First you find the right guy, then you get married and have children. That’s how to start a family. But the most important thing for me was always children.
I was an eager babysitter for neighbors and friends when I was still a child myself. After I learned there were children in the world without homes, I knew that someday I would adopt. “Even if I have kids of my own,” I told my mother. “Yes, Teri,” she said. “Of course you will.”
Mom always listened to my ideas and plans, but she wondered where this one had come from. Sometimes I did too.
Don’t get me wrong. As I got older I was interested in finding Mr. Right. He just didn’t seem to come along. I became certified to adopt, but in 1998 I celebrated my 33rd birthday, still single. I had a fulfilling career as a social worker, but after working hours it was a different story. My life was empty.
One night I sat alone in my apartment watching television. I stared at the screen but wasn’t really listening. I couldn’t help thinking about my plan to adopt. There were children out there waiting for someone to love them.
When, God? I asked. When will the time be right for me?
The next day at lunch I confided in a friend who worked with Child Protective Services, an agency that places children in foster care and adoptive homes. “I’m sure it’s not easy,” I said, “but I have to believe a one-parent home is better than a no-parent home.” My friend agreed.
The next day she brought me a picture of a bright-eyed 2-year-old. Her name was Briana Noel, and she was available for adoption. I couldn’t take my eyes off her smile. She’s the one, I thought. God seemed to be telling me that the time was now!
My mother listened patiently. “Adopting a child may be right for you,” she said, “but this child?” Mom’s concern was valid. Briana’s health was fragile. She had a heart problem and was already on a transplant list. She used a feeding tube. She wore braces on her little legs to help her walk.
“Briana may not make it,” Mom said. None of this mattered to me. “It’s not about my getting a child,” I said. “It’s about Briana getting a mom.”
Briana’s foster parents were Mr. and Mrs. Noster in Dallas. I spent a weekend with them learning to care for my daughter—how to feed her, how to administer the seven medications she needed, how to help her walk. Mom spent the night when I brought Briana home.
It was December, and I decorated a tree with sparkling ornaments and lights especially for her. On Christmas Day I stood by her bed and watched her sleep.
The next morning Mom found me in Briana’s room, crying. “What have I done?” I said. “I can’t believe anyone thinks I’m responsible enough to care for this child!” I had faith that God wanted me to do this, but doing it was something else entirely. What if I made a mistake?
“All first-time mothers feel this way,” Mom said. “I remember how insecure I felt after you were born. You’ll get the hang of it.” She was right. Tending to my daughter’s medical needs became routine. Little by little I learned to trust my instincts about her emotional needs as well. My biggest reward came when Briana called me Mommy.
In spite of her illness, Briana blossomed. Mom came by every day to take care of her while I went to work. We celebrated when Briana learned to eat without the feeding tube. “Ice cream!” she said, her favorite discovery. Checkups showed her heart was normal size. I felt confident as a mother because of Briana’s progress, and I thanked God for putting her in my care.
We returned to the Nosters in Dallas for a visit. They had another child living with them, a boy not quite two years old. His name was Malcolm. He missed Briana. God, are you trying to tell me something? I wondered. Six months after I adopted Briana, I brought Malcolm home. A man in the house at last!
My kids and I visited the Nosters often. They were like extra grandparents. One day there were two little girls playing at their house, the foster children of friends nearby. They were sisters. It seemed to be happening all over again—that nudge from God. By now it was all too familiar.
“Have you thought this through?” Mom asked. Four children when I’d only planned to adopt one? I decided to wait and be sure it was God’s voice I was hearing once again. All along I had done my best to follow my faith and my heart. I was sure that time would prove I was right.
Time had its own way with us, however. In the next months Briana’s health declined. An MRI revealed a genetic disorder called mitochondrial disease. “Her chances are slim,” the doctors said. I searched everywhere for information. Little was known about the disease. The only treatment was homeopathic.
I did everything I could, but it wasn’t enough. My angel went to be with God in July 2000, just before her fourth birthday.
I felt somehow I’d failed her. Maybe I was wrong to think Briana was meant for me to love and care for. Maybe a better mother would have moved mountains to help her. I thought of the sisters I’d been smitten with at the Nosters. The girls had been adopted while Briana was so ill. I’d once believed God wanted these girls to be mine. Now I didn’t know what to believe.
Malcolm was still my little man in the house. We often talked about Briana. “The angels in heaven are going to take good care of your sister now,” I told him one night. Malcolm gave me a hug around the neck. “You’re a good mommy,” he said. How could a child of three know just the thing to say?
Then one day Mrs. Noster called. “Do you remember the sisters you met here?” she said. The girls were back in foster care. In the meantime their mother had given birth again. “Three girls she can’t care for,” Mrs. Noster said. My faith in God’s call was stronger than ever. I had no doubt about what to do. Today all three girls live with me.
People ask, “How many children do you have?” I say four, but Malcolm always pipes up. “No, Mama. You have five.” Briana will always be with us. She was the angel who taught me to be a mother. I still believe Mr. Right will come along someday, but in this family it had to be first things first.
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