I was 18 when I got a call that would ultimately change the course of my life. I was walking through the Juniors section at Target when my mom’s voice came through the phone, telling me the couple in our neighborhood—whom I had babysat for countless times—had finally returned home from China with their daughter. What she said next and my reaction in that moment altered the trajectory of my life forever. The details are a little hazy now, but I remember learning that the little girl had fallen gravely ill after arriving in the United States. My first thought was the perfect timing of God’s plan. I said to my mom, “Wow. God literally gave her a second chance at life.” From that instant, I knew I wanted to adopt.
When I went on my first date with Jesse—my now-husband—I asked him something that could have been a dealbreaker: whether he was open to adoption. Without hesitation, he said yes. The year that followed was a whirlwind. We met, fell in love, got engaged two months later, eloped three months after that, and celebrated our big wedding another five months down the road. Amid all the excitement and chaos of wedding planning, our hearts and minds immediately turned to adoption.
We initially thought we’d pursue adopting a girl from China. With the waitlist at six years, we knew we had to move quickly. But within weeks, both of us felt a tug in a completely unexpected direction. For over a decade, I had been convinced God’s plan for me was to adopt a baby girl from China. He showed us otherwise—a little boy from Uganda. I remember sitting in church one Sunday, looking at the screen displaying children from an orphanage our church sponsored, and knowing instantly: “My son is in that picture.”
In April 2014, we reached out to another couple who had adopted from that orphanage to understand the next steps. Soon, we were on the waiting list at the same agency, fully expecting we wouldn’t hear for at least a year. Life kept us busy: I was finishing my Master’s degree and building my career in education, while Jesse transitioned from Project Manager to full-time work at our church. We were ready to wait, knowing that international adoption is expensive and time-consuming.
Then, in January 2015, just a few days after my birthday, we got “the call.” Our social worker asked us about age limits for our future child. Suddenly, it was no longer theoretical—sitting there with that paper, how could we define God’s plan for our son by age or health conditions? We agreed to the maximum age Uganda allowed and opened ourselves to any health needs, from HIV to sickle cell or missing limbs. Who were we to dictate the details of God’s gift?
The process was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. After signing the papers, we learned about a 7-year-old boy whose adoption eligibility was being finalized. I scoured the orphanage’s website, trying to guess which child could be ours, desperate for a glimpse of the face that would soon define our lives. Then, finally, on spring break, we received THE CALL. I drove to meet Jesse at church so we could hear the news together. The social worker handed us his file—his name, his picture, everything they knew. We wept. We were matched. I was going to be a mother, and we were about to bring home a 7-year-old boy.
On December 3, I was teaching when the office door burst open: “DeClue, your husband’s been trying to reach you. You got the CALL!” I froze, scrambling through papers, nearly dropping my phone, and finally reached Jesse. He told me we had 24 hours to leave for our flight, with court scheduled first thing Monday morning. Any delay, and we’d miss it. Flights were booked, bags were packed, and my mind raced as I tried to wrap up work and say goodbye to life as I knew it. That evening, our adoptive friends brought dinner and prayed over us, a moment of calm before the storm. We also learned our son had finally received the photo album we’d sent—images of us, our home, his school—introducing him to the life he was about to join. The caption read: “I’m getting a mummy and daddy?” It was surreal. It was finally real.
The next day, we flew to Frankfurt for a brief babymoon before heading to Dubai and then Entebbe. Frankfurt was our last taste of calm. Upon arriving at the airport, we were stunned to learn we owed an extra $400 for luggage—money we simply didn’t have. Sitting on the airport floor, I sobbed as I chose which items to take. The items left behind, many gifts for our son, were given to a homeless man passing by. God’s timing, again, was perfect. Exhausted after more than 31 hours without sleep, I finally rested on the short flight to Entebbe, eager to meet the boy who had already stolen my heart.
The three-hour drive to Masaka felt endless, but when we arrived, everything changed. I had prayed to spend his birthday with him, and we arrived on the night of his eighth birthday. The children at the orphanage gathered around, and I laid eyes on him for the first time. He was perfect—tiny, chubby-cheeked, the size of a 4-year-old. When Jesse and I asked for a hug, he ran into our arms, and we all wept. He brought the photo book we had sent and wanted me to read it aloud. Choking back tears, I read the last page: “And you will live with us. We will be a family. We promise we will always love you, Fred. We promise.”
The next nine weeks were a picture of God’s grace. His adoption was approved just as a new law passed, and he became ours in the nick of time. We stayed with missionaries in Kampala as we waited for his passport and visa. When Jesse left after only two and a half weeks, I faced motherhood alone in a foreign country with a 7-year-old boy. It was overwhelming. I prayed for strength and built a routine of schooling, theraplay, language lessons, and quiet time.
Finally, after eight weeks, we met his grandmother at the American Embassy for his visa appointment. Though we had never met, we shared tears and hugs. A bond was formed, a promise of ongoing connection in this open adoption. Boarding the plane home, we left a country that had given us the greatest gift of our lives. Snow greeted us in New York, and we built a tiny snowman, sharing a first-time moment with our son. Friends and family welcomed us home, but the challenges were far from over.
Adoption is beautiful but messy, filled with loss and grief. Love did not conquer all overnight. Our son struggled with sensory modulation and regulating disorders. Small noises overwhelmed him, and life in America often felt chaotic. I quit my job to stay home, dedicating eight months to homeschool, theraplay, gardening, and simply understanding him. It was exhausting, and our marriage suffered, teetering on the edge. Slowly, we began putting our marriage first, parenting together, and our son began adjusting to his new family.
On September 26, the gavel fell, and he officially became a DeClue. After 3,193 days, he would never wonder about his family again. That December, he asked Santa for a baby sister. Christmas morning brought the most unexpected gift: I was pregnant. Nine months later, we welcomed our daughter. She brought out a gentler side in our son, who embraced his role as big brother fully.
All I ever wanted was to be a mother, and all he ever wanted was a sibling. The day he held her for the first time, he whispered, “I am 100% happy, Mama. 100%.” God’s plan was perfect: I had thought I wanted a daughter, but He knew we needed a son. I can’t imagine life any other way.
Our son gave full approval to share this story, respecting his privacy while honoring his journey. In 2019, Ashley DeClue and Rebecca Harvin co-founded Haven Retreats, a nonprofit offering therapeutic retreats for foster and adoptive families. Their work comes from a place of real experience and love, helping others navigate the beautiful, messy, and life-changing journey of adoption.
