When I was growing up on the farm, there was not much time for reading except at school or church. During summers, I would get to ride the church bus to Bible school. Tucked away in the trees down a back road sat our white one-room church. It was too small to hold everyone, so Vacation Bible School was held outside, which was fun. Craft tables were lined in rows along the creek, the dreaded Bible-reading group situated away from all the activities. As we went around the circle, I listened carefully as each person read a verse, hoping that by the time it was my turn, I might know how to pronounce some of the words.  

Recently, I took my youngest to visit the ol’ home place, which was near the church. I had moved there right before starting first grade. On the day we visited, one of the old-timers also stopped. Blue skies blanketed the hundreds of acres of rolling pasture. The trees were changing colors, especially on The Back Knob, my favorite place on the farm. I enjoyed just sitting on top of the hill looking out as far as I could see, listening to nothing but my thoughts. I hoped my daughter would get to experience it that day, and she did. Three hours went by. We only heard the sounds of wind and an occasional bird. 

That’s how it was in God’s Country, which is what we called it back on The Knob. God’s Country was not only pretty, but hot, too, especially when we were putting up hay in the summertime. Our house, the schools, and the churches did not have air conditioning. We used handheld paper fans on a stick and measured the temperature by the presence of the holy ghost on Saturday nights.

I don’t remember much about my first day of school, except that kids were crying, and that all the other mothers looked so much younger than mine. I liked school then because I got to see other kids. Living in God’s Country would get lonely because there were no close neighbors. At times, the loneliness did not feel right. It was not just the whispers or the awkwardness of conversations that would stop abruptly when I entered a room, but an inkling that something was off. Being the only hazel-eyed blonde in a pool of blue-eyed brunettes did not help either, or maybe it was the lack of baby pictures. Momma always had answers, though. She would pull down the old black-and-white photo of dad as a toddler in his gown and remind me that he was also a cotton top. 

Occasionally, if we got a break from chores, we would go get Grandma and bring her to the cemeteries, where they could spend hours walking to each headstone of passed, but not forgotten, kinfolk, reminiscing together and sharing stories. Boy, could they share some tales, and that’s how I learned about my heritage. My favorite story was hearing Momma tell me about the day I was born and bringing me home. As I grew, so did my questions, and not only did the stories grow, but so did that feeling that something was not right. It followed me everywhere. By the time I reached adulthood, I had been convinced it was God-sent: a message, a clue, a mystery that was yet to be revealed. 

I married my high-school sweetheart, moved, and gave birth to my two biggest blessings. My young daughters were present for both my college graduations and my baptism. All my dreams had come true.

That is also about the time I became convinced of the lie; the lie that I could not trust my own gut feelings. After all, every wish had been granted, yet the inkling remained. A decade went by, and at 40 years old, I became a late-discovery adoptee or LDA. In God’s Country, honesty had been preached as the highest virtue, but it had not been practiced. On the day I found out I was adopted, all the stories, the answers, and the tales became lies. 

The journey since finding out has been difficult because I did not have 40 years to build my life around truths like they did. Rather than focus on the stories and fabrications they created, I find solace in Jeremiah 29:11, “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”