It Was Love That Gave Her Away

I'm not sure why I feel compelled to write this, but I do, so here it is

It Was Love That Gave Her Away

I was brought up in a Christian home. In fact, my dad was a minister in the Church of the Nazarene. So, I was one of those preacher's kids. When I left home, I went to the 'other side' as some say. I'm not blaming parents or church. I made my own choices.

Those choices were far from the morals I was taught. I got into drugs, drink, two kinds of 'smoking' and all the other stuff that comes to mind. As a result of that lifestyle, I got pregnant without the benefit of a husband. I knew I couldn't provide the life a child needed, so decided to put the child up for adoption. I went to an adoption agency and a family was ready and waiting for my baby to be born. At that time adoptions were closed, meaning that I could not know who adopted my baby, or even what state they were from. I could expect to never see my child after birth.

I had arranged with the social worker to hold my baby one time before I left the hospital. That was a glorious day. I could see she had ten fingers and ten toes. Her ears were perfect. Her mouth was precious.I even checked out her cute little bottom. Best of all, she was beautiful like me, not ugly like the creep who helped me get to this point in my life.

When the nurse came to take her back to the nursery, she turned in the doorway, held her up for me to see and said, "Bye, Mom." Those two littles words screamed at me. Reality sunk in.

When it came time for a name on a birth certificate, all I could think of was Charity Ann. Charity, as you know, means love. She wouldn't be allowed to see that birth certificate until she was sixteen. When she did see it, I wanted her to know that it was love that gave her away and not loathing or disgust. Along with it went a letter telling her of that love from her birthmother and birth family.

The day before I was to leave the hospital, I walked to the nursery window at baby feeding time. Most of the infants were with their mothers. A nurse was rocking a baby; feeding it with a bottle. I pointed to the baby and to myself. She nodded her head, yes. I felt helpless despair as I could see my baby and not touch her. When leaving the hospital I rode on the elevator with a sobbing mother who had lost her child during birth. The guilt of what I had done was overwhelming. She had nothing to carry home in her arms, and I was leaving a baby behind. That guilt led to God's forgiveness and a life thereafter, doing His will.

Jump ahead approximately thirty years. I was sitting in my room at the Middle School. I was the In-School-Suspension Supervisor. I had time to surf the web as the students in my charge were doing 'time' as well as their schoolwork.

For a couple years, I had been searching websites dedicated to uniting adoptees with their birthmothers. This particular day, I sat with my hand to my mouth. I was staring at a posting on one of the aforementioned websites. It said, "My birthname is Charity Ann. I was born in Grand Rapids, Michigan on November 19, 1972. I am looking for my birth family." With a trembling hand, I reached for the phone to call the office. I told them to get someone to my room now, I had to get out of there.

When I was able to pull myself together, I sent an email to the address on the website. It came back. That address was no longer being used. For a moment, I was once again standing at the nursery window, unable to touch my baby.

A couple months passed before I was able to make contact with my adoption agency. I had to be sent papers to sign and send back saying it was okay to release my information to my daughter. Of course, I signed. Then, more waiting; those few months took longer to pass than the previous thirty years, at least to me.

One day at school, I was the last one to leave. I was the one to turn the phones to the automated system. The phone rang after I had switched it over. I could have answered, but school was over, so figured they could talk to the system. I arrived home to find the telephone ringing. I knew by the ring who it was. I didn't answer hello, I said, through my tears, "Honey, is that you?" She had been the call at school. Thank God, He let me be home to take that call and not still at the school. I probably would have been in no shape to drive.

Today, I called my grandson to wish him happy birthday. He asked my granddaughter if she wanted to talk to Grandma Nancy.

My daughter calls me mother. The woman who raised her is deserving of the special name, Mom. As we hung up the phone Jeanine said, "I love you, Mother!"