Eight years ago this month, we left for the second of two trips to Kaliningrad, Russia, to complete the adoption of our sons Connor and Joseph. Connor was almost four at the time, while Joseph was just a baby, not even eight months old.
The ensuing years have been a mixed bag, a tale of two children. Joseph has thrived and grown and become a smart and happy young lad heading off to third grade in a few weeks. Connor's journey has been difficult, including repeated hospitalizations, multiple school placements, a revolving door of physicians and hurt in the family, both literal and figurative.
Living with Connor has meant living with loss and learning about conditions we've never heard of and accepting the realities of life with a child who will never learn to read or write and who requires almost constant attention. Living with Connor has meant working with some superb professionals and some people in professional positions who are almost hopelessly inept.
Life with Joseph has been a rewarding journey. We met Joseph in a decrepit Russian orphanage on a blisteringly hot June day in 2002 and fell for him like a ton of bricks. A little league game with Joseph, a day at the beach, an afternoon of catching frogs all serve as a reminder of the graces we have been given and of lives shared and written together.
The narrative, the story, of two boys adopted from an enigmatic corner of the old Soviet empire is a story of extremes, of bright days and dark moments, and of a family, but for the grace of God, would never have been together. The fact that such a family can survive and prosper eight years into such a journey is cause for celebration.
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