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“The Journey Part 1” : A Prayer in the Sand
June 17 is Ashley’s and my 14th wedding anniversary. As I thought about what I’d write about for June, I knew I wanted to incorporate my marriage somehow. Being married 14 years means we have lots of ups and downs, especially considering that for the majority of our marriage we were, or are, healing from chronic illnesses. That alone, is a story in, and of, itself. The mental health struggles that chronic illness brings, the uncertainty, the strain it brings to a marriage. I mean, I can go on and on. If our marriage was not centered in Christ, I am not sure where we would be as a couple. Our love story is simple. We were both performers in the Northern Oklahoma College performance group, The Roustabouts! My first year there, summer 2007, was Ashley’s first year at Belmont University in Nashville. Her reputation at NOC was impressive, but I couldn’t care less. I was fresh out of Lawton, Okla. Everything was new to me, and I thought it was so strange how genuinely nice everyone seemed to be. Ashley came to visit one day during a break from school and a mutual friend, Tatia Cordes (Collins), introduced us. She said, “This is THEE Ashley “LeeLee” Hopkins. She’s a signed country singer in Tennessee.” I said “Hi” and scurried away to practice. I wasn’t the most confident person back then, and again, I didn’t care. I too was signed to a recording contract at one time and thought I was hot stuff. How embarrassing ... Honestly, the arrogance should have been enough for Ashley to go the other way. Instead, she came to watch our performance that night and the rest is literal history!
At that time, we were 19 or 20 years old and didn’t know much about life or really what we wanted. One thing was certain, though! We knew we wanted each other, no matter what. Ashley often says she dreamed about me when she was a little girl, stating “You were blurring in my dreams. I knew you’d have a bigger nose, I knew you were extremely tan and have wavy hair. When I met you after that concert, after saying hi in your dorm building (Busch DuVall, NOC Campus), I knew you were the one from my dreams.” How corny, right!? Well, let me tell you something, I knew she was the one too! I know the concert she talks about, and I remember what she was wearing. I remember the awkward hug we shared afterward and her telling me how amazing I was. The embrace was as if we had known each other for years. I knew I’d marry someone sweet. I knew she’d have round bright eyes like my mom, have long hair like my mom did, she would be a go-getter, and be strong and outspoken, even if that meant being a loner or black sheep at times. That is Ashley. She has never cared to fit in, and has always stood firm in her beliefs and faith.
We talked on the phone for days at a time, and Ashley eventually moved back to Oklahoma. She became ill, homesick and extremely depressed. Home seemed safe at that time. I, of course, always say she moved back for me, because it annoys her, AND my father in-law (just kidding), Hi, Pat. We got married. Our wedding was amazing, and we were so proud to be so young and blessed to have found one another so early in life. Ashley and I were married June 17, 2011, and it was a record hot day that summer, just 21—young, hopeful and brimming with dreams. The world felt wide open, and our future seemed destined to unfold like a fairy tale. Children were always part of the plan—laughing toddlers, first steps, messy hands and bedtime stories. We had big dreams, for sure!
Roughly five years into our marriage, Ashley was still not pregnant. Month after month, year after year, the negative tests and failed fertility treatments weighed heavily on us both. Infertility became a quiet grief that lived in the spaces between our words and the dreams we couldn’t let go of. Ashley had been diagnosed with polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS) when she was a teen and was instructed to embrace the reality of never being able to bear children. The words of that doctor rang in the back of her head for years. The lie, the unhelpful thoughts, everything that came along with it. It was a lot to say the least.
Then came my diagnosis in 2016—a benign brain tumor. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it disrupted everything. My body was thrown off balance. Hormones shifted. And after several tests and heart-wrenching discussions, I was diagnosed with male infertility, how embarrassing. The irony, or maybe the cruelty, was unbearable. Just when Ashley had begun to experience signs of healing, MY body closed the door to one we thought was opening—the possibility of making a baby! PCOS isn’t something that miraculously goes away, but Ashley’s did. How good is our God!? We continue to claim healing over our bodies and continue to receive good reports! Pray bold prayer, people!
Still, at that time, we clung to each other. We kept living, loving and dreaming. Our favorite escape was the beach—salt in the air, waves rolling in and miles of sand to write and walk on. We would walk hand-in-hand, barefoot and full of hope, scribbling baby names in the soft shorelines that the tide would eventually wash away. One name always remained our favorite—Peyton. Inspired by the fierce and soulful Peyton Sawyer from One Tree Hill, we both agreed the name was perfect for a boy or a girl. Peyton represented something strong, enduring and smart.
Then, at the seven-year mark in our marriage, something changed. Not in the way we had imagined—but in a way we’d later understand was divine. We adopted a 7-year-old boy. His name? Peyton.
It felt surreal, as if all those years of dreaming had summoned this child into our lives. Peyton was quiet at first, cautious yet inquisitive and rambunctious and we were nervous too. Would he feel like ours? Would we feel like parents? Peyton was a client of mine when I worked for the department of Human Services. I had known him since he was 5 and saw failed placement after failed placement. I never thought he would be my child, ever. At that time, I worked in Enid, Okla., and for 9 months, Ashley was home alone with Peyton. Those months were long and challenging, filled with tantrums and trust-building, with laughter and late-night bonding on the way to get ice cream. Ashley poured everything into him, her time, her heart, her entire being. We realized, in those 9 months, she had carried Peyton. Not in her womb, but in her spirit. She nurtured him through fear, insecurity and the transition into our family.
One evening, after I had returned home from work, we were going through old beach vacation photos. There, in the corner of a picture, faint, almost washed away was a name written in the sand: Peyton.
We looked at each other and knew. God had been listening all along. Ashley cried and I stood there expressionless (if you know you know). For the years of longing. For the miracle that didn’t come wrapped in a swaddle but in a 7-year-old boy who needed us as much as we needed him. It wasn’t the way we thought our prayers would be answered, but it was an answer just the same. A better one, in many ways. This was a lesson to us that God answers bold prayers and hears our deepest cries and also that he doesn’t always answer prayers the way we imagine or desire our prayers to be answered. This was a lesson and a reminder that there is no problem too big, or concern too small, that God is not concerned about. He truly cares and is a good father. He knows what we need before we know we need it. How humbling. The creator of the universe cares for little us.
While we found fulfillment in having the perfect son, our longing remained. Ashley, now miraculously healed, continued to dream of carrying a child. We both ached to experience pregnancy. But now, I bore the weight of infertility due to a dumb benign brain tumor. Together, we wrestled with the unfairness of it all. We tried not to ask why, but sometimes the questions came anyway. The anger came anyway, and the comparison and resentment flared at times. We followed every moral rule laid out from the time we started dating—EVERY rule was respected, OK? So, it was easy to slip into the trap of comparison and “fair.” Still, we did the only thing we knew: turned to God. We leaned on our faith, our community and each other. Prayers continued, some whispered in the dark, others cried into a pillow and many lifted up by friends and loved ones who never stopped believing for us. Peyton, now thriving and full of joy, became the reminder of what bold prayers could become. A prophecy written first in sand, then in tears and finally in the heart of a little boy who calls us Mom and Dad. Our fertility journey is far from over, and one thing is certain: hope had a name and its name is Peyton who often asks for siblings …
Stay tuned for July’s mental health minute as we take a deeper dive into the ups and downs and the mental health struggles that chronic illness and fertility issues and treatments can have on a marriage.
If you or someone you know needs mental health assistance of any kind, please feel free to reach out to your local community mental health agency, call or text 988 the suicide and crisis lifeline or call 911 for immediate emergencies.
Take care of yourselves,
—Ashley and Relo Adams (Mr. Ponca City)
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