Finding Sarah PDF Free Download


A good book for leisure reading, the reader will easily identify the culprit at the source of Sarah's tribulations. The true source of intrigue lies in determining whether Randy will find Sarah in time to effect her rescue-as well as the reader's mind working through potential actions and comparing them to the author's idea of actual events. Download this app from Microsoft Store for Windows 10, Windows 10 Mobile, Windows 10 Team (Surface Hub), HoloLens. See screenshots, read the latest customer reviews, and compare ratings for PDF Reader - Free PDF Editor, PDF Annotator, PDF Converter, PDF Signature, Form Filler, PDF Merger, and Note-taker for Adobe Acrobat PDFs.

  • 2011
  • 1 Season

This reality TV show follows the everyday life of the former Duchess of York, Sarah Ferguson as she attempts to rebuild her life after a series of mistakes and problems in her past. The majority of the show takes place in North America where Sarah spends her time embarking on a series of writing projects in a bid to rebuild her career and reputation, she also takes part in a series of challenges and tasks designed to help her come to terms with her life. The series also follows Sarah as she returns to the UK after her time traveling across the US and Canada.

Finding Sarah, Finding Me

by Christine Lindsay

Sometimes it is only through giving up our hearts that we learn to trust the Lord. Adoption. It’s something that touches one in three people today, a word that will conjure different emotions in those people touched by it. A word that might represent the greatest hope…the greatest question…the greatest sacrifice. But most of all, it’s a word that represents God’s immense love for his people.

Join birth mother Christine Lindsay as she shares the heartaches, hopes, and epiphanies of her journey to reunion with the daughter she gave up…and to understanding her true identity in Christ along the way.

Through her story and glimpses into the lives of other families in the adoption triad, readers will see the beauty of our broken families, broken hearts, and broken dreams when we entrust them to our loving God.


Christine, February 1999
Two months before the reunion

“Gwen, I think it’s about time you began to have a life,” Candice said breezily as she moved across the patio refilling the glasses of the many guests. Gwen glanced around self-consciously, then forced a laugh. It was so like Candice Mallard to launch a campaign to reinvent Gwen’s life in the company of strangers.

The clandestine nature of my trip paints apicture of me I don’t want to look at too closely. As I drive from Maple Ridgeto Abbotsford twenty miles away, I wonder if I am one heartbeat away from beinga stalker.

I find the high school after several wrongturns. Squelching down the fear of getting caught, I park in the school lot anddrum up the nerve to walk in the front doors. I repeat under my breath, “It’sno different than walking into Lana’s high school at home in Maple Ridge. It’sno different at all.”

I’m an ordinary person just like any ordinaryparent in the Fraser Valley, the Bible Belt of British Columbia. I’m a Sundayschool teacher, a bonded bank teller, a woman of forty-one, hair lightenedblond, dressed like any nice mom in jeans, casual shirt, running shoes, my bagslung over my shoulder. I am David’s wife, mom to seventeen-year-old Lana, fifteen-year-oldKyle, and ten-year-old Robert.

I am also the woman who wrote in her journallast night, “For twenty years I’ve comforted myself that this time would come,that my birth-daughter and I could legally be reunited. And now I am afraid ofher.”

I, I, I, yes I am all of the above. I hate my self-centered focus. Am I alsoobsessive? And dear God—am I stalking my firstborn?

There’s still time to turn around, get back inmy car, forget this whole crazy escapade. Instead, coldness grips my spine as Istride past the office, praying none of the staff will stop me and ask why I’mhere, like a criminal.

I’m only coming to Sarah’s former school justthis once, not driving past her house like a real stalker, although I have theaddress. At least I’ve held myself back from that temptation. This one look—ina public place—I’ll allow myself. But I shudder.

Who can understand my hunger to know, to see?My husband and my mother understand, but do I deserve their pity? Close friendscan relate yet aren’t able to hold back their trepidation. Those in anyadoption triad who search for that missing biological connection willunderstand. I’ve heard plenty of their wild stories at the adoption supportgroup. Certainly the militant ones with agendas of their own, if they knew whatI was up to today, would urge me to barge forward despite my qualms. Theaverage person though? Would they understand this slipping over the edge into agray area that frightens the daylights out of me?

But time now stops. Not far from the office Ifind what I’m looking for. This moment I’ve awaited for twenty years. A hecticschool hall with teenagers rushing to their next class drifts away. Bell soundsrecede to a muffled hush. A desperate quiet roars in my head. It’s the same inevery school—a wall displays mounted photos of each graduating class. Portraitsof each graduate. Being this close to something tangible emphasizes the growingfragility I’ve battled the past two years. My soul stretches paper-thin as I searchthe pictures. They’re easy enough to follow, in alphabetical order, and Isearch for students’ names starting with the letter V.

I’ve waited so long. Far longer than I everanticipated the search to be. Disappointment after disappointment, lost letters,lost files, that awful sense of being forgotten. The past few weeks as her twentiethbirthday looms, my emotional pain has built to a mushroom cloud. I hardlyrecognize myself anymore.

And then there it is. Sarah VandenBos. Her grad picture. Her face. Sideways on a scooter pdf free download adobe reader.

A wall of air slams into the core of my being,pushing me backward. It’s hard to catch my breath, and I freeze. After allthese years of Sarah being a shadowy picture in my imagination, at last I seeher features.

Her long hair falls slightly wavy in that darkblond shade, the exact color as mine at her age. Her eyes hold something of metoo, the shape of her head, her neck showing above her grad gown, evensomething about her teeth. For a moment, my own college graduation picture superimposesitself over Sarah’s. A ghost from the past, what I looked like shortly before Ibecame pregnant with her. Yet there’s something else in Sarah’s face, somethingI didn’t expect, though I should have.

Her birth father Jim surfaces through her featurestoo. Her mouth is the same shape as his, her nose has that crazy blending ofparental genes. Thank God she’s got the tip of my nose and the bridge of Jim’sand not the other way around. For the past twenty years I’ve imagined her as ayounger version of me, but now seeing the real Sarah, flesh and blood and no longer a phantom ofmy imagination, the foundation of my life rumbles and shifts.

As I study every visible facet of her face, afew more pencil lines in the mental portrait of me are erased. She’s beautiful,just as I’ve always imagined…as beautiful as Lana. And there’s such confidencein Sarah’s smile. Sure, this is a professional grad photo and is supposed toexude that balance of poise and assurance, but even while my pride in her andthankfulness soar, I want to shrink away and hide. There’s nothing lacking inthis lovely face, nothing to show there’s even an ounce of need. This is what ayoung woman looks like whose cup of love has been filled to the brim.

How could such a girl ever need me? Sarah isn’tthe needy one. I am. I’m the one who hurts because I am not her mother.

I’ve stood staring at the grad photos longenough. No one seems to notice me, but I have no right to be here, and it’stime to go. On the drive home I grip the steering wheel. Tears slide down to soakmy shirt collar. Now that I’ve seen her, my fears of meeting her escalate. Shehas her own life, her own family. At the same time, every atom in my bodycontinues to shove me forward, to keep hoping for the eventual relationshipwith Sarah that I crave. These constant extremes of emotion drain the life outof me, and I want to just run away, disappear.

A particular psalm has given me strange comfortthese past months. “I lie down and sleep; I wake again, because the Lord sustains me,” resonates within me. But it’s not the poetic phrasesof King David in Psalm three that bring comfort—rather, the facts surroundingthe psalmist’s situation soothe like a salve on a raw wound. The psalmist wrotethose words as he looked back on the time he fled from his son Absalom.

Certainly Absalom was one wicked man out to murderhis father and steal the throne. Those melodramatic circumstances are vastlydifferent from my search for my birth-daughter, a nice ordinary girl in theFraser Valley. But sensational tabloid accounts of messy lives fill the Bible andgive me this peculiar peace.

At this moment, driving home with my emotionsrocking off their base, I’m consoled by King David’s stewing in a similaremotional quagmire. He too loved his child, wanted his child with all hisheart, yet ran to mountain caves to cower from his own flesh and blood. I’m notproud of my feelings, but they spill out in a bitter stream from my journalseach night. December 29, 1998—“I look back now, and for my sake wish I had notgiven Sarah up. She is my flesh and blood, yet she loves another couple as herparents. I struggle day and night about meeting her. Why do I torture myselfwith this compulsion to be reunited?”

Terrible words to flow from a mother’s heart.What kind of a mother am I? A mother to only three of her children, but not to herfirstborn. A fractured mother. In spite of this, my husband and I are happilymarried, a happiness attained by hard work and moving past our failures withforgiveness. Our three kids are our unmitigated joy. Yet I hunger for Sarah,whom I search for. And fear.

It was all so different from twenty yearsearlier. At seven months pregnant, I’d written in my journal in 1979 mylongings that the pregnancy would never end. During those last four months I’dnot wanted the day to come that I’d arranged to give up my baby. Heavy withchild then, I’d layered the relinquishment of my little one with as much peaceand love as I layered the layette—of soft undershirts, fluffy sleepers, thelittle white Bible—all to be given to her adoptive parents so that they andSarah would know how deeply I loved her, how much I wanted to see her again oneday.

I had the strength to do all that back thenbecause I was sure God had promised me a special relationship for Sarah and mewhen she was grown. So I’d given Sarah up in 1979, banking on that promise. Godsimply couldn’t let me down.

But then, King David had banked on God too, onlyto have his heart broken by his child.

Remembering back to June, 1978

Jim and I watchedthe movie The Goodbye Girl on one ofour first dates. With just a hint of the drama queen that sadly still surfacesin me, I remember thinking, Yeah that’sme, the goodbye girl. I counted up my goodbyes—at five years old to myentire extended family in Ireland when we immigrated to Canada. At twelve, my goodbyeto my father when my parents divorced. At nineteen, goodbye to all my oldfriends in Ontario when my mother, sister, and little brother and I ran away tostart over again in British Columbia. And now a year later, the goodbye I’d justsaid to Jim a few weeks ago when he went up north to work on an oilrig. Imissed him.

I thoughtabout Jim as I sat at my desk in the little island of reception in the Woodward’sChina Buying Office, my first full-time job. I wondered if we had a chance as acouple. If our going together would ever amount to marriage. Still, while theheat outside blanketed Vancouver, I worried more about what was happeninginside me.

I missed myperiod—so what? But I knew. Miss-Regular-as-Clockworkdoes not miss her period.

Half thestaff left the office, walking past glass cases filled with Waterford crystaland English bone china. Their laughter dwindled as they rose as a gaggle up theescalator, heading for the cafeteria. The main extension rang, and I answered.

With hardlyany preamble, the clinical voice on the other end said, “Miss Lindsay, yourpregnancy test has returned positive.”

My mouthwent dry, and I no longer heard the clacking of calculators but of bloodwhooshing through my temple. Positive? Negative?

With thenaiveté of a twenty-year-old, I asked, “Does this mean I’m going to have ababy?”


Deep insideme, the tinkling sound of breaking crystal. Everything receded, including thevoice of the doctor’s receptionist.


I hung upthe phone and swayed forward on my chair. Below me lay the beige linoleum tilesof the floor. Oh, God, let me fall through the floor. Let it swallow me up.Let me be invisible. Unmarried pregnancies didn’t happen to nice Christiangirls. But then, I wasn’t a nice Christian. I was a lousy Christian.

The otheroffice girls must have returned from their coffee break. The work day must haveended. Somehow, I boarded a bus. Blinded by tears, I sat on the aisle seat, halfwaydown, and stared at the dirty floor beneath my feet. I was pregnant. Nohusband. Jim circled in and out of my life like a revolving door. What goodcould Jim do anyway? Would he clean up his life, give up the drugs? Would hesuddenly become a responsible adult and marry me? Take care of this…this tinything growing inside me?

I swallowedthrough a tight throat. I would not cry, at least not until I was alone. Butbefore I went home to my empty, single apartment, I needed my mother. At thevery least, there was always Mum.

I got offthe bus close to her place. When she opened the door, with one glance at me herchin shifted upward. Her eyes darkened with worry. She put an arm around myshoulders and led me inside. “What’s wrong?”

The wordstumbled out. “I’m pregnant.”

I wasn’tafraid to tell her, but I hated to. My world had shattered. As her eldestchild, the one who had always done well at school, gone to college, she and Ihad planned a different life for me. A better life waited for me out there,with a satisfying career, someday a devoted husband, and a home. Not thevicious cycle of single-motherhood and poverty.

She held me.

There wasn’tmuch else to say. She knew about Jim, and from her own life she knew the storywell. A foolish girl takes the risk of unprotected sex with a guy whose love isfor something other than her. In my mother’s case, my father loved alcohol. Asfor me, my competition for Jim’s love was a bag of weed or a white line ofcocaine.

My mothersat with me on the couch, her arms around me, and together we cried. “Don’tworry,” she said. “We’ll get through this together.”

My mum,sister, little brother, and I had learned long ago to be a tight unit. Aftertalking for a while, being with Mum gave me the strength to go home. A softsummer evening tried to cradle me as I walked the two miles to my ownapartment. I’d taken such pride in decorating my little place, my first stridetoward independence, and I’d blown it. I’d probably conceived my baby withinthese walls. I shut the door behind me. Dropping my purse at the open balconywindow, I took in the bachelor suite. So quiet. Loneliness closed in around me,and I slumped to my knees.

All thewhile I’d been with my mother, though I’d cried with her, wiped hot tears frommy face, I’d been able to hold back the torrent. Now the volatile stormgathered, rising up inside me in heaps. My mouth spread wide in silent sobs, myarms clutched my stomach, and I bent over, my head swaying back and forth onlyinches from the carpet. This can’t betrue. This can’t be true.

But it was.How could I have been such a fool? At twenty years old I should have knownbetter. Even though I loved Jim, in my heart I referred to him as mywalk-on-the-wild-side. The skim-milk love he had for me wouldn’t be enough nowthat I was going to have his baby.

I wrappedmy arms around my middle and rocked on my knees, bawling until nothing remained.My face stung with drying salt, and my hand crept to my abdomen.

Deep insideme slept a tiny bit of flesh. At eight weeks, how big or small did this scrapof humanity measure? Did its heart beat? I’d seen pictures of fetuses in thewomb, sucking their thumbs. Did mine have a face yet, a spine? If I left italone to grow, how soon would it become a boy or a girl? But I’m so scared,dear God, I’m so scared.

Twilightsnuffed out the last of the day, and I tried to remember what I knew about God.I knew his Son from Sunday school—a gentle, kind man in a white robe, his feetcovered in dust, who I’d been told didn’t shoo people away when they’d blownit, especially tainted women, like I was now.

But God?The heavenly Father? What on earth did a father’s love feel like? Who needed afather anyway?

One of theclearest memories of my dad stole back into my mind, a memory I’d tried to buryover the years. But the memory kept slinking back like a mangy cat steals underthe porch no matter how many times you scare it away. As a child of seven andin the hospital for pneumonia, I’d waited for my dad. It was his evening tovisit, and my mother had made that possible by staying home with my sister. Frommy hospital bed I peered out the window to the street below, looking for hisfigure to walk up the pavement.

Daddy nevershowed up. Ten minutes after visiting hours ended, he sheepishly staggered in.A frowning nurse allowed him five minutes with me. The beer on his breath waftedover me as he leaned over to kiss my forehead. How rarely he kissed me. Nonetheless,his smelly kiss filled the cold emptiness that had bunched up in my chest as I’dwaited for him. When he left me minutes later, even as a kid of seven, I knewmy dad spent the time he should have been visiting me down at the pub. I alsoknew he was on his way back to the pub to order another beer.

The only parentallove I’d known came from my mother. Now at twenty I was going to be a mother.Maybe God would be there for me as my mum had always been.

Did God’svoice echo in my own when I protectively wrapped my arms around my abdomen andsaid, “I love you, little one. I’ll take care of you. Don’t be afraid.”?

Continue Reading

From Oregon, USA—The Adoptionof Anna

“Trying to Imagine My Daughter’s Reunionwith Her Birth Parents”

by adoptive father David Sanford

I wept hard the day my wife, Renée, and I formally asked if we could adopt our youngest daughter, Anna. We wept in response to reading a two-inch high stack of police reports, medical records, evaluations, and other official documents describing the hell Anna endured during the first three years of her life.

That spring Renéeand I received the great news that we were approved to adopt Anna. When we wentto her foster home, she jumped into our arms and said, “It’s my family!” A weeklater she moved to our home. That evening she and our youngest son, Benjamin,spontaneously started dancing to the music playing in the background. An hourlater they were still dancing. Our hearts overflowed with gratitude and love.

I could write abook telling story after story about why I love, cherish, and adore Anna. Thenagain, as we knew would be the case, the nightmares of her past came back tohaunt her and us during her early adolescence. Three stories stand out asparticularly poignant and apropos.

Shortly after Thanksgiving,a few weeks before her fifteenth birthday, Anna told me she had a secret. Shethen proceeded to tell me about a lullaby she has sung to herself every nightsince we adopted her. I asked her to write down the simple lyrics, which appearbelow. Anna was clear: “These lyrics are how I sing it, not necessarily what mybirth dad and mom sang to me.” The lyrics could echo Randy Newman’s song“Sandman’s Coming” sung by Linda Ronstadt (and others). In any case, I designeda poster for Anna with a dark blue sky, moon, and stars in the background andthe lyrics of Anna’s lullaby in bold black letters.

Sleep our little baby,

Sleep our little girl,

Mommy and Daddy love you,

Sleep our little baby, sleep.

Some days laterAnna was all smiles as I took her on a date to a nice restaurant. I explainedto her that two of our goals that evening were to have fun and make sure we gotto know our server by name and make it a fun evening for him too. Anna lovedthe idea, and we had a delightful time talking, teasing our server, and talkingsome more.

At one point Annabrought up her nightmares about her birth father. I looked down. In a low voiceI wondered aloud if he was still alive. Unbeknownst to me, Anna misunderstoodmy demeanor and statement. The next morning when she talked it over with Renée,Anna said I wished her birth father were dead. Renée immediately corrected her,saying I would never say something like that, to Anna’s great relief.

That previousevening Anna also brought up her birth mother. I surprised her by saying that acouple of years earlier Renée had found a photo of her birth mom on Facebook.As promised, I looked through our archives and found the photo Renée haddownloaded and printed. Sadly, the photo “backfired” almost immediately. Anna hadalready been acting out, but her behavior became much worse, including shallowbut extensive cuttings up and down her wrist. As well, Anna’s nightmares abouther birth father got worse.

In English class shortlyafter New Year’s, Anna and her classmates were asked to write a poem in class.After a few minutes Anna stopped writing and sat at her desk in a reflectivemood. Her teacher walked over and asked if Anna was still trying to get an ideafor her poem. Anna handed a page to her.

After reading thepage, Anna’s teacher asked who wrote it.

“I did,” Annareplied.

“But it’s beenonly a few minutes.”

“I know. The poemcame to me very quickly.”

“This sounds likean older, more experienced writer.”

Anna wasn’t surewhat to say next. “Our poems aren’t due for a few days, so I may work on mine abit more.”

That evening Annaand I read through her poem several times. An idea came to her, and she quicklytyped three more lines about “my shredded paper heart.” With her permission, I’vereprinted the finished poem below.

Whoam I?

Who am I? Who are you?

Me Daughter. You Father.

Father? Yes Father.

That’s who you are.

I know you, but

you do not know me.

Sweat, blood, anger, fear,

they’re all one to me,

one person. But who?

Let me tell you…

The sweat is from nightmares that hauntme still today,

but these nightmares are memories,

memories of you Father.

Blood is what came from the gash in myhead,

the one you gave me Father, remember?

Blood from the cut on my heart,

my shredded paper heart, for

I have been torn apart by your words.

Anger is the gnashing of teeth,

the hate that triples every time yourhand hit my side.

Fear is still tied to my past,

the fear of not letting go.

The fear that you’re still here.

Who am I? Who are you?

I know who I am, but

I don’t know you.

~ AnnaliseC. Sanford


As you undoubtedlyhave guessed, trying to imagine Anna’s reunion with her birth father is almostimpossible apart from a miracle of God.

Then again, couldarrangements be made for Anna to meet her birth mom sometime in the next fewyears? Yes, though Renée and I know it could “backfire” and send Anna spiralingseemingly out of control for weeks, maybe months.

After all, whatcould that woman possibly say to Anna’s desperate questions: “How could youabandon me as a baby? How could you leave me with that man? Do you have anyidea how badly I was abused emotionally, physically, and sexually the nextcouple of years? Why did you flee without me?”

What does thefuture hold for Anna? Much sorrow and much good. This evening I told Anna how Ideeply wished I could erase all the horror of her first years of life. Shelooked at me and replied, “But Dad, if you could do that, how would I ever be ableto help others?”

Who knows? Godstill makes trophies of grace. Anna certainly is one. We pray that God uses herto win her birth mother’s heart. We also pray for the conversion of her birth fatherand his reconciliation with the precious young woman that Anna is becoming.

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David Sanford’swritings have been published everywhere from Focus on the family to Forbes. Hisbook and Bible projects have been published by Doubleday, Thomas Nelson,Tyndale, and Zondervan. His speaking engagements have ranged everywhere fromThe Billy Graham Center at the Cove to the University of California Berkeley.His professional biography is summarized at His personal biography features his wifeof 34 years, Renée, their five children, and their 11 grandchildren (includingone in heaven).

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