My husband and I have talked about adoption for years. Always casually – “Would you?” “Sure, I would. Would you?” “Yeah, I think so.” End of conversation.
Our hearts were always open to the possibility, but our discussions never moved beyond those open-ended pontifications. We already have two beautiful, little toe-headed boys of our own and didn’t feel any need to rock the we’ve-finally-got-our-heads-above-water boat.
Because we like, just got our heads above water.
So we tabled the discussion for the 12th of never and moved on with our lives – until one blisteringly hot Tennessee Sunday. We hadn’t broached the subject of adoption for months, maybe even a full calendar year, but during our worship time at church that morning, I had the almost audible thought, “We should probably adopt a kid.” Being the East Coast-raised cynic that I am, I immediately launched into some impressive mental-acrobatics, trying to figure out why such a leap of faith wouldn’t work.
It’s too expensive. It’s too risky. It’s too much.
But try as I might, I couldn’t shake the idea that God had spoken those words into my heart and that there was a child, somewhere out there in the world, who needed to come home. But because as I've mentioned, I am a cynic, I asked God to tell me again. And louder this time. Tell me what I was supposed to do. Make it clear. Make it real. And so I prayed about it and I kept it a secret. I didn’t tell my friends, or my mom or even my husband – because I wanted to hear it from Him.
And four days later – He told me.
Sitting at dinner with my husband and my two beautiful, little toe-headed boys, the fate of my family was graciously revealed to me. I’ll never remember exactly how the conversation started, but what I do remember is without me mentioning a word, my husband looked across the table at me and said, “So, we should probably adopt a kid, right?”
So I said yes. Because that is what you do when you are offered an opportunity to be a part of something amazing.
You just say yes.