Grace in the Waiting: My Journey from Teen Pregnancy to Adoption and Reunion
God’s grace is not just a concept-it’s a covering. In both moments of joy and seasons of hardship, His grace has been the steady thread woven through my life, forming a testimony of love, redemption, and unwavering hope. I’ve come to know firsthand the healing power of prayer and forgiveness-an undeniable force that has transformed my heart and healed deep wounds. Through every mountain and valley, I’ve seen how God faithfully works all things together according to His divine plan.
At 17, I thought I had life figured out. I was a typical teenager, carefree and full of dreams, standing at the threshold of my senior year of high school. What I didn’t realize was that everything was about to change. What felt like a detour to me was already part of God’s path-one that included an unplanned pregnancy, and the kind of growth that only comes through surrender.
Fear gripped my heart. The thought of disappointing my family overwhelmed me, and for nine months, I kept my pregnancy a secret. With no medical care and no clear idea of how to raise a child-let alone bring one into the world-I was lost. But something sacred happened in that season. As the life within me grew, so did a fierce, protective love that can only be described as divine. It was a glimpse into the heart of the Savior-a love that lays itself down for the sake of another.
I walked across the stage at my graduation six months pregnant, carrying both the weight of my circumstances and the fragile hope of a future I was trying to piece together. Determined to provide for my child, I took on two jobs-one that offered health insurance, and another where I could purchase baby supplies at a discount. My heart was set on parenting, even though I had no idea what that would truly require. Looking back, it wasn’t much of a plan-it was more of a grasp at the only path I could see. Abortion was never an option for me. I knew this life growing inside me was special, and despite my fear and uncertainty, I wanted this baby.
Nothing unfolds according to our plans unless God is guiding the way-and often, His path looks nothing like what we imagined. In August of 1988, everything came to a head. My supervisor gently confronted me and asked if I was pregnant. Fear took over, and I denied it, still clinging to the illusion that I could keep hiding what was already so visible. But grace often enters through disruption. He sent me to Human Resources, and from there I was directed to a counselor at the hospital across the street.
It was in that quiet room, with trembling hands and a heart heavy with shame, that I finally whispered the truth: “Yes, I am pregnant.” As the counselor left the room to find a doctor, I sat alone, burdened by the weight of what I had just spoken out loud for the first time.Everything moved quickly after that. The OB-GYN who examined me was blunt, even harsh-more clinical than compassionate. After an ultrasound, he looked at me with disbelief and frustration, scolding me for going the entire pregnancy without medical care. Then he delivered the news that would knock the breath from my lungs: I was 39 weeks along. My baby was due in just one week.
In that moment, the world stood still. The weight of fear and sorrow pressed down so heavily that I could no longer lift my head. Everything I thought I had time to prepare for had arrived-and I was nowhere near ready. But even there, in the depth of my unknowing, God’s presence remained.
The hours that followed were some of the most difficult I had ever lived through. With hearts pounding and voices shaking, the baby’s father and I sat down with our parents and told them the truth-that we were expecting a child, and that the baby would be arriving in just seven days. As the words left our mouths, the weight of them settled heavily in the room. What followed was a wave of emotion-shock, sorrow, disappointment, fear, and anger-all colliding at once.
One evening after work, my stepmother approached me. She firmly asked me what my plans were for the baby. I told her what I believed to be true at the time-that I was going to raise my child. But in that conversation, she spoke the words that pierced through every layer of my resolve: she told me I wasn’t ready to be a mother, and that adoption was my only path.
Her words shattered me. They landed with a force that broke something deep inside. I felt grief rise from a place I didn’t know existed-a mourning for the dream of motherhood I had been clinging to. Yet beneath that ache, I knew she was right. I wasn’t equipped, emotionally or financially, to give this child the life he deserved.
The first signs of labor came quietly. At 8:30 a.m. on August 30th, while I was at work, I began to feel an unfamiliar pain-persistent, sharp, and growing stronger by the hour. I didn’t yet understand what was happening; I only knew that something was shifting. A quick trip to the doctor and I heard the words: “You’re in labor.”
Because I had chosen to place my son for adoption, I wasn’t allowed to have anyone in the labor and delivery room. I was alone. Completely alone. What followed were long, painful hours-physically exhausting and emotionally overwhelming-as I labored through the night. And then, in the early morning hours of August 31st, my son entered the world.
He was perfect. A healthy 8 pounds, 1.5 ounces, with the wildest shade of blonde hair I had ever seen-soft and bright, almost like sunlight. I held him close for four precious hours, memorizing every tiny feature, tracing each little finger and toe with my eyes and heart.And then, with trembling hands and a soul splintered in two, I placed him in the arms of the nurse. I walked out of that hospital with empty arms and a heart forever marked. I left behind not only the best part of me, but a piece of my soul I would never fully reclaim. He was placed through a closed adoption with loving parents who longed for a child.
Two years later, at just nineteen, I met Steve. He was a young Marine with a steady presence and kind eyes—and though my heart was cautious, something in me knew he was different. I carried the weight of my past carefully, afraid that sharing the story of my son might change the way he saw me. But when I told him, his response wasn’t rejection-it was grace.
God, in His perfect timing, had brought a man into my life who would love me not in spite of my past, but because of how it shaped me. Steve didn’t flinch. He stood beside me with quiet strength. In him, I began to see how God was rewriting my story-not erasing the pain, but redeeming it.
While Steve was deployed during the Gulf War, his parents began taking me to church. It was there, during a revival service in March of 1991, that my heart fully surrendered. That night, I gave my life to Christ. And in that holy moment, God gently opened my eyes to see what I couldn’t see before-His presence, steady and sure, had been with me all along. In the fire. In the valley. In the hardest decision of my life. He had never left me.
In February of 1992, just a year after I gave my heart to the Lord, Steve and I were married in that very same church. It felt like holy ground-where surrender turned into a new beginning.
Together, we began building a life founded on faith in Christ. Our marriage, like any, has weathered storms, but it has been rooted in something far deeper than circumstance: the unshakable love of God and the commitment we made before Him.
Steve served as a Sheriff’s Deputy, and I eventually became a Realtor after spending precious years at home raising our boys. Life was full-sometimes chaotic, often challenging-but always laced with God’s presence and provision.
Then came April 16, 2007-a day that would change everything. I was at home when the news broke about a shooting at Virginia Tech, just a short drive up the interstate from where we lived.
The day unfolded in slow motion, with our entire community gripped by sorrow, prayer, and disbelief as the scale of the tragedy became known. What I didn’t know-what I couldn’t have known-was that my son, the one I had placed for adoption nearly two decades before, was a freshman on that campus that very day.
It was the tragedy at Virginia Tech that stirred something deep in my son’s heart-and in the hearts of his adoptive parents. Out of that unimaginable pain came a desire for connection, for answers, for something more. And so, they began searching for his birth family. On July 2, 2007, the call came.
I was walking out of a business meeting when my phone rang with the news: my son wanted to meet me. My knees buckled beneath me, and I dropped right there on the floor, overwhelmed by the flood of emotion that overtook me. Tears streamed down my face as people gathered, not knowing what they were witnessing. There were no words-only the weight of a 19-year prayer being answered.
October 3, 2007-a date etched into my heart. I had prayed for this day more times than I could count. But when the morning came, I was paralyzed by fear. The weight of grief, regret, and anxiousness hung over me like a thick fog. I couldn’t get out of bed. What if he hates me? What if he just wants answers I can’t give? What if he’ s angry? The questions swirled like a storm.
And on top of it all, I was going to face his birth father again-along with his wife-after so many years of silence. It all felt too heavy to carry. When we arrived at my son’s apartment, I stood outside the door, frozen by the weight of 19 years. My feet refused to move. My lungs forgot how to breathe. As Steve reached for the doorbell, I held my breath. And then the door opened.
There he stood-those same piercing blue eyes, that unforgettable blonde hair I had memorized in the hospital room so long ago. Time collapsed, and for a moment, I saw the baby I had held… now a man. He was the perfect blend of his father and me, and in an instant, every fear melted away. My spirit quieted as I felt the nearness of God whisper: Remember Me. I’m here. Just breathe, child… just breathe.
Today, as I write these words, it’s been 18 years since that sacred reunion. Steve and I have been married for 33 years. Our boys are all grown now, and we’ve been blessed with seven beautiful grandchildren-three of them from my firstborn son.
We’ve walked through the delicate work of blending two families, each with its own values and beliefs. It hasn’t always been easy—there have been challenges and growing pains—but through it all, love has been the thread that holds us together. Not just human love, but divine love. A love that heals, that restores, that redeems. And in the end, love wins. Every time.
About the Author
Robyn Flint lives in Southwest Virginia with her husband, Steve. She is the author of From Sin to Sacrifice, the first book in a series chronicling her powerful journey through teen pregnancy, adoption, and redemption. Robyn is a licensed mental health counselor specializing in work with children and families navigating the complexities of adoption. In addition to her counseling work, she is also a seasoned real estate broker, speaker, and writer dedicated to sharing her testimony of faith, healing, and God’s grace. Of all her roles, Robyn treasures being “Mimi” most—a name lovingly given to her by seven of the most precious grandchildren she could ever imagine.
