I sometimes forget the story God gifted me to tell. The story of God’s great and mighty love for me, his surprises and his sweetness, and the perfect timing he orchestrated for my family… my story of the neon flashing light of a God who cares extravagantly for his children.
My entire life from Kindergarten on, my biggest desire in life was to be a mom. After many years of infertility, I had such bitterness. In my darkest, I felt unseen by God. I uttered the words, “if God gave me this desire, why isn’t it happening for me? What is wrong with me?” I don’t know how many times. Too many. I was hurting every day. Some days, every moment of every day. I felt internally wholly lonely.
In 2011, I began a private blog, or a therapeutic journal more accurately. I was in the midst of that hard, hard season of infertility and found myself desperate for a raw, vulnerable, 100% honest outlet where I could say anything I wanted without fear. After several months of pouring myself into that blog, I abandoned the pages and never went back. It was a deeply hopeful, but still sad place for me and I didn’t want to look back on that sadness any longer.
But in September of last year, as I prepared for the adoption of my first child, I poured back through the pages of my infertility journal and found a sweet surprise. I was reminded of my story. And the the truth of His hand on my story is that He cared so deeply for me in my hurt, that through my own pain He gave me a dream about my first child on April 3, 2011. I wrote the words, “I kissed your cheeks and touched your fingers, like I was making sure you were real… studying you as if you would disappear in a blink. And you did—my heart hurt for you when I awoke from the dream. I miss you, though we’ve never met.”
What I know now is that on the same night, April 3, 2011, in a hospital room 24.8 miles away, a woman I had never met was giving birth to a baby boy. Dalton Eugene. My boy. We didn’t meet that night, or even that year. But 2 years later, in April of 2013, our first son was brought to our home. I had dreamt of my son on the night he was born.
God knew. He cared. He saw me. I was never alone. He took my deepest pain and wrote a beautiful love story. He redeemed what I thought could not be redeemed. He brought, not only healing from the pain of infertility, not only thankfulness for the journey that led me to my boys, but JOY that fills me up when I see my son smiling and playing and I remember that only God could write our story.