Sometimes I wish they looked obviously different so someone, anyone, everyone would give them a break—would give them a handful of grace. But no. We walk through our days looking normal. All-American normal. No one even suspects they are adopted, let alone Russian. Most people don’t know our struggles to get through our days. But God knows.
In spring, in perfect time, seed breaks open. Seed starts new milkweed that scatter throughout our fields and all through my gardens. And we let them grow because they feed. They feed the life we have come to love—the butterflies, the bees, the bugs striped red and black with tickling antennae when held. These plants—these broken, dried up, open plants—they teach me—they feed my soul with truth.