I Think I Saw A Miracle

All Adoptions Start in a Dark Place

CHAPTER ONE

“I consider myself an atheist, but I think I saw a miracle today.”

It was early September in Nashville—hot and humid, the kind of Southern weather that wilts you by noon. The ceiling fans were spinning, the AC was humming, and a couple of portable fans followed me from room to room.

My phone lay on the kitchen island amid breakfast crumbs—biscuits, bacon, and a few sticky rings of orange juice—when it chimed. The caller ID showed the adoption agency I’d been working with for weeks. It was the director, Christy.

“Dana, Julie left the hospital. AMA—Against Medical Advice.”

“How is that possible?” I asked. “She delivered twenty‑four hours ago.” I glanced at the clock. “Actually, twenty‑two. I forgot—she’s on West Coast time.”

Christy cut in. “I know. Your adoptive family just called me, panicking. Julie signed the forms so they can get banded and be with the baby, but that’s it. Even though we still have twelve hours before she can sign consents, no one knows where she is.”

“You’re kidding. What a mess,” I said—though it wasn’t the first mess like this we’d seen.

Two months earlier, one of Christy’s former clients, Ariana, had completed an adoption plan for her own baby. Ariana had a long history with addiction and the law, but she’d made a wise, courageous decision to place her newborn in a stable, loving home while she worked on turning her life around. She and her husband were living in a tent on the edge of town, but she was clean, sober, and determined—and she was helping others still stuck where she’d been. One of those was Julie: pregnant, addicted, and trying to make a hard but good choice for her child.

Ariana had reached out to Christy about Julie, trusting Christy to guide her through the process. I’d worked with Christy for years on more than a hundred placements. We’d weathered some doozies together. Today would be top‑ten material.

As Christy spoke, I dropped the dishrag on the counter. Cleanup could wait. I shifted into crisis mode: damage control, a quick assessment, and prioritized next steps. Step one: find Julie.

The adoptive family was understandably distraught—tears, questions, no information. But for the moment they were okay. They could be with the baby. We still had roughly twelve hours before any further legal consents could be signed, and we needed to locate Julie. The longer a mother like Julie is missing, the greater the odds child protective services will step in, at which point completing an adoption becomes nearly impossible.

Christy would likely hear from the family first. I decided my first call should be to Ariana. Tent‑life or not, she’d proven to be a reliable source during Julie’s pregnancy. We’d only spoken a few times, but each conversation felt like a small bridge being built—both of us focused on helping Julie, her unborn baby, and the adoptive family she kept raving about.

When I reached Ariana, she already knew about Julie walking out of Labor & Delivery. “Yeah…Christy called me. Someone saw her leave—still in her gown and hospital slippers. She must really be needing a fix.” The image—her baby in a bassinet, a hopeful couple stuck in limbo—sent me into a Nehemiah arrow‑prayer: God, only You can help right now.

“Do you have any idea where she might be headed?” I asked.

“Yeah. I think I know exactly where,” Ariana said, steady and sure. “If she left like that, she’s desperate. She’ll go where I’ve found her before—a cluster of trailers outside town. It’s meth labs on wheels. The sheriffs hit it regularly.”

I knew Ariana didn’t have a car, but in the moment it slipped. “You know, Ms. Dana, I’ve got no wheels,” she reminded me, without shame.

“Right…of course.” We were both assembling a plan in real time. “I’ll get you an Uber. They have those there?”

Her voice tightened, sweet but raspy. “Yes, ma’am. Even here.”

“Sorry—just checking. Text me where I can send it in fifteen minutes.” I hung up and opened the app.

Her text wasn’t an address so much as a landmark—the kind of clue you’d get in a small, isolated town. I typed it into the app and added, “Call if you have questions.” The driver didn’t. A minute later I had an ETA to the Dollar General. Apparently there was only one.

Over the past weeks, Christy and I had lined up attorneys for every jurisdiction involved: one where Julie and the baby were, one where the adoptive family lived, and a third in Julie’s small town for logistics and urgent needs—like today. The primary attorney, Jeff, was in a larger city hours away, but for Julie’s fragile situation, local legal boots on the ground were indispensable.

I dialed Phil, the local attorney, realizing it was still early his time. I didn’t know his work habits and could only hope he was in. Either way, he needed to know. I also knew how precarious our plan was: it rested on Ariana—a homeless, recovering addict I’d never met and barely spoken with for maybe twenty minutes total.

Two things gave me confidence. First, Christy’s respect for Ariana. Between the three of us, a thin three‑fold cord was forming—and strengthening. Second, Ariana’s initiative. For all the labels—“recovering addict”—I saw fruit, the kind John the Baptist demanded: tangible repentance. Ariana was saying, I want to be trusted, and I want someone to trust me. Today would be her chance.

Phil answered. Hallelujah. I spoke fast, sorting details as I went—what he needed to know and what I needed him to do. “Julie left the hospital about two hours ago,” I said. “We think she’s headed to a trailer park where she’s gone for a fix. Ariana [I gave her last name] is looking for her. If Ariana finds her, do you have the consents ready? She can sign at 5 p.m. today.”

I held my breath.

A chair creaked. I pictured Phil leaning back, weighing my hail‑Mary plan. “Did you say Ariana [last name] Willis?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Phil gave a dry laugh. “I know her. I’ve prosecuted her—more than once—for possession. She’s no good. You can’t trust her.” He piled on: “And if it’s the trailer park I’m thinking of, you’re right—it’s a meth hub. The place is surrounded this morning. Another raid.”

My heart sank. If Julie was swept up, child services would take over and the adoption would almost certainly collapse. It was beginning to seem hopeless. I wanted to cry—but I’d seen “hopeless situations” before, both in adoptions and in our old medical‑lab business. The key word was “seemed’. We didn’t quit then, and I wouldn’t now. We still had options open and steps to take.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s plan for the best. Please have the consents ready—assuming Ariana finds Julie, she isn’t arrested, she’s willing to sign, and we can get her to you by five. It’s a lot of ifs, but I’ve seen God do wonders. Who am I to say He’ll drop the ball today?”

I don’t know what Phil thought—eye‑roll, smirk, or just more billable hours—but he said, “I’ll have the paperwork ready. I’ll be here till five. Keep me posted.”

From eleven hundred miles away, prayer was my remaining lever. Phil’s updates weren’t encouraging, but he’d stay, and the documents would be ready. Now I waited on Ariana. Despite Phil’s cynicism, I trusted my read on her—and Christy’s.

I’m seventy now, and even years ago this would have been a stressful morning. But muscle memory helps. I told myself, Dana, you’ve been here before. You’ve had five smooth stones for your Goliaths, and God was with you. Don’t panic. Do the next right thing and let God whittle on His end of the stick. My dad used to say that, and it made me smile.

Thirty minutes later Ariana called. “I found her!” I nearly dropped the phone. “Where?” I asked, already knowing.

“At the park,” she said. “Cops everywhere—yellow tape and all. I knew which trailer she’d be in and how to get there without being seen.” I didn’t ask for the details.

“How is she?” Two questions hid inside mine. Was she high? If so, no signatures today. And was she rattled—post‑delivery, exhausted, spooked by the raid, desperate for a fix? Any one of those could derail the five o’clock meeting to sign consents.

Ariana was steady—the kind of steady that comes from surviving the same kind of chaos before. “Julie’s okay. Shaken, but I’m talking to her. I’m telling her my story. I think she’ll come. In fact, I’m pretty sure…”

The line went dead.

I stared at the screen: Call Ended. I redialed. Voicemail. “The mailbox is full.” I prayed, waited, and tried not to imagine the worst—two women cuffed in the middle of a raid. “Dear God, I’m trying so hard,” I whispered, and remembered, “call upon me in the day of trouble; I will deliver you, and you shall glorify me” (Psalm 50:15).

Freezing would have been easy. Instead I took stock. What do I know? What has Ariana already set in motion? What remains possible? My enemy right now was discouragement. I needed some positive, productive thing to do.

I texted the adoptive parents: “Hey, guys. Tough morning, I know. Focus on the baby. A team is working the rest. We’re making progress. Pray and be strong. I’ll update you as soon as I can.” They didn’t need the blow‑by‑blow. They couldn’t change it anyway.

So many moving parts. A newborn in the NICU, struggling with in‑utero drug exposure. A family from several states away, with hearts set on bringing her home. A birth mom enslaved by addiction. A repentant young woman trying to save a friend. Attorneys focused—rightly—on the law. And me, remembering what Jesus said about the Father’s heart: “It is not the will of your Father in heaven that one of these little ones should perish.”

At 3:00 p.m. my time, my ringtone—“God Only Knows” by the Beach Boys—cut through the agonizing silence. “Ariana”. I answered, braced for anything.

“Dana, it’s Ariana!” she said, bright and breathless. “I’m with Julie now. She’s fine. Not high. It’s good. It’s good. Here’s the address—can you send an Uber so I can get her to Phil?”

I scribbled the address, opened the Uber app again and booked the ride. Same driver. Small towns have a way of looping you back.

I didn’t know the exact travel time, but everything about this place said, “probably thirty minutes.” So I thanked God for good news, some progress and waited for some more.

At 4:30 their time, Phil called. Bad sign, I thought—attorneys rarely phone with good news. “They’re not here,” he said. Before I could reply, my phone flashed another call. Jeff, the primary attorney. “Phil just called me,” he said. “He doesn’t think she’ll show—honestly, I didn’t either. If she doesn’t sign today, odds nosedive. But if she does show, three‑way me in, will you? I want to hear this.” I bit back my annoyance. “If she comes, I’ll loop you in,” I said. “I believe she will. She loves this family.”

Where was Ariana? I pictured Phil straightening his desk, checking his watch, feeling vindicated in his read on Ariana. My only play was to beg him to stay for the baby’s sake.

At 5:05 Ariana’s time, she called, “We’re almost there.” I swallowed the urge to ask where they’d been. “Great,” I said. “I’m calling Phil now.”

I tapped Phil’s number. This time his secretary, Darlene, answered. “Phil’s left for the day,” she said.

“No! Please—Julie and Ariana are pulling up now.” Silence. Then: “One moment.”

Phil came on the line. “You’re kidding. Ariana actually has her?”

“Yes. Please wait a few minutes. They’re pulling in.” I hated to ask, but I did: “You have the consents ready, right?”

Phil bristled. “Yes, of course.” A muffled pause then, “Hang on…they’re here. Talking to Darlene. I’ll call you back.”

For the next several minutes I felt like Moses, seeing the Promised Land from a distance. In a small office a thousand miles away stood three people I’d never met and an attorney I barely knew. A birth mother making a selfless decision. A repentant woman facing down her past—standing in front of the very prosecutor who’d sent her to jail. And that prosecutor, who only hours earlier had dismissed her as untrustworthy.

Those three would decide a baby’s future.

About an hour later Phil called. “Well…” he said. I held my breath.

“I’ll be honest—I didn’t think this would happen. It’s done. She signed.” He added, “I’ve got Jeff on the line. He wants to say something.”

Jeff spoke. “In all my years, I’ve never seen something like this,” he said. “Do you know this shouldn’t have happened?”

I couldn’t help it; the words just came—words I’ve said a thousand times and mean more every time: “It’s all God.”

Jeff hesitated. “I was raised Catholic,” he said, “but I’ve been an atheist for twenty‑five years. I’ve questioned that here and there. Today…I think I saw a miracle.”

I tell this story first because twenty years ago I could not have handled a day like today—not spiritually, not logistically, not psychologically, and certainly not with as much faith and trust. God prepared me—in all those ways—for days like this.

The stories that follow illustrate to me that God still does have a powerful hand of providence and he “works in you [us] both to will and to do his good pleasure.” Philippians 2:13