The Ordinary Ride that Turned Extraordinary

The other morning, we were in merging in traffic on the freeway in Charlotte, which as usual, is under construction, and as usual, there was someone who failed to let me in. Obviously, I made it, but not without some teeth grinding and growling. 

After all, it was 8:30 and I was on my first cup of java with cream, no sugar. Sarah was in tow. We were on the way to school, and for some reason, I was not feeling my normal chipper self. Maybe it was the traffic. Maybe it was the fact that we were late again, our gold standard. It doesn't usually bother me though. It does, however, bother most others I've learned the hard way.

I am not a morning person- meaning I do not have an easy time hopping out of bed. Once up however, I'm "annoyingly cheery," an ex once told me. This morning was not really different from most mornings, only I was deflated. And I was letting things bother me that shouldn't. Ie. traffic, running out of peanut butter- things like that. To me, those are silly things that have no business influencing one's mood. 

Here I sat, gripping the wheel as if strangling wet clothes, letting all the wrinkles dance across my forehead while furrowing my brow, and not singing along with my favorite song on the radio. It was a self-inflicted misery. And I was the only one to blame. 

What happened next changed everything. 

I looked over to my right, and what I saw brought me to tears of joy. There was a teenage girl leaning her head against the window in the car she was riding in. Removed from the conversation in the front seat, she had soft red hair, with skin like ivory. She looked me dead in the eyes, and smiled a gentle smile- at me! Not at someone else. Not in response to what may have been playing through her ear buds, but she smiled directly at me. 

That's all I needed, and it just about melted my heart. That smile felt different- like a Godsend, like an angel had just smiled at me. In that singular moment, which probably lasted about 3 seconds, I felt loved. I felt worthy, noticed, appreciated, and relieved. I wasn't alone. Life wasn't that bad. And all it took was one small act of kindness.  (And it was from a teenager of all people!!!! They do have feelings! Gasp!)

She didn't pause to think whether or not she should smile at me. She didn't look the other way, pretending that she hadn't looked dead at me. There was no ignoring. Just a plain smile. And she will never know how her smile, her random act of kindness, improved me in that fleeting moment. 

Sure, we get that feeling from babies, and small children who are being dragged around by their rushing parents. Sometimes we might get an unprompted smile from someone across the room, someone in passing on the street, but not like that. 

That was intentional. 

Living intentionally is the only way to be grounded, to become your greatest you. I believe that we influence our moods, and we choose happiness, and it starts as small as a smile. 

 Because sometimes, that's all it takes. 

Empathy makes it challenging to smile when someone you know is sad, but that's what we need sometimes. It takes a special person to be able to do that. Those people are rare, and when you find one like that, you better cherish that relationship. 

Through broken hearts and tears, I've learned that there are some people who we are better off without, and others that I didn't value enough. It's funny how something as simple as a smile can drive thoughts like these. I'm so glad I had that moment. 

If I didn't ever feel sadness, I wouldn't value joy. 

My close friend, Charity tells me all the time, "You have to embrace the darkness. Without it you'd never know the light." She's right. 

I have never experienced a smile with impact like that before, and I thought I would share it. Who did you smile at today? I'd love to hear some responses to this. Have you ever experienced a moment like that? Tell us about it. 

Biology Means Nothing

It was a Thursday, about 1pm, another sunny day, and the phone rang. I looked at the number staring at me on the screen. It said Wayne.

I answered it with a questioning, Hello?

I'm not sure why I answered like that when I knew perfectly who it was. I had his number saved, treasured, just as he had mine. I wonder if my number was saved to his phone or scribbled down on a piece of rogue paper floating atop a stack of papers on his desk.

I sensed on the first call that he was in his office with his door closed, perhaps leaning back on a leather swivel chair that his kids had once spun around and around and around in, as children would, like the chair that I now own, that was once Dad's office chair. It sits in my den, completely out of place, and rivaling Charity's chair. I call it Charity's because she loves it and nestles in it when she visits.

It's comforting to sit in, for reasons other than the obvious. It reminds me of Dad, of the way he would lean back with his fingers locked together over his chest, legs crossed, while telling one of his jokes. It reminds me of the way he would give me that same goofy grin, when I would roll my eyes, shaking my head, yet smiling. I miss his jokes now. I miss him and his advice, and dare I say, lack thereof.

I dropped the broom, and plopped down on the green couch. This couch has seen it all, and doesn't utter a word.

Hello Brooke. This is Wayne. Do you remember me? He said in a non threatening way, his voice so assuring though I sensed difficulty to follow.

Of course I do, Wayne. I called you first! Thank you for calling me back. How are you?

Well Brooke, I don't have good news. I really wish I did.

My heart dropped, and my breathing slowed. I knew what he was going to say, but I let him spit it out first.

When I spoke to my wife (Colette's older sister) about your call, she was very angry. She even mentioned the word harassment. She said that you had tried to contact Colette before, and that it was very upsetting to Colette, that she had been very worried about it. My wife mentioned taking legal action if you contacted her again. I'm so sorry Brooke.

Skipping through my mind were thoughts of desolation and anger. Who the hell does she think she is? What a bitch. Clearly, we are nothing alike- my aunt and I. I'm caring. She's obviously not.

My wife doesn't want to tell Colette that you reached out to me. She thinks it will bother her too much, that she is going through a lot right now. She doesn't think she could handle it. So she doesn't want to tell her that I spoke to you. I'm sorry Brooke. I know this is not what you wanted to hear. My wife was angry that the adoption agency helped you find her.

They didn't help me find her. I had search angels that did that. Did they not think that this day would ever come? 

Silence. On both ends.

Then came the water works. I let it all out.

It's harassment to want to know my birth mother? To want to know where I came from? I wrote to her, poured out my heart to her, and she never even had the common decency to respond. You mean she got my letters and just never responded? 

My mind was screaming, COWARD! Like a dog with her tail between her legs.

But you always feel sorry for that dog.  You don't know what that dog went through, Maybe she was beaten, neglected, unloved, left alone and hurt. The dog only bit in self defense for what the dog thought it needed to be defensive against. The dog had a lot of problems.

She could have at least just let me know that she wasn't interested instead of letting me think that she wasn't receiving my invitations. She was just leaving me with a sliver of hope. How could a mother be so cruel? I have a daughter, and I know what that love feels like, and I could never in a million years treat her like that. We must be VERY VERY different. 

No. No. No. She's such a nice lady Brooke.  You would like her so much. (Is he for real? I'm thinking.) They're such good Christians.

He said the term, "good Christians" a host of times, each time making me throw up in my mouth a little more.

I feel like I'm stuck in the middle, but I see both sides, he said with empathy. I wish I had better news for you Brooke.

After some more silence, interrupted by my sobs, I forced out through the enormous mass in my throat that I understood, and I can't blame him for anything. That I was sorry I even called him. I now regretted it.

I can't make her love me. I can't force myself on anyone. 

Love doesn't demand. Love is understanding, patient, kind. (I felt like a talking Bible.) I guess our timing isn't right. 

Here I was sitting alone in my house hearing what I had formerly perceived would have been one of the most painful revealings of my life, and instead I was starting to feel relieved. I felt a warmness that covered me, and I felt God whispering to me that it would be OK. That He loved me, and that was all I needed.

I was washed with the blood of Jesus.

In that exact moment of immense isolation, rejection, desperation, and sadness, I felt His warmth covering me. I felt His presence like never before. He whispered to me...

Don't worry. You are my child. I'm with you. 

I paused. I smiled, and I let Wayne do some talking.

Wayne has a comforting Southern drawl. His voice reminds me of someone I knew once, but can't pinpoint now.

He went on to gently lecture that Colette is not my family. I know that would come across callous, even cold to some. But I knew what he meant. And he was right. Colette is not my family. She didn't raise me. She just gave birth to me, and I should be grateful for that fact.

But in reality, it was God who gave birth to me. She was just the vessel He used, and I have to be grateful for her for having me, for taking the instructions to give birth, for not aborting me, for not doing what I have done.

I would have a 15 year old right now. She chose life, while I didn't. She was better than I was.

So can I be mad at her? She gave me a chance. She gave me options. She made sure that I was well taken care of, that I would be loved, and I have been.

My parents are my parents. Mom and Dad raised me. Mom and Dad took care of me. Mom and Dad loved me. It was they who gave me everything I needed to succeed in life. And I took it freely. Still do.

So essentially, biology means nothing. This is probably nothing new to many people. I have friends who have parents who still don't know what love is. I have friends' with siblings they can't trust, who they wouldn't ask for help. People all across the world have family members who abuse them, who mistreat them, who neglect them, who don't care enough, or even at all. I am blessed to have family that does care.

I've heard that rejection is God's best protection. And I'm fine with that.

Our timing wasn't right. And I'm fine with it.
She isn't ready for me. And I'm fine with it.
She might never be ready for me. I have nothing left to be, but fine with it.

My conversation with Wayne went on for about thirty minutes. He told me that his wife wasn't very understanding of his relationship with his adopted daughter. He said that his daughter had done some things to him, that in his wife's eyes,  were unforgivable. She couldn't understand why he continued to have a relationship with her, why he continued to love her. And what he said to me, was exactly what I expected any adoptive parent would say.

Brooke, I love my daughter. When I signed those papers to adopt her, I made a commitment to the agency, to God, and to my daughter to love her no matter what she does. I made that commitment to her, and I will not stop loving her because she does some things that I'm not pleased with. Just like our Father in Heaven still loves us when we screw things up, she knows that I will always love her, and I want her to think that for as long as we both live.

But my wife doesn't have the same opinion as me, he said sadly.

What he had just said to me resonated in the darkest places. I don't know if it's a special love that God gives out to people who are adopted and people who adopt, but I saw that man's heart clear as day right through the phone. I heard the love in his voice. I saw a love that people don't get to see very often, and we are lucky if we do. I felt it. And even if that was the only experience I will ever have with that family, I can say that I am proud to have known Wayne, even if for just an hour.

When we hung up, I did ask him if he could get the name of my birth father, and while the words were falling out of my mouth, with both contentment and disdain, I knew that my request would not be fulfilled by Colette. I told him that even if Colette had made the decision not to engage with me, that it should be the birth father's decision as to whether or not he would like to have a relationship with me. He said he would ask, but he felt that the answer would probably be no.

I am OK with that.

Occasionally, I have feelings of anxiousness mixed with curiosity about this situation. I have to take the thoughts that come to my mind captive. I interrogate them asking questions like: Who are you from? What good will this bring? What is your motivation?
I'm reminded of this passage from the Bible in 2 Corinthians 2:10.

We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.

Taking our thoughts captive, and making them obedient to Christ is the best defense we could wish for. And it's right there. We have it in our possession, living inside of us.

Wayne told me that he would never get rid of my phone number, and offered up a future conversation any time if I wanted to talk.

I hope that this brings you closure, Brooke, was his last offering to me.

Thank you Wayne. I appreciate you. You have done more than most would have done if put in your shoes, and I see the goodness in you. Maybe we'll meet one day. Maybe we won't. Goodbye.

Goodbye Brooke. Take care.

We both hung up. Only this time, I waited for him to hang up first, and politely, I believe, he was waiting on me to hang up.

That was that.

I was still crying, but I knew that it wouldn't last forever. I was going to allow myself to feel sad for that day only. And I have kept my promise to myself.

Later that afternoon, I popped in to visit my close friend who knows my heart, and she sat on the front porch with me and we cried together.

That was that. The end of another sunny day, and there will be many more where that came from.

The First Call with Wayne

The day I called Wayne was not much different from today. The wind chime on my front porch was dancing with its beautiful melody, a stranger to consistency.  I had been to Home Depot that morning, left empty handed, and had ice cream for lunch in lieu of what "good" people eat- a tomato sandwich or soup or salad.

And just like today, the sun was marveling though it was not particularly hot outside, it's rays beat through the curtains as if making a mockery of them. I was sitting on the green couch as I am now.

I didn't expect to hear from Wayne so soon. I didn't expect to hear from him at all.

Resume the conversation.

I told him of my birth to Colette, the shoddy records I was given, and later adoption. It went like this.

How do you know that Colette is your birth mother? Are you positive?

With the help of some "search angels" as they are fondly coined by the adoption community, and the paperwork that I was given by the Children's Home Society, the agency that handled the adoption, we worked for many hours to find her. The angels worked tirelessly and for free. And I enlisted my friends who wanted to help, and ultimately, Debi found her. The angels are the ones who do the search and all for free. The are somehow tied to adoption, and feel called to help adoptees and birth mothers find their loved ones.

If you recall, I didn't want to say the name of the person who gave us her name. Mainly because I told her I would not. But in light of her non-response to me or others who have reached out to her on my behalf, I don't see that I need to keep it a secret any more. The cat is out of the bag. Meow.

Debi was calling people who went to her elementary school, and happened to call one of her childhood friends who had known about the pregnancy. She had told her later in life on a beach trip they took together. Little did she know, I'd come looking. Little did she know she would be a recipient of a phone call from Debi asking her questions like, "Did you go to elementary school with a girl who had an older sister who was a physical therapist, who is 8 years older, and has a brother who is 9 years older, who is in sales? Her mother was a homemaker and her father worked for a large manufacturing company." We later found out the company was Dupont.

Little did she know that giving Debi her name would have caused all of this. I have to thank Nancy. She thought she was doing the right thing, God bless her. She worked for an adoption agency herself, and couldn't fathom going her whole life without knowing her offspring. So out of love for humanity, she gave us her name- first and last, maiden and married. Nancy didn't know what she was doing. She hadn't thought it all out. She probably regrets it now, judging by her avoidance of me at all costs. Years now. She refuses any contact. I'm sure it was prompted by an angry Colette. Either way, what's done is done.

Back to the conversation at hand.

I've written to Colette a few times, and emailed once or twice, but then she resigned from her  job. (I had heard from Nancy that her job was very stressful, but I didn't mention that to Wayne. Might appear too much for the first phone call.) She's never written me back, Wayne, and I'm just calling to confirm that I have the correct address as, ______________. I've been worried that maybe she didn't get my letters, or that someone had intercepted them. A mind makes up scenarios when it doesn't have definite answers. 

Well Brooke, I just don't know if she's received them or not. She's trying to downsize right now, and I'm helping her to sell her house. I don't know the exact address off hand (bullshit), but I see her about every week. She's been going through a lot personally over the past few years. She's newly single. (I appreciate that description. It's less harsh than divorced- which signifies with a lifetime of shame until one is remarried, if one is still inclined to try again.)

Is she in good health? I muttered quickly, as if to make up my own mind that it was my fault if she wasn't.

Yes. She's healthy. No issues there.

It would be helpful for me to have health information from her, so that I could take any preventative measures I could. It would be helpful for my daughter, Sarah. She is 7. She's in good health too, but just to be safe. It's good to know any family history.

Oh, you have a daughter? That's great.

(Totally escaping the question of family medical history. In my mind he was making light of the need for family medical history- even though the medical community finds it incredibly valuable- hence they ask for it at every junction it seems.)

She's a trip with blond hair. I heard that my birth father had blond hair, which reminds me. I'd like to know who he is. I think it's only fair, for whatever fairness stands for.

Well, I'm not sure if I even knew about this. I may have been told about this a long time ago, but it's been so long, that I'm not sure now. I've been married to my wife (he didn't say your aunt) for a long time. (He didn't give me an exact number however.)

Awkward silence.

Wayne, I don't know if you know what it's like to grow up not knowing a single person who looks like you, sounds like you, has the same mannerisms as you. It hasn't been easy. I struggled with identity growing up, and I would say, I still struggle. I was nothing like my parents and often felt like they didn't understand me because we weren't biologically related. I love them. Please don't get it wrong. They are my parents who raised me and loved me no matter what.

I have a wonderful family who loves me unconditionally. I had all the opportunities that Colette wanted me to have- a stable two-parent family, a college education, and love. (All of this said with tears strolling down my face and a lump in my throat, while plopped down on a lawn chair in my driveway, while plucking leaves off a nearby overgrown bush like a child would be doing if she had gotten in trouble on the playground. My prior pacing had gotten me riled up. I figured I had better sit down and calm myself.)

Well actually, Brooke, I do know what it's like. 

My daughter is adopted. 

(I thought I had heard it all until now. Bells went off in my head.)

My first wife and I couldn't have children, so we decided to adopt, and she recently found her birth mother, and I helped facilitate the introduction. She came to me and asked me if I would be OK with her searching and we did it together. I knew how important it was for her, and I wanted to help her. We went through the agency and they were reunited, but we did everything by the book, the way the agency had instructed. We recognized the birth mothers' privacy was a concern, and we didn't want to jeopardize that. (How selfless. Although I think they just couldn't find her on their own is the real truth. They needed a Debi.) She still has a relationship with her. I don't think they see each other often, but they speak on the phone frequently.

Wow. What was that like? Her birth mother wanted to meet her?

Yes. It was nice. It helped to relieve my daughter of a lot of questions she had.

(Silence. My heart pounced with excitement. Had he just told me that? What are the odds?)

My first wife and I divorced, and I wasn't sure that I even wanted to remarry, but then I thought that I didn't want to grow old alone, and I when I began dating again, I wanted to make sure that the next woman I was with would be from a really good family. It was very important to me to find someone from a good upbringing, and I met my second wife, Colette's sister.

You come from a very good family Brooke. You couldn't have asked for a better family. They are good Christian people. Your grandparents were amazing people. They are both deceased, your grandmother died a few years ago. You grandfather died in the eighties of an accidental poisoning. (I knew that. He drank radiator fluid "accidentally". You know it's the color of Mountain Dew, and I heard it was in a Mountain Dew bottle or something like that. Obviously, I'm not sure of the exact story, but that's what Nancy told me had happened.) Your mother is a very nice woman. She had a great career, financially stable, has a family. She is now retired.

Yes, I heard that she has two sons both beginning with a Br, like Brooke. 

Oh? Interesting. (probably puzzled by the fact that I knew so much personal information.)

My adoptive grandparents have a lot in common with Colette's parents. My adopted paternal grandparents loved playing bridge, and my granddaddy was an instructor. He died in the eighties of cancer. My grandmother died when I was only 6. I can't remember too much of her, although I am told  by many what a wonderful and brilliant woman she was, that she could make almost anything with her hands, was very crafty, and graduated top of her class at Salem College here in North Carolina.  I think it still is. She was also in the Granddaughters of the Revolution, (but I think it was Confederacy, and I was just too embarrassed to say that for obvious political reasons). I heard that Colette's mother was in some type of organization like that- Order of the Eastern Star or something similar.

How did you know that?

I read it in her obituary. Most information is pretty simple to find with the help of the Internet. (I was feeling like a stalker at this point. He would probably agree.) There are a lot of similarities in our families. My adoptive and biological parents both went to Chapel Hill, where they met I'm told, and we are big Heels fans. Both my aunt and uncle went there as well. My uncle is a doctor, and I understand that your wife is a PT. I know that Colette and her brother and sister all attended college there. And that she worked in the medical office as a secretary to the Medical Director which wold explain my father being a dentist. Although, it would make better sense if my birth father was in medical school. 

The story that I was told was that my birth father and Colette were college sweethearts and that he was in his second year of dental school. She didn't tell him of her pregnancy, and she went away to a Florence Crittenton Home for Unwed Mothers in Charlotte, which is where I was born, to have the baby. I live in Charlotte still, having lived elsewhere though, I just always returned home. Her sister knew about the pregnancy, and there was some talk of her adopting me, but that clearly didn't work out. She visited her while she was at the home. Her parents supposedly wanted her to keep me, but she refused. But they did visit her in the home I was told. 

Wayne, you know that this information could have all been fabricated given the nature of closed adoption. It's prone to deception, even error perhaps, but that's what I was told by the adoption agency in my typed up birth papers, that adoptees are afforded if they are lucky.

Brooke, do you have brothers and sisters?

I had a younger brother who died when he was only 20. He was adopted too as a baby. He was 3.5 years younger than me. 

What about your parents?

My father died 5 years ago of a heart attack. They both  died in the same house, both of heart attacks, both untimely. God's ways are higher. So I don't try to understand why things happen the way they do.

I'm so sorry to hear that. Your brother was so young. How old was your father?

He was only 67. And he was a health nut. He would have been the last person that I would think would have died young. I think losing my brother did something to him. He was never the same after we lost Wilson. 

That is young. How sad.

But you know, Brooke, that the people who raised you are your true family. Colette is not your family. She had no part in raising you. She just gave birth to you, and tried to give you a better life.

I'm aware of that, but it still doesn't quiet the storm inside. I don't think that God would put these questions in my heart only to leave me unfulfilled. I don't think that He would have put me on this call right now unless He had a plan. (More tears.)

I understand. Brooke, I have someone in my office waiting on me so I need to go. Would it be OK with you if I spoke to my wife about this?

Sure. 

Occasionally Colette and I have a gin and tonic and talk about life, so I'll make sure that we are not having a libation when we have this discussion. I'll need to discuss it with my wife to make sure that we decide on the appropriate time and approach. I will not lose your number, but don't expect a phone call back from me for at least three weeks.

(Managing my expectation, which I understand completely, as I do it professionally with candidates.)

We are going to have to take in consideration what is best for all the parties involved. Do you understand what I mean?

Of course. I get it. I can't force anyone to love me, but I can give someone the opportunity to love me. My birth father might not have known about me, he might know now, but either way, I want to know who he is. Even if Colette doesn't want anything to do with me, it should be the birth father's decision whether or not he wishes to have a relationship with me. Not hers. It's only fair that he get  to decide. And she is the only one with that information. And your wife. She knows who the birth father is. 

I understand where you are coming from. I'll be in touch with you as I know more. Good luck Brooke.

We both hung up. I didn't expect to hear back from him, but I was hopeful. If anyone was to get inside Colette's heart, I knew it would be Wayne. Especially after his daughter had just met her birth mother. Surely Colette had been there to hear the story of her own niece's reunion. Maybe she hadn't. I don't know. Just like I don't know anything, but what I piece together. I have only bits and pieces of the story and over time the paper has been eaten by hungry mice, torn apart, and shredded. Leaving me with gaping holes. And I become the detective. Sherlock Brooke. Oh what tangled webs we weave...

Time went by and I waited patiently.

Some days I was eager. Others I completely forgot all this was brewing worlds away- only 2 hours down I-85, maintaining hope that Wayne would come back to me with a story that I hadn't imagined. That he would tell me that he had convinced this stranger/mother to meet me. That his daughter's story was enough to sell her on the idea. That she was resigning her anonymity and was finally ready.

Exactly three weeks to the day, just like he had said, Wayne called me on another sunny day. I was home cleaning the house. I picked up the phone and this is what he said...

To be continued...

Unraveling my Yellow Tape: Adoptive parents are clear indicators of human gra...

Unraveling my Yellow Tape: Adoptive parents are clear indicators of human gra...: I'm compelled to disclose some more of this story since I have kinda just left things hanging for the past year or so and let me tell y...

Adoptive parents are clear indicators of human grace

I'm compelled to disclose some more of this story since I have kinda just left things hanging for the past year or so and let me tell you why. I went to my high school reunion last night- 20th to be exact, and I saw an old, and I mean old friend, Shannon. HAHA on old. We are clearly the same rotten age, and holding on tightly to our thirties as if dangling from a cliff overlooking the ocean on a James Bond flick from 1978. Actually, if I remember correctly, she is one year older than me, so she is clearly hanging on much tighter than me.

Anyway, she told me she read my entire blog, and I was shocked. I have no idea who reads this, unless you tell me, like she did. Moreover, I don't write this for the readership, although it's always nice to be complimented. It makes it seem more worthwhile, escaping the obvious reality that writing allows me to process all of this unfolding of truth (and lies).

I feel honored that anyone reads this, and my hopes are to write a book entailing the quest. I want somehow to incorporate the Godly perspective in all of this. Not sure how that will happen, but faithful that God will lead the way, if I just begin the typing.

A lot of the time, I don't really know where it all comes from when I write. I don't speak eloquently. I'm not over the top intelligent, probably just average Jill based on my life choices. That's to be held for the second book. How NOT to Live Your Life by Buga Fairley. So I'll maintain that God uses me for this. I'm sure that someone is getting something out of it.

Back to the quest. I am not even sure where I left off, so I'll just tell you what's happened recently. Approximately six weeks ago I felt brave one day. But let me preface this with it started with me lying on the green couch wailing out to God that I didn't understand why this woman wouldn't talk to me. I laid there alone, sun beaming in directly at me through the naked window, cradling the phone and scolding it's power at the same time.

I had effectively, on a whim, decided that I would call my birth uncle (by marriage), who is a complete stranger to me.

The uncle has a name. It's Wayne. He is married to my birth mother's older sister, who is 8 years older. He was easily located because he owns a business and let's face it, Google makes everything easier. What did we ever do without it? Bing doesn't hold a candle, but that's beside the point.

It apparently was his cell phone, because the voice mail didn't mention the company name. I left a message.

Hello Wayne. My name is Brooke Fairley and I'm calling on a personal note. Please call me back when you have some time. I almost hung up without giving him my number. Choke it up to nervous jitters.

I hung up and decided that he would probably not call me back.

I laid on the green couch and cried. What had I just done? All the rules of adoptee to birth mother engagement say that this is the absolute wrong approach. They tell us that this sort of thing only pisses people off. Because of the shame brought onto the mothers and the high degree of privacy they maintain to achieve throughout the years, this abrupt calling of near relatives before ever speaking to the birth mother is a big no-no. The crippling fear of being found out has these mothers in knots. They go on for their whole lives, some of them, thinking that one day they will be found. Paralyzed by the very thought.

 I did it anyway.

You see, these women, went to undeniable lengths to hide their pregnancies. They couldn't face the harsh public eye. If subjected to it, they would be shunned and could lose everything.

That was the mentality.

The devil is a liar. He is out to steal, kill, and destroy. He stole the baby from the mothers. He killed any chance at happiness after having a baby for these mothers. And that asshole destroyed any chance of a relationship. I believe that the cruelty of the times was a direct result of his terrible doings. He instilled the fear, produced the anxiety, and discouraged mothers from keeping their babies by fueling the fires in the public eye.

God's answer was adoption. He gave the parents who could not have children the opportunity to be parents. Who knows if maybe God had previously decided to not allow those parents to have children. And through his loving grace gave them a second chance, answered their prayers, gave them children to love. It's my opinion that parents who adopt are the most loving of all. They take in a child that didn't come from their own womb, and love that child as if she were their own blood. They make an agreement with God (and with an agency likely) to take care of the child for the rest of their lives. That means unconditional love.

The Bible tells us that we are all adopted by God. Ephesians 1:5 says, God decided in advance to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ. This is what he wanted to do, and it gave him great pleasure.

I believe that adoption is the ultimate gift and lesson at the same time. Parents make a commitment to God and adoptees know what it feels like to be loved by people who weren't forced by law to love them. To be taken care of by these selfless people is the greatest gift. It is the ultimate gift of grace and it's human grace, which is something we don't see enough of.

So I waited on the couch, crying out to God in another moment of misunderstanding. I was letting the better part of me sink, and the questioning part of me rise and demand answers. So in my temporary insanity, I thought it would be OK to make that call that I knew in my heart was the wrong thing to do. And I had to live with myself.

You see, love doesn't make demands. And I was demanding that this woman confront me from all angles. I had now sunken to new lows by attempting to allow someone who may or may not have known about my birth, in on our little secret.

That was dangerous. But what did I have to lose? I guess, my integrity. The devil doesn't want us to have it. And I let him win that battle. Regretably so.

As the light was beaming on my face and I was holding the phone still against my chest, it rang. It was Wayne. The call went like this.

Hello, this is Wayne. I am returning your call. 
Yes. Hello Wayne. Thank you for calling me back. Um... (long pause). This is a little awkward for me, and it probably will be for you. Are you available to talk for a little bit?
Yes. Sure. (sounding curious though puzzled)
Your sister in law, Colette, is my birth mother. In 1976 she had a baby, and gave her up for adoption. That's me. I'm the baby.

to be continued....

My Sobriety and Her Secrets Revealed

My birthday came and went like most birthdays normally do. Part of me was secretly wishing to find a letter in my mailbox from Colette. The other parts of me were toying with many other ideas, one in particular- that I would mail her another card for my birthday, and as I think about it more and more, I still feel like I should, yet I'm positively hesitant.

As I have told my story to the people in my life who care enough to ask or read this blog, I have always been left with new outlooks after our conversations. It's true you never know what another person is going through until you have walked a mile in one's shoes. The truth is, we will never be anyone else, never walk in another's shoes, unless we leave ours on the roof of the car and drive off forgetting they were there, and never fully grasp what another is thinking or feeling. In my stuckness, in my Brookeness, I will never truly know what Colette is going through when she thinks of me, and how I would play a role in her life if we were to meet today.

I equate what she might be feeling with my ceasing to drink alcohol. I have never been fully aware of what it's like to be sober on my own accord for my entire adult life, except during pregnancy. I have gone a month here and a month there, maybe a few months at a time, but I never intended to be sober forever like I plan to now. My whole way of life will be altered, changed forever, for the good I am certain. My friends will probably drop like flies, my outlook will modify, my activities for sure will change, not being consummed with where the next drink will take place or when. Everything will change, again I am certain for the better. I will not be the same Brooke anymore. I will evolve, just as Colette has evolved from that scared 21 year old college student who accidentally got pregnant by her boyfriend. She is not the same person anymore, no longer a kid full with dreams and excitement mixed with nervousness. She has gone through a lot since I was born- had more children, been married and divorced, lost both parents, made a career and name for herself. She has evolved.

I too shall evolve.

I was planning to parallel the changes that could take place in both of our lives based on uncertainties that could arise from a first meeting that hasn't taken place yet, and maybe never will, but realized as I thought through it more today on the green couch, while sipping my overly stout coffee, that there are more locked boxes that need to be pryed open. Way more.

There are so many things to be accounted for.

She doesn't know what our lives will be like if entangled with one another just as I don't know what living sober will be like. It's likely I will become withdrawn over the course, pouring into my writing, into Sarah, and certainly be engulfed in self-discovery when I have for so long tried to mask myself of who I was- a drunk- powerless and often misunderstood. I will emerge a butterfly through my change, with sparkling colors and a wing span that screams immense. My upward mobility will not be squandered in thoughtless acts, in a drunken disguise. I will finally be myself again, what God wishes for my life, what I have wished for, for so long.

It will be a choice and not a consequence.

Colette will be able to put her shame behind her, her fear of the unknown, her disguise. She would be able to  say to someone that she couldn't talk to before, "Yes, I had a baby. Yes, I did it in secret, and now I am not afraid to tell the world that I did those things because  I am not that child anymore. I can be myself. I can let go of my anxiety, my overwhelmed feelings, my hurtful past that was squashed over and over for all the wrong reasons." She can let go of it all just by meeting me. She can see that she did the right thing by giving me up. There is nothing more appropriate than a meeting with me to release her of those feelings forever. So I think. One meeting could be the closure that she needed- one time seeing my face and wrapping her arms around me, and feeling my heart when she speaks to me, when we speak to eachother, and knowing my soul is good.  That would be all it would take.

That sounds like a fairy tale probably because I believe in fairy tales. Of the many things I struggle with, helping to set her free is one of them, and if not meeting me ever, never looking into my eyes is what will ultimately heal her, I guess that will be that. It will make me sad to know that she will never invite me to see her, but at least I will know that I conquered a major setback in my own life while trying to help someone else with theirs. I will be sober, and I will notice the little things, become acquainted with beauty and understand that relationships aren't driven by disguises. I will be able to account for everything in my life, and without shame.

Shame is another senseless depressor that ties us together in this tangled web. I will be released from mine, and she will also. Simultaneously, we could  lose it forever- the shame, the paralyzing guilt. We can bounce good energy off one another, share in our successes, leave the quiet desperation behind forever.

If I were to dive deeper into this whole thing called life, I would also notice that my unemployment has pushed me into things that I needed to settle. I needed this break of the schedule. I needed to work some things out, and push myself in ways that people don't normally gravitate towards, but instead are usually pushed into. I can't complain about my life. It's pretty amazing right now. I have a lot to be thankful for, and I have a mother who loves me unconditionally, who takes great pride in loving me that way, and to her death always will. She is amazing, and more and more I realize that she is the only mother that I will ever need. Thank God for my real mom- Lynne. I am truly blessed, always have been.

All in all, I will be fine, and so will Colette if we meet or not.

Lord, keep me thankful, keep me sober, and please Lord just keep me.

I emailed Colette Friday, and I regret it.

I am pushy by nature. In my haste, I occasionally find myself thinking back and regretting things I've done, because I wasn't thinking all the way through. It's a bad habit. I am impulsive and brash, even abrasive. But, just as soon as I get out the words that I later regret, I feel bad. I think there are a lot of people who wish they had bigger balls to say the things that they think, but they hold it in for fear of whatever- rejection comes to mind mainly. But I am the opposite, I wish my filter would work more. I wish for it to just kick in on autopilot, and take over control of my mouth sometimes. At any rate, I emailed my birth mother last Friday, in a short-lived (again regretful) fit of impatience. This is what I said:

I apologize for informally emailing, but the thought occurred to me that you might not have received the card I sent you. If you didn’t, I guess you will be wondering who this is.  It doesn’t have to be awkward though. Before you write me off, if that’s your intention, please call Karen G at the CHS in Greensboro. She is very insightful, and helped me to understand a lot and put things in  different perspectives for me. She has been a tremendous help to me. Fridays always pique my interest in you for some reason, and similarly, are the occasional days that I speak with Karen (or email). Being Friday, I thought of you. I have never forgotten you.

I added at the end, Karen's contact info, but for Karen's privacy, I deleted it here. I signed my name, Brooke. And that was that.

I also let Karen know by blind copying her that Colette might be making a voyage call. This was a series of our emails. They are pretty interesting if you ask someone who cares, like myself. Here's the trail:

Hi Brooke –

Just wanted to let you know that I got your blind cc of the email to Colette.  I’m happy to speak with her, if she should call, and I need to let you know that I can’t tell you if she does call me, unless she says it’s okay. 

Do you have any idea what area code she may call from, so that I have little head’s up if she does call?  I’m not in a real office now, and receive calls on a cell, so sometimes I’m out and about when I get a call. 

I understand. I just thought I would let you know. I would think 910. I’m sorry to throw you under the bus like that, but I thought you might add value to the situation and possibly calm her nerves if she is nervous or anxious. You can tell her anything about me.

Not under the bus at all!  Sometimes it helps to have a clearly defined place to lead someone to. 

I never heard anything back. I wonder if she never thought this day would come, that I would be her dirty little secret, that I would live in her shroud forever. I’m trying to stay positive, but email is email. It’s immediate. I know what you’re thinking- that I need to look at it from her perspective. But dang, it’s hard. I’ve been patient, but she’s had 36 years already to prepare. She had to have known. She’s got intuition. We all do. It’s the Holy Spirit.

I wish I had the magic words to make this all work out for both of you.  You’ve put the invitation out there, and done what you could to welcome her.  I just hate it when nobody RSVPs.

Again, we’ve had birth mothers respond two months, six months, a year, two years after being originally contacted.  Shame and guilt are such strong forces.

Keep the faith, Brooke, and not in a wish-upon-a-star way, but in the loving way that brings you both to peace – admittedly, loads harder to practice!  Perhaps you could set the intention to send out the same unconditional loving kindness you need from her.  Maybe making it an active practice – put post-it notes on your computer, set your phone alarm to make a moment, reflect at stop lights.  Sometimes this is hard to do with someone you have conflict with, so it can help to begin to practice with someone or something you feel more positive or neutral about – like a neighbor or a cat – as the focus, and then work toward the target person.  Just an idea, and something active to channel those questions and head-chatter towards.

Hope you have a good day,

Karen

Good ideas. When I really think about it, and not just FEEL about it, I feel deeply concerned for her. I’ve been trying to be led by logic and not emotions in my daily life. It’s hard to remember that all the time. But I think somehow I’m much better off than most when it comes to this particular situation. I have some idea of what she must be feeling- I’m guessing a myriad of emotions are surfacing. Hopefully, she can abandon her feelings of doubt and shame and guilt long enough to see that this can be a good thing, and if not, then I will have to come with grips because I can’t force myself on her.  I would just like to hear something. If even just a “leave me alone”. That way I can start processing the rejection and decide from what I will take from this experience.

Led by logic….led by logic….

You’re awesome still.

Thanks, Karen.

You know, it’s really a sign of grace when I can’t help someone with what they truly want, and that person is still grateful.  Thanks for that.

I feel like you can never get enough feel good stuff in your life. I live for it, and thrive off of it. I hope you do too. Sometimes I get discouraged though, like everyone else does. Hence...

It's Tuesday afternoon. I haven't heard anything yet. I didn't really expect to, which makes me wonder why I even did it. What was I thinking? Did I think i could rush her into a response? I could bully her into responding? I could scare her into submission? Whatever my motivation, whatever it was at 12:01 on Friday 5/18/12 while I was sitting in my cube in the sky, whatever it was that was making my skin crawl when I thought about Colette, caused me again, to feel remorse. 

Time is man-made.  I know it. You know it. And, the amount of time that it takes one person to get over something might be entirely different from the time it takes another to get over the exact same thing. I am thankful for that aspect of time, for the way that God decided it would be a good idea to make us all different as well. It probably helps a lot.

Karen is wonderful. I can't say enough good things about her, and at the end of all the emails that we exchange, mostly when I know it's a last one for a while, I always end by telling her how great she is. Everyone needs to be reminded of their value. Whether it's self-inflicted or otherwise.

 

I'm a sucker, but it could be worse.

It's official. I am a grade A #1 sucker.
I have been dealing with this ongoing water damage claim with my insurance, with three questionable construction men of sorts, all of which I thought I could trust, all of which thought they could trust me as well, and we all secretly didn't trust each other was what it really boiled down to. It's not uncommon for humans to act on feelings. People often comment that women are more susceptible to acting out on feelings, which leaves men therefore less inclined to act on feelings, and even further less inclined to show emotion. So they say. I have found that to be totally false, unwarranted, lacking of merit, and undeniably misdiagnosed. And I owe it all to a few pipes that wanted to rebel against the unruly and unforgivable raw sewage that forces its path through them. I don't know, but if I was a pipe, I would probably do the same thing. Who wants to have urine running all over them, much less #2? There are people in this messed up world we live in who do, but thankfully and somewhat surprisingly, I do not know them.

To make a long, very boring, and confusing story, digestible (pun intended- get it? pipes, digest, you are laughing inside. I just know you are.)

My house had either a clog in the main line, or a root growing through the pipe or it was demon possessed. I'm fine with entering a plea of a combination of all three. The truth is, I don't know what the heck the problem is with the plumbing in my house. Whatever the issue, it is still unfortunately unknown to me, and I wouldn't be surprised if it was unknown by all interested parties, and I use the word interested very loosely here. What makes an object of desire intriguing to one person is entirely different to another. Essentially, I'm saying that my best interest was not at hand, although I was told repeatedly by all parties involved, the insurers, the fixer uppers, and the friends of the fixer uppers, that I was being carefully looked after. I even told myself that I was being diligent in hiring the right people. After all, all people who were hired were friends of someone I knew. That is scary in itself. It's scary that all three of the people that I hired knew someone I knew, and all three were clowns, untrustworthy, grimy fuckheads. I say that with only the purest of disdain and bitterness. You'll have to excuse my French, but if you were me, and lucky for you you are safely you, you would probably have thrown a chair through your 15th story high rise window while you were still seated on top of it. I have maintained composure somehow. God helps. A lot. I will probably have to sit an extra 32 hours on the white couch, which will match my new white hair when it's all said and done.

In all of this nightmare that has both snuffed out too many of my semi-precious cell phone minutes, and raped me of three hours of my morning routine work day, which accumulate to about a weeks worth of real work, I have learned that people, not all people, but people in general are assholes. People will lie to your face, they will tell you what you want to hear, and they will do it without the bat of an eyelash. People run on emotions and act on feelings. It's probably why we live in such a litigious society, and why we make threats that we don't intend on ever following up on. We want to protect ourselves from the likes of ourselves. It's scary. I hate this world sometimes. By the time I die, I will be either very bitter or truly enlightened, maybe both, but either way, I will hopefully be wise enough to know when someone is telling me the truth. And if I know by instinct, then I will act on intuition, and go with my gut feeling.

Final Thoughts

We don't trust our gut feelings enough, which I believe is really the Holy Spirit. If we listened more without asking the whys and hows and just know that He is in control of all things, we would all be better off, and have less worry, less anxiety, and less need for control. I, for one need to believe God to do the things that he says he will do more often and quit trying to figure out why He does what He does, and just be fine with knowing that He's in control, and everything will be fine. It will all be over soon enough, and these worries of drywall and laminate vs hardwood will be nothing more than a fart in the wind to put it eloquently. And thank God. I can't take much more of this.

8/16/11 Bed is more enticing when there is someone else in it.

Mounting lack of rest and good decision makng capability, which probably is impaired because of the lack of rest, abundance of alcohol and captured by various types of electronica, not enough good music and love- a dreadful combo sure to ignite explosive tendencies or just plain exploit, here I sit on my green couch again.
And I swore to myself I was going to sleep,to crawl in my king size bed, sheets amuck, pillows suffocating, and clothes draped all over the place. Nope. Didn't happened again. Here I sit, typing aimlessly, without doing what I need to do one more night- write the damn letter.
Why is it that I can seem to do reciculous things all weekend, I can work my ass off at work even though I am formally as they say, "going through the motions," whatever that means. I can cook a really good dinner, which sad to admit, I am not known for. Laundry even, I can do stinkin laundry. But write the letter? Fuck no. I haven't done it. Haven't even tried to think of it. And the few people that I want to ask me about it- haven't mentioned it.
That would include Mom and Justin. I mean you would think that after dating someone for a long time, and remaining close friends with that person, that he or she would have some vested interest in your well being. But looking back now, I can see why he wouldn't be asking. I was the caretaker in that relationship for the most part. I was the mother, the encourager, the breaker of spririt in efforts to gain what was needed at the time- him to get him established, on task, directionally focused. I guess I should be neither hurt nor surprised on that end.
But Mom? She hasn't mentioned it.I found out everything identifying about the birthmother except her social security number and favorite color, which with a little digging, I could probably do with Debi's help. I bet it's blue, like mine.
She hugged me while I was sitting at the computer last Thursday night gawking at that one ancient picture on Facebook that I found, Incidentally, we were practicaly identical at age 3- both with wildly, thick manes with bangs that forced their way through eyebrows and crushed teensy eyelashes with their weight. Both with squinty little eyes, shrouded by the chubbiest cheeks you'd seen since the Shoney's Big Boy was around hanging outside of the Stuckey's gas station on I85 in 1984, where we stopped to get DQ ice cream on the way to visit my grandparents who lived in High Point, NC until they got too old to take care of themselves and were moved to Charlotte when I was in college.
I sat there at Dad's ancient computer, rocking incessantly back and forth in the comfy, brown, reclining leather chair, and because the box is so damn outdated, it takes months to download anything,and then freezes, which inevitably happened later, and right when I was in stalker mode. Crap. Murphy's law is true.
I called Mom in, "look at her, Mom. She looks just like me." The picture was black and white, faded, and surreal. I had to pinch myself. Was that really her? Thirty-five years, and that's her at age 3. Funny thing, my daughter looks nothing like either of us.
My bff, and practically everyone else who has seen her, says that Sarah looks like her Dad. Oh God. That's only the worst possible thing you can say to a mother who is both a wonderful mother and the absent father. But if that's all she gets from him, that would be ok, because I guess he is not that bad looking. I was physically attracted to him at some point. I have mentally blocked that aspect out though, and the thought is vomitous now, repulsive.
At any rate, we looked alike.
What else might we have in common? Would we share the same mostly messy handwriting, occasionally steady and with ts overlapping ls? Would she be as blind as a bat, needing some form of vision correction at all times, or having to squint harder than your grandfather doing his crossword puzzle without his handy dandy magnifying glass he temporarily lost, but was later found on the back of the toilet. Is she funny? Does she find humor in gross things like I do? Does she hate housework? Most likely she does- I mean really, show me someone who enjoys cleaning. On second thought, please don't. Those people are scary. They need to chill out.
Does she like writing? Does she sing in the shower and make people feel uncomfortable with her blatant disregard for all things modest, peppering inappropriate jokes and suggestions at inopportune times?
I hope so. It will make things so much easier if she's like me. I won't have to suppress my words of unwisdom, although most likely, I will because of nervousness and jitters. I'll be quiet and reserved like I always am around people I just meet. After all, I don't want to scare them away until they love me already, and then it's easier to win them back.
I have a feeling she's just like me. Poor thing, but at least she's had all this time to figure out who she is, learn to live with herself, and embrace the silliness that is her true being.
Maybe Mom is scared of those things. Maybe she recognizes our extreme differences, and is afraid that my birthmother will have one up on her, which would not be the case at all. I love who my Mom is. Sure, she annoyed the ever-loving shit out of me as the punk adolescent that I once was, sometimes still might be, but you can't put a pricetag on love. You can't buy it in a store, have it sent to you wrapped up in a Carolina blue bow with yellow polka-dots, and open it like it was Christmas morning. You can't steal it from third base at the top of the ninth when you are down one base, and it's the Cubs at the World Series. I don't think we'll ever have to wory about that happening, but I don't know. They are having a good season so far.
Love is not something that can be replaced in a flash, by the click of a mouse, by a firm handshake or a bearhug. It's not written on paper or bought with paper. I couldn't build a relationship with someone that I've known for a small amount of time based on the fact that we have the same O positive blood running through our veins that quickly, even if I was told I would be rich by doing so.

It could not happen.
It would not happen.
I would not love you more if you said you had a boat.
I could not love you more if written in a note.

The point is this. No matter what the outcome, I will be me, and you will be you. And I am fully aware of the situation, the risk, and the reward.