Adopted—My Blessed Life!

My life is a blessing, a precious gift from God. Even though I was conceived in rape, I was not a surprise. I was planned from the beginning—planned in the heart of God. He knew me before I was conceived. And as He formed me in my 16-year-old birth mother’s womb, the Lord intricately knit together the fabrics of my being and my personality. He knew who I would become.

The hand of God weaved together my existence for a reason. He wanted a child who had my features, my soul and spirit, and my unique character because I was made in His image—just like all of His children. He had a plan for my life long before I ever existed. And He would provide for me a family who would eagerly welcome me into their home and in their hearts, as their own.

Being the third adopted child of a couple who was biologically infertile, I was initially brought into their home as a foster child only a few days after being born. Several months later, in the Fall of 1962, my Mom became gravely ill with pneumonia and I had developed whooping cough. Not being able to take care of me, my parents notified children’s services to temporarily transfer me to another foster home. When my Mom regained her strength, she called the social worker to bring me back home but was told I had been adopted.

Throughout the years, I have often heard how my Mom persistently contacted the agency because they wanted to adopt me. She was constantly trying to get me back. It was a few days before Christmas, at 7 months old, when I was returned to Albert and Jeannette Roy’s home to become a permanent member of their family. The fact that I had been conceived in rape did not matter to my parents. I was their child. And they wanted me to be a part of their family.

As a young child, I was often content and carefree in my own little world. Yet, there were times when I stayed close to my Mom and panicked whenever she was out of my sight. Because of being separated from her at such a tender age, I developed an underlying fear of abandonment that followed me throughout my life. But when she rocked me to sleep and sang a favourite childhood lullaby, my fears dissipated and calmness returned.

When I was five years old, my Mom revealed to me that I was not their biological child. Even though I was saddened by this, I knew that I was wanted, loved, and protected by the only ones I called Mom and Dad. My parents often told me that I had been chosen—this tiny newborn they fed with an eye dropper, and who was often snuggled in the crook of their arm to their fingertips.

The fond memories I have of my childhood still evoke many smiles. While growing up, I enjoyed the French-Canadian heritage that surrounded me with many caring aunts, uncles who playfully teased me, numerous cousins to play with, family gatherings galore, and the folkloric music that connected all of us together. Almost everyone I knew played a musical instrument, including my Mom who frequently played her favourite two-step reel Maple Sugar on the violin with my Dad accompanying on the mandolin. Music and song echoed the festivities in our home during many get-togethers, especially from Christmas Eve right up until New Year’s Day! Tables overflowed with my Mom’s cooking while scents of baked cookies, pastries and bread deliciously wafted throughout our home. How cherished were these family times sprinkled with many card games, Sunday drives, and camping scenes.

My love for the outdoors was inspired by my Dad. His quiet nature left a deep impression upon me. A reflection of God the Father, my Dad’s tender-hearted personality, gentle soul, and soft chuckle were well-known to all who met him. Whenever someone commented on how I looked like my Dad, I felt a joy welling up inside of me. Although I knew it was biologically impossible, I wanted to look like him, to somehow find myself in his face. Years later, I realized that I did, in fact, resemble and reflect his calm spiritual heart, as his presence connected us *both* to our Heavenly Father. I will always have a great admiration, respect, and love for the gentle man who raised me and gave me his name.

My parents were chosen by God to foster hundreds of children for over 50 years. Being raised in a home with infants and young children for many years, I was blessed to learn how to take care and nurture these little ones that came to us at various hours of the day and night. And oh, how I absolutely loved to cuddle these little babies! Many of the children had been abused while some were waiting to be adopted. My parents had a deep devotion to caring for children in need. Had they been able to, I know they would have adopted all of them.

I began to understand how difficult it was to relinquish children to adoption once fostering was over, especially after taking care of them for many months, even years. Saying goodbye to each one of them was never easy, and brought many tears… However, I came to realize that placing a child up for adoption truly was a loving option—a precious gift of life. This gift that was given to me—to live, to love, and to pass on to my own 3 adult children and 6 grandchildren (so far!)—that *all* life is from God and deeply sacred.

On October 31st, 2018, I held my Mom’s hand and softly stroked her hair as she passed on to meet Jesus face-to-face. Her presence in my life has been a true gift from God. On the days when I long to hear her voice again, to hug her closely, and to catch a whiff of her scent, her lullaby sings to my soul while I am cradled in the peace of God the Father’s heart—a place where He will reunite us in the joy of His love and our Heavenly home.