God's Calling (No Hands But Ours)

We adoptive parents are a feisty, powerful bunch. We are in pursuit…on mission…active…hoping…
dossier building…finger-printing…connecting….fundraising…hurdle jumping…praying…planning…
counting-down…conferencing…reading…packing…travelling…bonding…adjusting…teaching…nursing… care giving…loving.

But are we listening for God’s voice?

Many claim that adoption starts with a "calling". God speaks and we respond. And for a glorious moment, our ears are perfectly tuned to His voice. Sometimes though, somewhere along the journey to our child, and then with our child, we become absorbed in our side of the conversation. The voice of the One who called gets muffled.

Our waiting child beckons. The dossier checklist blares. The adoptive momma FB group clamors. The mission-focused, striving heart cries out. The momma and poppa bear within us roars. It’s a divine, but noisy ride.

Once home, the volume of life turns to high. We are adjusting, bonding, cocooning, seeking specialists, administering medicines, triaging family needs, testing, and treating. Fragile kids must be taught to sleep, talk, be loved, eat solid foods, drink from a cup, deal with our sensory loaded world, and bond.

We hold on for dear life, our hearts becoming fertile ground for the birth of new faith. We are well beyond the borders of our comfort and ability, so we pray and we pray. After all, we’ve got a laundry list of petitions.

But is there listening space in our prayers?

Do we, adoptive parents, push ever forward in great love? Yes. 

Allow God to replace our weakness with His strength? Have to.

Pray without ceasing? You bet. 

But actually listen to our speaking Father? Not so much. Too much adopting to have time for that.




Standing on the other side of three adoptions, I see that the One who I thought was silent, was indeed speaking.

He was speaking, but I was working on my dossier. 

He was speaking, but I was planning.

He was speaking, but I was shattering knowing that my child was experiencing orphanage life, hospital stays and surgeries without parents. 

He was speaking, but I was raging against delays, glitches and international red tape.

He was speaking, but my prayers were lopsided with begging.

He was speaking, but I was wholly devoted to Gotcha Day.

He was speaking, but I was busy healing hurting souls.

Read the rest over at No Hands But Ours. 

Beautiful photographs by the mega talented, Tish Goff.