Ten years ago at Christmas time I didn’t know if my husband and I would ever adopt. We’d been discussing adoption for months, but he just wasn’t sure it was the right thing for our family. We already had four children, after all. I talked, prayed, cried, worried, and wondered. And when it seemed he would not come around I tried to let go of the dream.

Ten years ago as Christmas approached I told my husband that all I wanted for Christmas was his fingerprints, the first step in the adoption process. He asked me if I wouldn’t rather have a computer instead, and I died a little inside. I longed for him to share my dream-- to not only agree, but to share my excitement about it.

Ten years ago in the days before Christmas, despite my best efforts to set aside my dream, hope would not die. I watched my husband intently, strained to hear the hidden message in his every sentence. Was I really sensing a softening toward the idea of adoption, or was it just the imagining of my ridiculously, stubbornly, illogically optimistic heart?

Ten years ago on Christmas Eve, amid the happy chaos of four children tearing through gift wrap as fast as they could, my husband tossed me a tiny gift. And smiled. I unwrapped the gift with trembling hands, longing for it to be something related to the wish of my heart, though I tried to tell myself it might just be an ordinary gift.

Ten years ago on Christmas Eve, that tiny gift tossed my way turned out to be a keychain. And my heart plummeted to my toes. Foolish, foolish me for imagining silly things. But then my husband grinned hugely and told me to turn over the keychain, and when I did, I saw something etched into the back of that keychain.

A single golden thumb print.

And the radiant smile on his face told me all I needed to know about his heart.

Ten years ago on Christmas Eve, my husband and I began our journey to adoptive parenting. Hand in hand.

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