A few years ago while sitting in a writing class, I wrote these words, and the LORD put it on my heart to write my own adoption story... my earthly one, as well as my heavenly adoption. And, with this writing exercise, God showed me I was no longer the child I was before. He equipped me in a new way, power through words.
Praise God for what he has done for us Christians!
"Praise be to God for giving us through Christ every possible spiritual benefit as citizens of Heaven! For consider what he has done—before the foundation of the world he chose us to become, in Christ, his holy and blameless children living within his constant care. He planned, in his purpose of love, that we should be adopted as his own children through Jesus Christ—that we might learn to praise that glorious generosity of his which has made us welcome in the everlasting love he bears towards the Son." ~Ephesians 1:5 (J.B. Phillips New Testament)
Chapter 1
Rear View
I barely remember the details, but peripherally there were smells of fabric, that starchy, sizing smell, saw dust tickling my nose, making my eyes water, the steady hum of his sewing machine and the soft voice of my dad saying “baby doll, grab that end, will you?” My Poppy, actually everyone’s Poppy, my dad was the gentlest in voice and spirit. Only once can I remember him raising his voice in anger, and the details are non existent. He was good at the no talk discipline. I, on the other hand, always talked; talked back on occasion. I vividly remember the snatch of my three foot pony tail, as I tried to run from his reach – you know those pre-teen nudges to a parent?
It amazes me how I have spent a life time trying to remember the little things, because it’s the little things that are such a big thing; the words, the expressions, the images – to envision a life passed to a place I know to be heaven, where we will be together – my dad is always with me.
My fondest memories are of spending time with my dad in his workshop, our garage; where he resurrected the dead – chairs, sofas and the discarded furniture of Southern California. Whatever could be picked up on garbage day or from an empty lot; other’s trash, my dad’s glorious treasures and that is how I see all of his life. I was placed in his care, broken, tattered, tiny and alone; dependent in every way. An infant, whose birth parents could not care for, but love enough to make sure she was cared for: no words, no past, no cry; left out of love to be resurrected, reborn and accepted – to be the recipient of an ordinary life.
They had finished their careers as foster parents, until the baby Foster arrived. When I arrived in the arms of Mrs. Barnette, I was to be temporarily placed with this family. The bundle delivered – Shawn Delia Foster – tiny, in a brace for the congenital hip dysplasia, and still in an infant seat at over a year old. As a baby with great needs, there are many things to consider in the care and feeding of. Not even a concern for the woman, Justine Therrien, whose arms I ended up in. She grabbed that challenge and fell in love with her new daughter. Their home was home to many other children who had come through those same doors and eventually went back out. Some stayed for days, others for years and a few for decades.
Copyright © Shawn Boreta 2009
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