When you can’t go home at Christmas, there’s adoption

In a long-ago time, in a faraway land, darkness descends. The lowing of cattle and the bleating of sheep steal o’er the countryside. The murmur of hay beneath hooves falls upon the listening ear. Then, at once, the cry of an infant splits the night…

For some months now, we have known it. This year, we will be missing one son around our Christmas table. The Guy with Jesus Hair, as his mother describes him, aka The Feral Child as his big brother describes him, can’t come home for Christmas. Already, we are feeling it.

There is something very special about having the four of them under our roof at the same time. The house comes alive with noise. Piles of shoes (do they have eight feet apiece?) appear in the back room. Dirty dishes multiply like rabbits in the spring, and the refrigerator door is never closed.

Local hens feel the strain. One of the quartet is, alone, a six-egger. Skillets bang and clank in the kitchen at breakfast time, and a certain someone sings Christmas carols in a loud—very loud—falsetto.

Silent night? Where, and when?

Recently, in conversation with James Golden, aka Bo Snerdley, on his syndicated show, we were talking about the iconic artist, Norman Rockwell. His magazine covers captured the essence of American life from childhood to young love to holiday meals with family and beyond.

“His work spoke to our emotions and our hearts. It called forth the desires that are innate in every human being who’s ever lived. We all want a circle in which to belong.” And there it came. “The heart always desires to go home.”

It is simply true. The heart always desires to go home.

Never, in my opinion, is this felt more keenly than in the high and holy season of Christmas. Even the hardest heart can feel it—an ineffable joy, a longing that can scarcely be expressed, and the oddest flicker of hope. The beauty of the lights, the caroling of voices and bells, and the deep and living greens all bear witness to a dreary world that, “There is something greater. We were made for more than this.” And we long to experience it at home.

What happens, though, when you can’t go home? When things go awry, relationships fracture, and the road called Return is blocked, what then? Is there a place for such a one as this, or a hope?

It is easy, I know, to interpret God based on the humans around us. Parents, in particular, are the earliest and most influential interpreters of him that we have. If they were loving, patient, and kind, we believe that God is that way, too. Home is a happy, pleasant place, and we find consolation with our people. We have found the circle where we belong.

If our human parents were absent, abusive, or angry, we assume that this is who God is, and this is how he treats his kids. In such a case, home is not a safe and happy place. There’s no consolation or acceptance, and we sit outside the circle, looking in.

Author Philip Yancey said, “The fatherhood of God represents an ideal, which, for many people, has been marred.” And so the precious, hurting marred find it hard to go back home.

If this is you, George MacDonald offered this. “You must interpret the word by all that you have missed in life.” What a powerful key this is! By defining everything you never had and always wanted, you will begin to get a glimpse of who God is and what kind of parent he is. Countless people have found this to be true.

Whether it is parental rejection, spousal abandonment, forsaking by siblings or friends, or the loss of a loved one to death, there are many reasons why we cannot “go home.” To all who find themselves in such a place, I have one word for you—adoption.

Years ago, two babies were born. Both were abandoned in the hospital, left alone and unloved in their respective isolettes. Their biological parents simply quit coming. My maternal heart wrenches at the thought that two mothers and two fathers could leave their flesh and blood behind, but that’s when it happened. They were taken in by a man and his wife. Though both were special needs, it did not matter. Laying self aside, they took in two, tiny scraps of humanity and gave them a family and a name.

Those parents are my brother and sister-in-law. The babies they took in are my niece and nephew. Powerless to help themselves, they were unable to choose a family with which to live. They were wholly at the mercy of others.

Unlike them, we do have a choice. God offers us a family, a new name, and a circle in which to belong. He allows us to choose, knowing full well that we are all “special needs.”

With him, our hearts are safe. In him, our hearts are fully home, thanks to the Child of Christmas.

The loving mother bows her head, breathing in the newborn’s scent. In the silence of a stable, she presses her lips to his cheek and kisses the face of God. Emmanuel, God is with us.

Note: This essay was first published on December 21, 2024, on The Daily BS.