When God's Call Leads You to the Mire
My Unspoken Battle with "Manufactured Love"
This post is going to feel slightly foreign to what you've seen thus far from my page. It's a vulnerable essay on the internal challenges I've faced being a dad to two adopted children. My girls came to us from broken backgrounds (as does every child in foster care). They were seven and six, so their personalities were very much already in place. They each came with a list of medications, clinical conditions, psychologists, and a black garbage bag. Their story isn't mine to tell, so in this post, I'm very vague about them, and focus on my reactions. After all, as the father, the buck stops with me anyway!
I write this from a place of hope. Hope that things will continue to improve, by God's grace. Hope that another person might read this, and return to the Lord for new morning mercies. And, hope that someday I'll be able to look back and see that these feelings were fleeting, and that through the sanctification wrought by the Holy Spirit, I'll be able to say “But God, being rich in mercy…”.
After years of infertility and being a foster parent, my wife and I felt God's clear call to adoption a few years ago. As a result, we embraced it as an act of faith, a profound step of obedience. We envisioned bringing children into our home, expanding our family, and raising them in a household of strength, joy, and dominion, as I often speak about here on Substack. We truly believed we were aligning with God's perfect will, preparing to live out a beautiful testament to His love and provision in the world.
What we didn't fully anticipate was the depth of the spiritual and emotional crucible we would enter. This journey has not been the idyllic path of instant, overflowing love often depicted in adoption narratives. Instead, it has profoundly challenged my understanding of love itself, forcing me to grapple with what it means to "conjure up" love daily, to choose it as a covenant and a commitment, rather than experience it as a natural, overwhelming outflow. This isn't just a parenting challenge; it's a constant, visceral act of the will, a striving for a love that feels, at times, anything but innate.
The Unseen Battle Within: A Spiritual Crisis of Anger and Regret
Within this relentless daily reality, I've discovered deep-seated frustrations I never knew lay dormant within me. My spirit rebels against behaviors that feel like a profound lack of diligence or a disregard for thoughtful engagement. These traits, when encountered repeatedly in the context of daily life, clash violently with my core values. They've ignited within me an anger that feels both foreign and overwhelming, forcing me to confront emotions I never anticipated feeling.
In fact, when I drafted this post a few days ago. it was at a low point where my spirit thrashed inside. The spiritual attack raged within me, and writing was my only outlet. I say that to say, it's still a sin I have not mortified yet! The agony is raw, the anger a searing heat, and the temptation to speak with a forked tongue — to lash out in frustration and resentment — is overwhelming. These are not merely memories; they are present, demanding, and utterly exhausting. The crushing weight of regret accompanying these moments is physically palpable.
To be honest, I've wrestled with moments of intense frustration and resentment. These emotions bring with them immense shame, but it’s the profound regret that often hits hardest. Regret for ever having chosen this path. Regret for what it has seemingly cost. Regret for the raw emotions it extracts daily. These feelings force me to question my fitness to lead, to teach, and even my own spiritual health and standing before God. They make celebratory moments like Father's Day, nearly unbearable.
It’s an internal war, and it's amplified by a relentless, insidious whisper from the enemy: "You misheard God. You made a terrible mistake. This can't possibly be God's will if it feels this hard, if you feel this way. You're disqualified." This thought process is a direct assault on my confidence in God's leading and, by extension, my very faith. It has thrown me into a spiritual crisis more than once, forcing me to confront my comfortable assumptions about God's perfect plan and the often-uncomfortable nature of His sanctifying work.
The Profound Loneliness of the Long Haul
What compounds this agony is the profound isolation my wife and I feel. While most people are quick to offer sympathy for the tragic backgrounds our adopted children came from (and those histories are indeed heart-wrenching), very few can truly empathize with the day-to-day reality of parenting through these specific, deeply challenging behaviors, when you don't have an innate love for your child. My wife is my only confidante in this, and our shared struggle, while forging an unbreakable bond between us, also underscores how few truly grasp the depth of this particular burden.
They see the brokenness of the past, but they don't live the relentless present reality. They haven't walked this path, and the emotions involved—especially those of "manufactured love," intense anger, or agonizing regret. These are often deemed too raw, too ugly, or simply too "un-Christian" to voice in polite company. To even voice to your closest family members. But this silence, this inability to fully articulate the struggle to others, only amplifies the enemy's lies, making the mire feel deeper, heavier, and endlessly lonely.
Finding Grace and Growth in the Crucible: A Call to Radical Honesty and Obedience
Despite the grinding pain, I cling to the bedrock truth that God's plans are for my good and His glory. This is not just a theological platitude; it's the anchor in this storm. I am learning, in the most visceral way, that sanctification is rarely instantaneous and almost always unfolds in the refining fire of our most challenging circumstances. It's in this uncomfortable space that true spiritual muscles are built, and genuine character forged.
I am learning to surrender my comfortable timeline to God, to ask for daily manna—just enough grace, patience, and supernatural love for this moment, for this day. The "manufactured love" I spoke of earlier? I'm slowly coming to see it as a profound, albeit painful, act of obedience. It mirrors Christ's choice to love us even when we were unlovely, unlovable, and completely undeserving. It's a love built on covenant and unwavering commitment, not just fleeting feeling or natural affection. This is Christ-like love, even if it feels foreign to my natural inclinations.
So, I'm fighting back against the enemy's lies by reminding myself that God consistently uses broken vessels for His purposes, and that my weakness, my internal struggle, is an opportunity for His strength to be made perfect. This excruciating journey isn't a disqualifier from God's call; it's precisely the process He is using to prune, shape, and mold me into the man He calls me to be, a man who can lead with genuine empathy, forged in the crucible of his own brokenness.
To my fellow men and families striving to build households of strength and dominion: be radically honest with God, with your spouse, and with a trusted few who can truly understand. Do not carry these heavy burdens in silence. Lay bare your anger, your regret, your every raw emotion before the Lord. He can handle it. He already knows. And in that same breath, be radically obedient. Choose love when it feels absent. Choose patience when your flesh screams otherwise. Choose diligence when despair beckons. This isn't about perfection. We must daily, moment-by-moment, surrender our will to His, and trust that even in the mire, He is working His good, glorious, and sanctifying plan. I'm preaching to myself too!
That said, I show up daily. I pray with brutal honesty. I confess my rawest thoughts. I seek to actively "put off" bitterness, anger, and malice, and to "put on" Christ-like patience, kindness, and self-control, even when every fiber of my being resists. This isn't just about "raising oaks" in my household; it's about being an oak myself that is pruned, watered, and strengthened through the storm, standing firm by God's enduring grace.
Thank you for being so honest, Bryan. Your words are a needed reminder that even in the mire, we are not forsaken. We have been adopted into the Father’s family and secured by His covenantal love through Christ Jesus. That same Spirit who assures you of His love is also at work in you, equipping you to pass that love on to your children.