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stung.
    â€œY’know,” I told Dan as we drove home that day. “If it were anyone else acting as we are, I’d call them incredibly self-absorbed.”
    â€œYeh.” Dan huffed a sad laugh. “Me, too.”
    All we knew at that time was that our emotions were grief-charged, like those of bereaved parents, and we had no idea how to resolve them. “Did Shakespeare write ‘it’s better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all?’” I asked Dan at one point.
    â€œThat’s us, Dan. We’ve never even had a child to love.”

    Months later, one last ditch effort wavered before us: In vitro fertilization: a test tube baby. As we awaited the results of this last procedure, mom called and told us Lexie’s baby, a nephew named Jensen, had been born.
    I could hear the appeal in Mom’s sweet voice, but Dan and I were so immersed in our own battle that we had nothing left over to give.
    Lexie and Adam’s time of joy became the day of our worst defeat: we learned none of the test-tube embryos
survived. We were devastated. We retreated further, hoping for a Divine mercy visit inside our desolate lair.
    All hope — gone. We would never have a child.
    I could not bring myself to call or see my sister and her baby. I told myself it wasn’t jealousy that caused my reticence. I don’t truly believe it was that simple. It was so soul-deep, the grief and hunger, that just the sight of a baby could set off the old familiar anguish.
    One night mom called. We’d always had an incredible relationship. I adored her.
    â€œDeede,” she said gently, “you need to reach out to Lexie more. She’s hurting, honey. She feels you’re rejecting not only her but little Jensen, as well.”
    The world crashed in upon me. I quickly hung up and burst into tears.
    When it rang again, I let it ring, sobbing for the pain I felt and also for the hurt I was unintentionally inflicting upon my loved ones. Mine and Dan’s was a perpetual, consuming sorrow. An emptiness no one, save our Creator, seemed to understand. So we prayed much to Him.
    And then … somewhere in the darkness, a tiny spark ignited.

    A few weeks later, Dan said, “How would you feel about adopting?”
    I tensed up. Then I realized how futile worry had been in the past. It had become a blasted habit. I was a wreck, reacting to anything to do with procreation and parenthood.
    Did I believe in adoption?
    I sighed. “I don’t know.” Then my palm slapped my forehead. “ Of course, I believe in adoption. Duh . Look at
me!” He didn’t laugh and neither did I. I shrugged limply and sighed. “I don’t know, Dan.”
    â€œLet’s pray about it. Think on it, y’know?”
    I nodded. And in coming weeks, we prayed together. I began to relax about the whole thing.
    Slowly, I began to realize I could now accept adoption as an option. After all, look at Priss and myself. And what joy little Lexie had brought into our family when she was adopted. I still loved her as my own.
    With adoption possibilities, I could chill out. Bide my time. I was still young so there was no rush.
    â€œLet’s wait for just a while,” I suggested to Dan. “Maybe for a few months. Let’s enjoy each other, just the two of us, for a while longer.” I didn’t know why — it just seemed the right thing to do at that moment.
    Dan grabbed me, and we fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and fierce embracing. I pulled his face to mine and beneath my hands, felt the solid beat of his heart and it touched me profoundly, that declaration of his life. It spoke of his being. It spoke of his energy and drive. It spoke of how precious he was to me.
    â€œLet’s just, for a time, think of us,” I murmured against his lips. “We have each other, Dan.”
    â€œAnd in the end, that’s what counts,” he whispered and kissed me