This is Our Year

The Indiana Hoosiers and adopting baby girl

A few months ago, I got this text: “How do you not lost hope when you pray for something?”

I filled in the blanks based on the rest of our conversation: how do you not lose hope when you keep praying for something that keeps not happening?

How do you not lose hope in God’s goodness when the answer stays no?

How do you hold on to hope when your heart is sick with its indefinite postponement?

I couldn’t answer her over text then, not in a way that honors the ache you feel in your bones when hope keeps slipping out of your grasp, yet you know it’s the one thing you have to hold on to. But I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

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In the glare of the sun, I can only see myself reflected in the gym window. Snow flurries in the air outside and I see my face, mouth set in a hard line as I extend my arms over my head. In this moment, I don’t see a broken body, a useless womb, or a devastated woman. I see strong arms and determined eyes.

I still remember the years of wanting to give up and choosing not to again and again. I also remember month after month in NY, hiding myself in the corner of the yoga studio at our first gym, meditating on Truth as I moved my body even though all I wanted to do was punish it. I wanted to cry and throw a tantrum over this thing I wanted so desperately that it seemed I would not ever have. And here I sit, on a yoga mat in our current gym, fighting tears of desperation and disappointment. I don’t know how it’s been five years since then and it still seems I will not have this thing I want. I don’t know how I’m still here in this waiting.

How do I hold on to hope? How do I let hope on to me?

How do I not twist myself out of its gentle grasp, too angry to sink into the kind arms that also carry my grief?

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I keep trying, and failing, to write about baby girl’s adoption.

Adoption is an eight-letter word that holds just as many complicated emotions for me. I imagine it carries a same but different weight for the first family that knew and loved baby girl. It is redemptive and it is loss. It is forever something new and the responsibility to nurture what was first.

We never set out to be adoptive parents, and we had very little (if any) control in the outcome of baby girl’s situation. All we knew, as the days ticked by and she stayed in our care, was that our hearts eased into deep, inexplicable love for her. As is natural, our love stirred a longing for forever, but our hearts and minds stayed committed to open hands—we wanted what was best for her above all else.

It doesn’t feel accurate to say that our adopting her means we alone are what’s best for her. The truth is that it wasn’t supposed to be this way. And yet, given the reality of this broken world and the hurt it causes, we know we are part of the redemptive plan God’s unfolding in this sweet girl’s life.

But healing and wholeness for all involved: that’s what’s best.

I hold all of this hope for her whole family in one hand and the joy of choosing her middle name in the other.

I pray daily for her first mama and I am grateful daily that she also calls me mama.

I delight in all that brings a toddler joy and I write letters to her older self so that one day, when the magnitude of all that has occurred in her first two years of life starts to overwhelm her, she has a few words to help her process the weight of it. For safe keeping, I carefully fold into my heart the losses and hurts she doesn’t understand until she’s ready for a companion to explore their depths. I don’t know how else to do it. It feels impossible without the daily manna of Heaven.

How else do I honor what she has lost and still feel the fullness of joy I have to be her mama?

How do I hold onto the hope of what could be in her tomorrows and still love her just as she is today?

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For the last six weeks, our family group chat has been half the usual conversation and half Indiana Hoosiers commentary. My entire family, an Aunt and cousin included, watched the Big 10 National Championship crowded in the living room of our tiny apartment. We cheered (as loud as we dared while baby girl was sleeping) for every yard gained and every touchdown scored. The depth of joy we felt as we celebrated their historic win felt silly if it was just for a football game.¹

But both of my grandparents were raised in Indiana and my Grandpa attended Indiana University. My Grandma was driven across state lines to give birth three times so all of her kids could technically be Hoosiers too, despite their residence in Ohio at the time.

So it made sense when dad sent this in our family group chat last week:

“This morning as I spent time with God I had a moment of great thankfulness for my family. Not just for each of you (which I am) but also for those that have been so important to me personally.  I spent time thinking about your grandfather and how much I miss that man.

Ultimately I began thinking about the game on Friday. And once again I had moments of real emotion.  I know that sounds weird but it’s not because of IU but the MAN who cared so deeply about everything in his life.  

He was not just a best friend for me but one of the most influential men in my life and his unwavering passion and optimism shaped so much of who I am today.

What we all know, and pretty much everyone who was friends with him, was that he loved Indiana. And every season—no matter the sport (you all know this)—he would smile and say “this is our year”.

He never missed a chance to call and talk about the program—every new recruit, every upcoming game, every bit of news—always excited, always hopeful, always believing.

Those conversations were about so much more than sports; they were moments of connection I’ll forever treasure.   

On Friday I’ll be watching with him in my heart.  Because of him, Indiana isn’t just a team—it’s a tradition, a bond, and a source of joy that we now proudly carry forward as we cheer on the Hoosiers and honor his memory.”

Last week, I replaced one of the photos in our entryway gallery wall with the print I gifted each of my family members for Christmas after my Grandpa joined the hosts in Heaven:

IU: This is our year.²

I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately—the unwavering belief my Grandpa had every single season that this one would finally be ours and his commitment to still root for his team even if it wasn't. It was merely a window into the resolute hope he had everyday that His God would prove faithful and into his commitment to spreading the good news of God’s Kingdom until it reaches the ends of the earth. Until the day He passed into glory, he was talking about Jesus.

I’ve also been thinking about my own melancholy entrance into each new year since we started praying for a baby and God’s answer has continued to be no. I wondered if I would feel different on the threshold of 2026, knowing this is the year we will adopt baby girl.

I do feel different, but not for the reasons I thought.

I thought “our year” would be the one where we finally got what we wanted. Instead, the master gardener has been tilling, sifting, and turning over the soil my heart, cultivating fertile ground for belief in His faithfulness despite the state of my circumstances. Thanks to dozens of colorful paper chains, I’m reminded daily of how much God has done in all the years we’ve already seen.

It’s always seemed like it should be my job to white-knuckle grip the hope I desperately need on the darkest days.

But I know that it’s hope who’s been holding me all this time. It’s because of hope that I’m still here five years after the days of crying on a yoga mat in the gym. Turns out “our year” is the year of realizing we’re still in the same place we’ve always been and we’re eternally grateful for it.

I’m still tethered to hope in Jesus and His promise to make good and to restore and redeem all things.

I’m still grounded in His love and kindness as a beloved daughter of the King.

I’m still here: sure as I’ve ever been that the gospel is the kind of good news to orient your life around. I’m still eager as I’ve ever been to see how He will move in our hearts and minds.

A historic win or not, a “yes” to our years-long prayer or not,

This is our year.

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