changed my outlook as I finally placed English words with the refrain:

                Nothing is too difficult for Thee!

                Nothing is too difficult for Thee!

                Great and mighty God,
                Great in counsel and mighty in deed,

                Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing,

                Nothing is too difficult for Thee!"

 As it played the rest of the weekend, I thanked the Lord for forgiving me my doubts, and reminding me of His power over―and over―and over―even if it took the scourge of an earworm to do it.

When I returned home, I finished our adoption paperwork. Randy and I flew to China in April 2016, this time to pick up Maria. Being in a foreign country with a new, non-English speaking child is stressful, to put it mildly. So two of Elaine's daughters, both fluent in Mandarin, traveled with me, since Randy would stay only 36 hours due to his busy season at work. Additionally, his cousin Annie, who works in a Chinese orphanage near Nepal, came to Beijing to share our happiness.

Randy and I with Maria, right when we got her

We left our hotel early on April 25 to drive to Maria's orphanage. When we arrived, we signed a
few documents, then without any ceremony Maria entered the room. We'd had her only a few minutes before we all were ushered out. Though we asked, they would not let us see where she'd lived; after some arm-twisting, they agreed to send us a photo of what they said was her bed.

As we drove away in the van, Maria began firing off insistent questions. Within several minutes, one of Elaine's daughters and Annie exclaimed, "She's a Christian!" Maria desperately wanted to know, really demanded to know, if we were, too. Yes, we assured her, but once was not sufficient. She asked again, then after our second yes, launched into a presentation of how Jesus had died on the cross for our sins. Only when we told her that we knew what Jesus did, and that we ourselves believed it, did she finally seem to trust our answers.



In Tiananmen Square our first day together, right before
we met Tang

I was just as incredulous as she. My brand new daughter―in China―was a believer, and a bold one at that! Thinking back on my crazy prayer for Eliana, I wished I'd had the faith to pray that for Maria, too. But our good God graciously deigned to answer what I'd chosen not to ask.

As I marveled at the human improbability of it all, Maria told us of her friend at the blind school who'd shared the gospel with her. When we asked more about this dear soul, I found out it was Li Ling, her classmate from the little cottage at the orphanage Elaine and I had visited.


That first evening together, Randy, Maria, Annie, and I went to Tiananmen Square. In front of the iconic portrait of Chairman Mao, Maria spoke loudly about Christmas, not a traditional Chinese holiday. Soon, a very scarred, mismatched-looking man approached us. Having overheard Maria, he asked Annie, "Do you believe?" She told him we all did. The man, Tang, had come from a province 1,000 miles away to the heart of Beijing just to pray for China. His subject turned to persecution, and with his appearance, we guessed he was talking about himself. Tang suggested we all pray, right there in the square, for China and America. He spoke kindly to Maria, then before he left, asked her to continue praying that both China and her new country would bow to God's rule. Despite our many differences, he was a brother, and meeting Tang was a highlight of our trip.

The next morning, right before Randy departed China, we had a lovely tour of Maria's school. It was unspeakably moving when Maria entered the gate, and her friends, all blind, gathered around her. She'd shed her blue uniform shirt and the red scarf of communism, and now as they touched her new clothes and the bow in her hair, they called

Maria's friends from school gather round her on her
visit back with Randy and I.

her beautiful. Li Ling choked me up the most, my knowing that she'd shared the precious gift of life with our new daughter.

Maria adores God more than most people do, loves His Word, aches to worship, and shows concern for other believers. She prays earnest prayers, trusts God to answer them, then isn't surprised when He does. She wants to be a missionary, preferably to the Philippines, but for now, she's a missionary at home in America.

Blind? Not really. Maria and Li Ling have eyes that SEE.

Out of nowhere the other day, Maria proclaimed, "I like being blind." Indeed, while I have never, ever heard her utter a word against it, the sentiment still astounded me.  Many people who know little about the reality of blindness think death would be preferable, but I like to think sightless eyes brought her life. They sent her to a Chinese blind school, where she heard the gospel because a "blind" friend had enough vision and faith to share it. It's impossible to know what might have been had Maria not been born blind, but it seems to me that what most call blindness has led to her sight.

                But blessed are your eyes, for they see, and your ears, for they hear (Matthew 13:16).

**********

Thank You to a Ninth Grade Bully



My ninth grade yearbook photo

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.



My kids―from Guatemala, China, and Russia―are a rare gift.

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.

For all the kids it thrilled me to find adoptive families for, it

was this girl whose adoption meant the world to me.

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.



In Russia, with some of the precious kids I tried to help

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!



What lies have others told poor Jon?

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.



Jon, age 9, on the blanket he

worked so hard to fold

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

                                                                                             ********

Update: Jon has since been adopted by a loving family, and is thriving in his new home.

Waiting for Wings

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

 

Perry tells the story "Beautiful Rooster" at the

Ambassador of Hope opening ceremony.



 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

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

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

performance is below.

 





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.

 

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, with the panda far in the background

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 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.

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

new and special to Perry.

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.

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



Perry smiled almost all the time.

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 child placing agency they wish. World Association for Children and Parents (WACAP, www.wacap.org), an agency we have worked with and loved three times, 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 grant money is available for Perry's adoption. 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 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.



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)

A cruel tit-for-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.

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 nine 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. Seven 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 the theme

photo for my blog, Russian Orphan Lighthouse Project.

 It poignantly embodied the need I saw in Russia, and

motivated my work there until the country closed to

adoption. I drew immense inspiration from these faces,

 and I pray 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 this new work in China.

As I say goodbye to Russia and its amazing story, I invite you to come along to meet China's unloved, but lovable, orphans with special needs. I plan to introduce them weekly on this blog, Too Special. I'd be honored if you subscribed and followed the blog at the right sidebar above.

There are more kids we can love and help together, and that journey is just beginning.