Living in a perfect world is a bittersweet idea. For me it conjures up the world the way God would have originally imagined it to be. Or at least the way I imagine that God would have imagined it. ☺ It would be a place where people would get along, where no one would hurt or be sad at someone’s remarks that cut them to the core, where things would be shared if someone needed food or shelter or clothing, where we would all truly be spiritual siblings, and would treat each other as such. But, as I said it would be bittersweet. For as wonderful as that sounds, as wonderful and glorifying as that would be, it would also mean that I didn’t have any children. I wouldn’t have my three beautiful blessings. Because in a perfect world, parents would marry their husbands and wives, would have children, and would parent, lovingly, those children until adulthood. I’m sure there would still be a form of adoption brought on by the rare tragedy, taking a child’s family from them and leaving them without anyone else, but in that case we would all simply follow God’s providence, His plan, and WE would all care for the widows and the ORPHANS. Parents wouldn’t choose negative behavior over their children. Parents wouldn’t be forced to place their children for adoption because they couldn’t care for them. Situations like the little boy I submitted paperwork for wouldn’t exist (he is a beloved child with Down’s, the son of a single parent with no support, who has received multitudes of therapies, etc, but she just can’t keep on). In a perfect world, I (if I had money, if I had space, If….) would take them BOTH in and help HER to care for HER child. And in a perfect world, children wouldn’t be forced into foster care, where families wouldn’t choose to continue their negative behavior over “earning” their child back, where states wouldn’t be forced to take parental rights away, where I wouldn’t be adopting my children, and where I wouldn’t have to go through with one of my beauties what I went through last night.


Because last night I ended up holding and comforting a sobbing six year old as he wept and wept for birth parents he doesn’t know. Crying to know what they look like, what their names are, what they are like. And I held him, and comforted him, rocked him, and my heart broke for him, broke with him. And even at six years old, as he was going through what he was going through, he turned to me and said that he loves me, that I am a good mom, but that he would just like to know them. Wow. We talked and prayed and I reassured him that they love him, they think of him, they will love to know him one day. And as I put him to bed I told him his birth dad’s first name. (I couldn’t remember his mom’s but will look it up to tell him.) He began a falsetto type song about his dad (name) and how he is the best dad. And then I battled myself, with human emotion, which I can’t believe I am even admitting, and was thinking not so nice things about this dad that Braeden was singing so beautifully about. Luckily my Godly side won out and I stopped and just broke apart all over again for my son, for his heart, for his loss, and for his grief.


In a perfect world I wouldn’t have to see my son go through this. But in a perfect world I wouldn’t have my son. Bittersweet.