Adopted into the Family of God

I met my parents when I was seventy-two hours old. That’s not how most parent-child relationships start, but this was no ordinary story. Instead of months of pregnancy, my parents experienced years of attempting to adopt. Instead of hours of labor, they spent hours in the car, racing to a hospital for a baby who would arrive ahead of them.

The nurses told my parents I was ready to be released. They just needed me to drink one bottle first, and I was refusing. So my dad picked me up and said, “Hey, little girl. I’m your daddy. And I need you to drink this bottle.” And I did. He was my daddy, after all.

He’d never seen me before that moment. He hadn’t watched me grow as a sweet little bump on my mom’s belly. She hadn’t endured morning sickness or felt me kick in the middle of the night. They had no DNA in common with me. But in that moment, he was my daddy and she was my mom, fully and completely.

I didn’t ask to be adopted. I didn’t start a nationwide search for the perfect parents or launch a radio campaign. I was a newborn—I didn’t recognize this couple as my parents, and I wouldn’t express love to them for quite some time. Yet I was fully theirs and they were fully mine. No trial period, no terms and conditions, no waiting to see if I loved them before they committed. They were all in.

My parents didn’t adopt in order to be a tangible example of how God loves us, but that’s precisely what they were. Just as my parents loved me as their own before I could possibly return their affection, the Bible says, “We love because [God] first loved us” (1 John 4:19 ESV). We didn’t earn God’s love, and I did nothing to earn my parents’ love. They loved me first, when I was incapable of returning their affection.

Just as a parent would die for his or her child, the Bible tells us, “While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8 ESV). A few short weeks after my adoption was finalized, I came down with pneumonia. I was seven months old. My parents watched the doctors and nurses take me from them, strip me down, and put me in a plastic tent filled with cool mist. My mom says it went against every maternal instinct she had—instincts to keep her child warm, dry, and in her arms. She would gladly have taken my place in that tent if she could have. And that’s precisely what Christ did for us—he saw our sin and the suffering that came from our separation with God, and he took our place. While we were still sinners. Before we could ask. Just as parents would do for their child if given the chance.

My parents never referred to me as their “adopted daughter,” nor did they require (or desire) that I address them as “Mr. and Mrs. Ruehr.” I was theirs, just as much as their biological sons. Likewise, the Bible tells us those who believe in Jesus are children adopted into the family of God. The apostle Paul even goes on to declare, “All who are led by the Spirit…have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, ‘Abba! Father!’” (Romans 8:14–15 ESV). The word Abba is an intimate term for a father. In other words, God doesn’t require us to address him formally, as an advisor or respected teacher, but invites us to run to him with open arms, calling out, “Daddy!” [Tweet “If we receive salvation from God, he is our Father, and we are fully his.”]

Only recently did I realize the most beautiful thing about my adoption: it was never Plan B. Not only did my parents—who already had two biological children—intentionally seek to adopt, but God always planned for them to be my family. He didn’t accidentally find me in someone else’s womb and think, What do I do now? He wasn’t surprised by my birth mother’s pregnancy or her decision to make an adoption plan. He always planned for my story to tell his story through my adoption. [Tweet “God wants to use every story, every life, to tell of his love and faithfulness.”]

Every June we celebrate fathers, and I know that isn’t easy for everyone. Earthly fathers come in all shapes and sizes, different personalities, different strengths, different weaknesses. Not all are or were good dads, not all are or were present, not all seem worth celebrating. But your heavenly Father is a good father. He loves you with an everlasting love (Jeremiah 31:3), even before you know or love him. He wants to adopt you, to make you his own. He wants you to run to him with open arms, calling out, “Daddy!” Doesn’t that sound like a father to celebrate?

If you have an earthly father who has set a good example for you, whose story points you to a good and loving heavenly Father, give him an extra hug this Father’s Day.

Katy Epling is a writer, speaker, and “masterpiece in progress” (Ephesians 2:10) from Akron, Ohio. She and her husband Jon have three beautiful children who provide her with multitudes of material—both dramatic and comedic. Learn more about her heart and ministry at katyepling.com.

Photograph © Bethany Beams, used with permission