The nerves felt like a living thing in my stomach. After we pulled into the driveway, my adoptive mom smiled at me. "We're here," she said.

I took a deep breath before opening the car door. I never had thought that meeting a 10-year-old boy could cause a 22-year-old woman to quake inside. How should a person feel when meeting a brother she hadn't seen for eight years?

As we neared the front door of the house, I wondered where he was. Was he peekiing at us from the living room window? Was he as nervous as I? What would he think of me? What would I think of him?

His foster mother opened the door. She led us to the upper floor of her split-level home and seated us. Bobby was playing downstairs, she said.

I perched on the edge of the couch, the gift I had brought for Bobby resting on my lap. I hoped he would like it: a Bible with his name engraved in gold. "Robert Joseph Graves III," it read. My adoptive family had heard he had become a Christian.

Because of my adoption, I had little contact with some members of my biological family. I had met my brother only once before. Only 2 years old, he had run around constantly, his diaper bottom jiggling after him. He carried his bottle. He had seemed all blue eyes and sandy-haired mop then.

Now he was 10. What common ground could I find with him?

I heard him dawdle up the stairs, feet dragging. I saw his sandy-blond hair first, then his bright blue eyes, and finally his shy, self-conscious smile.

His foster mother introduced us. He gave us a low, Eeyore-like "Hel-lo," his eyes never lingering on our faces for very long. I felt my nervousness fade in a desire to ease his.

"Hello, Bobby," I said.

I handed him his gift, and he opened it. He said nothing, only offering his bashful grin.

"Your sister is a Christian, too," his foster mother told him after seeing the Bible. He gave a slight nod, and his smiled broadened a little.

His innocent shyness slipped around the barriers of my heart and warmed me. But in the midst of the joy, I felt pain. I knew my adoptive mother and I would leave, and Bobby's future, with all the intricacy of foster care, was uncertain. He lived in Washington. I lived in Oregon. When would I see him again?

I thought of him after our visit. I secretly hoped my adoptive parents would take him into their home but never really expected it. Their youngest child was 19 years old. What was the likelihood that they would want to start over again with a 10-year-old?

Then the unexpected happened. They told me they had decided to adopt Bobby.

The news stunned me. I wanted to weep and to laugh at the same time. My mother said that as we had driven away from Bobby, the car seemed empty to her. Bobby should have been sitting in the back seat. He belonged with our family.

Now, three years later, Bobby is so much a part of our family that I have difficulty remembering that he wasn't always with us. When I think of life without him, the sadness is too great.

God gave me one the greatest gifts when he restored Bobby to me. I had always thought love at first sight was a delightful but misleading fable.

Until Bobby.