How God Redeemed a Season of Sorrow
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven… a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.” Ecclesiastes 3:1,4 (KJV)
There are certain seasons of life that leave an imprint on our hearts. Reaching the last year of seven decades, I have experienced many. Even years later, something about a particular month, date, or place can stir emotions we may not fully understand.
For many years, June was that season for me—and it began in 1966 with the most heartbreaking events of my life.
I did not consciously mark the calendar or count the years. In fact, I had forgotten the exact date that I signed relinquishment papers placing my firstborn daughter for adoption. Yet as June approached each year, a heaviness often settled over me that lasted the entire month. I did not fully understand why.
It wasn’t until after my mother’s death in 1996 that I began to recognize the power of anniversaries—especially those of great loss. A few weeks before the anniversary of her death, an unexpected sadness came over me. Only later did I realize my heart remembered what my mind had not yet acknowledged.
Looking back, I believe that was also true of June. After all, June was the month my daughter was born. It was the month I held her for one precious hour before saying goodbye. It was the month she began life with another family and, unknown to me, was placed on my birthday.
During those final months before her birth, I spent many mornings reading my Bible. I was drawn to the comfort of the Psalms, but I often returned to Ecclesiastes 3. Through tears, I read aloud:
“A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”
I cried out to God, “Lord, I know I am about to enter a season of weeping and mourning. But if this promise is true—if a day might come when this season is transformed into laughter and dancing—I think I can make it.”
At nineteen years old, I was almost afraid to imagine what the future might hold. Laughing and dancing seemed an impossible dream. But I clung to a tiny thread of hope that mourning would not last forever.
Through the years, the searing agony diminished. I was able to forgive myself and accept that some decisions cannot be undone. Yet the grief never completely disappeared, silently hovering in the background.
Occasionally, the enemy would whisper, “What kind of mother gives away her own flesh and blood?”
I answered the only way I knew how. I had made what I believed was the best decision for my baby at the time. Life moved forward. There was healing. There was grace. But the sorrow remained quietly in the background.
Years later, after my mother’s death, I came to appreciate an important difference between those two losses. When my mother died, people understood my grief. They offered comfort. They shared memories. The loss was acknowledged.
The loss of my daughter was different. Other than my parents, no one knew of my grief and loss. I was expected to return to life as though nothing had happened. Yet I still loved her. I still wondered about her. I still prayed for her. Looking back, I realize it was not only the loss itself that was painful. The expectation of secrecy and silence intensified the grief.
In late May of 1998, I began searching for my daughter’s name through the Texas Birth Index. It seemed an impossible task. How do you find someone when the only information you have is the date and county of her birth?
My hopes were modest. I dared not hope for miracles. I was not expecting dramatic answers. I simply wanted to know her name—for thirty-two year I was limited to only calling her “my daughter”. That was as far as my dreams reached.
By June 13, 1998, I had already made two trips to the library. Initially, I decided not to return. I almost didn’t go that day. Yet I felt an unusual urgency to make one more trip.
Sometime around one o’clock that afternoon, I found what I had been searching for. For the first time in thirty-two years, I learned my daughter’s name.
I will never forget the overwhelming emotions that swept over me. I had not spoken with her. I had not met her. I had not seen a photograph. Yet somehow, I knew I had finally had learned the name of the daughter I had never stopped loving.
As I drove home from the library that afternoon, I realized something had changed.
For thirty-two years, June had carried a heaviness I could never fully explain. Yet that day, the weight was gone. At that moment the promised season of dancing had suddenly triumphed grief. I was almost delirious with joy—singing, shouting, laughing and dancing (will racing down the freeway) toward home.
All I had was a name. Yet that was enough to board the most exciting emotional rollercoaster ride of my life. The promise God had given me as a frightened nineteen-year-old girl was being fulfilled.
What I did not remember was the significance of June 13th . Only later did I discover that June 13, 1966, around 1 pm I had signed the relinquishment papers. It was the day I was given only one hour to see and hold my baby, tell her I loved her, and say goodbye.
On the 32nd anniversary of that painful day–God allowed me to learn the name of the daughter I had never stopped loving.
I had forgotten the date. God had not.
As remarkable as that discovery was, the greatest miracle was not the timing, the date, or even the extraordinary events that followed. The miracle was that God had been redeeming a season all along. And, in a single afternoon, He transformed what June meant. The month that once brought tears became a month of celebration. The date that once marked heartbreak became a testimony of God’s faithfulness. God did not erase the past. He redeemed it.
In the days that followed, God set into motion a whirlwind chain of events. Emails were exchanged. Photographs were shared. Phone calls followed. Just eight days later, on Father’s Day, I stood face to face with my daughter.
Perhaps that is what I love most about our Heavenly Father. He sees the entire story when we can see only one chapter. While we are weeping, He is working. While we are waiting, He is preparing. While we wonder if anything will ever change, He is weaving together a story far more beautiful than we can imagine.
CLOSING BLESSING
If you are walking through a season of mourning today, take heart. The season you are in now is not necessarily the season where your story will end. The God who carried me through thirty-two years of waiting is the same God who walks beside you today. He is still working. He is still writing your story.
“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” Psalm 30:5 (KJV)
For me, that night lasted thirty-two years. But God’s promise proved true. Joy came. And when it did, He transformed an entire season of mourning into a season of dancing.
If this story encouraged you, I invite you to subscribe to receive future posts from Hope in the Journey. No matter what season you are facing today, never forget that God is still writing your story.
You can also learn more about my memoir, He Ordered My Steps: From Shattered Dreams to Something Beautiful, at: