There are some two million adopted children living in United States’ households today.
These children arrive in their homes in a myriad of ways. Some are abandoned or surrendered to children’s services. Some have biological parents who are children themselves, and are in no condition to parent.
Some have been conceived under horrific conditions: Incest, rape, or some other impossible situation. Some are from the States; some from overseas; some come out of foster care; some come from an adoption agency; and some come from out of nowhere, it seems. But most all have this in common: They are loved. The adoptive parents who receive these children want them, and they want to provide a loving home for them.
I have some experience with this. Two of those two million adopted children live under my own roof. They are teenagers now, and have always lived with the knowledge of their adoption. When they were younger, and I suppose they need to hear it even more as they move toward adulthood, I would tell them, “Everyone is born, you know. But not everyone is chosen. Not everyone has the honor of being selected; but you were.”
Granted, this doesn’t settle all of their anxieties, and now in adolescence, they have all the existential anxieties of their peers, all the questions everyone struggles with – “Who am I? Where did I come from? Why am I in the world? How do I fit in? What is my identity?” – but those who are adopted often have these questions on steroids.
Some questions, I tell my growing young men, will be answered now. Some answers will come in adulthood. But some questions, I caution them, may never be answered. Yet, they cannot let all the unanswerable questions of their existence rob them of these essential facts: They are loved. They are chosen. They are cherished – and they were cherished long before they were even conscious of such emotion.