If we could step away from the translators, and hurdle the chasms of socio-economic status, education, and culture that separate us. If we could sit in a quiet moment, as two women – two mothers – and open our hearts to each other, this is what I would say:
I’m sorry. I love you. Thank you.
I’m sorry because you have suffered unimaginable pain and hardship. And sometimes I feel almost responsible for it. Not that I caused your pain, but that I have benefited from it. I hate that. I hate the brokenness that destroys some and benefits others. It isn’t right.
If I could look deeply into your eyes and tell you exactly how I feel, I would tell you that I know this is not how things were supposed to be. I would tell you that I know this was not your first choice.
And I would tell you that I am doing everything in my power to change things. To reduce the number of times that mothers have to make the choice that you made. It’s not enough, but it’s all I can do right now. I will not accept my lot as my reward, because I know it isn’t that. Instead I will see it as a responsibility, a charge, a mandate. I promise I will not walk away from the task I’ve been given of standing in the gap for other mothers like you.
And I would tell you that I love you. I love you because you are beautiful, not just on the outside, though anyone who sees her knows that you are, but because your spirit is so beautiful. I can see that, in spite of the chasms that separate us.
I love you because of your faith, your hope, your love. I see Christ in you, and I celebrate that we are sisters, and that one day we will be able to have this conversation together. You never leave my thoughts, my prayers.
I never look at her in love without feeling you with me. I love you because of her. How could I not? She is wonderful, isn’t she? So beautiful and smart and talented. I love sharing the pride of her with you. I love that we can both agree that she is the best.
Sometimes I wonder, if you really knew me, if you still would have entrusted her to me. She’s making me better. I want you to know that too. What I offer to her is so small compared to what she offers to me.
And I would tell you thank you. Thank you for loving us, for celebrating her with us, and for allowing us into your life. You could have chosen bitterness; no one would have blamed you. But instead you chose joy. This is amazing to me.
Thank you for this beautiful little girl who calls me “Mommy.” Thank you for sharing that role with me. I will not take it from you. I will not be jealous of you. I choose to be thankful instead. Jealousy erodes what is good, thankfulness enshrines it, but it’s clear that you already know that. I will choose thankfulness, just as you have.
I want you to know that I am not scared of you or threatened by you. I feel blessed to share this role with you, and I hope I do justice to you and to her.
Thank you for coming to see us. For opening your heart up to the possibility of more pain for her sake. She needed you; she needs you still. And I need you too. Thank you for leaving with smiles instead of tears. You amaze me.
We have much ahead of us. Our story isn’t over. I wish I could sit with you and tell you all of these things, instead of just smiling and hugging. But, I think you know. When our eyes meet, I see it. Sometimes words aren’t needed.
Sweet friends, thank you so much for your prayers and thoughts right now. I know that you care so much about Evy and the rest of us. I want you to know that our meeting with her birth mom was wonderful . . . and sacred. And sometimes sacredness just can’t be shared. For Evy’s sake, I am just not willing to share more of her story than I already have, so please do not ask. I’m sorry for that, but I know you understand.