by Nicole Deese
I listened to the message a second time, trying to convince myself I’d misheard her. Because she couldn’t possibly have a child in mind for me. A name. A face. A little girl.
A daughter.
Turning the faucet on high to drown out my thoughts with white noise, I leaned against the counter and stared at the pale-faced woman in the mirror. The one who had no earthly idea how she was going to live through the next two minutes, much less the next two days.
God, what are you doing to my heart?
chapter
twenty-seven
The email came at 8:44 a.m. on New Year’s Day.
And by 9:44 a.m. I was sitting in Gail Cartwright’s driveway.
Are you home? I really need to talk to you.
Yes! Kids are still at the youth group all-nighter from last night. Wanna come over?
I’m already here.
Not thirty seconds after I sent the text, Gail opened her front door with a smile on her face, as if it was totally acceptable that I drove all the way across town and didn’t think to call her first. But Gail had never been one to bother with social norms.
Laptop in hand, I exited my Jeep and trudged up her slushy walkway and porch steps.
“Happy New Year,” she said, opening the door wider for me to enter.
“Happy New Year.” My response sounded as remote as my current grip on reality.
“Coffee or tea?”
I shook my head, setting my laptop on the end table. I was jittery enough without an added caffeine boost. “No thanks.”
“You can take a seat on the couch—just excuse the pile of clean laundry there. I haven’t gotten to it yet.”
I hadn’t even noticed the white basket overflowing with clothes and likely wouldn’t have, if not for her pointing it out. “Actually, I think I need to stand. I don’t think . . . I don’t think I can sit right now.”
“Sure,” she said. “Whatever you need. Are you okay if I sit?”
I nodded while Gail, a vision of serenity and calm, took a seat in the recliner, her gaze tracking me as I paced her entryway like an agitated zoo animal. In true Gail form, she didn’t bother with questions like Can you tell me what’s happening? or Are you okay? because clearly, I was not okay. She simply waited for me to be ready.
“I got another match. This morning.”
Her expression shifted ever so slightly, but likely due to my unenthusiastic demeanor, she remained poised like a certified crisis counselor. Raising six teenagers should earn her some sort of insta-certification.
“How do you feel about that?”
I stopped pacing. “I have no idea.”
“It looks like you have lots of ideas.”
I slammed my eyes closed. “Yes . . . I do. But none of them are coherent. This . . . everything is different now.”
“Since Noah?”
Since Joshua. I shook my head and tears tumbled down my cheeks. “Yes and no.”
A delicate lift of her eyebrow was the only response to my double-mindedness.
“I met somebody.”
“Since Noah?” Same question with a completely different meaning.
“No, before Noah. In November, actually. I didn’t tell you because . . . because he wasn’t supposed to mean anything to me. He wasn’t supposed to matter. I’d been so sure, so dead set on not letting my heart feel anything for him other than friendship, but then when everything fell through with the adoption, I just . . . I gave in.” My voice broke. “And now I’m in love with him.”
Her eyes rounded, unblinking. “And he . . .”
“Joshua.” Just his name made my insides ache with longing. “I’m pretty sure he feels the same about me. He’s wonderful, Gail, the kind of man you pray your daughters will marry one day. He’s kind and compassionate, and he loves children.” I swallowed back a sob. “He has a strong faith in God and strong family values—I spent Christmas with his whole family and they’re, well, they’re a lot like you guys.”
She set her coffee mug on the coaster beside her, and I expected her next question to be about Joshua—about my spastic profession of love or at least an explanation of how we met.
Instead she asked, “And how do you think a relationship with Joshua fits in with your calling to adopt?”
Her question gutted me. “I don’t know. To be honest, I’ve spent more time lately doubting that calling than chasing after it.” The truth caused my chest to heave as if in search of air, more air than I could inhale in ten breaths. “Because what if I got it wrong—backwards? Maybe losing Noah was my wake-up call, you know? Maybe I took the hard way when all along God was telling me to wait for a different path—for Joshua.”
“Do you think that’s what God is saying to you—to take a different path?”
“I have no idea what He’s saying to me anymore! Everything is so . . . so not the way I thought it was going to be!” I threw my arms up, feeling something between delirium at my lack of sleep and hysteria at the utter absurdity of the last month and a half.
“Have you asked Him? Have you asked God what He thinks about all this? About Joshua and this new match?”
I twisted back, my gaze finding hers briefly before falling away again. “No.” Pinpricks of heat crept up my neck and into my cheeks. “I haven’t.”
No trace of judgment shadowed her face. “In my experience, it’s really difficult to hear God’s voice when my ears aren’t tuned in. But I can tell you one thing, Lauren.” And even as she spoke my name, my bottom lip began to quiver. “God doesn’t trick His children. He loves us, and everything He asks of us, or allows us to walk through, has a purpose.”
“So what was the purpose in me getting attached to a baby who was never meant to be mine? Or in allowing an incredible man like Joshua to take the sub job across the hall if he was supposed to remain off-limits to me?” My tone was clipped, desperate. “Because I don’t get it.”
“Ask Him those questions. He’s big enough to handle your anger, your confusion. Your hurt.”
An answer that sent me spinning in a new direction.
“It’s a girl—the match they sent me.” I swiped at my eyes, the words rushing out without filters. “She’s five, and she’s been living at a children’s facility in China sponsored by an influential couple here in the states for orphans with heart conditions. Hers was discovered at sixteen months. She’ll need a surgery once she’s adopted, but she’s been receiving basic medical treatment since she’s been at The Heart House. There are dozens of pictures of her, maybe thirty? I don’t even know. But her smile is huge and her eyes always seem to be laughing and there’s even a video of her singing ‘Jesus Loves Me’ in broken English. And”—I suddenly couldn’t even get the words out fast enough—“she loves books. Like sleeps with a pile of them on her bed every night. She’s holding one in almost every picture I’ve seen of her.” I sucked in a breath. “Gail, they’re the same books I read to my class—all translated into Chinese: The Story of Peppa Pig, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, and . . .” A sob washed away the completion of that sentence. Because there were some things too sacred to share openly. Too vulnerable and raw. But there was also no doubt in my mind as to why Stacey had felt so compelled to send the little girl’s file to me—all my credentials were in teaching and working with her age group. Still, not even Stacey could have known the connection I’d uncovered.
Gail stood, taking me in her arms without speaking a word.
“What do I do? Tell me what to do.”
She rubbed my back as I wept on her shoulder.
After a few minutes, she led me to the sofa, my puffy eyes still tender and sore from all the tears I’d cried.
“I can’t lose him—I can’t lose Joshua. Not now.”
Gail’s hand stilled on my knee. “Does that mean you’re willing to say no to this little girl?”
I squeezed my eyes shut once again, tears leaking out of the corners. No, my heart wailed. I’m meant to be her mother!
“Why does it have to be either or?” I lifted my head as my emotions flailed in search of the impossible. “Why can’t the answer be an and instead of an or? Because maybe there is a way I can have them both.” I’d suddenly morphed into Jenna, grasping for a perfect scenario that would involve everyone getting a happily-ever-after. I faced Gail fully, my mind high-jumping over every hurdle that popped up on this mental track. “What if—what if Joshua and I dated in secret? Like, after we were home from China and had settled in to a routine.” I breezed past the part where I’d said we—as in the little orphan girl and me. “And maybe Joshua and I can wait a few weeks—months even—before we introduce him to her. We’d take everything slow. I mean, that could work, couldn’t it? The only regulations regarding my marital status are about everything leading up to the adoption process. But there’s no hard rules about what happens after, right?”
“As far as legal ramifications that would disrupt your adoption? No. The second your plane touches down on American soil, that child is under your authority and is no longer bound to any international adoption requirements. You’d be free to do what you think is best for you and your child.”
My quick-lived feeling of euphoria faded as Gail’s expression remained unchanged. “But?”
“Do you really think that being in a new dating relationship during your child’s first year home is in the best interest of your child?”
A single question that provided answers for so many others. I’d attended two attachment seminars in the last couple of years, I’d read the books on connection and bonding, heard the stories about how important cocooning an adopted child was during their first year home, building trust, building security, building true attachment. And I’d seen Gail and Robert’s real-life testimonials as they parented their adopted children . . . and yet still, my heart craved another way. A different way.
She went on. “That first year is the most crucial, especially when adopting an older child. She’ll be grieving—no matter how well cared for she is at that children’s home. Leaving the only place she’s ever called home, and the only people who’ve ever cared for her, is a traumatic event. That’s a fact, not an opinion. Navigating life in this new world will require your undivided attention—and your undivided heart. She won’t know the language, the food, the sounds, the smells. Everything will be uncharted. Adoption is beautiful, Lauren . . . but it’s not part-time. We often say in group that parenthood is a hamster wheel of self-denial, sacrifice, and unconditional love.”
Melanie’s rant from the adoption group months ago scrolled through my mind: “You’ll be alone. Married or single—you’ll be all alone.”
“What if I can’t do it, Gail?” The near-silent admission slipped through my lips. “What if my fears are right and I’m not strong enough or capable enough to do this on my own? I’ve made such a mess of everything. . . .”
She slid her hand over mine. “None of us are strong enough to handle the hard apart from God. But you don’t have to fear being alone, sweet girl. He’s asking for a partnership with us. Can you see how He’s already given you a wonderful community of trusted friends and loved ones—that’s just one of the many ways He’s been preparing and providing for you since this journey began. We aren’t powerful enough to mess up God’s plan. Can we deny it? Yes. Can we delay it while we chase our own way? Absolutely. But sometimes our character needs time to catch up to our calling.” She stroked my arm. “The Bible says God pursues us with unfailing kindness. And it’s that same undeserved kindness that leads us to repentance.”
Repentance. A three-syllable word that clanged in my ears and reverberated through my bones. When our eyes met again, I knew what had to be done.
Even the most committed boyfriend on the planet wasn’t a husband. There was a reason behind the adoption rules, and whether I liked them or not, they were the right reasons, because they put the needs of the vulnerable child first. Something I’d been failing to do for quite some time.
“I think I need to go.”
Gail nodded as if she’d been expecting me to say exactly that. But before I could stand, she pulled me in, wrapped her arms around me, and prayed.
For me.
For Joshua.
For a little orphan girl far, far away.
chapter
twenty-eight
Of all the moments for Joshua to be waiting on my doorstep, holding a carton of eggs and a to-go cup of coffee, his timing couldn’t have been worse. I wasn’t ready to see him yet. I’d barely had time to examine my own fragmented heart, much less add Joshua’s into the mix. Why was God forcing my hand? Wasn’t it enough that I needed to have the conversation within the next two days? I at least needed a few more hours to sort out the details.
My gait slowed as I approached him from behind. The back of his puffy jacket and crimson beanie sparked a memory of the first night we’d spent together outside of school at the tree lighting festival. Just one of many moments circling my heart over these last two months.
Skye barked from behind the front door as Joshua rang the bell for a second time. Every part of me prickled with an urge to slink away like the coward I’d become, and if not for the crunching ice under my boot, I might have caved.
He twisted around to face me, his work satchel banging against his hip. “Oh, hey there, beautiful. I didn’t realize you were going out this morning.”
Obviously, the sweatshirt hood I’d tightened around my face had masked my red-rimmed eyes from his assessment. There was little beautiful about me today—inside or out. His eyes glanced to the laptop peeking from the tote hanging off my shoulder.
“Yeah, I . . . had some errands to run.” The lie soured on my tongue.
“Oh?” His eyebrows spiked. “Nearly every store I tried this morning was closed for the holiday. It’s the first time I’ve had to shop at a gas station for breakfast items, but I didn’t want to chance you not having enough.”
“Enough . . . ?”
“Eggs.” He eyed me comically, holding up the bounty in his hands. “I hear they’re pretty critical for making omelets.”
Omelets.
Bits and pieces of a half-heard conversation drifted back to me from the car ride last night. Joshua wasn’t here for a surprise drop-in this morning; we’d made plans to make omelets together on New Year’s Day. Joshua had gloated about some secret method Sam—his business partner—had showed him years ago, and I’d nodded along, agreeing to whatever would distract him from asking too many questions about my extended visit to the bathroom during a mediocre ball-drop performance.
“Ah, right, yes.” I shoved my house key into the lock and pushed inside, holding the door open for him to follow.
“Lucky for you, though, Coffee Hut was open.” He handed me the steaming to-go cup. It was then I noticed Joshua’s restless eyes looked eerily similar to my own, minus last night’s mascara residue, of course.
“Did you not sleep last night?” I asked, averting my attention to my ridiculous dog, who was currently whining at Joshua’s feet—or rather, at the lack of Joshua’s canine companion.
“Sorry, Skye. Brach’s at home today.” He patted her head as I shooed her from the entryway and pointed at her corner.
“Is it that obvious? My lack of sleep?” He huffed a laugh and shucked off his coat, plopping his satchel onto my side table—as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do. As if, in such a short period of time, our lives had melded into a singular rhythm, a unified motion of existence. “Guess that’s what turning thirty does to a guy: ruins his ability to pull off an all-nighter without notice.”
“You pulled an all-nighter? Why?”
Chances were high our reasons for staying up all night weren’t the same. He likely hadn’t been wrestling with God over whether or not to send an email to a certain adoption agency first thing this morning.
I took the gas station eggs from him and noticed he was wearing the T-shirt I’d bought him for Christmas: If you
love something set it free . . . unless it’s a T-Rex.
I started for the sink to wash my hands as he anchored himself in the middle of my kitchen, his arms extended wide as if he was about to make a global announcement. “I finished it, Lauren.”
The words were spoken with such triumph that I broke my concerted effort to avoid eye contact with him. “You finished . . . ? Wait, you finished the storyboard for the presentation? But I thought you still had several days of work to do on it?”
He carried on as if I hadn’t even spoken, his adrenaline like a pulsating aura of energy around him. “Something happened to me last night, something I haven’t experienced in years. Not since the creation of Brick Builders.” An animated grin spread across his face as he plucked the whisk out of my utensil jar and tossed it in the air, catching and releasing it several times over. “Sam’s already texted me to say he thinks the layout is killer—like nothing he’s ever worked on before.”
“Really? Wow.” A thought tugged at the back of my mind. “And you’ll still be able to keep up with the demands of the reading app if this one takes off, too?” I set the mixing bowl next to the carton and prepared to crack the eggs.
“Absolutely. We’ll continue to stay the course with the educational apps for school districts nationwide, but at this point, the work left to do on that project is minimal, which feels even more divine considering I had the distinct impression—sometime around three in the morning—that this hospital project is the next big step for Wide Awake Consulting.”
“Wow, Joshua. That’s just . . . incredible.” And I’m going to miss all of it. I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep the sadness in my voice from leaking out my eyes. “I’m proud of you.”
He dropped the whisk next to the empty bowl and snaked his arms around my middle from behind me. Placing his chin on my shoulder, he spoke in such a low tenor my insides hummed to life. “And do you know what I kept thinking about as I burned the midnight oil?”
