BelovedBy Liz (Calsbeek ’99) Moss

DOUG BURG

We live in different worlds. Most likely she lives in a small dirt hut in southern Ethiopia. I live in a four-bedroom, one-and-a-half bath house in a northwest Iowa town. Her education is basic, at most. I’ve earned a master’s degree. Her employment is petty trade. Until recently, I served as a pastor in a local congregation. We are different.

I don’t know much of her story—what her upbringing was like, what hopes and dreams she holds. But I do know on a spring day she gave birth to a baby boy in her parent’s home. She named him Dawit, which means beloved and translates to David. His second name was Desalegn, which means I am happy, I am proud. I can guess she was proud of this boy of hers. I can guess she was delighted with her beloved son.

Dawit was nurtured by his mother for a few months as they lived with his grandpa and grandma. But with circumstances too difficult to bear and an abundance of love, she placed him into the care of others. I can guess her love for him must run deep.

On another spring day, my husband and I stood over the boy’s crib in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. With his arms stretched above his head, he slept peacefully, as though he didn’t have a care in the world. The nannies said he had fallen asleep while lying in the sun, part of the morning routine to boost the children’s vitamin D.

We had traveled more than 24 hours, halfway around the world, to hold this child in our arms. We had endured adoption’s paperwork, waiting and unknowns. We were forced to give up control and patiently discover the wonder of God’s plan. At that moment, when the nanny handed this droopy-eyed little guy into my outstretched arms, the differences I once had with the woman vanished. We are both deeply in love with this same beloved boy.

When I rock David to sleep, I often look into his big brown eyes and wonder: What other world has he seen? What other eyes has he looked deeply into? What other kisses has he felt? What lullabies did she hum? What stories did she tell her son? What hopes and dreams does she hold for the one she gave in love?

I can’t help but recall what the psalmist wrote: “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well” (Psalm 139:13-14). Now, as David’s mom, I sing, tell stories, and hope and dream for his future too.

In the Reformed tradition, baptism is the sign and seal of God’s promises to God’s people. It is God saying yes to us before we say yes to God. Sometimes, when I’ve struggled to hold a kicking and screaming infant while trying to sprinkle water on the little head, I’ve thought about the poignant symbolism when a child kicks and screams into the kingdom of God. As much as we don’t always want to follow, God continues to say yes, yes, yes.

I wonder if in adoption, baptism is also something more. When I baptized him, I uttered these words to my child: “David Jacob, it was for you that Jesus Christ came into the world; for you he died and for you he conquered death; yes, for you, little one, you who know nothing of it yet. We love because God first loved us.”

I wonder if God has whispered into his little ear: “Dawit Desalegn—David Jacob, even while you were in your mother’s womb, I loved you and I loved your mother. Even before your mother called you beloved, you were mine. Whomever you are with, you are mine. You are adopted into my family and you are marked as Christ’s own forever.”

Perhaps, we don’t have so many differences after all. In fact, we’re pretty much the same—both adopted children of God. Yes, we may live worlds apart. I could never imagine what her life is like, and I suppose she could never imagine mine. But we both love. And we are both God’s beloved.

Liz Moss and her husband, Jon ’99, adopted David Jacob from Ethiopia this past March with assistance and support from Holt International. As an ordained pastor in the Reformed Church in America, Liz was blessed to baptize her own son.