Adopted into the Family of God

I met my parents when I was seventy-two hours old. That’s not how most parent-child relationships start, but this was no ordinary story. Instead of months of pregnancy, my parents experienced years of attempting to adopt. Instead of hours of labor, they spent hours in the car, racing to a hospital for a baby who would arrive ahead of them.

The nurses told my parents I was ready to be released. They just needed me to drink one bottle first, and I was refusing. So my dad picked me up and said, “Hey, little girl. I’m your daddy. And I need you to drink this bottle.” And I did. He was my daddy, after all.

He’d never seen me before that moment. He hadn’t watched me grow as a sweet little bump on my mom’s belly. She hadn’t endured morning sickness or felt me kick in the middle of the night. They had no DNA in common with me. But in that moment, he was my daddy and she was my mom, fully and completely.

I didn’t ask to be adopted. I didn’t start a nationwide search for the perfect parents or launch a radio campaign…

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