Children of Dreams, An Adoption Memoir (23 page)

I was excited to have something to do. Uplifting, holiday music wafted from the loud speakers over the noisy crowd. I wanted to know where the music was coming from. It had a sweet-sounding familiarity, like a piece of chocolate to a hungry soul. I wanted to grab it and not let go.

In such an anti-Christian country, I never thought I would hear Christmas music broadcast in downtown Hanoi. Many of our Christmas songs have a message of “tidings of great joy,” with Jesus as a baby in the manger. Even though the celebration was steeped in commercialism, the familiar words from Christmas carols filled the air, giving me hope that all was well with my soul. I pushed Joy in her stroller to the nearby church a few hundred feet from where the music came.

My soul was enraptured with joy, a balm for my homesick heart. I longed to be with friends and family. Here I could sing in harmony, filled with the Christmas spirit, enveloped in oneness with those around me who were here for a different experience, but so far from home, I welcomed Christmas in another culture.

For a brief moment, I understood Ephesians 4:5. There is unity in the world, “one body, one hope, one baptism, one God and father of all.” I felt a connection to the Vietnamese people. For some, this might be the only testimony to the risen Savior they would ever witness, but as Isaiah 55:11 says, “My word…will not return to me empty.”

As the crowds swelled, Joy’s stroller became a nuisance as several men tripped over it in the sea of people. I also felt someone’s hand sliding down the back of my pant pocket. I knew we needed to go, but God had given me a taste of Christmas in Hanoi that I would always treasure. We returned to the Lake and I took Joy over to the Christmas tree and swing. She was intrigued with the bobbing balloons tied to the Santa and stared wide eyed at the Christmas lights strung around. I handed the camera to someone to take our picture. Standing in front of a cardboard Santa Claus, the bittersweet moment was captured, now kept in the scrapbook that I had won years earlier, a memoir to the past I didn’t want to forget.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Choose Life, then, that you and your descendants may live

Deuteronomy 30:19

On December 26, the day after Christmas, Joy and I walked out of the Lillie Hotel to rays of sunshine glistening off the street pavement. I had finally become accustomed to checking at least four times before crossing the street since the heavy traffic would not yield to pedestrians. Frequently Joy’s stroller would get stuck going up and down the uneven curb or land in a deep gutter. After Jenni’s collision in a xichlo, my favorite Star Trek line was resurrected from childhood. We were going “where no man (or woman) had gone before” every time we crossed a road in downtown Hanoi.

The heavy cloud of disappointment that had settled over me because I couldn’t take Joy home for Christmas had now lifted since the holidays were behind us. I looked ahead with hope and expectation to the Giving and Receiving Ceremony two days away. It was easier to enjoy sightseeing now that the adoption day was near and my time to return home would soon follow.

We had become mother and daughter during our two weeks together. The days lazily spent at the park and shopping had provided hours of nurturing and bonding with Joy and an opportunity for me to experience the blessedness of motherhood once again. Almond eyes, straight black hair, and a pug nose didn’t represent just any little Vietnamese girl I saw on the street—they were Joy’s, my daughter from Vietnam.

During our daily outings as we strolled along the streets, my conscience had been seared by the many war memorials that were part of the landscape of Hanoi, a tribute to the distant past. On the streets were reminders “to never forget.” The well-preserved relics were like anachronistic objects woefully out of place and time in a world that had moved on. Forgiveness and healing had replaced the pain, but lest we forget our past and those who died, everywhere were remembrances.

We visited the Hoa Lo Prison, meaning “coal oven,” and also known as the Hanoi Hilton. From 1964 to 1973, the Hoa Lo Prison housed American prisoners of war, among the more famous, John McCain. Pictures and writings only told part of the story. I could only imagine the atrocities and torture that were committed.

We didn’t stay long as the pictures and solemnity reminded me of Yad Vashem in Jerusalem, a memorial to the six million Jews who were brutally murdered in the Holocaust. It filled me with too much sadness that I didn’t want to dwell on, but I silently thanked the American soldiers who gave their lives. Coming to the Hoa Lo Prison was my way of bearing witness to the unsung heroes who sacrificed so much. We also toured the Bao Tang Quan Doi or Army Museum. It was largely empty except for a few tourists like me snapping pictures of the war memorials, including tanks and missiles.

It was hard to believe so much time had passed since the Vietnam War. I was in the fourth grade when the brother of a classmate had returned to the United States after serving. We sat in the school auditorium and listened as he talked about what he experienced fighting our enemy, the North Vietnamese. Little did I know that one of my daughters would someday come from this far-away place. That day in a lunchroom auditorium with a couple of hundred other kids, I learned about war.

Joy’s birthmother wasn’t born until long after the fighting, and I wondered how much the North Vietnamese children knew about that part of their country’s past. What propaganda were they told by the communist government? One thing I did know, each day the school kids, speaking fluid English, would besiege us to sell whatever they had, whether it was postcards, maps, books, or something I didn’t want.

If not today, someday, because of the Western influence and English language brought over by American soldiers, the school children would have the freedom to discover the truth for themselves. Perhaps in that way, we did win the war and our young men didn’t die in vain.

Before we left Hanoi, I wanted to take Joy to see the puppet show, known locally as the Mua Roi Nuoc. After a few weeks with me, Joy wasn’t as scared of people in her new environment and she was over the “hump” of visual stimulation evoking fear. I had heard good reviews from other adoptive families and Vietnamese locals who had seen the show.

It was different from other puppet plays I had seen or had put on in my church when I ran a puppet ministry. The puppet show reflected Vietnamese culture and history, and I was impressed with the visual creativity and esthetics. Though it was all in Vietnamese and I didn’t understand the story line, the puppets were enchanting as they swayed to Vietnamese music played on traditional instruments. Joy watched attentively and seemed to enjoy the little marionettes as they danced rhythmically on the water stage.

Earlier in the week we were on our way to the camera store and Joy began singing when she heard music streaming out of one of the shops. I had sung Christmas carols to her at night when I put her to bed. The soft melodic tones helped to calm her spirit before drifting off to sleep. I continued to wonder how artistic she would be when she was older as I watched her enjoy the puppet show.

One nice thing about time is that it doesn’t stop. At last, December 27 arrived, the day for the Giving and Receiving Ceremony. I dressed up in a black velvet dress and had bought a pretty outfit for Joy. The ceremony would take place in Thai Nguyen, about an hour and a half north of Hanoi.

Joy and I sat in the back of the van, and I held her in my arms as there were no car seats. On the way, we stopped and picked up a woman doctor that worked for Anne. She handed me an envelope that contained money to “help get the mother back on her feet.” I did not ask any questions and did not open the envelope to see how much it contained.

I looked forward to once again seeing the countryside. After leaving downtown Hanoi, buildings were replaced with flat, luscious fields inundated with lots of small lakes. Eventually the flatness gave way to green rolling hills like the waves of the sea. Young Vietnamese women could be seen working in the flooded lands wearing the Non La, or Vietnamese hat. The hat is only worn in Vietnam and is made of leaves and bamboo. I had purchased two, one for Manisha and one for Joy as a souvenir, but left them on a plane somewhere between Vietnam and Florida.

We parked the van at the Department of Justice where the Giving and Receiving Ceremony would be held and walked inside. We were ushered into a small room where a short, elderly man, the equivalent to a court officer, sat us down. Joy’s mother, Luu, walked in and took a seat to the right of us. Luu was teary eyed and emotional as Joy rested quietly in my arms. When Luu reached for Joy to hold her one more time, she refused to go.

The ceremony began and the Court Officer glanced through the documents and asked us both some general questions.

“Is this what you want to do?”

I said, “Yes.”

He asked Luu, “Is this what you want to do?”

She nodded.

It was all very official, and afterwards, he smiled, congratulated us, and offered to take our picture. I handed him my camera and he took two pictures of all of us standing beside a bust statue. A red Vietnamese flag with a yellow star hung limply to the back of us. Luu held a handkerchief in her hand which she used to dab her teary eyes.

After the ceremony we were dismissed to leave. As I followed Joy’s birthmother down the steps outside the courthouse, I watched her walk away in a moment of personal reflection. She was returning to her life before Joy. With little prospect of better things for herself, she was willing to give her daughter that opportunity. I wished her good health and happiness as my life would be changed forever because she was brave. Joy would have hope of a wonderful future and a chance to live out her dreams.

In 1999, Vietnam had the highest abortion rate of any country in the world.( The Christian Post, March 31, 2008, “Vietnam Man  Runs ‘Abortion Orphanage,” by Margie Mason, AP medical writer) Luu could have made the easy, selfish choice to end her baby’s life. Nine years later as I pen these words, my eyes are full of tears as I picture what could have been and what happens every day across America. Suppose Luu had not been courageous. I never would have known Joy’s contagious smile, her sweet hugs, her selfless love, her charming beauty, and her endless creativity. Most of all, Luu, through God’s grace, gave me a priceless treasure and a pearl of great price.

A few years ago, I wrote a poem about Joy, and I dedicate it to Luu and all birthmothers who endure the pain and humiliation of bearing a baby out of wedlock; who choose life over death; sacrificial love over their own personal comfort; good over evil, and beauty over trash. May God use this poem to sear the conscience of those women who teeter on the verge of sorrow and regret. May they be as brave as Luu and make the heroic choice of letting their baby breathe, someday ride a bike, get married, and have children of their own. May they picture their “bundle of joy” chasing butterflies in a field of their own hopes and dreams. Through their courageous sacrifice and the gift of adoption, another woman’s empty arms can be full of “joy.”

My Joy

My Joy, my valentine, born in my heart,

My priceless treasure from a world apart.

My Joy, my daughter, who fills me with love,

May God richly bless you from his storehouse above,

My Joy who showers me with hugs and sweet things,

Pictures I cherish, who tells me her dreams

My Joy, a gymnast, a star in third grade,

My Joy, a sweet kiss and “I love you” each day.

My Joy, with little hands who fixes my hair when I’m hot,

My Joy, who forgives me when I blow up like a steam pot

My Joy, may you grow in God’s love every year,

And each Valentine’s day we always be nearer and dear,

My Joy, eat lots of chocolate, draw pictures and have fun,

For our journey together has only just begun

My Joy, my daughter, who I thought I would never see

I’ll love you forever, you shall always be

My valentine wrapped in hugs and a kiss,

From your mom, our lazy cats, our loud dogs,

and your big sis.

Under Vietnamese law, Joy was legally my daughter. I breathed a sigh of relief and enjoyed the trip back to Hanoi a lot more than the trip to Thai Nguyen.

The hard part was ahead—leaving her behind.

Chapter Thirty

Do not let your hearts be troubled…

John 14:1

After we arrived back at the Lillie Hotel, I packed an overnight suitcase to go to the airport. We had to fly to Ho Chi Minh to drop Joy off with Anne. I would fly back to Hanoi and leave on December 30th. It would take two days to get back to Gainesville. I didn’t want to be traveling on New Year’s Eve.

When I purchased my airplane tickets, I had jokingly asked the Vietnamese Airlines attendant if they were flying on January 1.

“No,” He said.

I asked, “Why not?”

“No customers.”

I didn’t want to be the first.