The summer shadows were long as I drove down a quiet road one morning.

Flipping on the radio, I heard a woman speaking and was immediately drawn in by her words. She described how, long ago, her infant son had been given a devastating diagnosis. A doctor had roughly told her he’d never be able to walk, talk, or “do much at all.” She sobbed for days. 

Eventually, she dried her tears and determined to give her son the best possible life. She’d find him every opportunity, open all doors to help him. To everyone’s surprise but hers, the boy made gains far beyond the initial dire prediction. Now, in adulthood, he’s accomplished great things and is doing astonishingly well. Understandably, his mother’s joy, pride, and gratitude are endless. 

It was a beautiful, moving story of love, faith, perseverance, accomplishment, and celebration. Yet, as I drove along the road that morning, I couldn’t help but wonder why my family doesn’t have a similar celebratory story. Our story is a combination of joy and jaggedness, gratitude and pain, faith and heartbreak.

When we began our parenting journey fifteen years ago, I had incredibly high hopes. On paper, I knew the statistics: the pre-adoption classes had clearly described the struggles some (certainly, not all) older children and teenagers face after very difficult childhoods. 

Severe early childhood trauma, like my kids experienced, attachment disorders, and in-utero alcohol exposure can have devastating, lifelong effects. Not the kind you can necessarily see, but the kind that leave brutal inner scars and emotional or cognitive disabilities.  

But, despite this knowledge, I didn’t really believe it. Surely, if I loved my children with all I was, gave them my entire heart, prayed for them, taught them about God, and created a safe, nourishing environment in which they could heal, they’d be okay.

Like the mother on the radio, I devoted myself to finding all the opportunities. I advocated with all my might to get my kids the needed special and inclusive education classes and supports. At various times over the years, they had speech-language therapy, occupational therapy, art therapy, play therapy, regular therapy, and therapeutic horseback riding. We participated in an intensive year-long parent-child trauma and attachment program at our city’s most expert therapeutic organization. 

We prioritized family togetherness; many happy days were spent baking cookies, going on family cookouts, building an enormous outdoor fort, and playing board games. We enrolled them in our church’s GEMS club, a music camp, taekwondo, and a zoo program where they helped care for the animals. There were hip-hop classes, swimming and guitar lessons, and a whole lot of laughter.

I envisioned our family’s story resembling the joyous words of the mother on the radio. 

I’m very cognizant that my children’s stories are not mine to share. But as a mother, it’s been heartbreaking to witness the struggle of the deep emotional scars time and again. My heart has repeatedly shattered in ways I didn’t know it could. 

We’ve now adopted two more children. We’ve noticed that we parent a little differently when we’ve had  repeatedly broken hearts. Our eyes are wide open now. We know that love alone, no matter how wholehearted, does not heal trauma. Yet we continue to fiercely love our children, while grieving the ways the world has failed to be a softer, safer place for them to land. 

Concurrently, I look at my own life as a person with a physical disability.  A catastrophic accident in my young adulthood careened me onto a path of lifelong pain and challenge. Why was I, too, never healed?  Why do I continue to struggle?

There is much grief in living a very different life than you thought you’d live. Many questions, much sorrow.

I suspect that at some point, many who dedicate their lives to living justly, loving mercy, and walking humbly with God (Micah 6:8) wrestle with this. 

Often, we approach social justice with hope, joy, and energy. We dive into serving in challenging situations, extending ourselves and taking risks to follow Jesus’ commandment to “love one another.” (John 13:34)  

But on those occasions that things don’t go as we envisioned, it can be especially painful and confusing. What do we do with our broken, bewildered hearts? 

It may be a ministry you gave years to, only for it to be dismantled. Or a just cause you fought hard for—and ultimately lost. Perhaps, it’s a person you put great energy into helping, only for them to turn sharply down a dangerous path. Or maybe you gently cared for a loved one through a terrible illness, believing they would be cured, but they weren’t. Now they’re gone, and you’re lost.

One of the things that has helped me the most is the realization that we aren’t called to love with a results guarantee. Matthew 22:39 doesn’t say, “If you want it to all work out, love your neighbor.” It simply calls us to love.

That can be a hard thing to accept as a broken-hearted mom who wants more than anything for her beloved kids to be okay. As a parent, you would do literally anything for your children. 

And it, equally, isn’t easy for any other number of situations where we’ve loved with all we are, acting with justice and mercy, and yet still find ourselves wandering in a desert of broken bewilderment. 

In those times, comfort comes in our trust in the God who goes before us, behind us, and beside us, the One who holds us close. 

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