Are You Really Prolife, Really?

I think most Christians would be quick to say that they are prolife, and to their credit for what that label is worth, they most likely are. But in our culture isn’t that label just a more positive way of saying anti-abortion, or perhaps pro-birth?

I am not writing today to argue the issue of choice. Nope, today I am thinking about what it means to be prolife. To me, being prolife means you “do things to give a person all the life to which he or she is entitled (C. Everette Koop)."

But the question is, who am I responsible to do this for? Certainly not just my own children... surely orphans are “entitled” to live as well... aren’t they? “Rescue those being led away to death; hold back those staggering toward slaughter.” Prov 24:11.

So here is my big question... why are so few Christian families adopting orphans? Is it just that they are blissfully unaware that there are languishing children out there desperate for a loving home? If so, news flash friends... there is a child waiting for you.

No, not a cute white American made newborn... other children await you. Children who are facing life in mental institutions... children with repairable medical issues who will eventually die if they are left untreated.

“Once our eyes are opened, we can't pretend we don't know what to do. God, who weighs our hearts and keeps our souls, knows what we know, and holds us responsible to act." Prov. 24:12

These are real people, real children living in orphanages, real children just like Kimani... waiting, waiting. How can you look at them and then turn away? Their pictures haunt me. I dream of going to get them.

Here are two very good reasons why you might not want to go rescue them; You do not have enough money or space for a(nother) child and You couldn’t handle a (special needs) child. Did you know those are the two biggest abortion reasons? Not enough resources and can’t handle a child. You don’t accept those excuses from pregnant women...

I attend a large church. I am part of a large Christian circle. There are very few families who have adopted orphans. I see so many perfect families around me. Happily married, middle-class parents with two or three darling home-made children. They say they are prolife and when it comes to voting against abortion rights, they are.

But what about when it comes to Anna?

Addicted to Starbucks

Somebody really loves vanilla lattes with whipped cream. Don’t panic, it’s a solo.



Oh no, I think she might be an addict just like her mother... because look what happened when we took it away.



Just to prove that I am not the worst parent in the world... I’ll let you watch her eat some nice healthy fruit for breakfast. For those not in the Ds community, this is a big deal... some kids don't like to eat. Kimani’s SLP is amazed by her abilities when it comes to food. Guess we got lucky in this category.



p.s. Dear grandparents, do not call me up and chastise me about the coffee. If you do, I will write a book about my childhood...

Sold Out

Don’t you just hate it when you go to buy it, whatever it is that you really really wanted (like U2 tickets, or half-price Bobux leather baby shoes) and dang, there it is... the big SOLD OUT message. You can’t get one. Other people got theirs and you missed out.

Well, lately that is how I’ve been feeling about Kimani. She’s rare, she’s precious, and she’s beautiful. She’s practically a one-of-a-kind. She’s funny, and unique, and thought-provoking. She’s wild, and she’s mine. Mine all mine.

You may think you don’t want one but you’ve no idea what you’re missing out on. And if you did realize it, and did decide you wanted one, well na na... good luck. Unless you win the baby lottery you’d have to have about 750 kids before you get one like her.

Or you could head over to Reece’s Rainbow and snag one up before they’re all gone.

The Betrothal

Before Kimani was born, I stressed about such things as whether she might go to college, or get married, or drive a car. My husband, who is the more relaxed of the two of us, was convinced she would do all those things. I let him rest in his denial...

Fast forward a year and a half. Did you know that lots of people with Down syndrome get married, mostly to each other? How fitting that such trusting and guileless people should find love in each other.

There are a lot of boys out there that could end up the lucky man... There’s Finnian, Sheridan, and Charlie just to name a few... but one little guy has already captured this potential MIL’s heart... and his name is Ozzie.

(Those who really know me well are singing... “Oh no, oh no, here we go now....”)

No, not that Ozzie... this Ozzie.

Oh wait... that was before she kissed him. Here he is in his princely form.

I met his dad out in blogland a while ago. We became friends and since then our families have had the good fortune to be able to meet up in NYC at the Museum of Natural History. It was Kimani and Ozzie’s first date ♥ ♥ ♥ Aren’t they cute together? Don’t you just love how they are checking each other out?



Ok, so she looks a little wary of the situation but we have plenty of time for him to grow on her.

A Cold Hard Place

August 2008
One day my unborn child, who had already enchanted me, was handed down a sentence, unearned and unjustified, and it became my passport to the molten center of my life’s core. In the beginning the adrenaline fueled by my fear protected me. After that, I cried and I cried until I was empty and speechless, and then I slowly learned a new language... one that gave me hope of a way out, one that reminded me that there may not be one.

And now I wait. I watch my baby’s body war with itself. I feed off the brief glimpses of normalcy... a coo, a cry of hunger, a dirty diaper. I stare into eyes that do not know what I know, that do not fear what I fear. I wonder if the coin tossed high will land on my call, and if I will still be able to gaze into these eyes tomorrow. I am afraid to leave her, afraid to go home, afraid that she will die while I shower, or kiss a different child goodnight.

I pray, (and perhaps I bargain and make undeliverable promises). I walk alone into the temple with my paltry sacrifice, and I go one on one with God. I am terrified that He will ask for this child, and that I will not be able to answer.

Specialists, with stacks of medical degrees, confer at her bedside. They can not give me the answer. They can not write the end of this story for me. These chapters that hang between living and dying are fraught with needles and drugs, wires and tubes... the life support tools of the trade. Fancy machines monitor her score with numbers blinking red and ever changing. Alarm bells ring for more troops and battalions charge in to rescue her in these moments.

I am so tired in my head. I feel like we have been marching for days on end with no food or sleep. I feel as though I might drop her before we reach our destination, and that if I do, this will all be over, and her death will go on forever.

So I sit, awake in the cold hard space between life and death, watching her, waiting on her. I touch her soft warm skin, bruised and torn. I lean in close and sniff her baby scent. Heaven’s perfume still lingers on her. I swallow down everything that is outside of this breath of her. I push it into the tight ball that has taken over my stomach. I cannot let anything distract me from memorizing this instance of her... because I’ll need it someday, no matter how this story ends, I know I’ll need it.

(I read this post and it took me back in time to a place I’ll never forget. She does a much more eloquent job of explaining it, that cold hard place where a parent goes to wait for the answer.)

Where Were You?

So you wanna be my friend on Facebook? I won’t say no... I am not interested in lobbing a mortar attack. But I will ask you, “Where were you when my baby lay dying in the hospital?”

The silence coming from your neck of the woods was so loud... it told me all I needed to know. For 113 days that tiny girl fought for her life 15 minutes away from you, and you never even went to meet her. Had she died there, what would you possibly have had to say to me at her funeral?

Oh, you don’t like hospitals? You can’t handle seeing little babies who are covered in wires? You could have brought a meal over, or offered to spend some time with the children I left motherless at home.


You judged her, and you judged me for letting her be born alive. And your silence was the sentence you imposed on us.

And now we’re friends on FB. Facebook needs new categories, "Friends but not really", "I think I remember you", "Not friends at all but I want my number to go up".


photo by Artist Anaa