We walked through La Casa’s courtyard and was buzzed through the iron gate as we walked out. We loaded back up into Jaime’s van that had been waiting for us on the street outside of La Casa. Brandon sat up front with the driver, Julie sat in the first row, I sat with Mila in the next row, and all three boys sat in the last row.

Mila was droopy and sleepy. I figured she was overwhelmed and cuddled her to let her sleep.

We had left for La Casa that morning at 10am. The time was now around 1pm, and we were told we’d need to head to the notary. I hoped it would be a quick appointment as I knew the kids would need lunch soon.

It’s hard to tell how far we actually drove in Bogotá for traffic is so congested. I was told that traffic is such an issue that they even have alternating days when people can drive called “Pico y Placa.” I think it works by license plate numbers and only odd ending license plates or even ending license plates are allowed on the road at specific times. But I’m not certain how it works as I could be mixing it up with the shopping pico that was put into effect during Covid. To reduce the spread of Covid, they had restrictions on shopping days based on the ending numbers of your passport / cédula. Brandon and I checked our passports before leaving and realized since our passport numbers both ended in an even number, there would be days neither of us could go to the grocery store. Thankfully, all those shopping restrictions were lifted before our time in Bogotá, and we didn’t have any issues.

We pulled up to the notary after about 30 minutes of congested traffic. Brandon, Mila, and I were all needed at this notary appointment. We glanced at the doorman with a notepad controlling a line of masked people and decided it best for the boys to stay with Jaime, a trusted Lifeline driver. After handing back some activity pads to the boys and offering a few parting instructions for their behavior, we walked with Julie to the doorman to sign in for our appointment.

Mila was still droopy and lay resting / sleeping. I knew she had been overwhelmed and was going through so much change. I hadn’t been sure what to expect, yet it was hard not to worry.

I don’t quite remember the exact moment I first noticed, but I began noting that she felt warm as she lay against my chest. I remember toying with the idea that she might be feverish and praying it wasn’t so. This child was so new to me. I didn’t know what her normal body temperature felt like, and La Casa had said nothing about her not feeling well. I hoped it was my imagination and that I was concerned over nothing.

Brandon and I passed her back and forth as we stood in line waiting our turn. I whispered, “Does she feel warm to you?” I was hoping Brandon would discredit my concern by telling me she felt fine. Instead, to my dismay, Brandon nodded and said that he had wondered the same thing.

We felt stuck. We didn’t know for a fact whether she had a fever or not. We didn’t know if she was lethargic from being stressed and overwhelmed in her new circumstances or if she was sick. We quietly fretted over the possibility that we were holding a feverish child in a crowded room of masked people at a Bogotá notary during the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic. We hoped she wasn’t sick.

Thankfully our turn came quickly, and we were walking out of the notary within 30 minutes of arriving. About 2pm now. Head back, feed the kids lunch, and see if Mila would perk up after having food was our thinking.

Unfortunately there was another errand we didn’t know about. Mila’s picture had to be taken for her visa and other official documents, and there was a photo booth around the corner. Brandon held Mila as he and Julie went on foot to the photo booth, and I stayed with Jaime and the boys in the van.

The boys had drawing pads, and I worked to keep them entertained. They had already been waiting in the parked van for 30 minutes, so it took some effort to keep them content. Allen and I took turns drawing pictures and writing notes. I drew a sun and wrote “You are my sunshine.” “What does it say?” he turned to me and asked. “It says you are my sunshine.” His face lit up and then took the pad to draw a return message. A picture with a heart and his name Allen was his usual response.

It was another 30 minutes before Julie, Mila, and Brandon returned. They looked relieved to get back and told us how awful it had been to try to get her picture. It was a photo that had to be done perfectly: Hair back, ears showing, straight look into the camera, neutral expression. Looking at Brandon and Julie, it was easy to see that getting a crying upset baby to check all those requirements had taken everything they had. They finally had gotten the picture by sitting Mila on Brandon’s knee with him leaning out away from the camera. This picture always makes us sad as we look at her tearful little face, but we also smile as we see the tiny blip of light blue of Brandon’s shirt on the very edge of the perfectly sized photo. Thankfully no one noticed that the background wasn’t wholly the white standard.

We finally left the parking space we had been occupying for an hour at the notary and headed to Julie’s house. We passed around some snacks and water to the boys. I had a kids cliff bar that I broke off in small bites to offer Mila. She took and ate a few pieces. I handed her a sippy cup of water, and she acted like she had never used one. I opened the lid and gave her a sip. She spit it out, choked, and acted like I had tried to poison her. We had been warned that it was rare for Colombian children to drink plain water as they normally drink fruit juices. But I didn’t think her response to water would be this bad.

After a little discussion, we stopped by a store on the way to Julie’s to check on a sim card as we hadn’t yet set up a phone that would work in Colombia without wifi. The store didn’t have one, so we’d have to worry about that later. We dropped Julie off at her house, and about 20 minutes later we were glad to be back at our hotel.

It was 3pm, and we felt spent. Since we had flown in just the day before, we hadn’t had time to get any groceries, so our best lunch option was to eat at the hotel restaurant. We went upstairs and changed clothes and headed down for what we hoped would be a quick late lunch.

The restaurant was not crowded at 3pm, and we sat at a cloth covered round table. Brandon held Mila and let me take the lead in ordering since the server didn’t speak English. After our order was in, Brandon passed Mila to me, and she laid her head on my chest.

Immediately I knew. It was no longer wondering what her normal body temperature was or wondering if she might be warm. No. She was HOT. “She’s burning up,” I told Brandon, and forgetting lunch, I headed with Mila back up to the fifth floor to our room.

I have always been a meticulous planner, and with all the thorough packing lists I had made and followed, I thought I was prepared for anything in Colombia. In the medication section of my packing list, I had opted for an oral thermometer because our ear one took up more space in our luggage. As I tried to get Mila to comply with the thermometer under her tongue, that poor sick little girl fought me and wasn’t having it. Packing fail #1: Should have gone with the other thermometer.

I somehow managed to get it under her tongue for just a few seconds and saw that the number jumped to 101 degrees. I freaked out. I didn’t know if this was a one minute or two minute thermometer, but I knew that showing 101 degrees after a few short seconds was not good.

Also in the medication section of my packing list, I had opted for children’s chewable ibuprofen instead of the liquid kind we normally use. My thought had been that the liquid might make a mess during travel, and plus, once again, the liquid took up more space in our luggage. I looked at the dosage chart and handed Mila half a pill. I encouraged her to put it in her mouth. She refused. That poor sick little girl threw the pill across the bed. Packing fail #2: Should have packed the liquid ibuprofen. We had just barely been in Colombia for 24 hours, and I was already realizing that all those meticulous packing lists had gotten me nowhere.

It was at this very moment that I also realized I didn’t have a handle on this situation at all. I put out an SOS text to our in-country adoption group telling them our situation. I told them Mila was burning up with a fever and wouldn’t use our oral thermometer or take our chewable ibuprofen. I told them we didn’t have groceries and our grocery app wasn’t working. I also told them it was 3:30pm, and Mila hadn’t eaten lunch. I told them we needed help.

Our in-country team came to our rescue and responded within minutes of my cry for help. They placed a pharmacy order of liquid ibuprofen, liquid Tylenol, pedialyte, and an infrared thermometer that was delivered straight to our hotel within an hour. They also ordered groceries for us that were delivered that evening. They sent messages to encourage us and prayers that things would get better.

Brandon had asked the waiter to bring lunch to the room, and he and the boys had followed us upstairs. Mila ate soup, and we all felt better after some food. We gave Mila liquid ibuprofen as soon as the pharmacy order came in. She continued with a fever into the night and the following day. But things were looking up.

Her first evening with us was spent looking at musical books and rolling a ball back and forth with the boys. That night as we put on her pajamas, the boys crawled on the bed with her, and I snapped a picture of her first night with us. She wasn’t smiling. She had dark circles around her eyes. And she was sick.

Not everything about adoption is beautiful. Mila had experienced loss of everything familiar that week. She was sick and probably wanted to be at her foster home with her foster mom. Instead, she had people who felt her warm with fever and hesitated. They didn’t know her. But she would soon learn that they would love her. And she would love them.

It reminds me of our Heavenly Father and how He has adopted us. In this world, there is still sickness and loss, death and sadness. We are not shielded from every pain, and we need healing that only comes from learning to allow Him to mend our broken parts. And if we could just grasp His love and realize what losses and brokenness He went through in this world and on the cross to adopt us, we’d rest in that Love. We’d trust His healing. And we’d shed our nervous fears and rest.

As we put Mila in her crib for the night, Allen slipped his stuffed unicorn through the bars for her to sleep with. He said he and Mila would share, and they would take turns sleeping with it. I snapped a picture of this as well. For right beside the broken bits of loss, adoption is beautiful. God calls us to adopt because He has redeemed and adopted us. So, we follow His example, thanking Him for the beautiful parts and allowing Him to heal the losses.

Isaiah 43:18-19 Do not call to mind the former things; pay no attention to the things of old. Behold, I am about to do something new; even now it is coming. Do you not see it? Indeed, I will make a way in the wilderness and streams in the desert.

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I took in a deep breath to calm the nerves. We had just flown into Bogotá the day before and had woken up in a hotel suite to the sounds of songbirds and street noise. We didn’t have much time to spare as we dressed for breakfast. We would be meeting our new daughter in a matter of hours. 

Our original plan had us arriving in Colombia three days in advance so we could adjust to the high altitude of the Andes Mountains and get settled in before bringing Mila into the mix. But once La Casa, the orphanage responsible for Mila, learned that we were coming early, they rescheduled our meeting day to the day after we arrived. 

Now, I was in no way upset that we’d get to meet our daughter earlier than we had originally thought, but from previous travel, we knew breathing difficulties and nausea from altitude sickness was no joke. So, before we left the States, we had rushed to get prescription meds in hopes it would help. So far, so good. Neither Brandon nor I were sick. 

As we sat eating rice and fruit at the hotel buffet breakfast on a Friday morning, I was glad we were meeting Mila that day and glad it was early. Since Tuesday I had been worrying about her. Ever since Mila was a few days old, she had lived in a foster home in the town of Baranquilla, a coastal city in the northern part of Colombia. At least she had lived there up until this last Tuesday. 

Because of protests in Colombia, La Casa had decided to fly Mila to Bogotá early to make sure there weren’t any delays with road blocks or other protest-related issues. 

I had felt panic as I was told this change in plans. Originally she was to be flown in the same day we came to get her. But we had no control over La Casa’s decision to move her early, and she had been staying at the orphanage section of La Casa for three days. My heart had cried prayers to God during this time asking that Mila would know she was safe. I grieved over the fear she must have been experiencing at leaving everything familiar. 

We left breakfast and went upstairs to get dressed. We were energized knowing that in just a couple hours Mila would be with us. The boys changed into matching light blue shirts with thin multi-colored stripes. I put on a pale pink dress, and Brandon wore a dress shirt and vest. 

La Casa had told us to bring an outfit for Mila. The outfit is kind of a big deal as they view it as the first symbol of Mila’s new life and family. Given this symbolism and the fact that Colombian culture already puts emphasis on having a well-groomed and well-dressed appearance, I fretted over what outfit to bring. 

After many dress purchases, we had decided on a shimmery pink dress with soft cream lacing and a simple pair of white shoes. It was beautiful. I packed it up into a bag to take with us, looking at it and realizing we’d see her wearing it very soon. 

Our driver, Jaime (pronounced Hi-may), arrived at the hotel at 10am that morning. We piled in the van and got situated. The boys had no carseats as no one in Colombia uses them. The cars have seat belts, but no one uses those either, at least not in the back seats. On our first few outings in Colombia we had fumbled with trying to dig out and use the seat belts but soon gave up and for the remainder of our trip, we rode like the seat-belt-less locals. 

On our way to La Casa that morning, we stopped to pick up Julie, a young lady who works with adoptive families and was helping us while in country. It took us about 45 minutes to get to La Casa, and as we pulled up, we passed around N-95 masks to replace our cloth masks we were already wearing. 

The date was May 21, 2021, and Colombia was still being hit hard with COVID-19. The vaccine was slowly making its way to the population but at that time was only available to the elderly. As such, the government required masks to be worn whenever people were outside their places of residence. This meant within vehicles, outside at parks, everywhere. Biking, running, hiking, doing anything, everyone ages 2+ were required to wear masks. And for this particular appointment, our agency had asked us to use N-95s. 

As we crawled out of the van and onto the street in front of La Casa, we realized that since our children had never worn N-95 masks that we definitely should have given ourselves more time. The two wrap-around straps confused them. Allen had his mask turned sideways and had tried to loop each strap loosely over his ears. It dangled down off his face comically as he protested this new style of mask. Emmett and Everett had done better but were still struggling and pulling to make them fit. We crossed the road tugging straps and twisting masks and finally had mouths and noses covered by the time we had gone through the iron gates of La Casa and were standing in their courtyard. 

Within the courtyard, green spaces were scattered with caregivers and kids. Sounds of fussing and crying, playing and laughing floated faintly from a distance. There was an outdoor pump sink, and we were asked to wash our hands before entering. 

After washing up, we went into a reception area and were warmly greeted in a mix of Spanish and English. As I scanned the masked faces, I nodded and greeted one in particular who was familiar. Her name was Diana, and she had been on most of our video calls with Mila. 

We followed Diana down a waxed brown stone hallway. Along the white brick walls were old pictures of children. We glanced at the young faces trailing down the walls and decided they must have been past orphans at La Casa. As we kept walking, there seemed to be hundreds of them. There were ones that were framed in various shades of wood while others were displayed unframed. The photos showed age not only from the darkened yellow hews on the prints themselves but also by the style of dress within the photos. La Casa had been caring for children for over 75 years, and some of the prints looked to be from their early years. 

Everett scanned the walls as we walked. Not an ounce of shyness in this boy, he piped up, “Is Mila’s picture on this wall?” Diana smiled as she told him that he wouldn’t find Mila on the wall. But she added, “Do you want us to add Mila’s picture?” He nodded yes. 

We were led into a room on the left with a conference table. One wall was painted with big Spanish words such as PAZ, AMOR, and FAMILIA. In the adjacent room we could see boxes and cubbies of toys – dolls, cars, and stuffed animals. I handed the bag containing Mila’s dress and shoes to someone, and we sat down to discuss some last minute items and sign a few remaining documents. 

I expected a longer meeting time, but before we knew it, we were told we’d step outside into a center courtyard and they’d bring Mila to us. 

The experience felt surreal and my legs almost felt like I wasn’t the one moving them as we walked to the area. They told us to remove our masks and gather near a red picnic table while we waited. 

Nerves. Jitters. Joy. Peace. It was all bottled up as we stood and sat with our three boys waiting on Mila. Someone came and told us that Mila had been sleeping. They had woken her up, and she was crying. 

Especially hearing that she was already upset, Brandon and I decided that when they brought her out, I should approach her first. They had told us that she hadn’t had a father figure in her life at the foster home, and we weren’t sure how she’d respond to Brandon. 

We heard it slowly circling the courtyard through opened windows. Someone was walking the boxed hallway singing a very slow rendition of Mila’s favorite song. 

La vaca Lola, La vaca Lola, tiene cabeza y tiene cola y hace moo…  

The lady appeared and walked through the narrow doorway to enter the courtyard. She was carrying Mila who was looking quite sleepy and unsure but not crying. We all waved, and I walked over to her. 

Mila had seen us on weekly video calls and in videos we had sent her for months. But with all the newness, she hesitated as I talked to her and reached for her. She was reserved but came into my arms without crying. 

Holding her reminded me of the first time I had held my boys. But instead of being at a hospital in Greensboro, we were at a Children’s Home in Bogotá. And instead of weighing only a few pounds, she weighed 26 lbs and could already walk. Yet, even still, it felt much the same. There was  belonging and responsibility. There was a feeling of love and protection. 

She was calm as I moved away from the La Casa staff and took her to our family. The boys each had toys to show her. 

Emmett peered at her as joy showed on his face that spilled out through his bright smile. He had his hand in a purple bunny puppet and held the toy out for her to see. 

Allen looked at her timidly as he held a small colorfully dressed baby doll. He himself hadn’t yet turned 5. We had discussed at great lengths with the boys the concepts of orphanages and adoption. We had talked about why we were adopting and prayed together for Mila. Before we left home, we had explored through journaling how the boys felt about flying on an airplane for the first time, what they thought about spending several weeks in another country, and how important their role was as brothers to Mila. They all were so excited to gain a sister. Allen stood on the picnic bench as I held Mila close to meet him. He smiled sheepishly and told her, “hola.” 

Staying true to his gregarious nature, Everett chose his biggest smile to greet her and held out a stuffed cow making mooing sounds to get her attention. 

She looked at us with a passive expression as she tried to process all these faces and people she had only ever seen on a screen. We quietly sang a few of her favorite songs that we had sung so many times on our calls and in videos. 

La Casa staff asked us to come back inside to spend a private family moment in the conference room where we had started. As we all got situated, I sat Mila on the table in front of me putting her at eye-level as I sat down. Brandon was in the chair next to us and the boys were gathered at the head and across the table. 

Brandon had held back all urges to get too close, not wanting to scare Mila. So her next move shocked us all. Sitting next to Brandon, she reached for him! We were so surprised that we sat stunned for a couple seconds as the reservations between the new father and daughter dissipated as he took her in his arms. She lay contentedly on his chest, and the look on Brandon’s face was pure joy. 

The boys were touched as well as they looked on, watching their dad hold their little sister. I noticed the wetness in Everett’s eyes first and glanced to see it mirrored on Brandon’s face as well. This little girl had already turned these boys into teary puddles of mush. It was a precious sight. 

When it was time to leave, we retraced our steps down the brown waxed hallway trailing once more past all the old pictures. We stopped in the reception area for the photographer to take our picture beside the painted La Casa mural. Then it was all done. We walked out of La Casa de la Madre y el Niño as a family of six. 

Encuentro day part two will be shared soon and will tell you how this day quickly became stressful and also share a few of our first struggles. 

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Now that you know the whole story leading up to our adoption, we are overjoyed to introduce our newest family member: Milagros Victoria Leebrick.

She is Loved by our Heavenly Father.

Chosen. Favored. Blessed.

A Two-Year-Old Bundle of Joy.

We are overwhelmed that our loving God arranged all these circumstances and so many Miracles to bring her into our family.

During the months of May and June, Brandon, the boys, and I were in Bogotá, Colombia for over three weeks finalizing Mila’s adoption. This journey has stretched us and challenged us. We pushed aside our plans and trusted God to lead, and He has overwhelmed us with his faithfulness.

So much of following God can appear on the outside as a sacrifice. Many believe to follow God, they have to give up happiness or pleasure.

But my friends, that is simply not true. As we follow Christ, we trade temporary happiness for real, deep-down, unashamed JOY. We trade rushed earthly pleasures for a lasting satisfaction and contentment we can only find in a relationship with our Creator. We would never hold so tightly to our own plans if we could just grasp this one truth about our God.

My hope is that you’ve read our story and come away knowing that whatever your circumstances as you surrender your plans for God’s, you will see a victory. You can rest in knowing that He surrounds you and fights for you. The battle belongs to Him, and He has prepared you for it. Now walk with Him.

The LORD shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace. Exodus 14:14

This is the last post in the series “Walk with Me.” But I’ll soon be sharing some pictures and stories from the three weeks we spent in Colombia finalizing our adoption. I’ll show you pictures of our encuentro day and share with you the looks on our faces the first time we saw Mila in person. I’ll share with you what it felt like to live for three weeks in a hotel in Bogotá with four children. I’ll also be sharing an insanely awesome story of how God brought us safely back home.

Photos: These pictures were taken on June 4, 2021 at a park beside our hotel in Bogotá, Colombia.

I’m gonna see a victory
For the battle belongs to You, Lord

All throughout 2020 and now in 2021, God keeps putting battles and spiritual warfare on my mind. It began with the Elevation Worship Song “See a Victory” that I started listening to in early 2020.

I’ve talked about this song so much with family and friends that they are probably sick of hearing about it. I have listened to it countless times. The truth in the lyrics, “You take what the enemy meant for evil and turn it for good,” makes me think. I think about the Garden of Eden and the sneaky serpent enemy and how sin’s entrance into the world was meant for evil. I think about how God sent His Son to die and redeem humanity, how He had turned it for good.

Then I think about my own life. All the pain of infertility, the grief of miscarriage, the sadness of losing my grandparents, how it was meant for evil. But as I look back, all I see is God’s goodness. I see how God held us through it all, had plans for us, and turned it for good. He is such a good, good father (but that song is for another day.)

Several months ago, Brandon and I were heading to an adoption conference and discussing a middle name for Mila. “I’d like to name her after Memaw,” I said.

My Memaw, Eunice Dessie, was the most beautiful woman. Sure, she was pretty, but her beauty came from who she was inside. We tried it.

Milagros Eunice.

Milagros Dessie.

I was disappointed that neither name seemed to fit.

But I was determined. So, we had the thought to look up the meaning of Eunice. As I sat in a hotel room with my laptop, I shook my head in disbelief as a Google search told us that the name Eunice means Good Victory. So fitting. So meaningful. We decided the name Milagros Victoria seemed perfect.

It was two weeks later, on February 15, 2021 that we got news of our official match with Mila. That match meant she was going to be ours. And Mila’s middle name of Victoria was confirmed even more when we realized we were matched exactly two years since Memaw, Eunice Dessie, had gone into the hospital and passed away.

And as I kept thinking, I remembered at Papaw’s death the last verse that had been burning. “O death where is thy sting. O grave where is thy victory?” Victory. Victoria in Spanish. Mila was conceived the day Papaw died. Mila was matched with us when Memaw died. What the enemy meant for evil, God has turned it for good. The song we had been singing all year was true. I had prayed through that song countless times, and God worked it out so that we really did see a Victoria!

Milagros Victoria.

Friends, as dark and sad as this world may seem, death has no victory. Sin has no victory. Those deepest secrets and experiences that bring us pain have no victory. The enemy wants to convince us that he has won and keep us in a mindset of defeat. But once we realize that Jesus won the battle over death and sin on the cross, we can live in confidence that He will win the victory for us over any darkness. We can live in freedom knowing He fights for us and we have nothing to fear.

After receiving the phone call and reviewing Mila’s file, we decided that same day that we would write a letter of intent and pursue her adoption. God had led us here, and there was no way we would say no.

A few weeks later as we were waiting on approval of paperwork, I decided to look up Mila’s birthday on my calendar. Mothers know the intricate details of our children’s first days of life, and while I knew it would be different with Mila, I wondered what I had been doing when she had been born.

To my disappointment, nothing was written on my calendar. Nothing at all on the day she was born and not much during the week before or the week after. I couldn’t even say, “Oh, she was born when we were…”. Nope. There was nothing.

Time passed as we waited on paperwork. Committees. More paperwork. There is a lot of waiting in adoption. One day as I was sweeping the kitchen and praying for patience, I thought back to Mila’s birthday. And I began to wonder again. Only this time, I wondered what was going on in our lives during the time Mila came into being and was conceived.

Now, anyone who has used online due date calculators knows that you put in a conception date, missed cycle date, or in vitro date to get a due date. I didn’t know any of that information. I only knew her birthday. So, I guessed the conception date.

September put us past her birthday. August got us into her birth month. I kept guessing until the date August 6, 2018 showed her birthday. August 6th was her estimated conception date. I welled up. I knew that August of that year was when my grandfather had passed away, but it took me a few moments to realize that Mila was conceived on the actual day that my Papaw had died.

That day had changed me. Papaw’s death had already been filled with unexplainable Miracles. And two years later, we followed God into an adoption and found out our baby girl had been conceived on that exact day and given the name Milagros (Miracles) at birth. I melted into tears at God’s goodness.

And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.
Romans 8:28

Friends, God has a purpose for each of us. We can trust His faithfulness and yield to His plans without fear. For certainly He works all things for good as we seek to know and love Him. That’s a promise we can count on.

In my next post, I’ll share with you how God confirmed Mila’s middle name.

I watched him open his book and point to some writing. I saw his expression as he looked at it, and I listened as he talked about his day.

We had the boys enrolled in a hybrid school. They went to school two days a week and were homeschooled the other days. We had been excited about this school model since the twins had been toddlers. We were delighted when we had other close friends apply with us, and we were elated as all our kids got accepted their kindergarten year. We met new friends that first year and loved every family we met. We loved the teachers. The whole school community was amazing.

So it hurt when I saw this door closing. It’s always hard when God shuts doors to good things. It came fast. We didn’t even make it through the first quarter of the second year before we realized our polar opposite twins needed the flexibility of complete homeschool. Everett was doing work beneath his ability while Emmett was being dragged through the material too quickly.

Everett’s knowledge base is like his dad’s. Many times as they talk about Greek mythology vs. Roman mythology or about how our founding fathers differed in their belief systems and philosophy of life. I just stand there gaping, “How do you even know that?” While Emmett is always working. Always building something. Teaching something to others. You can have a conversation with him and feel like you’re talking with another adult. Both boys are intelligent but have very different talents and abilities.

As a former teacher, I know the classroom side of the struggle. Classroom teachers have to keep median pace. Many times it all levels out in the end, but I could see that this school model and pace just wasn’t working for us.

And on an October day last fall as we sat on the mudroom steps, Emmett pointed to a note from his teacher. He was mortified that he couldn’t keep up in class and that she had jotted a note about reworking some sentences.

I deliberated. I want my kids to be challenged and develop character. I don’t want to swoop in every time discomfort comes and rob them of life lessons. I had been trying to allow him to grow and mature in this struggle. I toyed with the thought of continuing tough love and pushing him through this grade.

But something stopped me. He had drawn sad faces beside her note. This wasn’t the first time he had drawn sad faces on his work. He told me that he hadn’t eaten snack that day. This wasn’t the first time he had skipped snack. He was internalizing his struggle and feeling defeated. And that’s when I knew we had to make a change.

I felt peace that God was closing this door, so I didn’t fight it. There was relief for I knew it had to happen but also sadness over us deviating from the path we had started.

And oh how I prayed. This had been our plan. It had worked out perfectly, and we had so many friends. And oh how very much I dislike change. It’s hard to understand sometimes when God shuts doors to good things.

But God. BUT GOD! I love that phrase. He was working in the midst of it all, and He had a plan. He knew.

Since our change in school situation, I have realized Emmett’s struggle was much deeper and needed more than just me telling him he’s an amazing kid and pushing him through school. He needed a foundation of truth.

And so, Emmett and I talked about how his worth doesn’t come from what he thinks about himself or what others think about him. We talked about how his worth isn’t determined by how smart he is or his ability to keep pace with others. We discussed how he doesn’t have to earn worth. God thought the world needed an Emmett, and he has inherent worth that comes from his Creator. God delights in him and has a purpose for his life.

As we slowed down, we were able to have these conversations. And I saw Emmett begin opening back up. He said, “Mom, you know when I told you I didn’t eat snack because I didn’t have time? Well, I did have time. I just wasn’t eating because I was so upset.”

As we both have sat unrushed at the kitchen table with school books between us, we have done heart work. Sure, we are working on math and English, but we are also working on attitudes and character. It isn’t always peaceful. We don’t always get it right. But there is peace that God has led us here.

Miracles… I know this story in the series seems to come out of nowhere. Except, exactly one and a half weeks after pulling the twins from school, we got the phone call about Mila. We thought we were at least 9 months away from the possibility of receiving a file. We hadn’t even completed all the international paperwork. But God. He knew.

The flexibility of complete homeschool during this adoption season has been absolutely necessary. The school we had pulled the boys from has a running joke about Wednesdays. It’s the day that so much work gets piled on because it’s due the next day. The school even made green t-shirts one year that said “I survived Wednesdays.”

And you know what day we first learned about Mila? Wednesday. You know the day we had our weekly video call with Mila? Every Wednesday. Guess what day our pre-encuentro meeting was planned for? Wednesday. But God. He knew.

Looking back… we only spent a little over a year at that school, but that short time was a part of God’s plan too. Our community of friends from that school have rallied around us. Some are incredible resources for Mila’s diagnosis and have given materials and support. Another is the Colombian friend who I shared about in a previous post. And our close friends who we knew before school ever started have leaned in close in support. Their little girls have secured or packed up some of their own toys to give as gifts to Mila. All on their own. Mila’s room is decorated in their toys and these little girls already look forward to being friends with Mila. But God. He knew.

My next post in this series is my favorite! I share how God miraculously confirmed that Mila is the child He had called us to adopt.

Photo: Sweet gifts given to Mila from our friends’ daughters

God had it all planned. He led us to an adoption agency. He walked us through the home study. He pointed us to which country. He guided us through the medical special needs paperwork. And in early November of 2020, we got a phone call. “We have received a file from a private orphanage in Bogotá who is advocating for a child matching your profile. Are you interested?” Yes. Yes, of course.

This was so much sooner than we had planned to receive a file. Our international paperwork was far from being complete, and we thought we had at least 9 more months before the possibility of receiving a file. As I sat at my kitchen table surrounded by 1st grade school books with the phone pressed to my ear, I hung on every word she spoke. Many of us have been in ultrasound rooms or at gender reveal parties as we wait to hear “boy!” or “girl!” The contagious excitement spills over into jittery nerves. But this. This phone call not only would reveal gender but also age, race, and medical diagnosis.

She began, “This file is for a one year old…” It was like time stood still as my brain ran circles around her words. I was fixated as she continued, “Her name is Miracles.”

Miracles. I waited expectantly for more. “She has down syndrome.” Our Lifeline case worker went on to say that she had seen on our medical needs form that we were willing to consider down syndrome but she didn’t really know how open we were to that medical special need. I was just smiling on the other end as I listened. How could I tell her that this was the one diagnosis my husband had dwelled on and we had discussed in detail? How could I tell her that as we prayed over our adoption, Brandon had specifically prayed about the potential of a child with down syndrome?

I was probably shaking by the end of the call. It was a big deal. It was a big decision.

I had asked our case worker to send the child’s file and picture separately. We planned not to look at her picture until we had made a decision. We imagined the decision would be easier without making it personal right away with a picture. We focused on her file and weighed the information we had been given. Could we meet her medical needs? Did we believe she would be a good fit for our family? Did we feel this was the child God was calling us to adopt? A decision such as saying yes or no to a potential child is hypothetically heavy. Yet, there was such calm and peace. It felt kind of like when time stood still with my flaming toaster.

That evening as we discussed her file and medical history, we just knew. Even though we were waiting to hear back from our pediatrician, and even though we had some questions still to be answered, we just knew. I looked at Brandon. We both had this uncanny sense of peace and knew our answer was yes.

Isaiah 26:3 – Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.

The emotions of opening an email and seeing a first picture are hard to describe. I leaned in as Brandon held the computer in his lap and clicked on the file. I held my breath as I took in what I was seeing. The picture showed a little girl sitting in a plastic red chair. She had pinned up dark hair, big, beautiful dark eyes, tan skin, and a pretty white dress with a pink sash and bow. She was more precious than we could have ever imagined.

MIRACLES: Miracles in Spanish is Milagros, and that name was given to our little girl at birth. We have kept her original name and call her Mila (pronounced Mee-lah) for short.

In my next post I’ll share how after we received Mila’s file, we realized God had already orchestrated a change that prepared us to pursue her adoption.

For anyone who has read my testimonial writings, you know how much of an impact the death of my grandparents had on me.

As far back as I can remember, I watched my grandparents yield their lives to God by serving on mission fields and in churches all across the United States. I grew up hearing about camp meetings, revivals, and spirit-filled hours of prayer.

And I was invited to join even as a little girl of four or five. I sat with Memaw eating a snack and drinking grape soda on a Sunday afternoon as we traveled from one church to the next. I told Papaw I was tired and that it was “too much church.” My grandparents used to laugh and tell me that story often as I got older. And I continued to join them. I was there on the Indian reservation in New Mexico as a 9-year-old girl helping sing at camp meetings, eating mutton stew, and listening to my grandfather preach.

In August of 2018 when I got the news that my grandfather would probably only live a few more days, I almost didn’t make the trip from North Carolina to Alabama. But somehow, my sister and I both were able to make arrangements at home and drive down. I had no idea how much this trip would impact me.

And now as I try to explain what God did in my life during the death of my grandfather, I feel like Moses must have felt if he had ever tried explaining the burning bush experience. It just sounds crazy.

There was an uncanny burning in my heart to quote scriptures beside my grandfather’s bed. And while this feeling was burning up inside me, Papaw called my name, “Amy,” repeatedly. It was like Papaw was giving me an invitation to obey what God was putting on my heart. I didn’t understand what was happening. I just quoted the scriptures that were burning for it felt I’d surely combust if I didn’t. The very last scripture was:

1 Corinthians 15:55 O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?

I said those words standing next to my dying grandfather. Powerful, truthful words that strip death of any claim to victory. And then the burning stopped. And Papaw called my name no longer.

That was about 2 and a half years ago, and that last scripture has followed us into our adoption story. I will circle back and explain how in a later post.

But the reason I’m telling you all this is to share how God pays attention to our pain. Times of sorrow and grief do not go unnoticed by Him. In fact, it’s often in those times of grief when God is so close that His presence changes us. I saw Miracles during my grandfather’s death. There were so many unexplainable things that happened. The burning and my name being called. Papaw talking to people and about things that only exist in Heaven. The preacher praying about Elijah’s mantle. Papaw’s Bible having been personalized just for me. All these were Miracles orchestrated by God.

And as I try to explain all this, I think back again to Old Testament miracles. A sea parting so God’s people could escape. A hand appearing to write on a wall. A voice calling “Samuel” in the night. A donkey talking. They all sound crazy. But the most important part really isn’t the miracle at all. It’s the response. What will you do with this thing you cannot explain? There is always a call to belief or action with Miracles.

You see, it was my response to those Miracles that changed me. And it was those changes that allowed me to hear and respond to God’s call to adoption when He spoke a year later saying, “I have prepared you for this. Walk with me.”

That Old Testament miracle working God is the same God we have today. He wants to do miraculous things in your life. Watch for Him. Pray for awareness of His presence. And when things start getting ridiculous, hang on.

My next post will tell you how God connected these Miracles with our adoption story.

Profoundly deaf. Sickle cell anemia. Pulmonary stenosis. We read condition after condition and had to make determinations of whether we’d accept, consider, or not accept a child with those needs. This was by far the hardest form to fill out. Our adoption agency told us not to feel bad for saying no to certain conditions. But still, it felt awful every time we put a check in the box on the far right. 

I thought about all my responsibilities. Three boys. A farm. Homeschool. Laundry. Now I understand that some of you may not think laundry is noteworthy enough to fit on my list of biggest responsibilities. But anyone who has raised boys out on a farm knows how dirty they get. Every. Single. Day. And I knew God wanted me to continue to be able to raise our boys and keep them clean. And even more so, I knew that we had to say no to some conditions because our other responsibilities would limit us from being able to provide the best environment for a child with major medical needs.

Out of all the forms we completed during adoption, this form probably took the most research and time. The list continued page after page. Speech disorders. Hydrocephalus. Aneurysms. Autism. Down Syndrome. Brandon stopped on this one. “I think we ought to adopt a child with down syndrome,” he stated matter-of-factly. As I pondered the thought, I said, “You do realize this would be a lifelong commitment, right? I mean, usually more lifelong than typical kids.” He didn’t waver as he said he felt drawn to down syndrome and that it could be a good fit for our family. I said that I didn’t feel drawn to it per se, but I knew this journey was God’s call. If he had a child with down syndrome planned for us, then that’s what I wanted. So, we checked the willing to consider box and left it up to Him.  

My next post will share some background for understanding God’s plan for bringing our child home. 

China. Bulgaria. Colombia. We had narrowed down the countries based on feasibility. Some we didn’t consider because of the length of time we’d have to stay in country to finalize the adoption. Some we left out because they only had specific age children to adopt. The requirements of each country were different, and we had figured and eliminated until we were down to only three. We knew it wasn’t about choosing which country we wanted to travel to or what ethnicity of child we wanted to parent. We knew this calling was given by God, and He had a plan. Finding that plan would have been easier if he had bellowed from the clouds in a booming voice and told us. Or even just sent a piece of paper floating down from Heaven with the country written on it.

While we all know God doesn’t normally spell out His plan for us in the ways I just mentioned, He did end up making it clear as to which country we should choose. And it came in the form of a woman jumping up and down and clapping. It was a new friend of mine, and one morning as we were watching our youngest children toddle and play in an auditorium, we began chatting. I shared with her about our adoption and how we were deciding which country. I mentioned we had narrowed it down to Bulgaria, China, or Colombia. Her face got excited, and she literally jumped and clapped as she told me that we should choose Colombia. You see, I found out that day that my new friend is Colombian. I knew she had an accent and pretty, long black hair, but until that day, I didn’t know where she was from. God didn’t send that note from Heaven, but my new Colombian friend wasn’t happenstance. In fact, she has helped us all during our adoption. When the orphanage asked us to record a song, my friend knew just the right one to learn. When I needed to know anything specific about Bogotá, she asked a family member who still lives there. God’s plans are wonderful, and we can trust He will lead us in His ways.

Miracles: Looking back, I realize God had our Latin American adoption planned all along. I fell in love with the Spanish language in college and minored in it. I continued, for no apparent reason, to practice my Spanish. I frequented Spanish chatrooms designated for language learners. I worked as a Spanish tutor with several different companies. I practiced with friends online. I still send Spanish voice and text messages back and forth to one friend in particular who has patiently helped me learn Spanish for over 10 years now. For no apparent reason. But my love for Spanish and the draw that I’ve had for Latin American culture is not happenstance. That’s because God knew I’d need it. He knew our family would one day be a multicultural family. He put a love for that culture and language in my heart long before I ever knew why. And then He guided our family in his plans. He did that. He is so good.

My next post will tell you about the hardest paperwork we filled out during our adoption process.

Collage: Drawn to Latin America through the years.

Pictures from 2009 trip to Perú.

Bottom right: My Colombian friend 🇨🇴 Eliana Guiselle Wilmoth (middle) and non-Colombian friend 🇺🇲 Meredith Duncan Weber after dinner at a Colombian restaurant in Greensboro.