Chapter 12

“God’s work done in God’s way never lacks God’s supply.” — Elisabeth Elliot

When lovely Liana’s photo first flashed on my computer screen on December 30, 2014, I knew I already loved her. I had dreamed of her and this meeting for 13 years. I was stunned that she did strongly resemble my daughter, Heather, as Roma had told us years earlier.

I cried as I began my first surreal message, “My dear, dear Liana, I have searched for you for a very long time . . .”

Through tears, I translated her messages. Though foreign words peppered the translations from flawed translation internet tools, her JOY gushed at seeing her little brother’s photos for the first time in thirteen years. He was alive! He was not seven anymore. Her self-reproaches for not being able to save her precious little brothers were heart wrenching. She was only 17 years old. She had no power to prevent the adoptions, first of Rostilav, “Roostic” Roma had called him, and then Roma. She told of arriving at the orphanage to say her final goodbye, but Roma was already gone. The pain was still apparent. I sobbed off and on for hours over that one heartbreaking mental image.

I knew Roma would not, could not, answer his sister’s many questions. I opened my own VK.com account and sent a friend request to dear Liana. For hours, I shared photos with her of the little brother she hadn’t seen since he was seven. I answered her questions as best I could with a flawed translation system. Were our other children adopted? Why did we adopt? She had many questions about how her brother became our son. She insisted he was not an orphan. He had a mother and a father. She had often returned to the orphanage over the past 14 years to inquire if they had any information about him. Apparently, the reports sent to Russia from our adoption agency never made it to his sister, though I had requested she be told how he was loved and thriving. We had given them our permission to inform Liana about his whereabouts. She had returned with hope only four months earlier, when Roma turned 20. The authorities still refused to give her information about her brother that even we wanted her to have, except his name was now Michael. She said they even lied about that. I explained that Michael was now his last name.

She was as lovely as Roma had described her over the years. I was comforted to learn Liana was married and had two little boys, ages five and seven, and seemed to have a happy life. Roma was taken from his home at age five. The last time Liana saw Roma, he was seven. How great is our God who, after Liana lost two little brothers, gave her two little sons?

A few days after my introduction to Liana, another relative contacted me, calling herself Roma’s aunt. She explained she was Roma’s father’s first cousin, Lia, but they had been more like brother and sister growing up. Liana had been named after Lia. Aunt Lia made it clear they were Georgian, not Russian. She had never met Roma because of the political hostilities between the Republic of Georgia and Russia. When we traveled to Russia in 2002 to bring Roma home, we were just over the northern border of Georgia, across the Caucasus Mountains. We didn’t know that the bulk of his family was just south of that boundary line.

The more answers Aunt Lia supplied, the more questions I had. We messaged for hours those first days. She was so grateful they had finally found beloved Igor’s son. She was so gracious and thanked us for loving and raising Roma. I scrounged through photo albums to find photos to send Lia and Liana. I wanted them to see the happy boy growing up surrounded by our loving family, neighbors, and friends. Aunt Lia sent picture after picture of the family he had never known. The only family members I had read about in his adoption information were his mother, father, sister, and brother. Now I was learning about a larger extended family that was close knit. Roma would sit beside me in front of the computer and study the kind faces of his first family that, all but Liana, were strangers to him. A generation earlier, the family had been close. How did Roma become separated from such a loving family? He was about to find out, and the answers gave him the “identity” that had evaded him his whole life.

My mind blurred and swirled around these shocking, unlikely, and sudden connections. The hard-to-believe pictures that downloaded before my eyes daily from people who had a connection long before Roma was conceived. I cried when I first saw a baby picture of Roma, a plump-cheeked baby in a red hooded sweater, with a pacifier hanging from a plastic chain. Vintage photos with shockingly familiar faces came into my inbox regularly. Other photos were downright haunting in their similarity to my son. A dizzying 14 years had flown by since seven-year-old Roma had become our son. And we knew none of the back story that was finally unfolding.

All of it was so poignant, especially now that I had another precious seven-year-old in my life, my oldest grandson, Jack. Like Roma, Jack was also full of life with a sense of awe and adventure. His sweet temperament and energetic enthusiasm for all topics pointed to his vast potential. He was cherished by his younger sisters and brother, his mother and father, his aunts and uncles and cousins, and his grandparents. Jack, who was secure and happy, was already making his impact felt.

If Jack was suddenly removed from our life, if he disappeared, we would be haunted forever by the mystery surrounding our precious and irreplaceable boy.

Suppose we lived in a country where it was common to send children to foreign countries by way of adoption. What if we were informed that Jack was scheduled to be shipped off to one of those foreign countries, and I could visit one last time, to say my final goodbye. But when I arrived in my tearful state of utter despair, with a gift of candy, trying to be strong, I was informed he was already gone. What if my desperate attempts to learn more yielded no information about his whereabouts or condition, but led repeatedly to a dead end, a door securely locked. We would have no choice but to move on with life. But, of course, we would never forget Jack. Never for a moment would we forget him.

Another family’s loved and irreplaceable seven-year-old brother, son, nephew, cousin, grandson became our son in April 2002. In a temporary period of hopelessness, helplessness, and chaos, Roma’s birthmother’s parental rights were terminated. For almost 13 years, Roma’s Russian and Georgian families had asked questions for which they could find no answers. What had become of cute, precocious little Roma? Was he okay? Was he thriving?  Did he live with a family who would appreciate or stifle that witty, charming, and assertive personality? Was his potential being nurtured? Was he mistreated? Was he loved? Was he still alive? Infinite questions and mystery surrounded one loved and lost little boy.

Never for a moment would they forget Igor’s son, Roma.

Do not misunderstand—I am not saying adoption is a bad thing. It is a wonderful, redemptive, God-ordained experience from my point of view. And for all the children who would otherwise have no families, adoption can literally save lives. Blessings from our adoption have been incalculable. But there is another side, a story of loss, Roma’s first family’s tragic story.

Roma would go back to the computer to chat with Liana less and less. He seemed satisfied that she was happy and still alive. She might as well have lived on the moon, the chasm that separated the siblings was so vast. She had known him so much better than he knew her. Her loss seemed much greater. She wanted to video chat with him, and he made excuses. He didn’t know Russian, and I don’t think she could understand that was one of his many losses. He was unsure how to proceed. He confessed he was emotional, and didn’t know how to communicate with her, and didn’t want to talk about it. Liana would ask me why he wouldn’t talk to her; the answers evaded and saddened me. I made excuses. I understood the complications of both siblings. I tried to be an intermediary, feeling protective of both parties. We would all need to be patient. The unfolding story was about to take some wild turns, and shocking characters from the distant past were about to enter this inspiring narrative. When the most shocking photo arrived in my messenger inbox, I was dumbfounded. Roma looked just like his father, Igor.

God was revealing so much, so fast, I could hardly write it fast enough. I was stunned, and so was Roma. We were caught up in a history that was bigger and more tragic than we could have imagined.

Continue with Chapter 13