Mornings in our lives are those fresh, new beginnings we cherish each time we experience God.

When You're Tempted to Quit

Twelve months had passed since God gave my husband and me a beautiful vision of having a daughter from South Korea. The faith months, of believing what seemed impossible, were marked by milestones, each a tender expression of the Shepherd’s leading. I had lost a baby girl at birth five years earlier, but God had another daughter for me, whom I’d name Megan.  On the Fourth of July, I cross-stitched her name beneath a rosette of pink flowers and framed the needlework for the nursery we’d soon create.

Every week for two months I had eagerly asked husband; “Can we put the nursery together?” 

And each week, he’d said, “It’s not time, Ann.  Let’s wait.”

But on this Fourth of July 1986, he didn’t balk.  He agreed that the next morning, we would put our daughter’s baby bed together and prepare her room, though we didn’t have a clue how we’d financially adopt her. 

The next morning, husband was outdoors searching for hardware to use on the crib.  I was in the nursery ironing little girl clothes, lovingly crafted for our first daughter, who never got to wear them.  A voice planted seeds of doubt in my heart.  The voice was cruel.  It said; “You’re a fool.  This isn’t God.  You made it up because you want a daughter so much.  These little pink things your ironing?  They’ll never be worn by a child in your arms.”

Panic galloped through my heart.  I shook and fought tears.  The thought raced through my head that I was unbalanced.  And then I crumbled, telling God I was sorry, and that I’d go to everyone I’d told and tell them I had conjured the whole idea of adoption from a warped imagination.

I snatched a Living Bible from the bedside table and flung it open, begging God to give me a word of comfort.  My eyes fell to a scripture about preparing a signboard for a child before knowing the child was on its way.   Then my eyes riveted on the cross-stitched sampler I’d created.  My pulse slowed; my mind cleared. 

“No,” I said aloud to the voice.  “God gave me vision for this daughter.”  Not once had adoption crossed my natural mind in the years prior.  This was God’s story to write.

Three weeks later the phone rang.  I dried my hands on a dishtowel, as my two young sons flew by dressed as superheroes.  Our social worker was on the phone.  Her pleasant voice pulsated joy as she said, “Ann, congratulations! You have a daughter.”

I slid to the kitchen floor, receiver in hand, knees weak.  “How old is she?”  I asked, my heart brimming with hope.  Our youngest son was turning two.  The agency had told us our daughter would at least be younger than our youngest.  My heart braced to be told she was more than a year old.  Perhaps eighteen months?

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

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

“She was born on the fifth day of July, Ann—just three weeks ago.”

On July fifth of this year, Megan will be twenty-six years old.  What a blessing she has been to our lives.  How many adoptive parents have the privilege of knowing exactly what they were doing the date their child was born?  What if I’d quit?  I was so close.  What if I hadn’t reached for the Word of God?  The day our daughter was born was the very day the enemy launched his most brutal attack on my mind.

You and I are not so different; we are clay.  Are you listening to the voice of your enemy telling you to quit your dream—the dream planted in your heart by Almighty God?  Are you second guessing whether something you have believed was ever from God at all?  Dreams and visions take all shapes.  If you know yours was born of God, don’t give up!  He will write your story.