Dale Lloyd

Like Hannah of old, we prayed for a child—
for years upon aching years.
Our hearts turned liquid, poured themselves out
in an endless flow of tears.
The heavens felt sealed, as if made of brass;
no prayer could pass on through.
Anger and frustration simmered within—
a bitter and toxic brew.

Somewhere along that desolate road
of barrenness and loss,
with no more prayers left to be prayed,
the asking felt too great a cost.
The fight was over. Hope lay still.
We learned the tune of a lifeless song.
We vowed we’d never speak to God
of this deep ache that lingered long.

With feeble faith we told ourselves
He surely knew what best must be.
We’d die without an heir, we said—
our name would fade to history.
So on we went, mechanical,
sifting days like dust and sand—
until one night in Haiti,
beneath a heat I could not stand.

The stench. The sweat. The brokenness.
It felt like hell laid bare.
We pushed through rusted iron gates
and found small children gathered there.
A cluster of orphaned little girls,
wild joy in frantic play,
scrambling for scattered candy
on the sun-baked clay.

Then came the moment—eyes met mine.
Time faltered. She just smiled.
In that unspoken instant,
I knew—this was our child.

Before the orphanage, her hair fell out.
Her fading sight spoke plain and clear.
Malnutrition held her fragile frame;
and death waited patiently near.

The journey stretched two grinding years—
long waiting, thin and slow.
Yet grace arrived from near and far
just when we’d need it so.
From friends, from strangers, help appeared
again, and yet again,
until it slowly dawned on us
we were not leading then.

Good Friday—mid-April—
an airport washed in light.
There she stood, her dark, sweet face
alive and shining bright.
She came to us at ten years old,
a gift no words could frame.
We watched her grow into a woman,
beauty rising from inward flame.

And now the waiting teaches us—
the eyes of our heart can clearly see:
the story and its glory – both belong to Sovereignty.