Editor’s note: Sunday, Jan. 18, is Sanctity of Life Sunday.
“I’m not religious.” She spoke the words as soon as I pulled a chair beside her hospital bed.
“That’s OK,” I replied, unsure if anyone had ever been so direct. I whispered an arrow prayer to the Lord for wisdom: Please help me say the right thing, Lord – Your words, not mine.
She reclined in the hospital bed, having just delivered a baby. The hospital had called me because she said she wouldn’t leave with him. “I didn’t name him,” she said.
“That’s OK,” I repeated.
We sat in silence that felt endless, though only a few minutes passed. She radiated anger – not toward me, but toward her situation.
“I’m proud of you,” I said. My words broke the silence and dissolved some of the tension. She turned toward the window while I continued. “I heard you visited a clinic,” I said. Her eyes filled with tears. “I know, and I’m proud of you,” I said.
Still gazing out the window, she listened as I gently explained that although she felt unable to parent, she had chosen to give her child life. She had allowed me – a social worker, and truly, a complete stranger – to sit with her in the most vulnerable days of her life.
Over the next few hours, we talked. She recalled calling the baby’s father, hearing his harsh response, and receiving his offer to pay for the clinic visit. Her heart broke, and she felt completely alone.
“The baby will need a father … boys need a father,” she whispered. Her reasoning for choosing adoption mirrored what many of our birthmothers express. She wanted her child to have the life she believed he deserved – a life she felt unable to provide.
During the next few days, I came and went from the hospital. By the third day, we packed her belongings and said goodbye to the baby, who went from having no name to carrying a proud, three-generation family name. Three days earlier, the adoptive couple had rushed to the hospital after receiving the call that they were now parents to a newborn.
The name they gave him carried a legacy larger than he was, but watching him grow into it would bring joy. The adoptive father proudly showed photos of his grandfather – the first to carry the family name – to everyone who paused to look.
The adoptive mother embraced the baby’s birthmother tightly, then asked if they could pray together. Instinctively, I started to say no, remembering her firm words at the beginning. But to my surprise, she said yes.
Tears filled every eye in the hospital hallway that afternoon.
Valarie Veteto is program manager of Faith Adoption, a ministry of Baptist Children’s Home and Family Services in Illinois.
This article originally appeared in the Illinois Baptist.
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