Pregnant

Megan's Adoption Story

We were on a working vacation, Randy making sales calls while the kids and I played at lakes and parks. And, the week couldn’t have gone worse.  The one-year-old threw up in the car, every commission sale fell through, the radiator sprung a leak, and our cash was stolen at one of our last stops. I glanced back at my two young sons in their car-seats. Blissful sleep. I actually had time on my hands to worry about us. How would we buy groceries next week?

Kirk, age three on that memorable day in 1985.

Jarred, age one.

Randy drove. My gaze swiveled from the boys to out the car window and locked on the beautiful Ozark mountain range. How could I worry when looking at God’s incredible creation? The stretch of countryside awed, and the Holy Spirit rose inside me. I declined worry and chose to pray.

No sooner had I silently begun, than something strange and unusual unfolded. Something that had never happened to me before. A picture—like a photograph—appeared in front of my eyes. I shook my head, but the profile of a baby girl remained, pasted between me and the windshield.

“The two in the back seat were born of your womb, but she is born of your heart.”

Whoa… Did God just speak to me? The photo didn’t move. The car lumbered on, and Randy, lost in his own thoughts, seemed oblivious.

The child had straight, coal black hair. Her skin-tone was olive. She looked nothing like me or my family members.

“I came to give the desires of your heart, Ann. I know how much you’ve wanted a baby girl since yours was stillborn.”

An adoption, Lord? Never once had Randy and I spoken of adoption. I could still biologically have children.

“Call Marsha.”

Marsha? Why Marsha?

I waited, but God said nothing else. How did calling my old friend, Marsha, make sense? She’d lived in our neighborhood for one year, the year my firstborn was delivered stillborn. She and her deaf child, Carrie, had moved to Washington D. C. a few months later where Marsha had landed a job in speech pathology at Gallaudet.

The photo in my head faded, yet was imprinted in my memory. This would obviously be a Native American adoption or an overseas adoption. Asia perhaps? Wouldn’t a work so magnanimous as foreign adoption or Native American adoption need to be headquartered in Washington D. C.? 

I didn’t know a single person with an adopted child except for those who had done private or state adoption where the child was matched to his or her family. I didn’t know a single Native American or Asian person. Although,I had gone to school with a girl whose parents had been from China, but that had been years ago.

Then it hit me… How would I tell my husband what had just transpired? A heavy lump settled in the pit of my stomach, and a cold sweat spread across my brow. This was weird. Which meant, I was weird. I blew air from between my lips and garnered Randy’s attention.

“Uh… Something just happened.”

“What?”

“Something spiritual.”

“Like what?”

“I think I had a vision.”

His eyebrow quirked. “And?”

I spilled my guts.

When I finished, he nodded. Slowly and for quite awhile. “You know, Ann, I respect the spiritual side of you. If you say you heard God speak and saw a vision, then I believe you. We’ll see what happens.”

A tremor of excitement shot through me. I was pregnant. I was having a baby. A beautiful baby girl. God said. And, yes, though another daughter couldn’t take my first daughter’s place, I wanted a baby girl more than anything.

“Do you realize what this means, Randy? We’re having a baby!”

“Slow down… I don’t doubt you, sweetheart… But keep in mind… I haven’t had the same experience as you. All I have to go on is what you have told me. We can’t even afford a long distance phone call to Marsha.”

I smiled. The man slumped.

When we arrived home, I bustled to the bedroom telephone where in privacy I dialed Marsha’s number. Randy wrangled with the boys. The phone rang once. 

“Oh my goodness! What am I doing? Marsha’s gonna think I’ve lost my mind.” I hadn’t spoken with her in more than a year.

Too late. She answered.

I swallowed, greeted her, and began my story.

“I know God spoke to me today, Marsha, and I understand if you think I’m crazy—over-the-top crazy.”

Marsha’s warm laugh gave me hope. “Ann… If anyone else called today and told me God had spoken to them, I would’ve already hung up. But not you. Not you, my friend…”

I took the plunge. “God told me we were going to adopt a baby girl, and He told me to call you, and I don’t know why, but I know He said so, and I… well… there you have it.”

Dead silence.

I squeezed my eyes shut with the pain of being so peculiar. “You do think I’m a lunatic, don’t you?”

“No…”

Dead silence, again.

“Marsha, why was I supposed to call you?”

“Because, my husband and I have been discussing adoption for quite some time, and we’ve done all the leg work for you. Gotta a pen?”

This photo of Megan developed three years later at Christmas time, stunned me. It is strikingly similar to the picture God planted in my heart that memorable day in 1985.

The next segment of Megan's story will be in August.

Listen for His Whispers