his mother decided he belonged with them permanently.] In doing foster care, we had not been remotely thinking of adoption. . . . As Rick grew older, it became harder and harder to take him back to his apartment. As Jeanette would drive to within a few blocks so that Rick recognized the neighborhood, he would start puckering up and tears would flow. By the time they reached the parking lot, Rick would be hysterical. Once Jeanette had to call on adults to help her pry Rick’s protesting little body from the car. One day . . . [his mother] came up with a suggestion: “Ricky keeps saying, “Call Jeanette.” He loves coming to your house. Could you take him for a couple years, while I get back to school and get a job?” Jeanette knew in their community cousins would live with relatives for extended periods. Yet she also knew Rick couldn’t be rooted in our community, then go back. “I couldn’t do that,” Jeanette told her. “No way. We couldn’t give him back after having him for two years. . . . Want me to keep him forever? . . . Our family loves him. . . . You want us to adopt him?” [Rick’s mother] had apparently been thinking about this and quickly said that our adopting Rick was a good idea. Jeanette and I knew transracial adoption was highly controversial. I had been amazed to learn how viscerally the National Association of Black Social Workers condemned it. They and the NAACP accused whites like us —Lindsey, helping Harold who adopted black chilgrasp the meaning dren of . . . “blatant cultural of adoption genocide.” The organizations were reacting to unfair instances of black mothers losing their children to whites and of kids raised with little preparation for life in a black skin. On the other hand, significant studies showed black children raised by whites generally grew up to be healthy, well-adjusted adults. And for thousands of children, it was a choice of white parents or the devastating foster care system. . . . In our concern to share our love and God’s love, might we only make things worse? Would children we adopted be denied an ethnic heritage vital to their well-being? Would our divided, embittered society create ever larger chasms of enmity we could never bridge? . . . [We] sat in a small semicircle of white suburban adults. All were considering transracial adoption. . . . [The leader] was supportive of such adoptions when other alternatives were unavailable. He told us of the racism we would encounter. . . .
OLAN MILLS
L to R: Rick, Lindsey and Joshua, 1994—now ages 14, 8 and 9
Then he asked us a sobering question. His eyes swept across each face in the room as he asked in sharp tones: Who are you, that you think YOU can raise a black child? . . . Who, indeed, was I? Nordic white, for one thing! How could I be dad to a descendant of black slaves? Were we being presumptuous?
[As Harold and Jeanette went through the red tape of adopting a second black child.] If there’s such a need, why do I have to jump through all these hoops again? But as I prayed about it, I thought of missionHarold with Joshua and Lindsey, 1996 aries taking the Good News into remote areas. Some worked through maddening red tape and numbing obstacles to help people who would just as soon kill them. Efforts to do good are seldom efficient or appreciated. If we were following God’s direction, we couldn’t expect Him to drop every detail into our laps. Taking risks and perhaps being a fool were part of it, too. With Rick and baby Joshua, [Jeanette] was checking her bags [at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport]. A black skycap helping her with her luggage said, “Say, tell me something. What are you doing with these two boys?” The question made Jeanette apprehensive. “We’ve adopted them,” she said, studying his face. “What do you think about that?” The skycap put his hand on Jeanette’s arm. “Bless you. You know, if more people would do that, we wouldn’t have such a problem with racism.” . . . How could it possibly not help break down walls if blacks and whites are blended in loving families? . . . . . . Whenever we would happen to meet African-Americans, they would show strong approval.
[After an imminent third adoption fell through.] It seemed evident the journey of faith had more mystery and adventure than clarity. We seemed to be like explorers in a strange land, seeking wisdom from counselors, principles from Scriptures, nudges from the Holy Spirit, but then having to make our interpretations, and choose in the crossroads. We concluded perhaps God had burst into our lives to make us keep our door open. We went to McDonald’s with our young black children and older white children. Across from us sat a middle-aged black couple with two little white boys they were caring for. Blacks caring for whites. Whites for blacks. Beautiful music together. Each heritage celebrated. Respect and love going beyond family and race. I retreated to my den, sat down heavily and turned to my friend Fenelon, the French Christian who lived in the late 1600s. On the very first page of his book The Seeking Heart, he told me, “Do not resist what God brings into your life. Be willing to suffer. God prepares a cross for you that you must embrace without thought of self-preservation.” Ouch! Beside those words I had written some months before, “Adoptions!” and then an arrow to this: “See God's hand in the circumstances of your life . . . nothing so shortens and soothes your pain as the spirit of
FALL 2000
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