I still remember the sun that filled our hospital room that day. It was brighter—maybe brighter than it had ever been, but certainly brighter than it had been lately.
It was October 11, 2013.
The sun rose quickly that day, but it had taken half a decade for it to warm—stoked with each miscarriage, unsuccessful infertility treatment, and failed adoption. Stoked again with the deconstructions of our faith and marriage. And then stoked again with the eventual reconstructions of both.
And there we lied again in the waiting. It was a posture we’d come to know well—awakening with joy to the prospect of parenthood, only to lie down at night with joy still suspended.
But October 11, 2013 was different.
On that morning, as we huddled and cuddled with this sleeping boy who was somewhere between a stranger and a son, the sun greeted us with purpose—swinging just outside our windows, weaving itself through our curtains, and awakening us with unusual warmth. It was personal…available…very real. And it was faithful, displaying the full color spectrum of hope as we awaited a pen stroke that would forever change our lives.
That morning was the full awakening of our numbness. It was the end of something old, and the birth of something new.
It was October 11, 2013. It was the healing day.