Deer or Dragonflies

Last September, everything shifted at once.

For ten months, our family had loved a little boy in foster care. His first real steps happened in our home. His first words. His birthday, celebrated surrounded by people who adored him. And then, just one day after that birthday, a letter arrived — a court hearing we hadn't been told about.

I logged into the online session expecting something procedural. Nothing prepared me for what came next. The judge ordered his transition back into his biological mother's care.

The ruling knocked the breath out of me.

I felt devastated, confused, and deeply protective. My mind spiraled with questions I didn't know how to answer. How do I tell my daughter? How do I make this seem okay when nothing inside me feels okay? Do I fight the system? Do I step back and trust that God is in control, even when the path feels wrong?

I felt suspended between heartbreak and responsibility — aching for guidance, aching for peace, aching for the right answer when none of them felt right.

A few days later, I took him to his two-year checkup. Technically, I didn't have to — his transition out of our care meant those responsibilities were no longer mine. But in my heart, it still was. It felt like the last act of love I could offer him.

When we walked out of the clinic and I buckled him into his car seat, something came over me — a strong, sudden pull to pray. Right there in the parking lot, with my hands pressed against his tiny chest buckle, I prayed out loud:

“Lord, if I'm meant to fight the system and stand for justice for this baby, send me deer. If I'm meant to stand still and let You — and the universe You rule — do Your work, send me dragonflies.”

Then I started the drive home. And instead of taking the quickest route, I took the long way — on purpose. Down the one road in my city where everyone knows you can spot deer, the whole stretch lined with high fencing where they wander. I drove slow. I searched. I scanned those fences like my future depended on it.

Nothing.

And then — in the middle of my line of sight — came a dragonfly. Darting back and forth between my windshield and my driver-side window, like it was determined not to be ignored.

I rolled my eyes and kept driving, half-amused, half-annoyed at the clarity of the sign I didn't want.

When I got home, I parked across the street. And as soon as I put the car in park — there they were: three dragonflies. Two resting on the glass roof, and one pressed against the windshield, waiting for me to see it.

I walked inside knowing exactly what God had spoken... and still thinking: Why? Why this? Why now? Why let go when every piece of my heart wanted to hold on?

The next day at work, I tried to push it all down. But when I left the office and walked to my car, something caught my eye — what looked like a piece of plastic trapped in the crease of my driver-side window. I pulled it out gently.

It wasn't plastic.

It was a dragonfly wing.

Right there in the parking lot, I finally surrendered. I said out loud, “Okay, God. I see You. I know Your goodness. I know You're telling me to let You handle this. I trust You.”

I handed over control. I let God, and the universe He commands, take their place at the wheel.

And what happened next... is a lot. The dragonflies didn't leave.

And there were deer.