My Adoption StoryBy Teresa BrouilletteFor as long as I can remember, I have known I was adopted. My parents had always told me I was adopted. They would simply explain, “We did not just have you; we picked you.”

I grew up in a rural agricultural town in eastern Oregon. My dad always said he married “up.” He had been smitten with my beautiful, red-headed mother from the time he first saw her. He told me how mom always snubbed him in their youth. He was surprised when a friend succeeded at setting them up. My mother told me she had just been going along as a favor for a girlfriend. As it turned out, Dad won her over. He adored her.

My parents could not have children of their own. Dad had been content, so he was surprised when mom suggested adoption. Although it took some time to convince him, mom eventually sold him on the idea. After all, how much trouble could a baby be to him? He would go to work, and his bride would be happy with a baby to care for. With paperwork and some processing, a trip to Portland, Oregon brought my parents their first daughter.

As is often the case with fathers and daughters, my sister Lori had our dad wrapped around her finger in seconds. He would reluctantly go to work in the mornings and rush home in the evenings. He had experienced a childhood of challenge, hardship, and hard work. He was mesmerized by the small, helpless being that had come into his life.

It was only a short time before my parents were considering family expansion and again began the application process. While on a trip to Portland with my granny and cousin Jim, they stopped by the orphanage to check on their application. They were surprised to learn it could be approved and finalized that very day. Throughout their long wait in the waiting room, they could hear the occasional cries of babies. Well, all but one was occasional. There was one cry that was constant. Years later, my dad always displayed a mischievous smile when he would tell me, “I turned to your ma and said 'I bet that one is ours,' and sure enough they brought you out . . . and you haven't been quiet since.”

Although my older sister never really voiced questions about her birth family, I had many inquiries. I was a mamma's girl. I couldn't imagine any mamma willingly giving up her baby. My parents did their best to be open and answer my questions. They assumed I was the product of an unplanned teen pregnancy, and yet they assured me that I was wanted and that they loved my sister and me.

Despite my parents' efforts, my childhood was not always filled with bliss. Our family suffered dysfunction like any family. Both of my parents suffered unexpected health challenges which lead to severe economic hardship.

My sister and I attended church regularly with our mother during our very early childhood. It was a small, traditional church. With the few other children, we were shuffled off to a class and taught to memorize the Lord's Prayer. At least that is what I recall. Oh, I had met Jesus though. When I was about nine years old, I read a Christian tract in our doctor’s office and had prayed the prayer to give my heart to Jesus.

We attended church less and less, following my mother’s accident. For many years our lives revolved around medical appointments, tests, scans, and eventually surgery. Through this time, I faced the gawky teen years. I wasn't sure who I was. I just wanted to fit in.

Despite our family’s years of challenges, life progressed. My sister and I married and had children of our own. Our parents seemed reasonably content. I found a church where I could learn and grow.

Although my adoption was sealed, my curiosity did not rest. I wasn't sure what drove me, but it seemed there was a mystery unsolved. I searched online. I searched any legal document the courthouse would let me access, which did not amount to much. My efforts revealed little, except the age of my birth parents. It was not the unexpected teen pregnancy that had been assumed. No, my birth parents were in their mid to late 20's when I was born.

I was shocked by my newfound information. Having a child of my own at an even younger age, I could not fathom giving up a child. My growing faith was new. I did not understand who I was as an individual. I did not understand who I was in Christ. The whispers of discouragement came quickly. “You are an accident. You should not have been born. You are a mistake.” The enemy spoke loudly and was relentless.

God is faithful! Despite the heavy discouragement and blaring lies of the enemy, I sought the Lord. I questioned who I was. I questioned why I was ever born. In what felt like an audible voice that I had heard for the first time in my walk, I received an answer, “You are my child.” The passage I was reading seemed to come alive. “But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name: Which were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God” (John 1:12-13). That was it. I understood. I was not born by the will of any man or woman. I was born, in flesh and in spirit, by the will of God.

My adoption story could end there. Although I did not know the specific plan or purpose for my life, I knew and accepted that I was and always will be a daughter of the King. “According as he hath chosen us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and without blame before him in love: Having predestined us unto the adoption of children by Jesus Christ to himself, according to the good pleasure of his will, to the praise of the glory of his grace, wherein he hath made us accepted in the beloved” (Ephesians 1:4-6).

It was a few years later that I unexpectedly received a card in the mail. An individual was hired to find me on behalf of a birth sister. For a few days I was restless with anticipation. Calls were made and paperwork had to be signed and processed to authorize the exchange of contact information. The old feelings of curiosity were stirred.

The day I first spoke to my birth sister was surreal. Any question I ever had was answered, and then some. I learned that she was born to my birth parents eleven months before me, and also placed for adoption. After some time of searching, she found our birth mother and learned of my existence.

Within a few days, I spoke by phone with my birth mother. She shared she had struggled with her decision to put her babies up for adoption. She said the decision was easier with me, as the orphanage had promised her that I would be placed with my sister. Clearly that had not happened.

Through many phone calls and learning family history, I concluded my birth parents were a couple that had clearly been in love. But they each had experienced trauma and trials throughout their lives, which seemed to keep them from establishing a committed relationship.

One of my most delightful conversations was with my paternal birth grandmother. She had amazing stories of family history. She shared she had met my grandfather at a Christian missionary college and that they raised children and grieved the tragic loss of a son. She also shared her challenges as a pastor’s wife. In all her stories of blessings, grief, and even scandal, one thing she said filled my heart. She shared with me that she prayed regularly for

her children and grandchildren, though at the time she did not know my birth sister or I existed. She was so thankful to know that she had been praying for us.

I was able to share my experience with my adoptive mother. At one point she confessed to me that she had struggled with my desire to learn my birth history. When I was young, she feared someone would try to take my sister or me away from her. During challenges in the teen years, she feared we would willingly go. As we became adults and had families of our own, her fears subsided. Although she never fully shared in my excitement, she offered her love and support.

Before the foundation of the world, God planned me. He knew how I would enter the world, and He handpicked my unique family. I am thankful for a birth mother that loved me enough to give me life. I am thankful for an adoptive mother that loved me enough to accept me as her own. Mostly, I am thankful that God chose me to be part of the ultimate adoption in becoming His daughter. Nobody just had me. I was picked. I am a daughter of the King!

Teresa is a wife and mother of five. While busy homeschooling the three youngest, she enjoys blogging about parenting, homeschooling and all adventures of life and learning through tears and laughter. www.Lifeandlearningthroughtearsandlaughter.wordpress.com

Copyright 2014, used with permission. All rights reserved by author. Originally appeared in the Annual Print 2014 issue of The Old Schoolhouse® Magazine, the family education magazine. Read the magazine free at www.TOSMagazine.com or read it on the go and download the free apps at www.TOSApps.com to read the magazine on your mobile devices.