On the Day We Met

It started out like any ordinary day. It was a Saturday, so we all got to sleep a little later. Josh was up before anyone. I could hear him singing to himself in his room and wondered what he was thinking. He would get to meet you, his baby brother today.

I padded out of the bedroom and grabbed a cup of coffee. Headed downstairs to do my advent reading and just soak in the quiet. As I read and thought and prayed, I watched the snow falling for the fourth time this week. It's been a cold December. Refreshing, though. Full of sunshine and hope. Which is different from a lot of previous Decembers.

A quick breakfast and some chores and then Dad took Josh to a birthday party. I ran around the house, packing the camera and a few gifts for you, trying to wish away the minutes until we'd see you in person. Busyness is a gift in those moments.

Then we are picking Josh up from his party and all on our way. Driving in the snow, answering questions from the backseat. Can we feed him? Will I be able to hold him? Do you think he'll like my finger puppet? When will his birth mommy decide for sure if we can have him? One excited 7-year-old.

When we drive up, there is a woman, your foster mom, standing in the doorway. I see a bundle of something pressed into her shoulder and realize it's you greeting us at the door. You are so tiny. I knew you would be but man, you are. I want to reach out and grab you but I don't know the etiquette here. You might be ours but not yet. You are legally this foster mother's for now and we have to be cautious.

We come in, leave our snowy boots at the door. Act calm, as though this isn't the craziest thing we've ever done. Just drive up to a house, walk in and meet our child. You know, no big deal. She asks who wants to hold you first and I want to say "me", I want to shout it, but I know I should let the boys go first. Dad jumps in though and points to me with a big smile. He knows my heart. He knows I need to hold you. He knows I need to feel the life in this little child for whom we've prayed and waited and hoped and dreamed and, yes, sometimes despaired of ever coming.


I don't cry. Of course I don't, there are people in the room I don't know until today. I've cried a lot over the past few days so I don't need to anyway. I just gaze at you. I soak you in. I hope against hope that nothing will fall through, that in 30 short days you will be sitting in my arms in our home, wearing the clothes I've bought you, no foster mom in sight. I pass you to my son who has been praying for this moment from when he first learned to pray. "Oh, he's so sweet, mommy." Yes, son, he is. You are. So sweet, so small, so precious.

You go to Daddy and I remember that feeling I used to get watching him hold Josh. This overwhelming feeling a woman gets when she knows her son has the best dad in the world. And I know you will be blessed beyond measure by this wonderful man who holds you in his arms, overwhelmed, confused, unsure what the right reactions are on this day. You look so small but so safe and so, well, right there.

The hours pass quickly and we have to hand you back. You are unaware that you've just met your parents, that you've tasted your forever family. You don't really know much besides eating and sleeping right now but I know you will know us soon. Soon, we will be all you know, we will be your world. And only three days ago we didn't know you existed. Now we do.

On the day we met, dear son, I knew my life was changed.