Sophia's court date was full of drama and emotion. It was full of joy and relief. Tears flowed from our social workers, even our lawyer. To say it was a happy day is an understatement.
Then on January 9th, we found ourselves in the courtroom again, this time with joy and excited anticipation for our little boy Christian. The judge and everyone in the courtroom was so accommodating and friendly. To them this was a celebration day.
I could not help but flash back to my own court day for my brother Kevin and me years ago in the Steuben County Courthouse, Bath, New York. All I knew about the court room was what I saw on television--you know the typical courtroom drama where the judge would bang the gavel shouting, "Order in the court!"
From what I remember, my own adoption hearing was pretty straightforward, and we officially took on the Kraft name. My mother then asked Judge Purple to use his gavel to humor my brother and me. He was a good sport and playfully banged the gavel and shouted, "Order in the Court!" I was thrilled!
Not too long after that, we got to pick out our own names. I wanted something different, so I chose a name wasn't all that popular back in the day, Cory. I first heard of the name from a popular television series at the time called Julia. It starred Diane Carol, an African American single mom--one of the only black people I remember seeing on tv at the time, raising her son by that name, and I wanted it. The only catch was that it had to be spelled with a K because my siblings were named with Ks.
I remember stepping into my classroom soon after, and my teacher announced that we had a new student. I looked around, expecting to see an unfamiliar face, but I didn't see one. Then she said, "Mike, would you like to tell the class your new name?" I was terribly shy and muttered, "I was adopted and my new name is Kory." The class cheered and congratulated me. My teacher had a big smile on her face and tears in her eyes.
During Christian's adoption, I had tears in my eyes and was full of amazement at the process, and the journey. My biological name was Michael, and when my name was changed, they kept that as my middle name. It was very important to Jennifer and me to keep my name with our children. Sophia's middle name is a variation of mine because while she may not always be a Kraft, she will always now carry her daddy's name. Christian will always and forever be a Kraft, and as a tribute to my biological mother and our passion for adoption, we added Michael to his middle name. I didn't think it was a big deal when we first decided, but when the judge read Christian's full name. paying homage to his birthmother, my birthmother, and my family, I cried.
​It was a happy day, and the judge even acknowledged our first child, Sophia. It is a day that I hope that they will one day remember when they are adopting their own children.

  If you're following this blog, then you pretty much know our story. It's a good one, and so many of you have wept, laughed, wept again, and now stand in amazement with us at the life we are honored to live. It brings me to tears every single time I think about the blessings of my husband, such a wonderful, Godly, beautiful man, and the larger than life, unbelievable little sprite that calls me mama. She's well past four now, and I still get teary-eyed and then ugly cry when I think of how much I love her. She's just that awesome. 
The story of how we've become a family together is no less than miraculous, and I always tell people, if you want to hear it, just know that I can't tell it without grafting God throughout the entire tale; and that, by far, is my favorite part.
A few months ago, however, it really hit me that so many already know our story; so many have been a part of it, have witnessed it first or secondhand, and they know how powerfully God's hand moved in our lives. While it never really gets old, in most of our circles, we don't need to tell it anymore. And that realization just about broke my heart. I don't ever want to stop telling how good God is and what mountains He's moved in our lives. So I took the cue of my toddler (see post below), raised my hands and asked the Lord to continue our story, to give us a new chapter where we can praise Him and shout to high heaven (literally and figuratively) of His goodness.
And so, in true God-fashion, on a random Thursday afternoon at a Goodwill in Iowa (yup, Iowa), I got a phone call about a situation. That phone call led to some pretty intense interaction which grew to a last minute, get-in-your-car-NOW-and-drive-100-miles-to-get-a-baby trip up the turnpike. (And no, I didn't make a bit of that up.)
And so, while I can't divulge all of the details just yet, let me loudly, proudly, and crazily declare that God indeed is NOT done with our plot line. There are another few chapters in the works, and once again, I will not be able to tell a page of it without weaving God throughout the entire story. I can't wait to share it with you! For now, here's a little sneak peek:

For many years, Mother’s Day was slightly heartbreaking for me. I love my mom, and I always have been and always will be honored to celebrate her. But as I got older, the desire in my heart to be a mom was so great. I avoided church on Mother’s Day and continually prayed that the Lord would one day bless me with the title of mama.
And then, our miracle was born. And tomorrow I will celebrate my 4th Mother’s Day, each one more blessed than the next because of how much I love our daughter. She is a gift from the Lord, “mama’s present from Jesus.”
However, I want to take not just a moment, because this is bigger than that—I want to pause to honor and respect and love the woman that birthed my child--the woman who loved her so much that she carried her and cared for her for 9 months, placing headphones on her growing belly so Sophia could listen to recordings of Kory and me reading stories and poems and singing songs so she would know our voices; who invited me to every single doctor’s appointment so I could be updated with her growth and care; who allowed us to name our little girl so Sophia would never think she was a do-over; who asked me to be in the birthing room, her blood soaking the floor and her cries filling the air, so I could witness the birth; and who insisted that she be the one, not a nurse or doctor or caseworker, who place Sophia into my arms so that when I tell her the story of her adoption, she would know she was placed and not discarded.
To this beautiful, special woman, thank you. I love you. Sophia will always know what an amazing person you are and the sacrifices you made for her. And every day I keep the promise I made to you--I love her with my whole heart for her whole life.

Not easily discouraged from our goal to add to our family, most of you know that we update our home study  on a yearly basis. This past December marked our 5th update and renewal. It's not a quick process; it's not an easy process; it's not a cheap process. But it is so very important. 
Still waiting on fingerprints, background checks, and our home study to finalize and be approved (yep, it's gotta be approved each year as if it were the first time all over again...), on Friday we decided to take a step even though the bridge under us is a little shaky at the moment.
We drove out to Reading, PA--about a 2 hour trip--to attend an adoption open house where we met with countless agencies that are both state and privately run. We talked with no less than two dozen case managers who introduced us to hundreds of profiles for waiting children and discussed what situations would work best for them and for our family. And we left with a bag full of information and minds and souls even more determined to adopt again.
And that night, we heard from our own case manager that our fingerprints and background checks had finally come in; our home study should be done next week. 
Pray for us!
​

I was in Target the other day with Sophia wandering through the food section when we happened upon another mama with her infant. Sophia, who is very aware of babies and likes to gush over how cute they are, stopped to talk to the baby, and then we went on our way. A moment or two later, she looked very thoughtfully at me and said, "I wish mama had a new baby,too." 
"Well, don't wish for it; pray and ask Jesus, if that is what you'd like."
"Ok. I'm gonna do that."
And with that statement, my little girl got down on her knees in the back of the cart in the frozen food aisle in the middle of Target. She raised both hands as high as she could stretch and called out: "Oh God, thank you for this day, God. I hope you like this day. Please, God, let mama have a baby. In JESUS name, Amen."
She paused for about 10 seconds before she turned around, looked me straight in the eye, and said, "Jesus said yes, mama."
​
Matthew 19:14
But Jesus said, "Let the little children come to Me, and do not hinder them! For the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these."
Matthew 18:2-3
And calling to him a child, he put him in the midst of them 3and said, “Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven

"I don't care that you're black, I am colorblind, I don't see colors..."
Honestly for as long as I can remember that phrase never sounded positive to me.
The first time my daughter Sophia addressed this issue, she may have been a little less than two. I was reading a bedtime story to her, which happened to be about different colors. I pointed to my forearm and asked her, "What color is daddy?" She just tenderly smiled and rubbed my forearm and gently put the side of her little warm head on it.
More recently, while my wife Jennifer and I were reading a story to her before bed, Sophia stopped us and asked "Why is mommy white and you are brown?" We told her that was the way God made us, and her lovely color is what God made her, too. She just smiled big and repeated what we had just brought to light to her. And then she immersed herself back into the color storybook.
Colorblind.
Why would God make rainbows, green grass, the deep blue sea or an amazing array of colors that we see in the animal kingdom or a beautiful sunset if he didn't think it beautiful? Isn't it the same with people, His most prized creation? Why can't we celebrate our uniqueness of the way God made each one of us? Instead of looking through blind eyes, why not embrace the beauty of colors?

I've been putting off writing this for quite some time. It was too painful, too exhausting, too overwhelming. And quite honestly, it was too embarrassing to talk about, even with our closest friends and family, much less the internet.
For the past three months, I've put my head in the sand and deftly avoided any questions, mild or probing, regarding adoption.  "Hear anything yet?" "Anything new coming on the horizon?" Didn't I hear you were adopting again?" or "Hey, how's it going with that new child?" I've been giving the cold shoulder to anyone who asks, not because I want to ignore what happened or pretend it didn't occur, but because I needed time to recuperate, to readjust, to recover, and to heal. And then this morning (I wrote this on Sunday night and only find courage now, on Thursday, to post) in church a group of teenagers sang a song that I've heard, most likely, a hundred times before, "If I should speak, then let it be of the grace that is greater than all my sin...of the kindness of Jesus that draws me in. To tell you my story is to tell of Him." And I knew it was time to write.
 In very early spring this year, we were matched with a child I'll call E. As any parents who are expecting, we kept the news tightly to ourselves for months. We grew to know E through video chats, texts, emails, and phone calls, we fell in love as we hoped and prayed and waited. We fell head over heels for the smile on the other end of the computer.
As days grew into weeks into months, we battled red tape, squirreled away funds made plans for a 1200 mile visit, had our home and our lives scrutinized (again) for updated home studies and paperwork. And we fought for our second child. 
And then came the anxiously excited moment when we shared the news of our growing family with our parents, our siblings, our closest friends. They were ecstatic for us, gave lavish presents and gifts to welcome this child into our home, and even went as far as to remodel our spare room into a personalized bedroom made specifically for E.  He was given new clothes, new toys, new furniture--it was like having a baby shower all over again. 
After what seemed like a lifetime, the day finally came when we would all meet face to face. We drove non-stop almost the entire length of the country to visit, and it was wonderful. There is no other work to describe our time together. It was everything we had hoped and imagined it would be, and after a week of visits, we came home and spent the next few weeks making final preparations for E's arrival.

And then...

It is not an exaggeration to say that from our first encounter at the airport to meet E, the stay was disastrous. I won't go into details except to say that deep seeded issues arose once placed with a new family, and we were advised immediately to send E back. We begged for more time, praying E's initial behavior would assuage once surroundings and people became familiar. They did not. In fact, they escalated so profoundly in a span of eight days that we, and all involved, were afraid for our daughter's safety. Being in a home in a family environment unearthed demons lurking from E's past that presented themselves in new surroundings. And the placement failed.
Kory and I wept together, feeling as though we had failed E. 
I cried alone for E, because this was the third broken placement; for our daughter, who was scared and confused because of the experience and interaction; and selfishly, for me because I want our family to grow, and I wanted E to be a part of that.
I'm not sure that even now we've recovered from this because while we mourn the loss for ourselves, we also ache for E and the family lost to him. Kory asked me one night if I thought this is what it feels like to lose a child. We prepared and planned, just as anyone expecting a child. And now that child is no longer here to love and cradle and cherish.

I'm still not quite sure why I'm writing this. Maybe it's to explain why we haven't written in a while. Maybe it's to ask for your forgiveness if you've been one that has asked and I've shrugged, and perhaps rudely, changed the subject or walked away. Maybe it's to explain why, if you've reached out, I haven't reached back, afraid to expose this part of our story and open up fresh wounds. I know it's to remind myself to pray for E. Maybe it's to ask if you'd pray for E, too.
​
I told Kory I didn't know how to end this. He told me to be honest and to tell the truth. Adoption isn't always roses and confetti and big parties of celebration. We've known that side. I give that side of adoption a kiss every night and tell her she's mommy's present from Jesus. That part of our story "rejoices with those who rejoice." But there is another side, too. The side that "weeps with those who weep"--with those who have lost a child, who left the hospital empty-handed, who once had a family of four, and now again, they are a family of three. We now know that pain, too. 
But God is so good. He loves us through these situations and circumstances. E is now properly placed in a situation that will provide intensive therapy in a loving environment. And while we now know that we were not the best fit for E or E for us, there are so many children awaiting a family, perhaps even our family. And so we prayerfully begin the process again.