God, Is He My Son?

Sometimes the best things happen when you step out into blind faith. When you look back on all the little yesses that make it that much easier to that one big yes. When we follow, just one step at a time, listening to that gentle whisper, whether or not it really makes the most logical sense.

I may be partial, but that smile melts my heart.

I may be partial, but that smile melts my heart.

One of these best things just happens to be our son.

Six-years-ago we were on the path to adopting one child from the DRCongo. Six-years-ago we had a plan. And it was pretty simple. We knew we could handle three children. Financially, emotionally, physically, we just had a pretty good handle on three kids.

But God doesn’t always want us to stay where we are comfortable. God doesn’t pat our backs and tell us how wonderful our parenting is or cheer us on like we’ve got everything under control. God pulls us up and out of that place. Over and over again.

He tells us to hang on to Him. And then He places us in the middle of some crazy things. Things that feel really big to us. Things that we don’t really have answers for. Things that maybe don’t make a whole lot of sense.

But that whisper, that tug on our hearts. And we said yes.

So we accepted the referral of the cutest little 18-month-old girl. And we thought we were complete.

Until God said there’s more.

More that I want you to step into. More faith for you to hold. More blessings. More of me.

So we did. We looked at photos of nice vacations. And then photos of devastation. Photos of children waiting for families. And we were a family. Waiting for children.

We made the call and stepped into a great(er) unknown.

“I know this sounds crazy, but are there any other waiting children in our daughter’s foster home? We feel God calling us to more.”

And the answer was no.

Okay, God. I see this. You strengthen our faith. You ask us for more. And close the door.

And then a while later the phone rings.

“You’ll never believe this…I’d like you to pray. Ask God if he’s your son.”

I stared at the cross that Easter weekend, asking God for answers. Is this sick little boy our son? What if I’m not enough for him? What if he’s just too sick? How can you heal him, Lord?

But those eyes and his cheeks. And his need and my heart. My heart breaking open a million and one times, again and again.

And we said yes. Again and again. Against advice and against all reason. Against what some would say, sound judgement. To give this little boy a chance.

Because God gives us a chance. Over and over again. Against all odds. Against all reason.

Because it was time again to give God a chance. With our hearts. Against all odds. Against all reason.

I don’t know why God saved this boy, gave him a second chance at life. I don’t know why he was born with such a big heart and strong faith and brave soul. I don’t know all the miracles God worked in his life even now. But I do know, I do believe, God has a big plan for this boy’s life.

Five and a half years ago, I held him for the first time. After dreaming of what his weak little body would feel like in my arms. I held tight, but gently. I was afraid of hurting him, but squeezing him hard and not letting go was my first instinct. It wasn’t his, though. He actually preferred his new daddy. Calling me, “white mama”, those four-year-old brown eyes danced with laughter. I should have known then what a jokester he was.

And we waited. And waited. And fought for him and prayed. We prayed for protection and healing and health. We prayed for a homecoming, a miracle, more.

Three-sweet-years-ago today, my miracle boy was brought home. He was frail and weak and quiet. He was scared (and so was I). He was six, not four. He was big, not so little. He was my son. He is my son.

And how far we’ve come.