On good days, when I am not in despair over my abandonment, I imagine my Jewish birth mother stroking my curly brown hair and bidding me, “shalom.” I think of her whispering this blessing over me as her way of saying goodbye, before she walks out of the hospital, leaving me behind.

My journey into adoptee consciousness has left me wrestling with this Hebrew word, shalom. I have lived with shalom, and I have lived without shalom.

I grew up in a Christian home. My father was the pastor of Christ Community Church in Nanaimo, B.C. where I grew up. He often ended services by blessing the congregation and offering God’s shalom, or God’s peace. Sometimes, I would squirm in those chairs. I found it hard to understand, let alone accept, God’s shalom. Inside of me, a war was taking place. Our church’s motto was “A place to belong. A place to become.” I sat there deeply aware that I did not belong. I did not look like anyone in my family, or anyone in my church family. I felt like a spectacle. My inner dialogue incessantly pointed out those differences, while I deeply yearned to belong.

Ecclesiastes 3:8 tells us that there is “a time for war and a time for peace.” As an adoptee, I wonder if I have ever truly felt God’s shalom. Have I lived without those nagging warlike, inner questions?

Shalom has also been translated to mean security or safety. My birth mother was Jewish, and my birth father was Jamaican. I was adopted by a Dutch, protestant family. I grew up in communities that did not reflect my appearance. This left me feeling unsafe in my own skin. As I was in my teenage years, I had to battle on my own, the never-ending questions of why I was different from my family, the racism and accusations of theft, and the public rejection of who I was. I felt shame and unworthiness. I have had to protect myself. I have had to figure out the tools that I need to navigate this world. At times, I struggle to feel God’s safety. I try to imagine his presence when I feel alone. I am still learning to fully give God the place of protector in my life.

Many adoptees find it difficult to feel whole. Our separation from our first families has ripped away a piece of our identity. Even as an adult, there are times when I don’t feel connected to either side of my racial identities. It is evident that culture takes a lifetime immersed to learn.

The Bible also translates shalom to completeness or wholeness. One of the biggest misconceptions that I had as an adoptee was that finding my birth families would make me feel complete. The truth is that it brought up more questions. I realized that my years of separation from my birth families made me feel like an outsider. I was still adopted. While I love my birth families and am glad to be in reunion, it did not complete me.

I believe that true shalom can only come from God. I can only experience shalom by opening and pouring my heart out to God. As an adoptee, I know that God has been the only one in my life who has been there for my complete story. He was there while I was being formed. He was there when my birth mother walked away. He was there while I was in foster care. He was there when I joined my adoptive family. He is still here.

And yet, I don’t always feel God. Despite my feelings, I am comforted by one last interpretation of shalom: divine grace. No matter what I am feeling, God’s divine grace comes in like a flood and covers me. I am not always aware of his blessings, security, or completeness, but his divine grace still operates in my life. God does not withhold shalom just because I don’t recognize it. God’s shalom is for the adoptee too.