I was seven days late.
It’s only happened twice in my life. The other time was three years ago. The week before our foster son came home.
I woke up every morning, believing the “in due time” had finally come. That after all of these years, it was our turn. I was certainly going to see my belly start swelling in the next few weeks. I had calculated the due date and thought through every way I would tell my husband, family, and dear friends. I had imagined the look on their faces, like the ones standing around Lazarus’s grave.
Even after all the hoping and all the disappointment, I knew this new season our family has stepped in, has looked so different from the old ones. He’s doing a new thing in us, something He’s never done before. And hope never puts us to shame (Romans 5:5), so I wasn’t afraid to hope. Because my hope isn’t in a miracle, it’s a person, my Jesus.
This was the third test I took that week. All the other ones said the same results. But I wasn’t going to believe it wasn’t true, until I knew. And I knew on day eight.
Right before we looked at the test, Brandon said to me, “You know this doesn’t change a word out of God’s mouth about this.” And I knew that. Still do.
I’ve been quiet around here lately.
It’s not because I don’t have any words, I do. A lot of them really. It’s just that they haven’t found their way out of my heart yet.
Also, it’s been a really hard few weeks.
I still haven’t learned exactly how to share the hard without sharing my children’s stories. In the very beginning of our journey, I shared a lot. Probably too much. As I grew as their mama and learned more and more about adoption along the way, I realized their story wasn’t mine to share.
When I was 16, I went down an aisle during a mission’s conference and told Jesus I would follow Him to the ends of the earth, I said “yes” to go wherever He said to go. I thought back then that looked like a remote village in Africa, with children from the orphanage all piled up in my lap, and red dirt covering my clothes. And while my heart beats wildly for those children, my mission field is in my living room.
I was wiping bottoms one day and sweeping goldfish off the floor, and God reminded me of that fall day all those years ago, when I said yes to Him. And I realized I didn’t have to go to the nations to mother the vulnerable, I was staring them right in the face.