We were married when I was just 19 years old. We met, fell in love quickly, and within a year we were husband and wife. From the very beginning, we talked about having children, but we weren’t actively trying when I found out I was pregnant for the first time. At that point, we had only been married nine months, and I had gained about ten pounds—enough that I had joined Jenny Craig to lose the weight. So when I discovered I was pregnant, I remember feeling relieved that I no longer had to diet. Sounds like a 20-year-old, right? I figured you’re supposed to gain weight when you’re pregnant anyway. Let’s just say I got quite large—but doesn’t everyone have one pregnancy like that? The kind you learn from and swear will never happen again.
Becoming first-time parents didn’t slow us down. We continued traveling alongside my husband’s career as a Christian artist. I kept working and pursuing my education, and we took our son everywhere—on trips, outings, even date nights. I’ll never forget sitting in the movie The Sixth Sense with our toddler when something suspenseful happened on screen and he made a loud, hilarious comment. The entire theater burst into laughter. Our son simply adapted to our life as a young married couple, learning to sleep anywhere, anytime. That was just how we rolled. And we weren’t in a hurry to grow our family again.
More than three years later, when we finally decided to try for another baby, we were very clear—we wanted a girl. We wanted one so badly that we even bought a book called How to Choose the Sex of Your Child. Whether it worked or not, we’ll never know, but we like to think it did. After all, we had a 50/50 chance. I still remember my husband grabbing the pregnancy test out of my hands and running into the kitchen. After staring at it for a few seconds, he said, “Hmm… it doesn’t say.” Confused, I asked, “It doesn’t say what?” He replied, “It doesn’t say if it’s a boy or a girl!” Three months after our son Baylee turned four, we welcomed our first baby girl, Hadlee.
Hadlee arrived just one day before the 9/11 attacks. Our very first morning home from the hospital, John’s mom called and told us to turn on the TV because a plane had “accidentally” hit the World Trade Center. We watched in disbelief as the tragedy unfolded. I remember sobbing uncontrollably night after night while nursing, overwhelmed with fear and uncertainty. It was a deeply bittersweet season—new life and immense loss colliding in a way we never could have imagined.
Not long after, God asked us to do something we swore we’d never do. We left our hometown, and John stepped into a role he had once said he’d never take—becoming a music pastor. Our family of four packed up and moved from Georgia to Colorado to help plant a church. Life felt full and good. Hadlee was potty trained and in pre-K, I was working part-time as a speech therapist, and I wasn’t rushing to have another baby.
Then one morning, feeling slightly under the weather, I took a pregnancy test before work—and found out I was expecting again, completely by myself. This time, I decided to surprise my husband. With help from a friend, we arranged baby-themed cupcakes, baby carrots, and a small celebration at their house. Everyone knew what we were celebrating except John. We had to keep emphasizing the word “baby” as he kept asking, “What’s going on? What are we celebrating?” When it finally clicked, the joy was overwhelming. We later shared the news with our church family during a meal prayer, and John thanked the Lord for the growing baby in my tummy. The room erupted in celebration.
Sophee Josephine was born sunny-side up after three hours of pushing—one of my hardest deliveries. After she arrived, people began asking if we were done. My mom even called and suggested I make John an appointment for a vasectomy. I had come to terms with the idea that Sophee might be our last, but something in my spirit wouldn’t let me make anything permanent. So I didn’t.
Three years into living in Colorado, when Sophee was about two and a half, John received a life-changing phone call. A major record label wanted to fly him to Tennessee and offer him a deal as a Christian recording artist. Within three months, we were packing up again—this time moving back to Georgia. John pursued his dream, and I finally stepped into mine: becoming a stay-at-home, homeschooling mom.
About a year into his new career, with John home only a couple days a week, passion was definitely not lacking—and we conceived again. One afternoon, while heading to the movies, we joked that I might be pregnant. True to his impatient nature, John pulled into a drugstore and made me buy a pregnancy test. I refused to take it there but finally agreed to take it in the movie theater restroom. I didn’t recognize the test’s lines and had left the instructions in the car. I ran back, grabbed the box, and as I walked toward my husband and our three kids, I simply swung my arms in a rocking cradle motion. They understood instantly. We hugged, cried, and celebrated right there in the theater lobby.
Ezekiel was born a week before Christmas, our first Christmas baby. During that season, my relationship with the Lord was deeper than it had ever been. I spent countless hours in prayer, seeking His wisdom. In one intense moment of surrender, I told God, “I give you my womb. I won’t do anything permanent. You can bless us with as many children as You choose.” John felt the same, and together we embraced the belief that children were blessings entrusted to us.
Three years later, Josiah arrived—our second planned baby. He was prophesied over in the womb as a bringer of joy, especially to his father. What we didn’t know was that Josiah would be born the day before John’s mother passed away in the same hospital, just six floors below us. Instead of coming to meet her grandson, she arrived by ambulance, on life support. Family members visited us one by one after seeing her. It was heartbreaking. Yet John rose with strength I’d never seen before. Even in grief, God surrounded us with love.
When Josiah was about a month old, I gently told John, “It’s time. It’s time to bond with your son.” In that moment, grief gave way to joy. I still have the video of John holding Josiah for the first time after that breakthrough.
Adoption entered our story differently. John had always wanted to adopt; I hadn’t felt the same urgency. I had no trouble conceiving biologically and didn’t see the need. Then, six months after our fifth child was born, something changed. After spending a week with families who had adopted children from China, my heart cracked wide open. Those kids were drawn to me, and suddenly adoption was all I could think about. The desire was overwhelming.
We began pursuing adoption, only to face obstacle after obstacle. Doubt crept in. Then God intervened. Through prayer and fasting, clarity came. John received a name. I received a word. John had a dream. Friends confirmed it all. Our daughter’s name was Ana. She was ten years old, living in an orphanage in Ukraine. When we found her, we discovered she had an “amazing” fourteen-year-old brother named Maxim. That alone gave us pause—we already had a fourteen-year-old son.
We hosted them through a summer program called P143, and within weeks, we were in love. We started the adoption process while they were still with us. Then, just a month before traveling to Ukraine, we received a call. Ana and Maxim had another sibling—a twelve-year-old sister in a different orphanage. Ukrainian law required siblings to be adopted together. Panic set in. We had five kids already. Our home, finances, and plans felt insufficient.
We even considered finding another family for her. But as calls came in from interested families, something felt wrong. “I feel jealous for her,” I said. John agreed. Our children spoke up too. “We can’t give her away,” our girls said. With peace we couldn’t explain, we said yes.
Three days before leaving for Ukraine, I discovered I was pregnant again—our sixth biological child. In one year, we went from five children to nine.
Five years later, God balanced the scales. We welcomed our fifth girl, Journee Nova Faith—“new journey of faith.” Despite autoimmune disease and hormonal challenges, God restored our health, and at 43, I experienced my healthiest, most joyful pregnancy and first all-natural delivery.
Our story isn’t perfect or magical. But it is faithful. And worth it.
