“Where are you, God?” I whispered quietly in my closet, tears streaming down my face. I was devastated and utterly alone. He had brought us to this point, but where was He now? How could I feel so isolated, so lost, in a moment that was supposed to be full of joy? And then, in the closest thing to an audible voice I’ve ever experienced, He answered: “This is still My plan, even when there’s nothing in it for you.”
Let me back up. That conversation happened in August 2015, but the story really began years earlier, during my teenage years, when a quiet desire to adopt started to grow in me. Over time, it became more specific—I wanted to adopt older kids, the ones who were the most vulnerable, the most at-risk. Sounds crazy, right? I think so too.
When I met my husband in 2010, I didn’t want to waste my time with someone who wasn’t on board with this dream. So, on probably our second date, I told him I wanted to adopt someday. Thankfully, he wasn’t freaked out—though looking back, he probably should have been. We married in 2012 and enjoyed the newlywed life for two years before that passion bubbled back up again. By December 2014, I was pregnant with our first child, Grady, and though we had always talked about adopting older kids—maybe 7, 8, or 9—we had never considered teenagers. It was terrifying, and I was barely out of my own teen years.
Then, I saw them: two boys in the heart gallery for our state. We quickly learned they were 12 and 13—above our planned age limit—but there was something about them that felt magnetic. I sent a screenshot to Bryan asking for the go-ahead, and before long, we were emailing their caseworker and signing up for foster care adoption training. I was the only pregnant woman in the room, drawing plenty of “You’re insane” looks. In hindsight, I totally get it—but in that moment, it felt like exactly where we were supposed to be.
We completed training and stayed in touch with the boys’ caseworker the whole time. Our home officially opened in January 2015, and we excitedly reached out to begin visitation. Then came our first hard blow: their foster mom had decided to adopt them herself. We were happy for their permanency, but it felt like the wind had been knocked out of us. We had to start over.
We passed on a few other children for one reason or another, until we began reaching out directly to caseworkers about other heart gallery kids. That’s when we learned about a boy who lived a few hours away. Things looked promising, and we were scheduled for visitation in March 2015. He and his caseworker visited our city, and we spent the afternoon together—but a few days later, we learned he had chosen another family. Another door closed.
Then, a call came from his caseworker:
“Have you been notified about his roommate at the group home?”
“No,” I replied.
“Would you be willing to meet him?”
In May, we met Clark, a boy we didn’t yet know who could become our son. Almost 14, sandy blonde hair, a love for rap music and football, and a sense of humor that made him think we were cool. We took him bowling and out to lunch, and by the end of the day, everyone agreed—we should move forward. Three months later, he moved in the day after his 14th birthday and the day before his first day of high school.
That was the day I whispered to God in the closet. Where I had once felt confident, passionate, and driven to bring Clark home, I suddenly felt a mist of uncertainty. I didn’t understand my emotions, so I hid away and poured out my heart. God spoke words I didn’t know I needed, but couldn’t have survived without.
The honeymoon period of adoption lasted about three months. Then reality hit. Trauma from Clark’s past surfaced, and the questions began: “Is it safe here? Can I show you who I really am? Can you handle me? Will you leave?” We learned about attachment disorders, how trauma physically changes a child’s brain, and how broken trust shapes their view of the world. PTSD isn’t just for soldiers. Secondary trauma is real. Self-care isn’t just a hashtag. And we alone couldn’t fix Clark.
Then life threw us another curveball. I discovered I was pregnant again—Clark had been with us for barely two weeks. We were about to have two babies 16 months apart, plus a newly adopted teen. And as if that wasn’t enough, two and a half months later, we got a call: Clark’s mother had delivered another baby and abandoned him at the hospital. Would we adopt him too? Within minutes, our answer became: yes. We were going to have three children, all less than a year and a half apart…plus a teenager.
The baby we brought home—Roc—was withdrawing from multiple substances. The first months were the hardest we had ever faced. Clark unraveled alongside me and Bryan, while we navigated newborn care and the challenges of a teen who had never had stability. It took us nearly a year to reach out for help—a delay I wish we could undo.
Clark had never experienced a safe environment. Trust terrified him. He expected abandonment, so whenever he grew attached, fear drove him to outbursts. During those difficult years, I finally understood the closet moment with God. There were two journeys: mine, and Clark’s. I could only be the main character of one.
I had believed adoption was about saving others. God showed me it was also about transforming me. At my lowest point, when I realized I could not do this alone, He refined me. I had already said yes. My job was not to fix anyone—it was to love, consistently, even when it seemed impossible.
God began rewriting my expectations. Family wouldn’t look the way I imagined. Clark’s journey would not fit into my box. But when we surrendered, we began to see thriving: Clark stopped running, got a job, kept it, passed classes, graduated, and moved out. We learned to celebrate victories we hadn’t imagined, and to see life through God’s eyes rather than our own.
The boy we met at a bowling alley now shares our last name. He defied statistics. He is thriving. And God is still showing off. I can’t wait to see what He has in store next.
