Pregnant: The Adoption of Megan, Segment 8

The wind of the Holy Spirit gusted. A cloud came into view. Rain. A sign of blessing. Thick with promise, this cloud swelled, puffed, and churned out mottled shades of gray and green in a sudden downpour. I flipped my umbrella over. And, the deluge of bills filled it to capacity.

I wish.

We expected a miracle from God. Hadn’t He proved to us He was able? We certainly had no other means of generating wealth for Megan’s adoption.

Four weeks passed from the day we received Megan’s photos, then another two. Nothing transpired other than we learned our daughter’s Korean name meant silver jewel.

Silver in scripture speaks of a refiner’s fire. “You have tested us O God; you have purified us like silver.” (NLT Psalm 66:10) Silver represents God’s personal shaping of His workmanship. Did you know a silversmith must tenaciously watch His creation while it’s in the fire so he doesn’t injure and damage the silver? What love.

And what of jewels? They are a picture of God’s redeemed. By grace we are transformed. Science cannot recreate a jewel. Men have tried, but only God can take something lowly in nature from the earth and transform it into a precious gem. 

But what did this knowledge have to do with us? When Megan was two months old a letter came from Holt. 

September 11, 1986:

“Ht. 23 in. Wt.14.1 lbs. Laughs with a small voice.  Eye follows a rattle, four ways.  Actively grasps a rattle. No head lag. Some weight bearing. Prone—lifts head high, chest up. **Adoptable.”

The word adoptable seared my heart. Time passed—our daughter growing while separated from us. How could I not long to be a part of her earliest moments. Being an earthling, panic tried to rise and choke me.

God gave me a scripture to rely on. “The Lord God will help me. Therefore I will not be disgraced; therefore I have set my face like flint, and I know I will not be ashamed.” (NKJ) Isaiah 50:7 

“Set my face like flint. Set my face like flint. I will not be ashamed. I will not be ashamed.” Daily, I must have recited this a thousand times. But the weeks grew longer and longer.

October 18, 1986:

 “Three months old. Ht. 24 in. Wt. 13.7 lbs.  Laughs loudly. Brings hands to midline. Some weight bearing. Prone, lifts head high, chest up. **Adoptable.”

Full-fledged panic ensued. Wouldn’t Holt call at any moment and take Megan away from us? We schemed, but could not come up with the money. Then the most heart-wrenching scenario occurred. Three different sources promised the money. But over the course of that month, none could deliver.

Many well-meaning friends desired to help, but their hands were tied. My heart like a yo-yo on a string couldn’t take the strain. I felt near collapse, and Randy did. On Sunday morning, in the middle of church, a violent attack of inner ear struck and men from the church had to help my husband home. Stress related?  No doubt. But weren’t we threats to the enemy, as well? If Megan came to our home, she’d hear the gospel. 

November 15, 1986:

“Four months old. Ht. 25 in. Wt. 14.1 lbs. Makes vowel sounds. Babbles. Sits alone with two hands held forward. Rolls over both ways. Some weight bearing. Reaches out, grasps toy with one hand. **Adoptable.”

Those words. Adoptable. My first daughter? Stillborn. This one? Held at ransom halfway around the world. We fasted. We prayed. We begged God. And then—a knowing settled over me. Our refiner’s fire burned hotter, the silver molten. Our July 5^th jewel, an oriental ruby, teetered just out of our reach, and time had run out. 

***

Megan—Mighty One, Victorious Spirit

Come and let us walk in the light of the Lord. (Isaiah 2:5)

Hope—Faithful, Understanding Heart

Delight yourself also in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart. (Psalm 37:4)

Pregnant: The Adoption of Megan, Segment 7

Sewing basket in hand, I plopped in the recliner. I intended to play like a child at summer camp. My craft? A sampler. But not just any sampler. This one would bear the name of my longed for—Megan. After months of bureaucratic paperwork and gut wrenching prayer, our child assignment approached.

Randy strolled by with a water thermos, mosquito repellent, and two hopping boys. All headed for the front door.

 “Sure you don’t want to go to the fireworks show? Fourth of July only comes once a year.”

“I’m sure. You guys have fun.” 

Kirk and Jarred, cute in their royal blue shortalls, leaped out the front door, landing on the porch with loud stomps. Randy reached to pull the door closed after them.

I straightened and scooted to the edge of my seat. “Honey, wait! I know I’ve asked you every weekend for two months, but could we please set up the crib tomorrow? You’ve been off all day and you’re rested. Tomorrow's Saturday, and we have no other plans.”

Randy shook his head and smiled. “Maybe it is time." He dipped his chin once. "We’ll do it. First thing tomorrow. We’ll do it in faith that God will do what He’s promised.”

I bathed and tucked the boys in for the night, then took my needlework, framed it, and stood it on the nightstand in what would be Megan’s nursery.

The next morning, Randy stepped outdoors searching for hardware to use on the crib while I ironed infant girl clothes my grandmother had loving sewn for our stillborn daughter, Amy. Would Megan be young enough to wear them? Did I dare hope she'd be so small? The adoption agency had implied she'd be younger than our youngest son, and Jarred would soon be three.

The iron glided over a pink, flannel nightgown, and a memory of Amy’s delivery flashed through my mind. Water filled my eyes. My heart rate increased, and its hard knock pounded inside my chest like a hammer. Doubts of hurricane force struck. The room seemed to rock, and I gripped the ironing board to hold steady. 

"You're a fool. God isn't in this adoption.You made it up because you want a daughter so much. Remember the last time you washed and ironed these little, pink things? They'll never be worn by a child in your arms."

That's not my voice. My gaze scanned every corner of the room. All of God's spectacular acts on behalf of our adoption suddenly seemed contrived. Had they been coincidences? Sweat dampened my brow and my hands shook. Was I unbalanced? 

The room seemed to whirl and a mournful groan escaped my lips. “God, help me— I need to hear from you. Am I sane, Lord? Because if this adoption is not of You, I won’t go through with it. I'm sorry, God. I’ll go and tell every single person I've told that I made it up.”

I snatched a Living Bible from the bedside table. “I need a word of comfort, Lord. Please help me—” I flung it open. 

The cruel voice grew louder. “God won’t answer you. Only a spiritually immature person relies on a random act of opening the Bible like that.

My gaze locked on a page. My pulse slowed and the fog lifted. My mind cleared.

Isaiah 8:1-2
Again The Lord sent me a message: "Make a large signboard and write on it the birth announcement of the son I am going to give you. Use capital letters! His name will be Maher-shalal-hash-baz, which means 'Your enemies will soon be destroyed.'" I asked Uriah the priest and Zechariah the son of Jeberechiah both known as honest men, to watch me as I wrote so they could testify that I had written it (before the child was ever on its way).

“I know what to do, Lord.” I stood taller and swiped my wet cheeks. “Get thee behind me, Satan! God gave me vision for this daughter, and I will believe. Megan will come home, and she will be mine.” 

That evening, Randy and I took our needlework signboard, and showed it to faithful, believing friends. We confessed that Megan’s name had been written before she was ever on the way.

Three weeks later the phone rang. I dried my hands on a dishtowel. Kirk and Jarred flew through the kitchen dressed as superheroes. 

 “Hello?

“This is Sue with Holt International. Congratulations, Ann! You have a daughter!”

Knees, wobbly like Jell-O, forced me to the floor, back against the wall. “How old is she?” 

“Oh, Ann, she’s just a newborn. Isn’t God good?”

“Wh—what?  Wh--when? When was she born?”

“I am mailing her packet and pictures to you today. She was born just three weeks ago on the fifth day of July."

***

The day our daughter was born was the VERY day the enemy launched his most brutal attack on my mind. But when the packet arrived, and we plucked the photo from within its folds, we never once questioned if this particular baby was our Megan. 

 "I have called you by your name. You are mine." Psalm 43:1b (NKJ)

Listen for His Whispers

Pregnant: The Adoption of Megan, Segment 6

The adoption home study was finished. A bill arrived from Holt for four hundred and fifty dollars. My heart squeezed. This payment was time sensitive since it would cover immigration expenses. Randy and I chewed nails waiting for God to tell us what to do. The obvious? No extra money had magically appeared in our bank account.

One day passed, then another. On Sunday morning—just as I slipped one foot over the bathtub to towel off—I heard the still small voice of God speak two words inside my head. The Coin.

I pulled on my bathrobe, cinched it, and sat down on the edge of the tub. Really God? Something as important as this and You speak while I’m climbing out of the bathtub? But I knew exactly what He meant by those two targeted words.

My precious father figure—my grandfather—had died a little more than a year before and left me a single gold coin. Papaw Kirksey was a small man. Not very tall. Not wealthy. But a gentle, soft-spoken soul who loved me. I can’t tell you the hours I spent in his lap, combing his dark, wavy hair. He was a patient man. His most endearing feature? His slow and boyish grin. It was a fact, he loved children more than anything. You could see it in his sparkling baby blues when they rested on any child, but especially on my brother and me.

April 1958
This is me with Papaw eight months before my dad passed away.

Papaw owned a gas station. And his only material treasure was a coin collection he’d started when he was very young. As a five year old, he'd purchased a minuscule rawhide coin purse from the Sears, Roebuck and Co. catalog where he kept his first prized possession—an Indian head nickel. Through the years, Papaw kept his coins in a dresser drawer and then a foot locker. He’d polish them, and show them to me on a regular basis. And when he was gone, each immediate family member received one of his cherished gold pieces. It was like they were holy—not meant to be spent.

September 1976
Papaw, while struggling with Parkinson's disease, walked me down the aisle to Randy.

Selling the coin would be difficult.

The next day, my husband found the local coin dealer’s number in the phone book and scribbled down the street address.

“How? How are we supposed to know what this one coin is worth, Randy? How can I give it up?"

“We’ll see… Just because he makes us an offer doesn’t mean we have to take it.”

Three blocks from the coin dealer’s home my heart raced. Two blocks… One block…

“Pull over! Pull over in that church parking lot, Randy.We have to pray, again. Family will be incensed when they find out we sold this.”

Randy parked under a tree sprouting new spring leaves and switched off the motor. He took my hand and prayed for wisdom.

When he finished, I pulled my Bible into my lap and randomly opened it to Mark 14. My gaze fell on the story of Mary, who washed the feet of Jesus with her hair. I began reading it aloud. It said people were indignant that she’d broken an expensive bottle of perfume—some sort of precious oil—and used it to wash His feet. They shouted at her. But Jesus told them to leave her alone. In the last verse of this account, Jesus said that what she’d done would be remembered and retold as a memorial to her.

I looked up into Randy’s face. “Granny Kirksey called me a week or so ago. She spent her gold coin. Did you know that?”

Randy reached over and squeezed my hand tighter. “No. Why?”

“Because Papaw's been gone more than a year, and she had no other way to pay for his headstone. She wanted him to have a memorial. Those were her exact words.”

A smile stretched across Randy’s mouth. “You know what I think this means? I think your grandfather loved children. Megan will be a living memorial in his honor. She is the only thing worth spending this coin on—ever.”

The coin dealer studied the gold piece. “I have an offer.”

My gaze flitted to my husband.We'd made a pact not to tell the man how much money we needed. Randy motioned for the man to continue. 

“I’ll not give you a penny less or a penny more than four hundred and fifty dollars.”

Listen for His whispers...

Pregnant: The Adoption of Megan, Special Segment

Twenty-eight years ago my husband, Randy, addressed an envelope to Holt International Children’s Services, stuffed a check into the folded application for adoption, sealed it, and deposited it on the entertainment center to wait on God. Taking me tenderly by the shoulders, he whispered, “I believe you, Ann, when you say you’ve heard from God, but I need to hear from Him before I can go through with adopting a Korean baby.”

I agreed.

In August 2013, I told you the story of how Randy’s job out of Huntsville, Alabama assigned him to travel two hours away to a city where he’d deliver a sales pitch to a man whose wife had been adopted from Korea through Holt in the 1950’s. There is no way Randy or I believed this was a coincidence. This woman’s story of how she was later reunited and grew up with her biological brother, gave us incentive and courage to follow through with Megan’s adoption.

I did not tell you the name of the city. I did not tell you the man’s name.There was a reason.You see, for two weeks prior to posting the blog in August, I searched for him and his family. I wanted to tell you who he was. He and his wife had been an intricate part of our testimony for almost three decades, and I suddenly wanted to meet them. What happened to them? 

Randy no longer remembered their Texarkana, Arkansas address, and he only vaguely remembered the location of their neighborhood.The only tidbit of information he could recall was where David Baker attended church. I phoned the Texarkana, Texas church and spoke with the secretary, but she was relatively new to her job and had no record of David. She called the long-standing members of the congregation; still, no one remembered him or his Asian wife.

Next, I tried an internet link.There were several David Bakers in Arkansas and in Texarkana. But one listing named a wife, Glenda, and two daughters, Hollie and Tamara.The man Randy had met years before had two young daughters. The man’s age matched, too.So though it seemed a long shot, I let my fingers do the walking. I called the home phone, got a machine, and left a message. Two or three days passed and there was no word.

Back in 1985 David Baker had invested in a line of medical vending machines through Randy. Perhaps his business had not done well. Maybe he didn’t want to be found.

But a small nudge in my spirit kept me going.

I plugged David’s name into my Facebook search engine. Nothing.

I tried the wife’s name I’d gotten off the internet link. Nothing.

I decided to type in the oldest daughter’s name (using her maiden name in the middle), and a picture came up on Facebook of a young woman who didn’t look particularly biracial, but her children did.They had Asian eyes.

I brought up her friend’s list, and there was the name I’d labored to find. David Baker. 

I clicked on the link, and when his profile enlarged, it was a photo of him taken with his wife. He was white, and she was Asian. Delighted, excitement bubbled in the pit of my stomach.

But David’s Facebook page was private, his last status very old. How did I even know he was alive? I decided to message the daughter, Hollie, in California and request her friendship. She was active on her Facebook account. But I never heard from her. I suspect her privacy settings bumped my message to her spam folder.

The thought came to me to visit the other daughter’s Facebook page. Tamara lived in Little Rock. I glanced over her picture, but since I had left a phone message on what I thought was David’s machine and a friend request on Hollie’s Facebook page, I decided not to send a message to Tamara.

Defeated, I prayed. I asked God to help me find David and Glenda Baker, but I was running out of time. I needed to post the blog before the end of the month. I told the Lord I’d wait a day or two longer to post the story, but in the end, I was disappointed. I was forced to rewrite the story, taking the names of people and places out of it.

Skip forward to last week. I gave my first interview to Author Carole Brown, and in that interview, I told my “never quit “story. (http://www.sunnebnkwrtr.blogspot.com/2013/11/a-warm-welcome-to-ann-mccauley.html ) But on Friday night, I never wanted to quit writing more. Between the Morning Glory blog and my interview, I felt I’d exposed too much of my heart for the sake of writing.

The enemy viciously attacked my mind. Randy did his best to scrape me up and stick me back together, but I cried until the wee hours of morning.Writing and publishing is a lonely, solitary, and sometimes painful process.

By Monday morning, my feelings were not lining up, so I made a conscious choice. “Lord, I will only care what you think of me. I will write Your stories.”

The phone rang a few hours later and it was my daughter-in-law, Rachel. I hadn’t planned a trip to Bryant (almost an hour away), but I suddenly had a strong desire to see my two-year-old granddaughter, Addy. I found myself telling Rachel I would come and visit them the next day. My plan was to shop at Target, then run over to their house. But the next morning, Rachel asked me to come and get them first. She had some shopping to do, as well.

We had a wonderful morning and visited several stores. Right before lunch, I made it to Target with Addy. We shopped the Christmas aisle for a very long time, talking about Christmas and enjoying each other’s company. Rachel joined us when it was time to leave.The checkout lanes were crowded. I left one and moved to another where there was only one person ahead of me. Rachel decided to take Addy to the restroom for a diaper change.

Once I was alone, my gaze fell on the person sliding her card through the credit card machine. At first I skimmed the pretty, younger woman, but then every one of my nerves stood at attention.This woman looked like Tamara—David Baker’s daughter. I studied her eyes and held my breath as she entered her pin number. Hadn’t Tamara’s profile said she lived in Little Rock? This was Bryant, twenty to thirty minutes outside Little Rock. I’d only seen Tamara’s picture once. It couldn’t be. Could it?

That’s when I realized a shorter woman stood next to her, a woman with graying hair, holding a squirming baby boy. I leaned to the left to examine this other woman. She was Asian. A sudden thrill teased its way up my spine.

The two women moved aside to add their purchases to their buggy and leave. I had to act or forever wonder.

“Excuse me.” My hands trembled, and my voice shook. “Are you from Texarkana?”

The younger woman smiled a bit. “My mother is.” She nodded toward the older lady as my heart fluttered and blossomed in wonder. What have you done, Lord? How did you orchestrate this? Texarkana is two hours away.

“Is your name Baker?” The words rushed out of me of their own accord.

Tamara’s smile faded, and her face took on a puzzled expression.“Yes, my mother’s name is Baker.”

“Oh please, can you wait on me to check out. I’ve been searching for you. I really need a moment to speak with you. Please?”

Tamara’s shoulders relaxed though her eyebrows raised. “Of course.”

I don’t know how I got through the transaction. My mind sped one hundred miles an hour.When I finished and closed the gap between me and Mrs. Baker, she smiled and the baby relaxed on her shoulder and drifted sound asleep.

“Oh how, I have searched for you. I can’t believe this! Twenty-eight years ago, our husbands met in your home over business. We had been praying about adopting a daughter through Holt. We don’t believe it was ever a coincidence that Randy met your husband that day. We now have four adopted children, three through Holt International.”

Glenda’s smile grew wider and Tamara said, “So… This is a God thing.”

“Yes! Yes, this is a big God thing. Your mother and father have been a part of our testimony for years. I am a writer. On my blog, I’ve been sharing about our first daughter’s adoption. I blogged about you and your personal adoption story back in August, but not before I searched for you. I actually saw your photo on Facebook, Tamara. That’s how I recognized you.”

“You should have friended me!”

“Yes, I should have. Don’t you live in Little Rock?”

“No, I live here in Bryant. Where do you live?”

“Arkadelphia.”

“Really? My sister and I both went to Ouachita Baptist University in Arkadelphia! Ya know, Mom comes to help me once a month with my three little ones.That’s why she’s here today. Do you know about my Uncle John?”

“Yes! I wrote about him and how he and your mom were reunited and grew up together in Hooks, Texas. It’s an incredible story. I hope I got most of the details right.”

“Well, Uncle John is writing a book.You must talk to him.”'

Friends, I should probably end this story, but not until you know this. I never planned on going to Bryant, Arkansas this week. On Tuesday morning I awoke at 3AM, couldn’t go back to sleep, and I felt physically ill. I thought about staying home, but I wanted to see Addy since I won’t see her during the Thanksgiving holiday. I didn’t have a particular time to shop at Target. I am not sure why we checked out when we did. Or, why I changed lines...

But there is a God, and He is personal.This I know. And, when He chooses, He will peel back the curtain for you to see Him in action.There are no coincidences, only divine appointments.God is the same, yesterday, today, and forever. He is a supernatural God.

As I drove home from Bryant, I thought about how much I love the holidays and surprising my children—showering them with good gifts. I am sure my Heavenly Father was smiling. He loves me. He couldn’t wait for the opportunity to thrill me and give me two gifts named Tamara and Glenda.

Know this, dear ones. God feels just as passionately about each of you.

Listen for His Whispers

Pregnant: The Adoption of Megan, Segment 5

Everywhere I turned, God showered me with assurance about His plan for our adoption, right down to the family who moved across the street. The father of the young family was Japanese, and I gathered perspective on what it was like to be a mixed Asian family in the American South. Blended families did exist, even in our small town.

God networked behind the scenes. Families came into our lives that year who would be instrumental in Megan’s adoption: Richard and Belinda Burns, Bud and Sue Wood, and Ron and Stacy Smith.

We met Bud and Sue early that fall through our church. One evening they invited us to dinner. When we’d finished, the husbands left for a men’s prayer meeting. Sue and I curled up on the sofa to cross-stitch while our children played. I shared with Sue our plans to adopt a Korean baby. Her hoop and aida cloth dropped to her lap as her mouth fell open. I remember thinking she must not understand why we’d internationally adopt.  But before I could further explain, her eyes glistened with tears.

“All day long, God nudged me to phone you, Ann.  I couldn’t understand why, so I ignored His promptings. I feel so foolish, now.”

“Why?”

“I have a dear friend where we moved from that has a brain tumor. God kept telling me to call you and have you pray for her. Tomorrow she goes into the hospital to have surgery. Since I don’t know you well, I couldn’t understand the connection. Now? I do. My friend and her husband have four children, two biological and two adopted, one child from Japan.”

My heart clenched as faith for this woman’s healing rose in my gut. Certainly God wanted her to live and rear her children to know Him. Sue and I prayed. The next day, Sue’s friend had seventy x-rays and the doctors marveled. Not a trace of the tumor could be found.

Soon after, Bud told us he’d been adopted, and that was the special reason we’d become friends. The man thrived on every detail of Megan’s adoption and literally prayed her home.

Belinda and I became fast friends soon after I met Sue. Like Sue, I met Belinda at church. I had something special in common with her. She, the mother of boys, had a heart’s desire to have a daughter. But would her husband go for another baby in hard economic times, or would God grant the desire of her heart? We agreed to pray for one another. Her daughter, Mallory, was born on my birthday one year later. I think God smiled. Oh, and did I tell you? Turns out, Belinda’s husband, Richard, was adopted.

September 18, 1957/ September 18, 1986

A few months later, high school friends, Ron and Stacy Smith moved to our area. Ron, fresh out of medical school, opened his first practice. As we helped them move into their home, we had no idea the strong direction their lives and ours would branch and take. But one thing was sure. Ron and Stacy believed in miracles and prayerfully supported us. Stacy’s dad is Author Gilbert Morris

God brought others into our lives, for certain, extraordinary moments. Important others like Ed and LaVerne Midyett who slipped a crisp fifty dollar bill into Randy’s lapel pocket when he picked up his suit at their dry cleaners. It was January of 1986, and we were to leave bright and early the next morning for Memphis, TN and our first adoption agency interviews.

Sweating bullets, we stepped into the adoption agency office. Compact, its walls were covered in photos of Holt children with their forever families. These calmed our nerves a bit before the upcoming interrogation. How would we explain that we didn’t have a plan for coming up with our adoption monies?

The social worker rushed to greet us, and we were whisked into chairs. “I am so sorry, but before we begin, I must tell you there has been an oversight. Immigration is now requiring an extra fifty dollars, immediate payment.”

Fall 2013: Soon after Megan’s homecoming Bud and Sue Wood moved to Northwest Arkansas, Richard and Belinda Burns moved to Alaska, and Ron and Stacy Smith moved to Texas, and then Georgia. This summer the Burns returned to Arkansas, and Megan reconnected with her childhood friend, Mallory, now married and living near Houston. Richard and Belinda bought one of Megan’s paintings upon her graduation from Henderson State University this past spring, and it hangs in their living room.  Megan had no memory of Bud and Sue, but as we moved Meg to Fayetteville, AR this summer, she reconnected with the Wood family. Now Megan and I are separated by miles, but Bud and Sue are watching over her as though she were their own.

Bud and Sue Wood with Megan, June 2013

Listen For His Whispers

Pregnant: The Adoption of Megan, Segment 4

My mind worked double time to understand what God was saying through this television broadcast. Who was really killing the Hebrew children? Pharaoh was motivated by dark forces, his murder of each firstborn  child a slithering thread in a tangled satanic plot. The enemy was hard at work to butcher and cut off the seed from which Christ would eventually come.

My heart beat in rapid cadence.What about after the Christ child was born and King Herod, still bent on slaughter, set about to annihilate children? Satan was still trying to stop the righteous line and the deliverer.

Who is now that righteous line? I drummed my fingers on the coffee table.The believer. Randy. Me.
 

Like Pharaoh’s daughter, I imagined staring into the face of the child I would adopt. How was I saving her? She’d be grafted into the royal, righteous line. She’d have opportunity to one day know Jesus because together, Randy and I would shelter, protect, and teach her.

God was granting me more than the fulfillment of a personal desire. Yes, He delighted in gifting me a daughter, but He was also birthing a daughter of His own, a child after His own heart.

Panic gripped as I thought of the evil one. How might we be challenged? My attention returned to the minister on the television just as he said, “South Korean’s live day in and day out on the brink of war. Evangelism has exploded in their country. They have become earnest people of prayer.”

The host of the broadcast interrupted the minister. “America has become safe and smug. Life here is easy. Like Pharaoh’s daughter, we have ignored the abortion issue for too long. Countless babies are lost year after year at the expense of our freedom, luxury, and choice.”

Not once had it occurred to me that my daughter could be in her birth mother’s womb, or that she possibly faced danger in that hidden place. I wanted an infant more than anything, but did I dare hope? We were told our daughter could already be several months old, since she’d be younger than our youngest, and he would turn two years of age in the coming weeks.

A scripture surfaced. “Happy is he who has the God of Jacob for his help, whose hope is in the Lord.” I would not be afraid, but I would fight. I’d pray fervently and often for my child, and I’d come against a spirit of abortion.

The three-year-old burst through the kitchen screen door, and it banged shut. Breathless, he pointed to the front door. “Look Mama, there’s somebody moving into that house across the street. They’s got kids.”

I slid back the living room curtain. A man with raven, black hair and almond shaped eyes stood in the yard on the south side of the street. Two small children, markedly Asian—only blond—wrapped their arms about his legs.

Listen for His Whispers

Pregnant: The Adoption of Megan, Segment 3

Randy buried his face in his hands and groaned. A hot check was not acceptable. How could we overcome this fatal financial mistake with our adoption agency?

I raised my head and grasped the receiver as the phone rang. A cheerful voice on the other end greeted me. She identified herself as a case worker with Holt Children’s Services. A cloud descended over my crushed heart.  

“We were just about to call you. We discovered this morning our check was insufficient, and we feel terrible.”

“Mrs. McCauley, people who have money are generally not the ones who adopt our children. You’d be surprised how often this happens. We’ll run the check through again. No problem.”

Stunned, I fell silent.

The following weeks we busied ourselves with the application process and its endless bundle of questions about our character. We were asked to explore our marriage, our parenting skills, and our racial prejudices. Trusting. How simple and how hard. We would need over five-thousand dollars to adopt our daughter.  God reminded us His yoke is easy and His burden light, but too often we tried to carry the load and found ourselves rushing ahead of the Lord, obsessed with every detail.

One night, drained from the paperwork’s self-examinations and written responses, Randy and I prayed. Randy felt led to read the account of baby Moses. At first this seemed trivial to us both. I pictured myself as a little girl in Sunday school class. The teacher illustrating this story with felt bulrushes added a basket of reeds to a blue board. Why would God have us read this? I’d heard this story my whole life. But when Randy read Exodus chapter two aloud, and I visualized the Hebrew woman leaving her child by the water’s edge, it hit me. Moses was an adopted child.

We had been told this child would be younger than our youngest, and Jarred was two. Was she safely being knit in her mother’s womb? Or was she a toddling one-year-old? 

The next day the squeak and groan of the backyard see-saw clashed with the boys belting out songs they learned in Children’s Church. I quietly slipped away while contemplating the story of baby Moses. When my shoe slid inside the kitchen threshold, I felt compelled to turn on a certain Christian television show. I glanced at the clock. The show was over. I believed God for a baby half-way around the world, but I wouldn’t turn on the TV? I stepped into the living room, laughing at myself, and hit the power button.

When the beam of light burst into a full screen on the set, the host of the show said they were extending their broadcast by one hour. I hunkered on the edge of the sofa. The minister they were interviewing had just returned to the states from Seoul, South Korea. A camera zoomed in, and the minister said, “God has shown me something in a new light. While in Korea, I saw Pharaoh’s daughter in my mind’s eye. She was standing at the river’s edge, Moses in her arms. Pharaoh, her father, had been murdering babies, and perhaps his daughter could no longer sit in her royal palace, oblivious to the slaughter. Perhaps she could not look into the eyes of this Hebrew child and run from the truth any longer.”

My hands trembled, and my knees knocked. The screech of the see-saw in the background faded. 

Look for Segment 4 of Megan's story in October 2013. 

Listen for His Whispers