Lord Jesus, we are still waiting.
We thought perhaps by now there would be a child.
When we began this journey, we knew adoption could take time. We understood that there would be paperwork, interviews, background checks, home studies, profiles, decisions, and waiting.
But understanding that something may take a long time is different from actually living through it.
Days became weeks.
Weeks became months.
Months became years.
And we are still waiting.
Lord, sometimes it feels as though everyone else’s life keeps moving while ours is suspended.
Babies are conceived.
Pregnancies are announced.
Children are born.
Birthdays come.
Families grow.
And we remain beside the same silent telephone wondering:
When will it be our turn?
We have prepared so much for someone we have never met.
There may be a room waiting.
A crib.
Clothes.
Books.
Toys.
Names.
Plans.
Grandparents waiting.
Aunts and uncles waiting.
Friends waiting.
And two people whose hearts have been ready to hear the words:
“A mother has chosen you.”
But the call has not come.
Jesus, sometimes I am tired of being told to be patient.
I know people mean well.
But patience can sound simple when you are not the one living inside the waiting.
This is not passive waiting.
This is waking up every morning knowing that today could change everything—and then going to bed when nothing changed.
It is wondering whether to make plans six months from now because maybe there will be a baby.
It is keeping the telephone nearby.
It is seeing an unfamiliar number and feeling your heart race.
It is checking email.
It is wondering whether anyone has looked at our profile.
It is wondering what they thought.
It is wondering why someone else was chosen.
It is wondering whether we should change something about ourselves.
Our photographs.
Our words.
Our home.
Our lives.
Lord, protect us from turning ourselves into a sales pitch.
We are not trying to win a child.
And a mother facing one of the most profound decisions of her life is not a judge determining whether we are worthy people.
Protect our dignity and hers.
If another family is chosen, help us remember that their yes is not a verdict against us.
There may be circumstances we cannot see.
There may be reasons that have nothing to do with our worth.
And the child involved is not a prize awarded to the most deserving couple.
Still, rejection hurts.
Jesus, when an adoption possibility disappears, let us grieve it.
When we allowed ourselves to imagine a particular child in our home and then learned that the situation would not become ours, do not tell our hearts that nothing happened simply because the child was never placed in our arms.
Hope happened.
Attachment may have begun.
A future was imagined.
And then it disappeared.
Hold us there.
Lord, protect us from desperation.
The longer we wait, the easier it can become to think:
We will say yes to anything.
Give us wisdom.
Help us remember that adoption must first serve the needs of a child.
Give us courage to recognize what we can genuinely handle and what we cannot.
Do not let guilt, pressure, or fear of waiting longer push us into a situation for which we are not prepared.
Give us honest discernment.
And Lord, protect the mothers and fathers whose decisions may someday intersect with ours.
Our waiting does not give us a claim upon someone else’s baby.
Our empty arms do not erase their parental rights or their grief.
If a mother wants to parent her child and can safely do so with appropriate support, help her receive that support.
If a father can responsibly parent, call him into that responsibility.
If relatives can provide a safe and loving home, guide them.
And if, after free and careful discernment, adoption truly becomes the path chosen for a child, then guide that child toward the family You know is right.
If that family is ours, we will receive the child with gratitude.
If it is not ours, give us grace to release what was never ours to possess.
That is hard to pray, Jesus.
Because we want the answer to be us.
We want the call.
We want the match.
We want to hear:
“They chose you.”
We want the frantic trip to prepare.
The car seat.
The bottles.
The tiny clothes.
The nervous drive.
The first meeting.
The moment when a little person is finally placed into arms that have been empty for so long.
Lord, if that day is coming, please bring it closer.
If there are obstacles that should be removed, remove them.
If there is paperwork that needs attention, show us.
If there are doors we should knock upon, guide us.
If there are people we should contact, lead us.
But keep us from believing that enough frantic activity can force Your providence.
Teach us the difference between faithful action and desperate control.
And while we wait, protect our marriage.
Do not let every dinner conversation become adoption.
Do not let every vacation feel irresponsible because perhaps we should stay home in case the telephone rings.
Do not let us stop living.
Give us permission to laugh.
To celebrate anniversaries.
To make plans.
To enjoy one another.
To serve.
To travel when appropriate.
To invite people over.
To build memories.
To live the life actually in front of us while remaining open to the life that may arrive unexpectedly.
Lord, bless the empty room.
If there is a nursery waiting, enter it.
Sit beside the crib.
Bless the blankets.
Bless the books.
Bless every little thing purchased in hope.
And when walking into that room hurts, let it become a chapel of longing rather than a monument to disappointment.
Let us stand there sometimes and simply pray:
Jesus, whoever may someday sleep here, protect that child tonight.
Perhaps that child has not yet been conceived.
Perhaps that child is growing within a mother’s womb.
Perhaps that child has already been born.
We do not know.
But You know every child.
So wherever the child who may someday become part of our family is—or if that child does not yet exist—let Your providence hold the whole story.
Mary, you waited for Jesus.
You carried Him through an Advent that eventually had a known birth.
Our adoption Advent has no due date.
Teach us how to wait without knowing when the waiting ends.
St. Joseph, you made room in your life for a Child whose arrival overturned every plan you had.
Prepare our hearts for the holy disruption of parenthood.
Our Lady of Guadalupe, cover every vulnerable mother and child beneath your mantle.
Blessed Fulton Sheen, intercede for us before Jesus in the Eucharist when the waiting becomes unbearable.
And Holy Family, make our home holy before a child ever enters it.
Lord Jesus, we are still waiting.
That is the truth today.
But waiting is not the same as being forgotten.
Silence is not proof of abandonment.
And an empty crib is not evidence that You are absent.
So tomorrow morning, if nothing has changed, help us get up again.
Live.
Love.
Work.
Pray.
Serve.
Hope.
And when the telephone rings, help us breathe before answering.
Maybe it will be ordinary.
Maybe it will be another appointment.
Maybe it will be someone selling something.
Maybe it will be nothing at all.
Or perhaps one day it will be the call.
Until then, Lord, hold the part of our hearts that is always listening for it.
We cannot see the end of this wait.
But we ask You to remain with us in the middle of it.
And tonight, before we sleep, we will pray once more:
Jesus, if there is a child who will someday become ours through adoption, protect that little one and everyone who loves that child. Prepare us for one another in Your time.
And then help us sleep.
Tomorrow we will wait with You again.
Always remember Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
Holy Family! Help us to be a holy family and pray for us!
Amen.