When God makes a family

This family could only be designed by God. My four children have three different mothers, three different fathers, four half-siblings (who we’ve never met), and countless biological ties we’ve not been able to follow. You see, our story began nineteen years ago, when my husband and I first heard those dreaded words…”you have less than five percent chance of becoming pregnant.” Carrying a child to term held less hope.


But we were determined. For those of you who travelled this road, you know that itch that spreads to obsession. The baby itch. It directs your path toward the baby section in every department store, it fixes your stare on every distended belly, it whispers in your ear to rent the two-bedroom apartment. I had that itch. Bad.


But no matter what we did, which hormones I took, or how many shots we endured, pregnancy stayed out of reach. Two days before a surgical procedure, the doctor ordered a pregnancy test…just in case. Like any woman who has lived through too many negative results received in a doctor’s office, I took an at-home test the day before. Why not, I’d purchased the Costco-sized box full of them. That way there would be no surprises. I’d know the negative results before that sweet woman’s face announced it to the waiting room.


But this time it was positive.


Positive! Nine months later our little miracle met the world with a hearty scream and the biggest blue eyes you’ve ever seen.


But I wanted more. I wanted a big family. One sounded so lonely. So back to the doctors we went. Surely if we had one, we could have more. However, the doctor called it secondary infertility. My chances dropped. So did my hope. Not the baby itch, that came back with a fury.


That’s when our journey to adoption began. We headed for a Christian adoption agency and placed ourselves firmly on the waiting list to get on the waiting list. Yup, you read that correctly. The social worker told us we had a six to seven-year wait before we saw a likely placement because we already had one child—a birth child at that. Birth moms chose childless homes or homes where their children would be among other adoptees, not homes like ours.


The next day, my friend called. A woman sat in her father-in-law’s law firm discussing a real estate deal, but the matter of her impending birth swung the discussion around to private adoption matters. Did he know anyone who would be interested in adopting her child? Yes. I jumped around the living room until my heart nearly flopped out of my chest. Yes, we were interested, I screamed into the receiver (poor girl, I’m not sure she ever fully recovered her hearing).


Four months later, our first son joined our growing family.


Again the itch returned, but the adoption funds did not. This time, my husband and I turned to the agency we initially contacted and offered our home for pre-adoptive foster care. Many years ago, Wisconsin adoptive laws required a birth mom to place her child in what I considered a middle ground or safe place. A home not tied to the birth mom or to the adoptive family. The length of stay depended on the court system, but usually lasted eight to twelve weeks. So we picked up the newborns from the hospital and placed them in the hands of their new adoptive family or back with their birth parents when the process completed. Oh the stories we could tell, but that is for another time.


This story is about the one that stuck. The other foster moms said it happened and they each had children to prove it, but I was unconvinced. We’d signed papers stating we would not adopt any child we fostered, so the agency could place them with waiting families. Surely, we wouldn’t be so lucky as to have one of them “stick.”


But he did. Our youngest son was the smallest of them all. Weighing in at just over five pounds, he came to us with a laundry list of special needs and frightening diagnoses. Despite the many illnesses he contracted over the next few months and his refusal to grow that first year, he shocked us all by plowing through every adoptive family in the agency’s repertoire in less than three months. Not one felt prepared for such a tiny package that carried such a heavy future. (Don’t you just love the hand of God?)


The date of placement loomed ahead and the agency had a choice to make: place him in county care or place him with us—permanently. Easy decision. Our third child thrived after that first year and I shudder to think where he’d be had he thrived any earlier.


Over the years, our three children grew and soothed away that baby itch. Then one day a commercial played as a backdrop to the noisy mayhem that became our household every evening. It was for a medication thought to cause pregnancy. Hah! My husband and I laughed. Medicine didn’t cause pregnancy. We knew better. Much to our surprise, when my doctor placed me on that medication we did indeed become pregnant. (Who knew?) We finished off our family with baby number four. Our unexpected miracle child arrived a mere ten years after the journey through infertility began.

As I look upon our latest family photo, I’m still amazed at the similarities. All four of my children are fair-haired, silly, and pale as any good-northerner is this time of year. They choose when to share their story and when to hold it close, since folks don’t guess we have such an eclectic history. The only glitch lies in the disbelief of teachers and friends who think my children are making up tales when they tell them there’s adoption in our midst.


I love my total lack of control in creating our family. Oh, I didn’t always feel that way. Many days were spent on my knees, tears streaming down my face as I railed like Hannah for God to hear me. Thankfully, He did. Boy, did He ever.

Married for over 20 years, Shellie and her husband have four wonderful kiddos and two goofy greyhounds. After receiving her undergraduate degree in Secondary Education from the University of Wisconsin--Madison, she went on to acquire an early childhood education certificate. Shellie also served in youth, children's, special needs and family ministries for over twenty-two years.


Now she enjoys teaching her teens how to drive and chauffeuring her preteens across the Wisconsin countryside. And once in a while, she loves to read big people books (you know the kind without pictures).


Shellie writes because it keeps her away from her husband's power tools and because every now and then, she doesn't have the choice, it just takes over. Her best inspiration comes from God and the occasional walk along a country road with her greyhounds.Visit Shellie's website/blog.