Return To Sender

Part One.

When God speaks a word, it will come to pass—we just have to get out of His way first. But God needs my help, right? How can the Creator of the universe and Father of all, know what is best for me when He didn’t even consult me about this first?

Doesn’t God want to ask me how I feel about this? Don’t I get a say?

Why didn’t He tell me I would have all these miscarriages? Why did I have all those miscarriages?

A warning would have been so appreciated. If I’d had a warning, I wouldn’t have had to pivot so hard, if I’d been looking out on the horizon for a sign of trouble ahead, I could have paused, taken inventory, and made a plan. My solid plan of action would be one that I was comfortable with, one that I could control. If I’d known that my journey to motherhood would be so long, and difficult, and…different, then I would have tried to fix it myself. But fixing things ourselves rarely bares fruit.

And if I’d done this my way, I wouldn’t have found my son. 

One of my first jobs out of college was terrible. Well, most early jobs out of college are terrible, but the leadership at this particular company was notably bad. I showed up to work one morning only to find out that my entire operating procedure had changed. In one day, I no longer knew how to do my job. Upper management didn’t even consult my department on our day-to-day operations to see where we could bend a little on changes, instead, scrapping our entire system and left the retraining to our imaginations.

No warning. No comfortable pivot.

The journey to where we are now, was much like that. But maybe what God sent as a dream was supposed to be my warning, my heads-up, my upper management memo.

Just about three years ago, around the time our son was born, God sent me a dream. In it, I saw my husband and I standing in a court room, in front of a familiar face, holding a small boy. The dream persisted.

Me and Kyle. Judge. Courtroom. Small boy.

Me. Kyle. Boy. Court.

I would wake up and be angry. If God didn’t send this dream, then what ridiculous part of my brain would concoct such a scene? And even if God did send it, didn’t He know me well enough to know I didn’t want that.

I knew what it meant.

Us. Child. Judge. Court….Adoption.

Adopting a child. Taking in a child who did not come from my body, who could look like a stranger, feel like a stranger. How could I know a child so intimately if I didn’t carry them?

I do not want that.

Return To Sender.

Like an unwanted memo for an office policy change, like a bill an insurance company sent a year too late, like a letter from an old friend that you do not miss…like the unknown staring you straight in the eye—I didn’t want to open that vision from God again.

Maybe it was a fluke? A one-time dream that could be just as random as that one time I dreamt I owned a flamingo farm. Like that other time that I went swimming in the lake I grew up on, only to find the water was the consistency of Jell-O. Like that one time I was casually dating Gerard Butler…sorry, Kyle.

Just trying to make a point.

But the dream persisted still. Not every night, but for several nights, spread out over a year, I would drift to sleep and find myself staring down at the same thing.

Us. Child. Judge. Court.

Return To Sender. Please don’t send that dream again. You’ve got the wrong address, the wrong house, the wrong woman.

To be clear, the judge—the familiar face, was one my husband and I loved deeply. It was his cousin, Troy. Who, not long before these dreams came to me, was elected as our local Chancery Court Judge. We attended his fundraisers, campaign parties, and I even held signs outside a local church on election day for him.

This was all just a coincidence. That’s all.

But, no surprise here…the dream kept coming. It came in color, in came in black and white, it came while I slept, and flash scenes from a court room began to come to me during the day. I would be lost in thought as I would try to shake them off. This would make such a great story for another family.

Return To Sender. God please, I’m not that woman. I don’t think adoption is right for us, ok? Find someone else.

“This is for someone else,” I thought. Why would I need to be in a courtroom to be a mother? I should be in a hospital like everyone else. Right? No guardian ad litem, no bailiff, no judge. I don’t want that to be part of our story, I just want my baby.

I just want to have my baby and go home like everyone else.

I just want to be like everyone else.

And then, without prompt or warning, my husband speaks up one day. He tells me that he has had a few dreams, too. No court. No judge.

But there was an adoption and there was a small boy.

Return to Sender.

I felt defeated. Like I was experiencing a miscarriage all over again. Like the dreams I’d clung to since childhood were slipping away, and I couldn’t stop it. I just wanted to be a mom. My husband wanted to be a dad.

Why was this so hard for us? Why was it taking so long?

But our God is a gentle Savior. He leads us so sweetly to places we fear and for me, adoption was a fear I could barely speak aloud. So the next time the dream came to me, I woke up, stepped outside and opened my heart to hear God’s plan.

“Okay,” I whispered.

I’m listening.