It was my first full day in Haiti with Compassion International. Hours into the day, I found myself actively engaged with a group of girls at the far end of the project’s play yard.

With the help of a translator, I uncovered bits and pieces about the girls. They were all around my son and daughter’s age – eight, nine, ten and eleven-years-old. I was intrigued by their personalities and way of being with one another, and kept thinking how cool it would be if my daughter was there, engaging with the girls, just like me.

Another woman from our group approached and began conversing with the girls, so I decided it was a good opportunity to engage the teenage girls I saw yards away.

The day passed. We spent the rest of the morning with mamas and babies enrolled in Compassion’s Child Survival Program, had lunch with project staff, visited families’ homes, and returned to the project at the end of the day.

After we spent a little more time in the classrooms and play yard, after we used the restroom one last time before we had to leave, I met the boy who stole my heart.

I really didn’t want to say good-bye, but I was on my way back to the van. It was time to go.

Most of my fellow travelers were already on the van. I was one of the last to load.

Just feet before the van, a boy approached. He came alongside me, hung close, tight to my body. I’m still not sure if I’ve ever had anyone step in tandem with me the way that boy did. The only way I can describe it is that his little body was so tight, right alongside me, that we became one walking unit in that moment.

God helped me recognize, immediately, this boy’s strong presence.

I put my arm around his shoulders as we walked. “Hi buddy,” I said quietly, lovingly.

He kept close, never out of step. He snuggled in a bit closer.

And then he looked up at me, as we were walking even slower now, and ever so gently but assuredly said “I want you to be my mommy.”

This was the first child that had spoken a word of English to me all day, and these were the words I was going to hear?

My heart broke. I began crying immediately. “Oh buddy,” I said, as I gave him the biggest, most endearing mama bear hug I could muster.

The world around me disappeared. We were three, maybe five feet from the van at this point, and I’m sure there were an abundance of kids and adults wondering why I was crying and hugging this boy. I’m certain they had no idea what he’d just told me.

I loosened my embrace because we were now even closer to the van. He looked down and pointed to one of two bracelets I had on my wrist, one purple, one cream. (Oddly enough, I’d received those bracelets as gifts of appreciation from Haitians in the market 16+ months ago after I’d presented them with gifts I brought from home.) I couldn’t be his mommy, but I knew as soon as he looked at that purple bracelet that I wanted to give it to him to let him know how much he was loved. A translator was present and helped with the exchange. For a few seconds, all was right with the world. I had a bracelet and the boy had a bracelet. We’d be tied together, in our hearts, and the bracelets would be a tangible reminder. But a little girl approached and saw I had another bracelet to give, so I obliged, even though it meant I’d no longer have a bracelet to keep my heart tangibly tied to this sweet boy.

Still crying, I gave him one last hug, waved good-bye, and got on the van. Tears continued to stream as I made my way to the back of the van, past most of my fellow travelers. I explained to a couple who’d asked, he said “I want you to be my mommy.”

How was I supposed to sit in this van, act like I’d just heard any ‘ol words, and move right on out?

Praise. The. Lord. He wasn’t about to let my time with this boy end, even though all other indications said it was a done deal.

Thankfully, our departure was delayed for one reason or another. I didn’t even care because all my mind could think of was the boy. Kids were swarming around just outside of our van. I looked to my right, and there he was. I caught him just as he was looking down, fiddling with his bracelet. “I’ve got to get a picture of this boy,” I told those around me as I stood up immediately and captured not one, but two pictures. I felt blessed to have, at the very least, seen him again and captured these photos to remember him by.

If I remember correctly, the van moved, turned in the direction of the gates where we’d depart. I thought I’d seen the last of the boy. I was sad, but grateful too, that God had given me the opportunity to see him from afar one more time.

But God knew otherwise. The van stopped. There was another delay.

Some moments passed, and then I noticed my boy coming alongside our van. He was looking up, into the windows, and he was now on the side of the van where I was sitting. When he came to the window of the people sitting in front of me, I noticed he was looking at them and pointing to his bracelet. I knew right away, he was looking for me.

“He’s looking for me!” I exclaimed as quietly and as calmly as I could without seeming like a freak to my fellow travelers close by.

I knocked on the window, loud enough so he could hear and notice I was there in the back row. I waved, put my hand on my heart, pointed to his bracelet, and then pointed to my wrist where the bracelet had once been. He looked at me with his big brown eyes and smiled.

We’d found each other, once again.

I began crying, once again.

I opened one hand and put it up flat against the window. He put his hand up too. One panel of glass separated us.

It was clear the bus was about to move towards the gates.

I blew him a kiss. He blew me one, too. I blew another. He blew another.

And as we drove off, I looked back and noticed. He was wearing navy blue Converse, untied. He walked quietly by himself as we drove away, fiddling with his bracelet, yet again.

Call me a blubbery mess. Call me whatever.

In the days following, I wasn’t sure what to do with this experience. In fact, nine days later, I’m still not sure why I met that boy, why he was the only child I engaged with that day that spoke any word of English, or why he felt compelled to say “I want you to be my mommy.”

I’d give anything to know if that little boy has a mommy. I’d give anything for the opportunity to go back and take a Compassion staff and translator with me, visit his home, and know more. If he had a mommy, I’d love on her and tell her how awesome she is and how she’s raising her son with a beautiful heart. I’d tell him what a great mommy he has and how she loves him with all her heart. And if he didn’t have a mommy? Well, I don’t know what I’d do. But reality is, I’ll never get the opportunity to do any of that.

Why is it that my Heavenly Father gave me this gift, this boy to love for just a few moments? I don’t know.

The Lord gives, the Lord takes away. Blessed be His name, is all I can say.

Perhaps I’ll never know why I met this boy, why he wanted me to be his mommy. Perhaps someday the good Lord will make it clear. For now, I trust, there was a reason.

Five days after meeting the boy, I arrived back home. Photographs of my journey flashed on our television screen as I recounted my days in Haiti with my husband and two oldest children.

And then, the Lord gave me eyes to see what I needed to see in a photograph I hadn’t remembered taking earlier that morning in the play yard.

The boy.

There he was!

I’m not 100% sure because the first two photos I took of the boy were from the side, and this photo was straight on. But my heart knows, my heart feels confident. The Lord gives me eyes to see what He wants me to see, because He’s awesome like that.

That boy in the middle of all those girls?

It’s him.

I recognize his face, he looks familiar. He looks exactly like the boy who told me “I want you to be my mommy.” He looks exactly like the boy who blew me kisses when I was still crying in the van. He looks exactly like the boy who wore navy blue Converse, untied.

And if it’s truly him as my heart thinks it is?

Then God has spoken.

I’m here, orchestrating every bit of your life, whether you know it or not.

I chose you before you chose Me.

You are loved.

Now go love.

Amy

*This is part of a month-long series about my journey to Haiti. Click here to read all the posts in the series.

The mamas were giving their testimonies.

One by one, they came to the front with their babies, sharing how much of a difference Compassion’s Child Survival Program made in their lives.

One special mama had two babies, not her own. People didn’t understand why she’d taken them in. She couldn’t afford to care for the babies. She was shunned and found herself all alone crying near the street one day. A Compassion Child Survival Program staff happened to pass by and told her about the program, that she’d be able to get support as she raised those babies. She agreed and the children were enrolled in the program. The translator prayed over her, “even though family might not understand you, God does,” he said.

There was another woman with a baby of her own. But she’d also taken in her deceased cousin’s baby. Mid-way through her story, she broke into song. I had no idea what she was saying because there hadn’t been translation yet, but there was something beautiful and tremendously sad about this song long before I knew the words. She sang with courage, she looked up, towards the back of the church as she poured this heart-song out from her soul. There was hope and promise in her words, but in her eyes, I saw the sadness, the depth of pain. She said the Compassion Child Survival Program staff taught her to sing this song when she was feeling tremendous sadness and despair. They encouraged her, “You need to sing this song whenever you feel sad, and you will feel better.” The song, my heart be happy.

And then there was Archille.

She came to the front, holding her son close, tight in her arms. She spoke quietly and tears came to her eyes the second she started talking. She appeared to be hiding a bit behind her son, as if protecting him from her own pain. He was near and dear to her, you could tell. She felt alone, very alone, and I sensed that the moment she started talking, even before I knew why.

Archille shared with us, her son was born with one leg.

She’d been shunned and teased, disowned and laughed at for having a son with one leg. It was and has been immeasurably painful. She didn’t know what to do, didn’t know where to turn. Her tears, the depth of her pain, visible. If there was a way I could’ve reached out to her in that moment, I would’ve.

Archille then proceeded to do one of the most brave things I’ve ever witnessed. She started taking off her son’s pants.

In that moment, we saw his one leg.

It was holy, intimate. We knew the reality she’d been telling was truth.

Archille was advised, Compassion’s Child Survival Program was the best way to care for her boy. Through her involvement in the Child Survival Program, Archille has developed “good friendships and relationships in [the] center.” Home visitors encourage her. And Compassion’s staff have compassion for Archille. They’ve worked with her and she’s “thankful for all they’ve done to help with [her] boy.”

The translator prayed over Archille and her boy, “If God accepts the boy as he is, as we do, we must love him.”

I recognized Archille’s pain the second I saw her hide behind her son, the second I saw the tears in her eyes and they couldn’t be held back anymore. I’d known that pain myself. When tears are so close to the surface that you cry if you speak even one word, you just need someone to listen to you, care for you, act on your behalf.

Perhaps there’s a purpose for our pain, that we might be able to more readily recognize it in others. And help.

We had an opportunity to ask the questions anyone would ask at that point. How does he get around? How would Compassion help this boy with his leg? Mama answered, indicating her boy is able to stand on one leg, gets around by crawling, and is often carried. Compassion has already sent mama Archille’s and baby to Port-Au-Prince where they’ve seen doctors about baby’s leg. He will get a prosthetic when he’s older, but for now he’s too young, so they have to wait.

Yvonne, our trip co-leader and Compassion representative, held the sweet baby boy as we sang songs and prayed with all the mamas and babies. Safe in Yvonne’s arms, Archille’s boy led our way to the Child Development Center.

We spent the next hour or two meeting children and engaging with teachers in the Child Development Center. (I’ll share more about that later!) But Before we knew it, it was time to visit the Child Survival Program building where mamas and babies meet with Compassion staff. It was a lovely space with boards tracking immunizations and child growth, as well as toys and cribs for the babies. This felt like a safe haven, and it was.

I was one of the first to enter the building. The seat next to Yvonne and this beautiful boy with one leg was open. So I took it. There was a part of me that thought the seat would better be taken by someone else, all the others who cared about this boy and wanted to be close, too. But there was me. Perhaps it was God who brought me in among the first. Perhaps it was He who left the seat open.

I had an opportunity to talk with Yvonne about this boy as others entered the space, the hope I had to share his story. We talked about the possibility of getting crutches for this sweet boy, as usually, he’d be walking around this age. Yvonne commented how heavy it must be for mama to carry her boy around all day since he’s getting so big. And I asked, did mama have a sling in which she could carry her son?

Before long, we noticed mama standing right behind us, outside. We invited her in to join us in conversation.

Yvonne told mama Archille that she’d like to work with the project director to try to facilitate getting her boy some crutches so he can start moving around and develop muscle tone in his leg. She couldn’t promise it would be done, but she was going to talk to the director and do her best to help. And Yvonne asked mama, “Do you have a sling you carry him in?” Mama Archille said “no.” I asked mama, “Would you feel more comfortable carrying him on your back or on your front?” “I’d prefer to carry him on my back,” mama said, “but he likes me to carry him in the front.” Yvonne reminded mama once again that she couldn’t promise, but that we’d try to get something to help.

An opportunity came for me to ask mama Archille questions that had nothing to do with sweet baby boy’s leg. “How old is he?” I asked. “Two,” mama said. “When will he be three?” asked Yvonne. Mama replied, “December.”

“Same as my baby” I exclaimed! “Three in December!” Mama Archille and I smiled big smiles, huge, like divine appointment huge. We discovered, our babies’ birthdays? Only NINE days apart!

Everyone was elated. It was a moment out of time for the folks that had gathered. Well, a moment out of time, at least for me. I’d barely even noticed the rest of the group had arrived until I looked up and realized, they were there.

Yvonne, still right next to me, stepped in at just the right moment, with just the right words I would’ve never imagined possible – “You know you can sign up to sponsor him even before he’s officially enrolled in the Child Sponsorship Development Program? I don’t want to put you on the spot, though.” Um, ya. There was no putting me on the spot. It was a no brainer, taking the opportunity to sponsor this little guy. Of course, I’d say yes.

After some brief conversation with the translator, Yvonne, and another Compassion staff, it was determined that I’d need to take with me the baby’s name, baby’s date of birth, mama’s name, and the Compassion Child Survival Program in which which he was enrolled. Then, when I get home, I’ll need to contact Compassion and indicate I’d like to sponsor him when he becomes old enough to enroll in the Child Sponsorship Development Program.

We all decided, this was meant to be. I’ll be the boy’s sponsor when he comes of age.

The translator spoke with Archille and wrote down all the information I’ll need when I contact Compassion back home.

Before mama placed her boy on my lap for a picture, I’d noted, her beautiful baby boy’s name was Charles.

Pain, it’s true and real for all of us. Pain, it pulls us down, makes us want to run and hide or grab ahold tight of anything that’s near.

Hope, it comes in any package. Hope, a promise of better days to come.

Would you like to give hope to a child in desperate need of it? Check out the Compassion website to take a closer look at all the children waiting for a sponsor. These are real. live. children. Not just pictures on your computer screen. They’re real children with real families with real lives, and they could use your help. If you’d be here, you’d see. You’d choose to say yes, I guarantee. We have so much, it’s time to give. And hope’s where it’s at.

Amy

*This is part of a month-long series about my journey to Haiti. Click here to read all the posts in the series.

I’ve held one belief close for years.

{{Moms, lean in, this is for you.}}

We’re far too isolated in America.

Few have heard me mention my ideal alternative as if I’m joking, but truth is, I’m not joking at all.

On my worst of days, my most stressful days as an American mom, this is my desire. I’d like to be transported to another time, another civilization, where modern day expectations are blown to shreds, where I can live a simple life and it’s never questioned, not once. I’d like my husband to wake up and head out for a long day with the tribesmen. They hunt and gather, and as the day draws to an end, they come back with dinner in hand. While the men are gone, the women gather – weaving and braiding, cooking and preparing household things – together. We wear babes on cloth slings and the kids play all day. There’s no fighting, no comparing and no tattle-tale word slinging, just playing and running, singing and dancing. We gather over women as they labor, sing and love on them when they’ve lost their way. And we’re all dirty, like dirty beyond anything you ever see in America, and we don’t even care. Grandpas and grandmas, great aunts and great uncles, they’re wise constant-present council, and there aren’t cliques but community. There’s no comparing mini-mansions and mobile homes because we all live in huts so it really doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, there’s a fire where stories of old are told, the passing of one generation’s best to the next.

But I’m bound to my American life, and let’s be honest moms. This other world civilization isn’t happening anytime soon, unless, that is, we’re willing to sell everything, move to a deserted island and start our own tribe.

In the meantime, I’ve opened my eyes to this isolated American mom phenomenon…

Young mom, I saw her at Taco Bell. It was early for lunch, anyone would admit, but hey, when you’re mom it’s never too early for lunch and I had my three there too. She had two tinies in tow, a toddler and preschooler, and I couldn’t get over how angry she looked. While tinies babbled and chatted, she sat, fist balled up under her chin, looking out the window, eating her taco. Truth be told, it seemed she just wanted them out of the way. She just wanted to get this meal thing done, she was passing time. Her mind was somewhere else, and wherever that angry place was, it never let her go.

Then there was mom after swimming lessons. I saw a bag on the ground, just outside the exit to the parking lot, and wondered whose it was. A moment later, I heard this mom yelling “3-2-1 if you don’t pick up your stuff and come I’m gunna leave and go to the car.” Her anger escalated quickly, and I’m talking very quickly. I listened in discreetly as I walked with the kids to the car and got them in their seat belts. Mom managed to get her kid to the car, but by that time, she was beyond angry, at her wits end, raging. Kid was crying, mom yelled “If you don’t stop crying, I swear to God I’m gunna spank you.” And all of this in a parking lot. She was beyond caring what anyone thought.

Last was mom in Office Max. I was next in line behind her, she was hard to ignore. Mom questioned the $91 charge that remained after her $10 coupon. She was arguing with the cashier, but something was off, she was despondent, far off. Her responses were delayed, the cashier did a double take because mom wasn’t responding the way she should. Baby was in the cart calling “mama mama mama mama” repeatedly while the other three stood, waiting politely. I thought she might smile as she bid the cashier farewell, or maybe she’d even crack a smile when she realized her baby was still calling “mama mama mama” But no. She remained emotionless. She picked up her tiny bag, turned away, and abruptly told her children “go, go.” I smiled gently and looked into her eyes as she passed, but still, no response.

Do I share these stories because I like to hyper-analyze, criticize fellow moms, and point out their worst moments? Not so much.

You see, I’m no different.**

In my over-busy, beyond-stressed and way-too-isolated American life, I’ve had my own fair share of moments. Not exactly like hers nor exactly like yours, but uniquely mine.

Catch me any given day, and you might just find me stressed out. I’m talking the house is a mess and daddy left for work kind of Saturday. The sink is piled high with dishes, the TV’s on loud, and all I know is the kids need to eat something for breakfast. I break out the “good mom breakfast” of eggs, whole wheat toast, and milk, and the sink’s just piling higher. Kids are complaining that I’m taking too long, and the piled-high stack of mail and to-dos by the stove reminds me I’m inadequate to keep up with it all. One doesn’t have enough toast, the other needs more eggs, and the third’s got her sippy cup tipped over and she’s watching it drip all over the floor. By the time they all finish, I wipe baby’s hands, and sit down to my own breakfast, it’s time for more mess. Baby’s next to me on the floor, finger painting with the milk she dumped during breakfast.

Before I know it, they’re all three loving on each other in the chair. I breathe and I feel blessed, I’m grateful.

But then baby’s screaming, and they’re all over her, and she’s screaming even more.

And in that moment, I wish grandma or great auntie was upstairs or next door, I wish mamas were all around to wash up the mess so I could just eat, or maybe we could be transported to the hut with the dirt floor where the mess could just disappear deeper into the dirt.

I don’t have any great single solution to the isolation, anger, frustration, despondency, sadness, stress, or anxiety we sometimes face as moms, but here’s what I know.

This other-world community I long for has nothing to do with little, big or clean houses. It has nothing to do with being a stay-at-home mom or working mom. It’s not about doing life just right all on my own, and it’s not about proving I have it all together at all times.

It’s about community, it’s about grace, it’s about knowing beyond a doubt that this quote is true…

Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.

Let’s stand together as moms, for moms. Tend to others. Offer a helping hand. Give grace freely. Smile. Bend down low. Have faith that God’s in control and works all things together for your good. And breathe.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”  Matthew 11:28-30

Amy

 

**I do not approve of nor condone the behaviors of mothers I observed in this post. Mothering is hard business, and I do my very best to reserve judgement unless I know another woman’s situation intimately. I am simply observing and suggesting that mothers are far too isolated in our culture. Further, I am not suggesting the American mothering experience is all negative. There are, of course, many reasons why the positive aspects of parenting outweigh the negative. I am simply offering a glimpse of the other side of mothering that often goes ignored.

In Loving Memory of Charlotte 6/21/12 – 4/27/13

Today, a mama’s 1st birthday wish for her angel baby Charlotte is that we “will continue to follow and share her story.” Charlotte’s mama wants more than anything for us to “Spread the word about Spinal Muscular Atrophy so that other families will be spared the pain of missing their baby on her 1st birthday, and instead will have the gift of watching them blow out their candles.”

Sweet Charlotte was diagnosed with Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA) Type 1 just three days before she turned six months old. Shortly after Charlotte’s diagnosis, her page popped up in my Facebook stream. I clicked “like,” not having any idea the tremendous blessing that simple “like” would bring. Through a willing heart, the power of photographs, and her gift for words, Charlotte’s mama taught me how to face the most grueling of life’s battles with faith, hope, and love. Although I’ve never met Charlotte’s family, their Facebook page allowed me to catch glimpses of their beautiful baby daughter’s last days on earth and passing to her heavenly home. Tears streamed down my face as mama and daddy sat with Charlotte in the hospital day after day, as mama danced with Charlotte to “Blessed Be The Name” in the living room, and when two big sisters pulled Charlotte on one of her last wagon rides beneath a bright sunshine.

Baby Charlotte passed away when she was just 10 months old, on April 27, 2013.

It’s hard to understand why God allows such suffering, but perhaps Charlotte’s mama understands best, as she wrote so eloquently in part of her Facebook post from last night, June 20, 2013:

“As the girls and I played with Mr. Potato Head the other day, picking out his various parts and choosing which eyes, nose, and mouth he needed, Grace said to me “I bet this is how God made us…choosing which parts he wanted us to have.” I fought back tears as I told her I agreed; that probably is how God made us. I imagined him picking out Charlotte’s parts…beautiful hazel eyes that were windows to her loving soul with long, curly eyelashes to frame them, a smile like her mommy’s that she would give freely and often, a dimple on her right cheek that would only be noticeable when she was uncharacteristically upset, long legs that her family can now picture her using to run and jump with the angels, and golden hair, almost auburn, that never lays flat and curls backwards at the top of her head…what an angel he made and sent to us; every part of her handpicked by him. Her stinky hands that I now long to smell, her gentle coo that I can close my eyes and hear, and even the SMA he handpicked for her to have. He chose her to carry the burden of this disease and while I many not understand it, I know it was planned. While my human capabilities prevent me from seeing the magnitude of his purpose, I know he has one. I am eased by the belief in a God that doesn’t make mistakes but instead makes miracles. I am forever thankful for my miracle and tomorrow I will celebrate the life of his wonderful, marvelous work, Charlotte.” (written by Charlotte’s mama)

Baby Charlotte, dance free, forever, in your heavenly home. Free of all hindrances, free of all pain, free of all earthly burdens. Dance for your daddy and your mama and your big sisters, too. Dance for the life you lived, dance for the life you live.

This is our birthday celebration, for you, sweet Charlotte. Happy Birthday, baby angel.

You will be beyond blessed by Charlotte’s Facebook page, please follow here. 

Charlotte enjoys SMA-free days in heaven with other angel babies like Benjamin. Read Benjamin’s journey through SMA, shared in a guest post on this blog by his mama Nicole in September 2012 here.

For more information on Spinal Muscular Atrophy, visit the Families of Spinal Muscular Atrophy website here.

The God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast. 1 Peter 5:10

Amy

*The photograph of Charlotte used in this post is from her Facebook page. There, you will find countless beautiful photographs of Charlotte and her family.

This marks the final week of Divine In The Daily’s 5-week guest post series titled Special Mamas! Every Wednesday in May, we’re honoring real-life mamas who have big hearts and stand bold and courageous in their unique mothering roles.

Four weeks ago, Jennifer Camp, blogger at You Are My Girls and mother of three, kicked off our series with a guest post titled When Mothers Cry Rescue. 

Three weeks ago, Tamara, mother of seven, was honored with a family photo session and beautiful tribute from her husband and children in this post!

Two weeks ago, MNAutismMom, shared anonymously about the joys and challenges of raising her five-year-old son who has autism in this post.

Last week, Jennifer wrote about her lifelong desire to become a mom which led her down an unexpected path to foster parenting in this post.

And this week, I’m honored to introduce Lisa who wraps up the Special Mamas series with a guest post about her long journey to motherhood, including years of infertility, miscarriages, and ultimately, a beautiful baby boy through adoption. Lisa is a former colleague of mine, and although we haven’t worked together for six years, we continue to support and encourage one another through regular email contact. I invited Lisa to share her story on my blog many months ago, so I was beyond delighted when she felt the time was right and agreed to be part of this series!

Who am I, O Sovereign Lord, and what is my family, that you have brought me this far?   2 Samuel 7:18

We knew that in this world we would have troubles (John 16:33), but did not expect it with having children. Two known miscarriages, 3 unsuccessful In Vitro Fertilization (IVF) interventions, and 8 years later, the Lord brought us to an amazing adoption agency (New Life Family Services), birth family, and our Jack. He has gone “way past our way past” and “beyond our beyond” in this journey. We share our story not for pity, but to testify to God’s faithfulness in our lives and His best for us. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all (2 Corinthians 4:17).

My name is Lisa. My husband, Scott, and I met in February of 1999 and were married in August of 2001. We truly are best friends and like that corny, yet—let’s be honest—beautiful line in the movie Jerry Maguire, “You complete me,” we do complete each other. We balance each other out, especially in regards to our personalities. Little did we know at the start of our marriage that the Lord would eventually use our close friendship and complimentary personalities to walk us through the “wilderness” for a season; a long one by the world’s standards.

Ever since we knew the understanding of the word parenthood, Scott and I pictured ourselves one day becoming a father and a mother. Connecting and working with children has always come natural to us because of how the Lord has wired our personalities. After having a few years together as a couple, we decided to plan for parenthood. Our start was nothing serious or necessarily intentional, but we felt we were ready to be parents and were open to “if it happens now, wonderful” and “if not, we’re content…for the time being.” Although we briefly discussed it, the thought of having any difficulty conceiving and/or maintaining a pregnancy really did not settle into our minds to warrant a serious conversation and a plan of action. It really was not on our radar, which I’m sure could be said for many couples.

More than a year had gone by without a known pregnancy. We decided it was time to get serious. Per recommendation from a friend, I read through parts of the book Taking Charge of Your Fertility by Toni Weschler, MPH. We charted almost everything and figured out my cycle, but still no known pregnancy. During one of my annual exams, the doctor told me that my husband and I should consider fertility testing due to the length of time we had gone without a pregnancy.

And, there it was—our first encounter with the possibility of not having children of our own.

Our initial response was moderate concern. Fear approached us, but did not settle in us—by God’s grace. We pursued fertility testing. I will never forget the day of our results after going to a specialist. He was a very kind and honest doctor. He told us that there were some mild problems, but they could be addressed and that achieving and maintaining a pregnancy with minor intervention should be attainable. And then, he paused, and said something to the effect of, “Oh, I see there is one set of results we haven’t received yet—genetic testing. Let me see if that has come through yet.” He did not appear concerned about those results. Scott and I also were not concerned about this as there were no known issues within our immediate and extended families. Ten minutes passed as we sat in the exam room. We discussed the first set of results and were thankful that the issues were mild and were very excited to continue our pursuit of parenthood.

And then, the doctor came into the room with a somber look on his face and told us that he was so very sorry—that the genetic testing results were not good, that there was a significant problem and achieving and maintaining a pregnancy would be difficult.

Wow. In a 10-minute span, we experienced excitement to press on and then…utter disbelief. Tears of confusion and sorrow came.

In that moment and for the next few years, it was difficult—very much so; yet, through it all we knew God was with us and for us. We had hope—the kind of hope that only comes from Him alone. Above all else, we wanted His will for our lives. We still asked Him for the desires of our hearts, and it was very hard at times to ask for His will to be done; however, He sustained us. He sustained us through His Word…through prayer…through worship…through the power of His Spirit working within us…and through a solid (beyond solid) support system of family and friends.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In His great mercy He has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade. This inheritance is kept in heaven for you, who through faith are shielded by God’s power until the coming of the salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time. In all this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. These have come so that the proven genuineness of your faith—of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire—may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed. Though you have not seen Him, you love Him; and even though you do not see Him now, you believe in Him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy, for you are receiving the end result of your faith, the salvation of your souls.   1 Peter 1:3-9

The Lord was there when we received the heart-breaking news of those initial fertility results. He was there when I was hunched over the side of our bed, with Scott’s arms around me, comforting me while I was crying out with pain and anger. He was there when friends all around us were getting pregnant with ease—always thanking the Lord for this, yet not understanding why this couldn’t be us, too. He was there when a very difficult work situation occurred in the midst of our fertility struggles, which the combination of these two trials almost made it all unbearable at times. He was there when we asked Him for wisdom regarding In Vitro Fertilization—is this okay to do? He was there when our first IVF intervention was unsuccessful. He was there when we saw and heard the heartbeat of our first child at 6 weeks. He was there when I was in labor with pain and contractions over a 5-hour period, delivering our first child at 9 weeks; August 28^th, 2009. He was there when a sweet couple from our church small group shared a healing book with us, I’ll Hold You in Heaven by Jack Hayford. He was there when our second child died at 5 weeks on February 5^th, 2010.

And…

He was there when we saw and touched our beautiful and amazing baby boy, Jack Harrison, on the night he was born—Thursday, August 9^th, 2012 at 7:53 p.m.

Not flesh of my flesh, nor bone of my bone,

But still miraculously my own.

Never forget for a single minute:

You didn’t grow under my heart, but in it.

-Fleur Conkling Heyliger-

Jack means God is Gracious, Redeemed, Successor. Harrison means Courageous. In a way, his name describes our journey. We chose it from the start and held onto it for 8 years. When God put us on the path of adoption, we desired to somehow connect our chosen female/male names to the birth family. When we first met Jack’s beautiful birth mother and family, we found out her name was the feminine version of his and that the name Jack also was a family name of hers. About 3 months prior to even knowing about her and our son growing in her womb, we purchased two, husky dog, stuffed animals—one for our future child and one for his/her birth mother; a way to connect them. When we met Jack’s birth family, we found out that husky dogs were dear to them. They had raised around 20 husky dogs at one time and had been into dog sledding for years as a family. And the best part—Jack’s birth mother surrendered her life to Christ through the adoption process.

God was in the details, big and small. 

The first day we went to church with Jack in our arms, one of the scriptures shared was Psalm 37:4—Take delight in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart. One of the worship songs was “God is Able” by Hillsong United, which now is like our family anthem:

God is able
He will never fail
He is almighty God
Greater than all we seek
Greater than all we ask
He has done great things

Lifted up
He defeated the grave
Raised to life
Our God is able
In His name
We overcome
For the Lord
Our God is able

God is with us
God is on our side
He will make a way
Far above all we know
Far above all we hope
He has done great things

Lifted up
He defeated the grave
Raised to life
Our God is able
In His name
We overcome
For the Lord
Our God is able

God is with us
He will go before
He will never leave us
He will never leave us
God is for us
He has open arms
He will never fail us
He will never fail us

Lifted up
He defeated the grave
Raised to life
Our God is able
In His name
We overcome
For the Lord
Our God is able

For the Lord
Our God is able
For the Lord
Our God is able

Our fertility and adoption journey has truly made our marriage and faith stronger. It could have been the opposite. We are so thankful to the Lord for our outcome. I just pinch myself every time I pull out Jack’s cute, little clothes from the dryer or when I get a glimpse of his swing hanging from our birch tree in the front yard or when I walk passed our three bike helmets hanging in the garage…I could go on and on.

So very thankful.

Again, we testify to God’s faithfulness in our lives and His best for us. We trust that our story will encourage others to persevere with hope when faced with a difficult trial and to be reminded that God is for them and has a profound and specific plan for their lives that will bring Him glory.

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call on Me and come and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. You will seek Me and find Me when you seek Me with all your heart. “I will be found by you,” declares the Lord, “and will bring you back from captivity.”   Jeremiah 29:11-14.

Lisa