“I just received the file of a baby boy. He appears to be a healthy little chunky monkey. Would you like to review his file, or wait for a younger child to come our way?”
The email came from our social worker on a sweltering July afternoon, just minutes after I had sat down at my desk. My heart skipped a beat as I read it, and I immediately called Marcus. “What do you think? We should view it, right?” I asked, my voice betraying the excitement and nerves that were bubbling inside. It felt like God’s hand was at work, lining things up in a way only He could orchestrate.
We quickly emailed back our interest, and minutes later, the file was ready—one click away from seeing the little boy who might be ours. Before opening it, I forwarded it to Marcus so we could see it together. Doors closed, each in our own office, we silently counted down.
“1-2-3, go.”
We clicked. Silence. And then tears.
There he was—an adorable, chubby-cheeked nine-month-old boy. My eyes welled instantly, and warm tears streamed down my face. “You there?” I asked Marcus, my voice shaking.
“Yeah,” he whispered back, his own voice rasped with emotion.
“He’s ours, isn’t he?” I breathed.
“Yes. He’s our son,” he said.
Though we went through the motions of sending his paperwork to our pediatrician, we already knew. From the moment we saw his photo, our hearts recognized him. That evening, we gathered our families at a local ice cream shop. We told them a child’s file had been available to us—and we had accepted it. When we sent the photo to their phones, the magic of that first glimpse of our son repeated itself on the hot blacktop, as their eyes filled with tears too. That was the day we first met Calvin Chan.
Looking back, it’s impossible not to see God’s fingerprints on every step leading to that July afternoon. He’s always present, but sometimes His presence is unmistakable—and adoption stories often highlight that. Marcus and I married in 2012, had our first daughter in 2013, and we thought we’d follow the “safe and comfortable” path: three biological children, spaced two years apart, just like our own childhoods. Adoption wasn’t on our radar.
I had celebrated airport reunions with adoptive families and always told Marcus, “We would never do that ourselves.” There were no signs pointing us toward adoption. Then, when our daughter was six months old, I had a fleeting vision during a retreat: an Asian baby in our arms. I shared it with a coworker, a parent of Korean adoptees, who encouraged me to pray. I brushed it off as a passing thought.
A year later, adoption became harder to ignore. After trying to conceive again, we faced unexpected delays. This pause gave us time—time to pray, grieve, dream, and really listen for God’s guidance. Through doctor visits, tests, and quiet reflection, we realized that adoption wasn’t a backup plan; it was our Plan A.
During those months of discernment, God moved in remarkable ways. Blog posts appeared with perfect timing, a guest speaker at church shared his adoption story, and the night before that talk, Marcus and I had prayed for clarity. We felt it unmistakably: “This is the way. Walk in it.” Interviews, spreadsheets, and paperwork followed. Our home study went smoothly, handled swiftly by our amazing social worker—a blessing we’d later fully appreciate.
So, when Calvin’s file arrived, our home study still in progress, we were in awe. That July day began a whirlwind of paperwork, care packages, and photo updates. We stuffed Ziplocs with toys, clothes, and little gifts for the foster family. With the help of a nearby Korean family, we translated notes to include in our packages—a quiet reminder of God’s provision at every turn. Monthly photos of Calvin at his checkups were treasured; our hearts ached with longing each time we saw them. He was our son, and we could hardly wait for him to be home.
The first year was a test of patience and faith. We counted emails and court updates as milestones, celebrating small victories to keep hope alive. Finally, in late November, the court date arrived. The moment we saw him through the window, tears streamed down our faces. He was in the same country, same city, same building as us. Joy, nerves, awe—they all collided. Despite the language barriers and the watchful eyes of social workers, we held on to each smile and touch, soaking in the precious moments.
Our first visits were tentative. Calvin was shy, but gradually, trust and joy emerged. Marcus played silly games, pretending to slam his fingers in a toy car for thirty minutes just to hear Calvin laugh. Every giggle felt earned, every moment of connection priceless. Leaving him after those visits was a heartbreak, made heavier by knowing our next trip—and reunion—was still weeks away.
Then came the journey to finally bring him home. A snowstorm delayed flights, and we faced the crushing despair of missing a connection. Twelve hours of wandering JFK Airport followed, but adrenaline and determination carried us onward. Landing in Seoul after thirteen hours, exhaustion gave way to exhilaration. We arrived at the agency, gifts in hand, hearts ready to embrace our son.
The farewell with his foster family was bittersweet. Tears, hugs, and heartfelt “kamsahamnida” filled the room. Calvin’s foster parents had loved him for two and a half years, shaping the little boy we were about to welcome into our home. And then, in our arms, he cried out “Uma!”—mom. My heart overflowed with relief, sorrow, and gratitude. Holding him close, letting him cry until sleep came, was a transformative moment—a reminder of the depth of love and resilience in this journey.
Calvin’s first night with us was quiet and reflective. He slept peacefully, while I sat awake, heart full, marveling at answered prayers. The flight home was calm, filled with whispered words of relief and joy as we watched our son rest. Our family had grown, and for now, that was enough.
Two weeks later, a blurry photo arrived—a little baby girl in tummy time. She had come into the care of Calvin’s foster family the same day he left. Could she be ours too? Though initially cautious, we prayed, waited, and trusted God’s timing. Soon, our hearts were opened to Jane Yoon DeBoer, whose adoption process moved quickly. In nine short months, we traveled to meet her. Our time with her foster family was a gift: they took us to their church, favorite park, and even McDonald’s, giving us a glimpse of the world Jane had known.
Jane arrived home just four weeks later. Watching Calvin run to Marcus at the airport reminded us that love and bonding can heal any distance. Our family of five was complete. Since then, we’ve welcomed another biological daughter, further shaping the family God had orchestrated for us.
Our plan from years ago looks very different now. Yet, God’s leading has been unwavering, His provision evident at every step. We are blessed beyond measure to call these four incredible children ours—and, most importantly, to trust that they belong first to the One who knew them long before we ever did.
