Fifteen years ago, after raising three children nearly to adulthood, my husband and I began an adoption journey. Before we started, I pictured life with a big family as if it were a day at the beach. Yes, things would be messy, but overall, it would be fun. I imagined a big, happy family splashing in the waves, building sandcastles, and watching the sunset together—my children laughing and my heart full of joy. I imagined our adopted children would cherish this new life, now secure in the warmth and closeness of family. But those early days were far from smooth, sunlit waves. Instead, the weeks, months, and years were rough, turbulent waters, pulling us into the depths. Depths I hadn’t prepared for.
Adopting seven children brought my husband and me into waters none of us could have expected. Each child came to us with their own story. There were pasts filled with trauma and hearts weighed down by trust issues. I was ready to shower our children with love, but to my surprise, my love wasn’t the balm I imagined it would be. Love alone couldn’t heal the deep wounds left by trauma, broken promises, and family members they’d left behind. My children hadn’t chosen this new life. It was thrust upon them. As hard as their life had been, there had been bright spots, too. More than that, in their eyes, my love wasn’t guaranteed. Instead, my care was something to be viewed with suspicion and caution.
For years, various adults told them they had found a “forever family,” and those promises had been broken. Why should they believe me now? Why trust that things would be any different? The pushback I felt as I attempted to love my children unconditionally left me feeling lost, frustrated, and ultimately heartbroken. I wasn’t expecting the painful truth: no matter how much love I poured out, the healing journey would be long and unpredictable. These were truly uncharted waters, with depths I hadn’t imagined.
With each struggle and each moment of rejection, I found myself sinking. I had never struggled with depression, but the constant pushback, the outbursts, and the deeply rooted distrust in my children pulled me into darkness. Depression felt like drowning—trying to keep my head above water, gasping for air, only to feel another wave crashing down. I felt defeated, and more than that, I felt betrayed by God.
Why would God call us on this journey if it were so difficult? Why would He put such a painful burden on our family, knowing what we’d face? I loved Him but couldn’t understand why He allowed us to go through this.
One night, I sat in a quiet house. John had been working out of town, and the kids were finally asleep. I was exhausted—physically, emotionally, spiritually. I’d always found peace in those moments of quiet, but now, it felt oppressive, like the weight of all my pain and doubts was crushing me. I knew I should pray, but what was there to say? I was afraid if I opened my mouth, it would turn into complaining.
Finally, the words spilled out as I cried out to God. "If You knew this was going to be so hard, why didn’t You spare us? Why did You lead us here?” I wanted answers and clarity. Maybe I wanted comfort, too. Mostly, I wanted relief from the pain of feeling like I had failed. I wish I could say that I prayed with elegant words. Instead, I simply whispered, “Help.”
In that season, I turned to books to find perspective. I read "When God Doesn’t Make Sense" by James C. Dobson and "It’s Not Supposed to Be This Way" by Lysa TerKeurst. Their words reminded me of something essential: God’s ways aren’t ours, and His thoughts aren’t ours either. Trusting God doesn’t mean we’ll always understand His plans. In fact, faith often requires us to walk through valleys that feel dark and endless. Or to swim in the deepest depths of heartache. Over time, my prayer changed, “Lord, I trust you. I have faith in You even when I can’t see through this pain.” It was simple yet honest. And with those words, my heart began to change. I tried to stop grasping for answers and control. Instead, I looked around for the small signs that God was at work in our lives.
Slowly, I began to see small glimpses of hope, signs that even in the chaos, God was there. He hadn’t abandoned us. We had our health and John’s stable job. My writing career continued as I walked through open doors. These were the lifelines that kept us afloat. And when I focused on the blessings, however small, they became like buoys, keeping me from sinking too deeply.
But I knew that noticing blessings alone wasn’t enough. I had to keep moving forward. As a homeschooling mom, I fell back on one thing I knew I could do: reading to my kids. I began spending hours each day with them, sharing missionary stories, science adventures, and historical novels. Slowly, I noticed a change. The stories eased the tension, at least for a time. Reading aloud also created a sense of routine and security. I saw how my children’s eyes lit up during certain parts of the stories, how they’d ask questions, make connections, and start to open up, even if just a little.
The rhythm of reading aloud became like a lifeline. It was something my children could count on, a moment each day when we could set aside the conflict and just be. My children found a place of rest in the rhythm of my words as I read hour by hour. I also found a renewed sense of purpose. I realized that stories had a unique power to reach hearts in ways that words alone could not. We could travel to far-off places, meet heroes and adventurers, and, for a little while, forget the pain that weighed on us all.
Through those stories, God showed me that healing comes in different forms. I was reminded of the power of story to connect, comfort, and teach. I began to see storytelling as entertainment and a way to bridge the gap between us. Stories taught my children courage, kindness, and trust, even if they weren’t ready to accept it from me directly. They also taught me patience, letting go of expectations, and finding God’s grace in the small, seemingly insignificant moments. The messages I read spoke to my heart, too.
Around this time, I started working with my friend Sherri Seligson on "Wonders of the Ocean Realms." Writing this book about the mysteries and beauty of the ocean felt natural. It was almost like an extension of my journey with my family. Sherri and I wanted to create a book that would bring science and story together, a way for kids to see the wonder of God’s creation. She's a marine biologist, and I'm the author of multiple books. So that worked well! Little did I know that "Wonders of the Ocean Realms" would also reflect my journey of navigating uncharted waters and finding beauty in the unexpected. You see, we cover ocean creatures from every ocean's depth... even the deepest parts.
As we wrote, I couldn’t help but marvel at how the ocean became a metaphor for my life. The ocean is vast, unpredictable, sometimes calm, sometimes treacherous. It hides wonders we can only imagine, and the more we explore, the more we discover. In the same way, God was leading me through my pain and doubt, teaching me to trust Him even when I couldn’t see the shore. I learned that faith isn’t always about clarity. Sometimes, it’s about moving forward even when the way is unclear.
As the years have passed and four of my adopted children have become adults, I also see how God has been writing a story through my life. It’s a story that includes hardship and healing, struggle and surrender. And in that story, He has brought good from the pain in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. My adult children are on their own journeys, and two of them are even currently serving as helpers to missionaries—just like in the books we read.
I’m looking forward to hearing from families who tell me about the conversations this book has sparked or the curiosity it’s kindled in their children. These are more reminders of God’s faithfulness.
If you find yourself in uncharted waters, in a season where you can’t see the shore, remember there are treasures even in the depths. God may not remove the storm. (Don't we wish!) Instead, God promises to be with us through the storms and beyond. Just as I found unexpected joy in reading to my kids and sharing stories that helped us connect, you may also find blessings in the most unlikely places.
Trusting God in the unknown isn’t easy. It requires us to release our expectations, let go of our need for control, and lean into His love, even when it feels distant. Through the uncharted waters of adoption, I’ve learned to discover God's strength in places of vulnerability and surrender. The journey of adoption and parenting children with deep wounds has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s also been where I’ve experienced God’s love most profoundly.
As I look back, I’m grateful for those hard years. They taught me to love unconditionally, be patient, and trust God with every tear and every prayer. And now, through "Wonders of the Ocean Realms," I can share the journey of reading aloud with others, inviting families to explore the beauty of God’s creation together. Perhaps some of them will take the book along on a beach day. And maybe, as they sit by the water, they’ll feel a sense of wonder—a reminder of God’s greatness and His care for each of us.
The uncharted waters in life can be frightening. They’re also filled with opportunities to discover God’s presence in new ways. We may not always see the shore, but we can trust that God guides us.
Wherever you are in your journey, you're not alone. God is with you. He's there, even in the depths. Hold on to God's promises. Let Him carry you through the uncharted waters. Only God can take our deepest pain and turn it into something beautiful—messy but beautiful, too.
©Unsplash/JOHN TOWNER
