Our family is blended together in an extraordinary, God-orchestrated way. Because November is National Adoption Month, I’m sharing our story.
For years, my husband and I battled infertility and saw a number of experts who suggested numerous methods including one laparoscopy to solve a perceived endometriosis issue. A small incision scar to this day reminds me of the procedure.
To induce ovulation, I was given doses of medication, and we saw doctor after doctor. In the meantime, my friends were having babies — literally one right after the other. Seven tumultuous years went by before we got good and sick of it, and the thought popped in our minds perhaps we should consider adoption.
When we had talked about marriage, we both had agreed we wanted a family. I was raised with three siblings — two sisters and a brother — and my husband had the benefit of having been raised with five sisters, so both of us definitely desired a family. We had a big farmhouse; all we needed was children to fill it. The fact that we seemingly could not conceive made us consider options.
Checking out Catholic Social Services and Lutheran Social Services, we opted to use the latter. It just seemed to suit us better. Finding out there was a meeting for prospective adoptive parents, we drove to Wausau to check it out.
Stepping into the gathering space, I was overcome with emotion. There were 40 couples there. Infertility is such a raw, tender issue to deal with — very isolating and personal.
Being raised on a farm, I was aware there was a term for a heifer that could not conceive, a terrible, yucky word that to this day makes me shudder — freemartin. They had to be culled and sold; it was a part of life.
Every month for seven years, I felt I had miscarried a baby. I was nothing more than a freemartin, which made me feel barren and hollow and the only one going through this. Lies straight from the father of lies, but it is what I perceived myself to be at that stage of my life.
So listening in along with 40 other couples who were struggling, too, was sweet balm for my soul. We commiserated together and were given hope that even though we were not able to conceive, it didn’t mean we could not be parents. My heartfelt desire was to be a mom. It would eradicate the barren hollowness I had felt all those years.
After walking us through procedures involved in the adoption process, the leader explained mandatory classes are required to be screened and certified as foster parents.
“OK, couples, we are going to pick seven names out of a hat. These seven couples will attend classes every Wednesday night for six weeks,” the leader said. “This is the first step in finalizing an adoption.”
My heart sunk. I never win anything, not even so much as a six-pack of Sun Drop. How on earth will we be one of seven in a roomful of 40?
The first name picked: “The Remingers.”
My jaw dropped. My eyes filled. I turned to my husband, speechless. Immediately, we connected with the other six couples, squealing quietly with delight. Going those Wednesdays, we learned the basics of parenthood — how to interact with one another, how to talk to our families about our new addition, how to care for a newborn. Also included were instructions on how to write up a bio for our potential birthmother.
We assembled a file of who we were — a non-descript explanation of where we lived (this was a closed adoption), how we’d raise the baby, we talked about our faith, if we had pets, etc. After all was accomplished, complete with pictures, we submitted our form and waited.
Our social worker was compassionate and kind yet forthright, telling us, “Expect the best, but prepare for the worst.”
On our ninth wedding anniversary, we received a call that a birthmother had chosen our file. For her to have come this far meant she chose life. She chose to give birth to the baby that had been conceived, yet for reasons beyond her control she could not raise. She chose life and then chose us. Her selfless act blessed us beyond measure.
After a time, we decided our then 2-year old deserved a sibling. We updated our bio and waited. Nine months later, another birthmother who chose life chose us. We were a family of four, complete.
You cannot outgive our God. He had heard my cries during my 20s and had been telling me, “Wait, my child, I have much more in store for you.” After 16 years of marriage, I told my husband, “I think I’m pregnant.” After a pregnancy where I had treasured every nuance, I gave birth to a baby girl.
In all this, we give God the glory. Had he answered our prayer for a biological child in my 20s, we’d never have pursued adoption and never had known our boys. If their birthmothers had decided to end the pregnancy, our sons tragically never would have been born.
Our family is a living testimony to God’s goodness. Our life’s mission is to give a voice to the voiceless, helpless baby within a mother’s womb that just wants to live. Choose life.
(“Before I was born the Lord called me; from my mother’s womb He has spoken my name.” Isaiah 49:1)
Kay Reminger was born and raised on a dairy farm, and she married her high school sweetheart, who happened to farm for a living in Leopolis. Writing for quite a few years, she remains focused on the blessings of living the ups and downs of rural life from a farm wife’s perspective.
Farm Life From a Farm Wife
