What began as a hello in a college library became a family story written across continents, two yeses, countless small braveries, and a home big enough for every waiting heart. They met in a tiny college library between Ohio cornfields, two shy students circling the same shelves until he finally said hello. He later took her to Barnes & Noble for their first date, which was perfect for a book lover.
They married in that same college town, and a few years later, their first child, Bailey, arrived. New motherhood hit hard. She didn’t have a name for it then, but the fog and sadness were postpartum depression. Three months in, she sat in church as a guest speaker shared how his family adopted a little girl from China, and her heart pounded with a feeling she couldn’t shake. On the drive home, she told Scott. He’d felt it too. Adoption would be part of their story.
She started researching that day and ran straight into a rule: to adopt from China, both parents had to be 30. She was 25. They considered other options, but the tug toward a little girl from China never left. So they waited. Two years later, Ethan was born, and this time the transition was gentler. When he became a toddler, she dove back into adoption paperwork.
That’s when a new set of words kept appearing: “special needs” and “mild/correctable.” The phrase “healthy girls don’t come home from China” scared her. She made lists of reasons they weren’t the right family, no children’s hospital nearby, two kids already, too many unknowns. But the reasons felt thin next to the call that wouldn’t go away. Slowly, through prayer and research, fear loosened. They learned which medical needs were considered mild or correctable, chose what they could responsibly accept, finished the home study and dossier, and sent everything off as soon as she turned 30. The wait began.
Six months later, the phone rang. They were matched with a little girl. Her file listed possible health issues; doctors offered careful guesses but no certainties. They said yes anyway, prepared for the hardest version, and hoping for the best. She carried a quiet conviction: this child was okay. Four months after matching, they flew to China. With a group of other families, they crowded into a hotel conference room while children sat beside their nannies along the walls.
They could see her, Brielle, but had to sign papers first. When their names were called, Brielle cried at the strange faces and even the baby doll they brought (which had to be hidden for the rest of the trip). She settled into their arms back in the room, without the doll. In Wuhan, they finalized the adoption; in Guangzhou, they finished U.S. paperwork. When their plane landed stateside, Brielle became a citizen. Family and friends met them with signs, cheers, and even a bag of oranges, her favorite. Back home, specialist after specialist said, “She seems healthy to me.” The cardiologist agreed. Her mother smiled. She had known all along.
A few years later, they felt a new nudge: Brielle should have a sibling who shared the adoption piece of her story. This time, the path led to South Korea. Paperwork piled up again, and they waited. In January 2020, they were matched with a little boy and expected to bring him home within a year. Two months later, the world shut down. Borders closed, plans froze, and adoption timelines went fuzzy. South Korea reopened with strict quarantine rules: two weeks in a government facility upon arrival, multiple tests, and no quick in-and-out trips. They decided they would stay until everything was finalized rather than quarantine twice.
Waiting under a pandemic felt like surrendering control hour by hour. One day, she found a crinkled list tucked into an old college devotional, a list of qualities she’d hoped for in a future spouse. Scott matched every line except the bit about rollerblading. One line jumped at her: “Wants to adopt.” She didn’t even remember writing it. It was proof that the thread had been woven into her heart long before the library hello. In April 2021, all six of them flew to South Korea. Quarantine, tests, and then at last: Evan. They spent time with him and his foster mom, went to court, and between appointments soaked up Seoul, riding the subway, exploring parks and museums, visiting the War Memorial, tasting kimbap, glancing up at the city from the tower. On May 20, 2021, they landed in Nashville as a family of six: two adoptions, two very different journeys, the same steady grace.
Looking back, she remembers the library’s quiet air, the dizzying rules and forms, the conference room in Wuhan, the airport cheers, the quarantine room in Seoul, the first time Evan wrapped his arms around her neck. She remembers how fear looked big until love made it manageable, how waiting felt impossible until the moment it ended, how many hands it takes to bring a child home, and how worth it all was.
