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Every pregnancy is different.

My mind’s picture of these two “new” children from Uganda stands in stark contrast to what we experienced during the beginnings of our first adoption. Where there was naive energy motivating my paper chase, there has been measured sobriety with each paper I sign. Where there were celebrations at every mile-marker, there has been a sense that I’m on a fast moving train with no scheduled stops. Reality is sinking in, I’ve told myself. Our sober call to adopt is the front-runner this time.

Or so I’ve been thinking.

Well, you see, the unfolding story of Eden and Caleb continues to get better with each day. They are world’s beyond what we could have expected. The struggles of health and attachment are minimal compared to the joy that’s erupted in our home.

But even with this I haven’t forgotten the stories of adoption which surround us. Books I’m required to read as a part of the adoption process remind me of all the potential challenges adoption can bring, particularly with “older” children, like the ones we’re adopting (and the ones we already adopted). The longer kids exist without parents, the greater the opportunity for fallout. Issues with attachment, misplaced grief, aggression, acting out, fears of all kinds. I could go on. And on. Abandonment of any form leaves a mark.

Books are only the half of it; I have real life stories brimming in my inbox and on the other end of the phone from adoptive parents whose marriages and children have been impacted by that very mark.

So, there’s a risk in moving forward. Now that we are more of a “settled” family, abandonment’s manifestation can leave its residue on more than just me and Nate. Eden and Caleb are vulnerable to our next two’s baggage.

I’ve been carrying this in the back of my mind. The background information, in and of itself, is just fine. It serves the purpose of making me knowledgeable about what we could be getting ourselves into. But like any isolated body of knowledge, when attached to fear, it takes on wings.

And now it’s reckoning time. I’m putting a stake in the ground right here.

Our next adoption, while carrying some level of the intensity that comes with a call, has been, perhaps unnecessarily weighty in my mind.

You see, there was a period of time (still fresh in my mind) when God chose to allow more personal pain than I ever imagined I could handle in one sitting. I remember thinking one day that I would quite literally collapse from grief over what had become of my life, my friendships, my marriage — only to proceed to then land myself in a Christmas Eve ER waiting room with a doctor’s prognosis that my father had terminal brain cancer. The worst night of my life. And here I thought my struggle was my yet-empty womb. What was bad got worse, for more than just some months. When all was said and done, it was years.

So what does this have to do with our adoption?

Well, Eden and Caleb have been like a flag, marking the turning of tides. We knew the season of weeping would “last just for a night” — one very long night in my opinion. Joy has come in the morning. While there are still very real struggles (not least of which being my not-yet-healed body and my father who is no longer with us), many of the weights on our lives have been lifted.

The years of apparent set-backs forced me to face the truths in scripture that He disciplines those He loves and even Jesus learned obedience through His suffering and that we have an opportunity to meet with Him as we share in His sufferings. These truths were my food when I couldn’t get myself off the floor. Jesus came off the page, into my house and became real. The words I had used my entire Christian life to describe Him, finally had life behind them. He comforted me. He held me. He began to write His truth over what felt like my epitaph.

My story was not over. It was just starting.

The problem, though, is that a long life lived in one (unhealthy) direction seems to have clouded over those truths as it relates to our adoption. Prior to those years of struggle I actually believed that God could produce a life of ease and that following Jesus equated to promotion on earth – albeit different from the world’s picture of promotion.

And the inertia of years and years of this expectation seems to have trumped the new truth springing up out of my life. Instead of having the hope of a God that can intercept any challenge and expand my understanding of Him as a result, I’ve been bracing myself for another punch, like a boxer who’s been knocked out already once this round.

Oh Lord, forgive me. I’ve been seeing it all wrong.

There is one verse in the book of Revelation that’s been highlighted to me more times than I can count in the past six or seven years. When this happens, I pay attention. It talks about the battle waged against those who “keep the commandments of God and have the testimony of Jesus Christ.”

It was only just this weekend that it dawned on me. The testimony of Jesus Christ in my life is that life’s worst curve balls can produce God’s greatest glory. That He wins, every time.

The truth is, we don’t always see it. But in the face of all of this pain, I see now that the mark on my life is victory and my testimony is triumph. Yes, even in the face of any and all darkness.

Every single life event over the past 7+ years which felt like another nail in my coffin, has become a part of my story. And that story is one of great advancements into His heart. I can honestly say if I die tomorrow that I got a taste of His love. That I knew Him, even if just a little bit.

So who am I to think that another adoption is going to be the end of this new paradigm in my life?

This shift has been because of Him. I am drinking deeply of my children because of all they represent. Hopes, dreams, desires — not displaced, but fulfilled in a way that’s blown my expectations. Joy is real. I finally came to the point where I knew that what came from circumstantial ease — what I used to think was joy — was synthetic. The presence of God has become tangible. And everything else feels like cotton candy in comparison.

If the next adoption brings with it strife, I will know God more. The question I’m pretty sure every parent considering adoption asks: what about the impact on the children already in my home? gets the same response. Just as God has met me, He will meet Eden & Caleb.

We are being fashioned for eternity. And this life now is my training ground. What I know of Him here, I will be rewarded for (by more intimacy — God’s currency) when I cross over or when He returns. That’s true for me, for Nate … and for Eden and Caleb. Their little hearts, too, are getting trained to know Him as more tangible than anything their fingers will ever touch.

My desire to “protect” them, our lives now, our seeming “stability” could be lethal. Self-preservation is a facade. Instead of protecting, it could serve as a wedge between where we are now and the greater depths where He wants to take us into, of knowing His heart.

I’m writing this post because I want to put an end to what I’ve called “sobriety” in regards to this next adoption. I’ve looked over what I’ve written, what I’ve said, and I’ll just admit it: I haven’t been sober, I’ve been fearful.

Instead, I want to erect a banner which says, God wins, every time. That’s my testimony. I have a marriage and children and a heart more alive than it’s ever been to prove it. Forget the circumstances, I have nothing to fear. In fact I’ve been missing out on opportunities to expect, and to hope and to dream about what God is going to do at the entrance of these next two children into our home.

Challenge — something I resist, instead becomes a doorway into the very thing I want more of: the Father’s embrace.

I think we just might need to go out to dinner to celebrate. Folks, *we* *are* *adopting*!

Photo courtesy of Lucy O’ Photography. Look her up!