Compassion and Nickel Bets

I know people mean well, but when I hear that I'm so compassionate or give me the "proud-dad-face" when learning that my son was adopted, it's kind of like putting on lotion on your dry, sunburned legs right after shaving. A little prickly, uncomfortable, and not that soothing. I've mentioned before that a large part of why our family chose to adopt was because it reflected our status as chosen children in the family of God and was one tangible way in which we could share that love with not only our son, but those who learn about our family. David Platt said it more eloquently when he stated, “It’s important to realize that we adopt not because we are rescuers. No. We adopt because we are the rescued.”

In this not-often-talked-about space of privilege within the family dynamics, it can be easy to pat myself on the back and think, "I DID do a compassionate thing; just imagine where our son would be if not for us!" Aaaaannnnd cue fake humility. The Enneagram 1 in me wrestles with wanting to "sing a song worth singing" or "write an anthem worth repeating". But adoption cannot be a savior complex; in fact, it's a leveling playing field for all involved because it stems from trauma. So one of the unique ways that I pray will continue to bring me off the pedestal of privilege and into true compassion is that, although we do not have shared DNA or blood with our son or his birth mom, we all have experienced a deep loss. I’m not a betting gal, but I’d wager a nickel that there will be days 5, 10, 20 years from now where the wave of grief will hit me that my body didn’t grow children like most other women could/did. I won’t love my son any less or wish things went differently, but it will be sad and I may need a moment alone. And I’d also wager a nickel that there will be days 5, 10, 20 years from now where the wave of grief will hit our son that he is not growing up in the house of his birth parent. He may not feel less loved or wish things went differently, but it will be sad and he may need a moment alone. And one last nickel that there will be days 5, 10, 20 years from now where the wave of grief will hit our son’s birth mother that she had to make the sacrificial choice to place her son in our home instead of her home. She may not love him any less or wish things went differently, but it will be sad and she may need a moment alone. The beautiful part of all our stories intertwining in such an intentional, dedicated, enduring way is that we can be alone, together. And the INFJ in me fist pumps at a way of connecting authentically--experiencing compassion--without all the red solo cups and tepid hummus.

Adoption

Parenting

Compassion is not for the rescuer.

It's not a way to check a moral high ground box.

It's not even those wanting to "do good" in the world.

Henri Nouwen puts it best, "Compassion- which means, literally, "to suffer with"- is the way to the truth that we are most ourselves, not when we differ from others, but when we are the same...It is not a bending toward the underprivileged from a privileged position; it is not a reaching out from on high to those who are less fortunate below; it is not a gesture of sympathy or pity for those who fail to make it in the upward pull. On the contrary, compassion means going directly to those people and places where suffering is most acute and building a home there."

I can only hope our home is a space of true compassion.