When God Said ‘Yes’: Our Unexpected Adoption Story  

The phone rang at 9:37 PM on a Tuesday—far too late for any routine call. Dishes clattered in the sink as I dried my hands, my heart pounding when our caseworker’s name flashed across the screen. This is it, I thought, bracing for another disappointment. After three failed matches in fourteen months, I’d learned to temper my expectations.

But then Sarah’s voice cracked through the receiver: “They chose you. She’s yours if you say yes.”  

My knees buckled. The kitchen tile chilled my skin as I slid to the floor, tears blurring the calendar where I’d marked every “no” with a small black X. Just six months earlier, we’d been told our home study was expiring—that perhaps we should “consider other options.” Yet here was God, rewriting our story in permanent ink.  

As I whispered “Yes, a thousand times yes,” into the phone, I didn’t yet know this child would teach me more about grace than a lifetime of sermons. All I knew was this: after years of clenched-fist prayers, God was prying open my fingers to receive a gift I hadn’t known to request.  

The nursery sat empty for four years.  

We’d painted its walls sunshine yellow after the first round of IVF, hanging a hand-stitched “Baby Ramile” banner over the crib. When the treatments failed, we left the door closed—the mobile still dangling, the tiny socks folded in drawers like artifacts of a future that never came.  

“Have you considered adoption?” friends would ask. We’d nod politely while thinking That’s for extraordinary people—saints and missionaries. Until one Sunday, our pastor read James 1:27: “…true religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans…” The words landed like an indictment. That night, my husband Josh turned to me in bed: “What if our infertility isn’t a roadblock? What if it’s a redirection?”  

The adoption process felt like a spiritual bootcamp. We spent months in classes learning about trauma bonding, attachment disorders, and the grief inherent in even the happiest adoptions. One trainer warned us: “These kids aren’t blank slates. They come with histories—and those histories will become yours too.” 

Then came the home study. For three hours, a social worker scrutinized our marriage, finances, and mental health. “Why do you want to adopt?” she asked pointedly. Josh’s answer still brings tears to my eyes: “Because every child should know what it’s like to be loved without conditions.”  

The rejections started quietly.  

“The birth mother chose a family with biological children…” 

“They’re looking for parents who share the child’s cultural background…” 

“You’re wonderful candidates, but…”  

Each no carved deeper grooves of doubt. One afternoon, I screamed into a pillow until my throat burned, then opened my Bible to Psalm 113:9: “He settles the childless woman in her home as a happy mother of children.” The promise felt cruel in its delay.  

Financially, we are not rich or wealthy by any means. Between our mortgage, health insurance and student loans we faced nearly $40,000 in bills. Then came the miracles:  

• A surprise $5,000 check from a Sunday School class  
• A fundraiser where strangers donated $12,000 in three weeks because they knew that we were adopting

Yet the greatest test came when our home study expired. As we redid fingerprints and physicals, Josh admitted: “Maybe God’s saying no.” That night, I dreamt of a little girl with curly hair laughing in our empty nursery. I woke with inexplicable certainty: She exists. Keep going.  

The first photo took my breath away—a three-year-old with cocoa skin and braids tied with pink ribbons, gripping a teddy bear almost as big as she was. “Meet Jada,” the email read. “She’s been in foster care since birth.”  

Our first visit at the agency playroom shattered me. When I knelt to greet her, Jada pressed her entire body against mine, inhaling deeply like she was memorizing my scent. She’s been taught how to attach to strangers, I realized with grief. As she stacked blocks with Josh, the caseworker whispered: “She’s called every foster mom ‘Mommy’ since she could talk. This child desperately wants a family.” 

Bringing her home was nothing like the movies. The first month, Jada woke screaming nightly, once hurling a lamp through her bedroom window. During the day, she’d hoard food in her pillowcase despite our full pantry. Our pediatrician explained: “Her brain is wired for survival, not security. You’ll need to rebuild that neural pathway by love.” 

The breakthrough came on a Tuesday—because isn’t it always a Tuesday? Jada had hidden under the table for an hour after spilling juice. When I finally coaxed her out, I whispered: “Sweet girl, there’s nothing you could break that I wouldn’t forgive.” For the first time, she wept in my arms instead of fighting. That night, she called me “Mama” unprompted.  

To the one reading this with an empty nursery—or a heart weary from the wait—know this:  

God’s no’s to our lesser stories make space for His unimaginable yes. Had we adopted earlier, we’d have missed our daughter—her specific laugh, her resilient spirit, the way she now prays for “kids with no mommies” at bedtime.  

The road will wreck you. You’ll stare at ceiling fans at 2 AM wondering if you’re enough. You’ll cry in Target when strangers ask “Is she yours?” But you’ll also witness resurrection—in their eyes, and yours.  
“He places the lonely in families…” (Psalm 68:6). Sometimes that family is yours. Sometimes you’re the one being adopted—into a love bigger than you dreamed.