Fifteen years ago, after raising three children nearly to maturity, my husband and I started an adoption journey. Before we began, I pictured life with an enormous family as if it were a day on the beach. Yes, things could be messy, but overall, it will be fun. I imagined an enormous, glad family splashing within the waves, constructing sandcastles, and watching the sunset together—my children laughing and my heart stuffed with joy. I imagined our adopted children would cherish this recent life, now secure in the heat and closeness of family. But those early days were removed from smooth, sunlit waves. Instead, the weeks, months, and years were rough, turbulent waters, pulling us into the depths. Depths I hadn’t prepared for.
Adopting seven children brought my husband and me into waters none of us could have expected. Each child got here to us with their very own story. There were pasts crammed with trauma and hearts weighed down by trust issues. I used to be able to shower our youngsters with love, but to my surprise, my love wasn’t the balm I imagined it will be. Love alone couldn’t heal the deep wounds left by trauma, broken guarantees, and members of the family they’d left behind. My children hadn’t chosen this recent life. It was thrust upon them. As hard as their life had been, there had been brilliant spots, too. More than that, of their eyes, my love wasn’t guaranteed. Instead, my care was something to be viewed with suspicion and caution.
For years, various adults told them they’d found a “eternally family,” and people guarantees had been broken. Why should they imagine me now? Why trust that things could be any different? The pushback I felt as I attempted to like my children unconditionally left me feeling lost, frustrated, and ultimately heartbroken. I wasn’t expecting the painful truth: irrespective of how much love I poured out, the healing journey could be long and unpredictable. These were truly uncharted waters, with depths I hadn’t imagined.
With each struggle and every moment of rejection, I discovered myself sinking. I had never struggled with depression, however the constant pushback, the outbursts, and the deeply rooted distrust in my children pulled me into darkness. Depression felt like drowning—attempting to keep my head above water, gasping for air, only to feel one other wave crashing down. I felt defeated, and greater than that, I felt betrayed by God.
Why would God call us on this journey if it were so difficult? Why would He put such a painful burden on our family, knowing what we’d face? I loved Him but couldn’t understand why He allowed us to undergo this.
One night, I sat in a quiet house. John had been figuring out of town, and the youngsters were finally asleep. I used to be exhausted—physically, emotionally, spiritually. I’d all the time found peace in those moments of quiet, but now, it felt oppressive, like the load of all my pain and doubts was crushing me. I knew I should pray, but what was there to say? I used to be afraid if I opened my mouth, it will turn into complaining.
Finally, the words spilled out as I cried out to God. “If You knew this was going to be so hard, why didn’t You spare us? Why did You lead us here?” I wanted answers and clarity. Maybe I wanted comfort, too. Mostly, I wanted relief from the pain of feeling like I had failed. I wish I could say that I prayed with elegant words. Instead, I simply whispered, “Help.”
In that season, I turned to books to search out perspective. I read “When God Doesn’t Make Sense” by James C. Dobson and “It’s Not Supposed to Be This Way” by Lysa TerKeurst. Their words jogged my memory of something essential: God’s ways aren’t ours, and His thoughts aren’t ours either. Trusting God doesn’t mean we’ll all the time understand His plans. In fact, faith often requires us to walk through valleys that feel dark and countless. Or to swim within the deepest depths of heartache. Over time, my prayer modified, “Lord, I trust you. I place confidence in You even once I can’t see through this pain.” It was easy yet honest. And with those words, my heart began to alter. I attempted to stop grasping for answers and control. Instead, I looked around for the small signs that God was at work in our lives.
Slowly, I started to see small glimpses of hope, signs that even within the chaos, God was there. He hadn’t abandoned us. We had our health and John’s stable job. My writing profession continued as I walked through open doors. These were the lifelines that kept us afloat. And once I focused on the blessings, nevertheless small, they became like buoys, keeping me from sinking too deeply.
But I knew that noticing blessings alone wasn’t enough. I had to maintain moving forward. As a homeschooling mom, I fell back on one thing I knew I could do: reading to my kids. I started spending hours every day with them, sharing missionary stories, science adventures, and historical novels. Slowly, I noticed a change. The stories eased the stress, a minimum of for a time. Reading aloud also created a way of routine and security. I saw how my children’s eyes lit up during certain parts of the stories, how they’d ask questions, make connections, and begin to open up, even when just just a little.
The rhythm of reading aloud became like a lifeline. It was something my children could count on, a moment every day after we could put aside the conflict and just be. My children found a spot of rest within the rhythm of my words as I read hour by hour. I also found a renewed sense of purpose. I noticed that stories had a singular power to succeed in hearts in ways in which words alone couldn’t. We could travel to far-off places, meet heroes and adventurers, and, for just a little while, forget the pain that weighed on us all.
Through those stories, God showed me that healing comes in several forms. I used to be reminded of the ability of story to attach, comfort, and teach. I started to see storytelling as entertainment and a strategy to bridge the gap between us. Stories taught my children courage, kindness, and trust, even in the event that they weren’t ready to just accept it from me directly. They also taught me patience, letting go of expectations, and finding God’s grace within the small, seemingly insignificant moments. The messages I read spoke to my heart, too.
Around this time, I began working with my friend Sherri Seligson on “Wonders of the Ocean Realms.” Writing this book in regards to the mysteries and fantastic thing about the ocean felt natural. It was almost like an extension of my journey with my family. Sherri and I desired to create a book that will bring science and story together, a way for teenagers to see the wonder of God’s creation. She’s a marine biologist, and I’m the writer of multiple books. So that worked well! Little did I do know that “Wonders of the Ocean Realms” would also reflect my journey of navigating uncharted waters and finding beauty within the unexpected. You see, we cover ocean creatures from every ocean’s depth… even the deepest parts.
As we wrote, I couldn’t help but marvel at how the ocean became a metaphor for my life. The ocean is vast, unpredictable, sometimes calm, sometimes treacherous. It hides wonders we will only imagine, and the more we explore, the more we discover. In the identical way, God was leading me through my pain and doubt, teaching me to trust Him even once I couldn’t see the shore. I learned that faith isn’t all the time about clarity. Sometimes, it’s about moving forward even when the way in which is unclear.
As the years have passed and 4 of my adopted children have turn out to be adults, I also see how God has been writing a story through my life. It’s a story that features hardship and healing, struggle and give up. And in that story, He has brought good from the pain in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. My adult children are on their very own journeys, and two of them are even currently serving as helpers to missionaries—identical to within the books we read.
I’m looking forward to hearing from families who tell me in regards to the conversations this book has sparked or the curiosity it’s kindled of their children. These are more reminders of God’s faithfulness.
If you end up in uncharted waters, in a season where you may’t see the shore, remember there are treasures even within the depths. God may not remove the storm. (Don’t we wish!) Instead, God guarantees to be with us through the storms and beyond. Just as I discovered unexpected joy in reading to my kids and sharing stories that helped us connect, you might also find blessings in essentially the most unlikely places.
Trusting God within the unknown isn’t easy. It requires us to release our expectations, let go of our need for control, and lean into His love, even when it feels distant. Through the uncharted waters of adoption, I’ve learned to find God’s strength in places of vulnerability and give up. The journey of adoption and parenting children with deep wounds has been the toughest thing I’ve ever done, but it surely’s also been where I’ve experienced God’s love most profoundly.
As I look back, I’m grateful for those hard years. They taught me to like unconditionally, be patient, and trust God with every tear and each prayer. And now, through “Wonders of the Ocean Realms,” I can share the journey of reading aloud with others, inviting families to explore the great thing about God’s creation together. Perhaps a few of them will take the book along on a beach day. And perhaps, as they sit by the water, they’ll feel a way of wonder—a reminder of God’s greatness and His take care of each of us.
The uncharted waters in life might be frightening. They’re also crammed with opportunities to find God’s presence in recent ways. We may not all the time see the shore, but we will trust that God guides us.
Wherever you might be in your journey, you are not alone. God is with you. He’s there, even within the depths. Hold on to God’s guarantees. Let Him carry you thru the uncharted waters. Only God can take our deepest pain and switch it into something beautiful—messy but beautiful, too.
©Unsplash/JOHN TOWNER
