My tribute to courageous birth moms everywhere...

Her name means “joy” in Amharic. Not the word I would first use to describe our meeting, just hours after landing in Ethiopia for the second time...this trip to bring our children home.

We had been given the option of meeting birth mom by our agency. It was our choice, but strongly encouraged. It would require extra time and expense, and we were warned that it could be awkward, at best. Both families discussed the pros and cons and decided that, for the sake of the children, we would plan to meet.

We had barely checked into our hotel rooms when a call from the lobby informed us, in broken English, that mom was there and would be waiting for us outside. No warning, no plan...just “she's here...please come downstairs to meet her”.

As I have said so many times in the retelling of our adoption story, NOTHING could have prepared me. PANIC! How exactly is this supposed to be done? Do you hug the woman who is giving you her children? Do you simply shake her hand? Does she hate me? Will she forever remember me with sadness? Will I always be a reminder to her of what she could not be? Will we adequately be able to convey to her that we will love her babies...that they will be completely ours, just like our bio kids...but forever hers as well? That we will always speak of her with honor...that we will do our best to keep their memories of her alive.

We gathered our courage and made our way downstairs...T and Jean had already been introduced to her by the man in charge of our agency's adoptions. My eyes met hers and I lost it...shake her hand? Hardly! We embraced, my six foot frame and hers, probably under five. We sobbed as we held each other...unable to communicate, yet still able to say so very much. She was so strong, so brave, so selfless.

She had carried these twins that are now mine....she had birthed them, named them, nursed them, loved them and kept them alive in such extreme poverty. And now, out of selfless love that I will never claim to fully understand...she was giving them to us. She was giving them hope...she was giving them a future...she was giving them life.

We sat, the five of us...an African birth mother, two American born adoptive parents, one born in Laos, and myself, born and raised in South America....brought from all around the world with one united purpose...the love of four children. We asked her, through the interpreter, what her dreams were for each of her kids., and asked her to describe each of their personalities. We cried together, we laughed together. Each family gave her a photo album to keep...it showed our families here at home, our houses, the kids bedrooms and where they would sleep. We told her about each of you...our families, friends, and community whose generosity had helped make this possible.

It was time to go..just typing those words makes the tears flow again. The interpreter/driver said it was time to take her back so we needed to say our goodbyes. It wasn't enough time, there was not enough said...but it was time. Just before leaving, she softly asked the agency director if she could give us each a gift, as if she hadn’t already given her all. She slowly unfolded a handkerchief and pulled out several tattered pictures that she had of the kids when they were younger, taken with their birth father while he was still living. She explained that she wanted the kids to have something to remember him with too.

I say often that adoption is beautiful, and it is. I say often that adoption requires sacrifice, and it does.

To all birth moms out there who have made the selfless choice to give their child up for adoption. Whether you ever meet your child's adoptive mother or not... may it be a comfort for you to know that the adoptive mother will always carry part of your grief. We carry it tenderly, just as we do your child. We honor it, we honor you. You were braver, you gave more.