Five years ago, I thought my life was complete: I had two beautiful teenage daughters from my first marriage, my husband, Bob, and I had built a successful business together, and we had a fulfilling family life and lots of friends.

But one August evening, Bob and I saw a television program that was to change our lives forever. It focused on the plight of homeless children in Russia. My heart ached at the sight of their grief-stricken faces, and by the end of the hour, I realized that I couldn't just turn off the TV and get on with my life. I had to help.

We discussed the possibility of adopting and whether, at the ages of 38 and 46, we were ready for a change. We debated the logistics and had heartfelt discussions with my daughters, Sunshine, 19, and Tiffany, 14. Some of our friends and relatives encouraged us, but others were worried. After talking to several adoption agencies and adoptive families, however, we decided that the joy these families had gained was well worth the risk.

Before we could go any further,we had to complete a home study, which consisted of police and FBI checks, a home inspection, and physicals for everyone. We were asked about our personal lives, our proudest accomplishments, and our worst failures. Finally, at the end of December 1994,-four months after that heartbreaking TV show-we were cleared for an adoption.

Bob and I decided to try to adopt a child form the small Baltic republic of Latvia after we learned about it at an adoption-agency meeting and met a family who had adopted a little Latvia girl. She was healthy and had been well cared for, and they all seemed so happy that I knew we were on the right track.

Several couples in our new adoptive network suggested that we contact Anna, a Latvian woman who worked privately with courts and orphanages to facilitate adoptions. She agreed to guide us through the complicated process of assembling our dossier, a massive folder that included our home study, copies of marriage certificate and passports, letters from our employers, application forms, and financial statements. We sent it all to Anna on January 13, 1995, and then all we had to do was wait.

After three anxious months, I got the phone call I had been dreaming of: Anna had matched us with an 11-month-old boy. Eleven months! Bob and I had said we wanted a young child, but it suddenly hit me that after helping my girls with algebra homework and college applications, this would mean a return to bottles, diapers, and day care.

A week later, we received three Polaroid's of Aleksandrs-nicknamed Sasha-standing in his crib at the orphanage. His blue eyes looked right into ours, and we knew we couldn't wait to meet him.

Again, things proved to be more difficult than we had anticipated. The Latvian judicial system required us to appear in court and state our intention to adopt Sasha nor more than three months after being approved. We waited and waited, but no court date was set. Anna called the magistrate's office daily for 48 days before we were granted our day in court-June 28, 1995.

On the plane to Latvia, I was stunned by the immensity of what we were doing. I had never been out of the United States-in fact, I hadn't even seen much of my own country. Yet here were were, flying around the globe to adopt a child I had never even seen in person. The only explanation I had was that I was driven by the love I saw in Sasha's eyes.

When Bob and I arrive, Anna was waiting to drive us to the Kalkuni orphanage. A director led us to room number 8, and there, in his little crib, sat Sasha. I didn't want to frighten him, so I knelt and put my fingers into the crib. Before I knew it, I was holding him in my arms. All those weeks of looking at three pictures, and now we had a son.

We stayed with Sasha for hours. As we were leaving, we walked past a group of little girls playing outside, and two of them stared at me. "Mama, Mama?" they called. The pleading in their eyes struck me like a blow. How could I take my little boy home and forget these hopeful faces?

The next day, we went to court. The judge asked us personal questions, like why Bob and I had never had children together, and ridiculous questions, like whether we intended to sell Sasha's body parts to save American children. Once the ordeal was over, Sasha was ours- but then the judge decided to impose a ten-day waiting period to make sure the endless paperwork was finished.

But even this disappointment couldn't dampen our joy. Bob and I returned to the United States with Sasha on July 18, and to my amazement, more that 30 friends and relatives met us at the airport. My daughters fell in love with Sasha almost as soon as they saw him, and we all went home together to settle into our new life.

Soon, I began calling other parents in our adoptive network to get advice. One family desperate for help paid my way to Latvia to walk them through the process we had so recently undertaken. It felt good to be back. At one orphanage for younger children I met a bright, beautiful seven-year-old named, Anastasija, who had been there for about three years. We talked for awhile and I felt that I was getting to know and like this lively little girl. Later, the orphanage director told me that at age seven Anastasija had outgrown the orphanage and he would have to move her to a state supported orphanage for older kids that housed predominately teenage boys.

Aghast at the thought of this young girl alone and friendless in a crowd of older boys, I quickly called Bob. We discussed the possibility of sponsoring Anastasija, who wasn't available for adoption due to a legal technicality.

Eventually, we agreed to pay $400 a month for her care in another orphanage until she reached age 18, as long as we received monthly progress reports and could visit her.

Five months later, after we had exchanged many letters with the orphanage director about Anastasija, he notified us that she was now available for adoption. Ecstatic, I jumped on the first flight I could get and brought our second angel home.

In the months that followed, Bob and I were happy and busy, truly fulfilled by the love and challenges or our new family. Yet I couldn't stop thinking about another special boy who was still in Latvia.

I had met 14-year-old Ugis during one of my visits to Vangazi, the orphanage Anastasija had moved to. Usually, if a child hasn't been adopted by age 6 or 7, his changes are slim, but I was determined to find a family for this bright, charming young man, who mother had died of cancer. The director at Vangazi allowed him to visit us at Christmastime in hopes of this meeting a family that would adopt him-but in the process, we fell in love with him , and I think the feeling was mutual.

On March 17, 1887, Ugis became Thomas Baker. His going-away party at the orphanage was festive, but it held no joy for the children who had, until recently, been his only family. The director asked them to try to be happy for Thomas and to remember how hard everyone was working to find homes for them. I just sat there and wept silently.

At the end of the party, some younger children climbed into my lap to cuddle. Through the translator, they told me their wishes for a mommy and daddy-a "forever family." Hearing this, one of the adoptive parents who was traveling with us looked at me and said, "Now I know what drives you, Brenda. I know why you do what you do."

While I was in Latvia to bring Thomas home, I met 9-year-old Alla. With her sweet voice and beautiful smile, she stood out from the spring concert crowd at the orphanage. After the director introduced us, I talked to her for awhile and took a photo, already wondering which family back home might be right for her.

By now, word of our successful adoptions had spread, and in the following months, I got calls from couples as far way as England asking me to help them adopt a child from overseas. After some soul-searching, I came to an obvious conclusion: I should use my newfound knowledge to officially become a private adoption consultant. In April 1997, I founded International Adoption Services, Inc. and began working full-time to bring children and parents together.

Bob and I brought Alla to America for a visit that year, as we had done with Thomas, so she could meet some prospective families. She spent a wonderful six weeks in our home,a nd several families were interested in adopting her, but when she returned to Latvia, her documents were found to be incomplete, rendering her unavailable for adoption.

I visited Alla many times after that, and she came back to our house for a Christmas visit and a four-month stay last summer. By then, we had to admit she had become an essential part of our lives. Bob and I once again sat down for a heart-to-heart talk and decided to find out what was wrong with her documents. When the Latvian government unexpectedly replied that her paperwork was now complete and she could be adopted, we quickly filled out the immigration forms and arranged for an update of our home study. In March 1999, Alla became our sixth child.

In the end, that single television show we watched in August 1994 has changed all our lives more than I could ever have predicted. The Latvian Adoptive Parents Association, which I founded in 1995, now supports several orphanages with shipments of clothing, medicine, toys, baby food, and formula. This past March, we sent 10,000 pairs of new shoes to Latvia, and last year we shipped almost 8,000 pounds of Christmas presents to more than 1,000 children.

Since its inception, International Adoption Services, Inc., has placed more than 300 children from all over Eastern Europe in American homes, but I am constantly searching for loving adoptive families for the hundreds of children who are still living in orphanages. Although I finally fell as if my heart is complete, I'll never stop thinking of the children who have been left behind.