Some women have none.
Some have lots.
Some have more than they wanted.
Some would like to trade theirs off for better models.
Some have them at a bad time.
Some have them just right.
Every woman’s story is uniquely their own.
I want to share mine with you.
My husband, Steve, and I got married in 1990. I always wanted a perfect life with a perfect husband in a perfect house with six perfect children. Steve would say, “Well, at least you got one of those.”
Shortly after we got married, we decided to start our family . . . but we waited and wondered and watched and prayed for children who never came. And we struggled. And we waited. And we cried. And we continued to pray. And it was painful.
Mother’s Days came and went, excruciatingly. In some of my wards in Utah, the mothers were asked to stand up on that day during sacrament so the young women could pass out flowers to them. The sting of that usually sent me over the edge. “Wait! They got the children AND the flowers?!” I would leave the meeting in tears. Sometimes, ironically, I sat in the mother’s room for privacy and wept.
We sought medical advice and found out it was highly unlikely that we would ever have children, but we still hoped.
About the sixth year of our marriage, a woman in my ward came up and comfortingly said, “Oh! It took us ten years before we finally had a baby.” I thought, “TEN YEARS! Geez. I could never wait ten years.” Little did I know I’d be waiting much longer than that.
And we continued to wait, wonder, watch, and pray for children who never came.
When we moved to Rochester from Utah, we decided to go to the clinic for help. And we were given great hope! I thought, “Finally! We can really do this.”
That summer, my family and I had a reunion at Lake Powell. We had a slumber party under the big umbrella of the stars, and I thought a lot about my life. My niece—11 years younger than I—and I would be going through the same infertility treatments when we got back to our homes. I was excited to share this experience with her, but that night on the boat, I discovered my plans were not the Lord’s plans and the Lord’s ways were not my ways. The Spirit told me that I was not to continue with the treatment. I was thrust into despair. Surely, this was the wrong impression, but I knew it wasn’t. And then the negativity and self-doubt swallowed me: Why not?! Wasn’t I good enough to have children? Wasn’t it a righteous desire to have a family? Wasn’t I obedient? Wasn’t I worthy? Why did the addict down the street get pregnant? Why did my unwed students get pregnant? Did God entrust them with a baby and not me?
We eventually began to look into adoption, which seemed like the right idea, but wasn’t. That didn’t feel right either. I simply did not understand. Why was I to remain childless?
So I went on with life. Through all of these experiences, I never stopped praying and I never stopped reading the scriptures. I felt that I had a problem, an issue, a burden, a trial, and I knew that the greatest source of help was from my Father in Heaven and His Son, Jesus Christ. And while some things in our lives can be resolved and fixed, others we simply have to bear. I love how Isaiah talks about the atonement, that Christ carries us through our pain: “Surely he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.” And I FELT that in my life—where he walks with us and bears our sadness and pain with us and for us. I felt like the people of Alma whose burdens were not taken from them, but the burdens were lifted in a way that they could not feel them. When I held the newborns of my friends, I felt wonder and pure love, not anguish or despair. The tears that came as I cradled these sweet babies were simply tears of joy.
Deep down, buried and almost unrecognized, I still had the tiniest flicker of hope that someday I might be able to have one of my own.
Sometimes your prayers don’t come in the packages you expect.
I met my son when he was in the 11th grade at John Marshall High School. He was a student in my world history class and I marveled that he was so kind-hearted and sweet. I even signed his yearbook, “Sam, you are one of the most polite students I have ever had. Enjoy your summer. See you next year.”
And I did see him the next year.
He stopped in my classroom on the first day of school and said, “Hello, Mrs. Eldredge! How was your summer?”
That year I had my groupies—students who came in to spend lunch with me. We would talk and play games and Sam was one of them. He told me a little about his life and as I got to know him, I was more and more amazed that someone who came from such horrible circumstances could be as kind as Sam. Sam’s father died violently and his mother was deported to Mexico when Sam was 10.
It was 1998: That was the beginning of Sam’s journey to Rochester. In fact, we arrived here with about a month of each other—Sam from New Mexico and then Arizona, me from Utah—although we would not meet for another six years.
That school year, Sam allowed me glimpses into his younger life. He was very hesitant to tell anyone—he always felt like he wasn’t good enough because he had such a horrific childhood. That is one of Satan’s greatest tools—causing us to think that we don’t measure up, that we are less than. I frequently assured him that nobody deserves to be treated like that, nobody deserves neglect and abuse.
The more he told me, the more impressed I was. How could he be so good when he’d been through something so bad? One of those reasons was our Savior. When Sam moved to Rochester, his brother-in-law told him that through Christ, he could be saved. That gave Sam immense comfort and hope and he accepted Christ as his Savior. That conversion changed his life.
In the spring of 2006, he asked me if he could call me mom even though I was his teacher. I was both honored and a little sad as that title stirred up feelings I had been trying hard to bury. “Of course,” I assured him. “It would be my privilege.”
After graduating from John Marshall, Sam immediately headed to Florida for school. We still stayed in contact and one evening during that summer in a phone conversation, an idea sprung into my head. “Sam,” I said, “We could adopt you!” I imagine that his jaw dropped as he responded, “You’d do that for me?” There was one big problem—I hadn’t really discussed this with my husband, Steve.
Steve had met Sam and thought he was a nice kid, but was against the idea. Gently, I told Sam that Steve wasn’t on board, but I assured him that no matter what, he would always be my son. We didn’t need a legal document to prove it. And then, because I felt like it was the right thing to do, I went to work on Steve.
I talked to my bishop, Bishop Ross, who was the perfect person to discuss my dilemma with. He and his wife, April, had four of their own children and then adopted four more. Years before, when they “only” had seven children, April had a strong feeling that they had one more child to adopt. Bishop Ross did not share that feeling. April began her prayers and soon after, the bishop had a very distinct vision where she saw their little girl. They then started the process of adopting their last child. The bishop’s advice to me: just keep praying. I did.
One night in November of 2006, Steve and I invited our dear friends, Antar and Susan Torres, to go to the temple with us. Antar had adopted three of Susan’s children after they got married and then they had one of their own. We talked about adopting Sam on the way to the temple. Steve’s comment about the whole situation was, “It’s just weird.” Antar agreed with him, “Yeah. It IS weird adopting someone else’s children.” After that comment, I could sense a weight being lifted from my husband’s shoulders—he felt understood. Antar continued, “But whether you’re 8 or 18 years old, everyone needs a place to call home. Everyone needs a family.”
That night in the temple, the Spirit spoke to Steve: “There is nothing spiritually wrong with adopting Sam. If there is a problem, it is yours.”
A few days after that experience, Steve asked, “What do we need to do to go forward with this adoption?” And we began to research adoption of an adult child.
At Christmas, Sam came home to stay with us. We had the Torres family (Antar, Susan, Kimberly, Tony, Alex, and Edna) over on Christmas day and unwrapped our presents together. My family has a Christmas tradition that I love: after you open a gift, no matter what it is (including that chartreuse scarf that your sight-impaired auntie knitted together), you always look up and say, “Just what I always wanted.” We had kept that tradition throughout the day.
At the end of the present exchange, I announced, “There’s one more,” and came out with a huge gift-wrapped box for Sam. Inside was a mound of tissue paper and at the bottom was a letter for Sam. It said:
December 25, 2006
Sam,
For 16 long years, Steve and I have waited for a child.
Now, our dreams are coming true.
You are the best Christmas gift we could ever hope for.
So please take our hands and join our family forever.
Be our son.
Adoption Date: Spring 2007
Love (9×9),
Ann and Steve
Mom and Dad
After reading the letter out loud, Sam looked up and said, “Just what I always wanted,” and the three of us hugged.
Steve and I adopted Sam on May 17, 2007
July 30, 2007
Sam,
On your 20th birthday, I wanted to give you a copy of my journal entry from our adoption day.
Happy birthday today and always.
Love (9 x 9),
Mom
Written Thursday, May 17, 2007
“Today, I became a mother. Is it true? Is it real? Did our five minutes in front of Judge Birnbaum in courtroom #2 on the 5th floor of the government center where all three of us—Steve, Sam and I—said, ‘Yes,’ to our adoption, really happen? It seems so UNreal.
God has heard my cries. He has answered them. And I get to have a son.
Today I became a mother.”
I love 1 Samuel 1:27, which is a story of Hannah and Samuel (or Ann and Sam)
27 For this child I prayed; and the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of him:
28 Therefore also I have lent him to the Lord;
Even though he didn’t come in the package that I expected, I am incredibly blessed to call Sam my son and I am so grateful that God heard my prayers. The Lord knows us. He loves us. And while he doesn’t always answer our prayers in the way WE want, he does answer them. For His love, I am grateful.