Six years ago she was a sixteen pound baby who could fit in the crook of your arm (which is mostly where she wanted to be). She was born in China, and for the first year of her life was surrounded by other babies and loved by nannies. She was placed in our arms on the night before her first birthday, and she was scared and probably a little mad that somehow all the nannies and the babies had been replaced with this very strange-looking family who plopped her in a bathtub and spoke in gibberish. But she adapted more quickly than I would have thought - and suddenly she was laughing when we talked to her, and snuggling into our arms where she would fall asleep. Boy, was she a TIRED baby. We toted her around China, and somehow in that amazing country she became a part of our family.
She turned seven yesterday. Birth is a miracle, there is no doubt. Our family has been blessed by the arrival of two children by birth so I know this is true. But adoption is a miracle also. When I look at this seven year-old girl and look at the photo of her at age one, I see the miracle of a resilient little girl who traveled from a bridge, to an orphanage, to our arms where we carried her to the US where she became a Tresch - through and through. Sometimes I forget the miracle, and I take it for granted. But that is the way it is with miracles. It's easy for them to lose their luster in the grind of everyday life. I want to be able to look at all three of my children and be reminded that miracles are gifts. They are supposed to remind us that God is a loving father who desires to give good gifts to His children - and often those gifts, those miracles, come in the most surprising ways.
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