I sat in a beach chair and cried. Not legit crying with sobs and shudders. It was subtle – the kind of crying where your tears just turn on, as if they were emotional garden hoses connected to a leaky spigot. With a book in one hand, I used the other to wipe away the stream of tears breaking past the rim of my big black sunglasses.
The book told a story of adoption. More than that, really, it was a book about faith. And obedience. About helpless situations where one young woman did what she felt she was called, told, led – whatever you want to call it – to do to make a difference in her world.
My two older kids played in the surf a little ways off. The little one crawled in the sand next to his dad. Sitting there, I wanted, I felt, I knew – whatever you want to call it – adoption to be a part of our family story.
It’s easy to say, “I support adoption” or donate money to friends who are adopting. But it’s an entirely different thing to look your husband in the eye after you’ve put three healthy, beautiful blue-eyed-just-like-their-dad children to sleep in just as many bedrooms and say, “What would you say about adoption … for us?” And when he looks at you and says, “I’d say yes,” (the answer you both hoped for and were afraid of) you don’t know what to do next.
I’d love to tell you a story of how I pursued adoption beginning the very next day. How I relentlessly went after what God put in my heart. But I didn’t.
Instead, I did nothing.
. . .
Please click here to read the rest of this essay, originally published in print in the MOPS Magazine (Winter 2018). Their theme was “Be Gutsy” — and I submitted my take on how being gutsy looks a lot like pushing away fear and trusting God.