A few weeks ago, my son started calling me “father”. When we adopted him (and his sister) 5 years ago, he was 7 and I was “daddy”. That seemed to suit us both for a few months, but then, 2nd grade peer pressure being what it is, I was booted up to “dad”. And there it’s stood. Until now.

When I first heard “father”, I was speechless. It had to sink in for a while. I know he thought I was deaf or senile when I didn’t answer him, looking him in the eye, like I was. But it was a pretty sudden change. You could almost hear the capital “F” is his voice. My first thought, of course, was “This kid wants something.” Something BIG. But he didn’t. He just wanted to talk. Father and son.

Before I was married, I dreamt a lot about being a dad. I always knew I’d be good at it. I like to relax. And
play games. And eat pizza. Such dads are always popular with kids. And after I was married, I KNEW I’d be good at it because I started growing in places that remind folks of Pooh Bears. And then the kids came. And after 10 years of marriage, I was a real dad. Not a “natural” dad or a “biological” dad or an “A Parent” dad. A REAL dad.

I’ve worn the “Dad” button proudly for 5 years now. I’ve been there when he needed me and when he didn’t want me. I’ve stayed up all night watching “Terminator” movies and I’ve stayed up all night watching his hospital bed. I’ve been a “dad”. But now I was a “father” and it puzzled me.

When parenting becomes puzzling, I generally look for spiritual parallels. I don’t know if that’s deep theology or just elementary living, but it works for me. And so I began to think of by own relationship with God. When the kids came, I was scared. I doubted myself, my abilities, and my kids. It was only my clinging to my heavenly Father that got me through it. Not just one day at a time. It was one hour at a time. Until it began to sink in that He had equipped me to handle what He had given me to do, and that where my abilities left off, His grace would always be sufficient. Always. After 5 years, it’s sunk in. I don’t have to be afraid. I don’t have to worry. I can count on my Father. I am His, and He is mine.

And then it hit me right between the eyes. After 5 years my son was no longer afraid. He didn’t worry any more if I would be there the next day. I was his. And he was mine.

And I was “father”.

It’s much too late in the evening to be doing this, and I’ll pay for it dearly tomorrow, but I can’t help myself any more.

We adopted a 7 yr old boy and a 10 yr old girl 5 years ago.  Problems?  Sure.  More so than our friends with bio kids?  Nope.  Different problems?  Sometimes.

It’s an imperfect world in which we live. The good die young. The innocent are persecuted. The hungry stay hungry. And sometimes families don’t work out. Sometimes bio families don’t work out. And sometimes adopted families don’t work out. I wish neither was the case, but they are.

The point is, though, that when we draw our first breath, we take our first chance. Bio kids also have emotional problems, get violent, and end up in prison. Yesterday the State of Oklahoma executed a man that grew up as somebody’s darling little bio baby boy.

It’s hard work to adopt an older child. But it’s NO HARDER than parenting bio kids. It’s just a DIFFERENT kind of hard. In addition to all the wonderful books on adoption and adopting older kids, read Emerson’s “Compensation”. We have had to deal with some “peculiar” behavior, but, in total, it is no more awkward than a 2 yr old throwing mashed potatoes at Aunt Martha!

We’ve stayed up nights trying to figure out the day, but we haven’t had 2:00 feedings. There are things we’ve missed, but there are things we’ve gained.

Compensation.

Things we’ve learned: Forgiveness always heals. Love never fails. Patience.

I’ll go at this again tomorrow, but, for now, I’ve got miles to sleep before I go.

The winter Olympics are over and I only got to see one awards ceremony. Women’s Figure Skating. We won the silver and the gold. I cry, of course, when turtles cross the road, so the sight of those two champions singing while our flags were rising was more than I could bear. And, of course, it got me thinking.

By American middle class standards, our family is middle middle. We’ve been blessed with steady incomes, and a nice home, but times haven’t always been good. When the kids came five yrs. ago, we had to learn to do without. We worried a lot about whether we could double our family size and survive financially. We did. But there have been no new cars. No expensive vacations. No swimming pools. Our kids, of course, would like to have a different color of Miata for each day of the week. And a monthly trek to Disney World. And an Olympic pool so they can train for Atlanta.

But we gave them puppies.

Puppies are really good at unconditional love. We try to give our kids that, too. But sometimes those little snots can really be irritating! Enter the puppies. Puppies are genetically incapable of tolerating anger. Mix one I wish I were dead teenage girl with one I want to lick the inside of your nose puppy and you get instant peace. It also works on I wish you were too parents.

Anyway, what this all boils down to is that when the kids came five yrs. ago Thursday, we were not able to give them much in the way of material goods. Of course, what we did give them was miles ahead of what they had, but I have always wished we could have done more. But I’ll just bet that they wouldn’t trade us in for that pool, or that trip, or that car.

Of course, we did end up giving them more. Normalcy. And consistency. And a healthy shot of unconditional love. (Even if some of it had to come from puppies.)

“Silver and gold,” Peter said, “have I none. But such as I have, I give to thee.” That’s really what its all about. No secret there. Bio parents live by that day by day. You don’t need a big house to give a kid a life. And you don’t need a big bank account to give a kid a father. What you need is a life to give, and a father to give it. (Please also read “mother.”)

This Thursday I would like to give our kids medals. Silver and gold. But I won’t because I’d have to choose. They surely deserve medals, though. The hurdles they’ve jumped and the weights they’ve lifted make Olympic athletes look like wimps. And I’d like to give them medals for having put up with us for five yrs. No mean trick. But I won’t. I think I’ll just hug them instead.

“Such as I have, . . . “