A Story Born Out of Adoption
On Sundays for most of my growing-up years, my parents would drive over to my Great Aunt Helen’s place to pick her up for church. Our car would tilt to the right as, with some effort and an “oomph,” she’d join me and one or two of my brothers in the backseat. Each week Aunt Helen brought with her three things: her purse she’d clutch to her midsection, her large-print edition bible, wrapped in a clear plastic book cover, and a sack of groceries often consisting of a jar of pickles, a jug of apple juice, and a box of Knox cherry-flavored gelatin or sometimes a package of cookies. The groceries were her way of thanking them for the ride, though my parents assured her they weren’t necessary. Besides, how many pickles could one family eat?
There was nothing remarkable about our Sunday routine with Aunt Helen. She wasn’t an animated, chatty sort of woman. But one day, as we drove, she commented on her brother-in-law, my grandfather, who had recently passed away. Her words surprised me. They also resonated with me. I learned through the conversation between Aunt Helen and my parents that Grandpa had been adopted as a baby—a family fact I hadn’t known. I was about twelve or thirteen at the time.
I was instantly intrigued but knew not to insert myself into the conversation. I figured out years earlier that if I made myself invisible by being quiet and still, adults would carry on conversations, and I could hear things. Interesting things.
I was drawn to the idea of adoption at an early age. Perhaps it started when I discovered that Diana and Tony, two elementary school friends, were adopted. As a little girl, I designated some of my dolls and stuffed animals as my adopted “children.” The others, presumably, came from my tummy. And now, in the backseat heading to church as a young adolescent, I learned that adoption was part of my family’s history.
It turns out that my grandfather’s German birthmother had gone into early labor and given birth to him while sailing on a ship from Antwerp, Belgium, to New York Harbor. Not long after arriving in New York, a Protestant minister and his wife adopted him, and he became their only child. Grandpa was 52 years old when he found out he was adopted. No one ever told him. He discovered the documents after his (adoptive) father died.
Years after that informative car ride with Aunt Helen, I realized several stories had germinated and later birthed in my life because of adoption.
First is my personal story of adopting two of my own children. Before I was married, not long after my husband and I started dating, I asked him how he felt about adoption. I wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship if he was opposed to it. Thankfully, he was open to the idea, and, after giving birth to two sons, we adopted two more. And a cat. And another cat. Always a cat or two. (My husband was never on board with the felines, but somehow, he has resigned to living life with a lint roller within reach.) Of course, through the adoption of my sons, many volumes of non-fiction “stories” have been birthed and continue to be lived out—in their lives and mine.
And there is another kind of story birthed in my life because of adoption—one that I’ve thought about for many years and am finally now in the throes of writing. It’s a historical fiction novel about my grandfather’s birthmother, born in Worms, Germany, 1868. Stepping into her world through research and imagination, I’m transported and transfixed. I wonder what she went through as a young Catholic woman pregnant out of wedlock in the 20th Century, giving up her baby for adoption, and migrating to America. I believe that her story (and my grandfather’s) has redemptive value, so as I craft it, I’m taking what I know to be true and weaving in some interesting possibilities. My goal is to produce a meaningful story worth reading.
What story do you have inside of you? What are you curious about? What intrigues you? Has an “Aunt Helen” in your life ever made a remark that sparked something in you? Stories are born from things like this. Tell them to a younger family member. Better yet, write them down. They may be simply entertaining, or they might turn out to be life-changing for someone (in a good way).