The first phone number Marsha presented led to Holt
International Children’s Services in Eugene, Oregon. I’d never heard of it.
When I called, they told me about their Korean adoption program. Don’t ask how
I knew, but this was it. Our daughter was Korean. It matched the picture etched
in my mind’s eye. I asked for their $15
pre-application packet. They explained they’d recently opened an office in
Memphis, Tennessee. The South, steeped in prejudice, had not been ready for
Asian adoption until the eighties. Now they were placing children in Arkansas.
Four weeks later, Randy wrote a check to Holt
International Children’s Services for the $50 application fee and sealed the
envelope. He wagged it in front of my face.
“You know I respect you, Ann. But this is big. I
have to juggle our money to have the fifty dollars, and I haven’t heard from
God about this.”
“I don’t want something God isn’t directing. It’s
scary to think of entering into something we aren’t together on. Whatever you
decide, we will do.”
“Okay. Then I’m putting this envelope on top of the
entertainment center, and I will pray. I’m not mailing it until I’ve heard from
God, understand?”
Thankfully, I was busy with toddlers as time seemed
to drag.
Two more weeks passed, and Randy’s job out of Huntsville, Alabama phoned.
They were sending him two hours away, to interview a couple interested in
purchasing a line of medical vending machines. A huge investment for this
couple, Randy made the appointment to see them both. He’d been trained on how important
it was for the wife to be present when talking about an investment of these
proportions. He couldn’t mess this up. We desperately needed him to close this
sale.
Upon his arrival, he was greeted at the door by the
husband. They chatted in the threshold, and found they had things in common. As they meandered through the hallway,
the man told Randy his wife had taken ill just before he’d arrived. She had
gone to bed.
Later, as Randy recounted this story, he told me how
his heart sunk at that moment. With no wife to hear his sales pitch, chances
were slim he’d close the deal. He paused where he stood, about to suggest they
postpone their meeting, when the husband swept his hand through the air.
Randy’s gaze followed.
“This is my wife and children.” He gestured toward a
large wall portrait, and Randy stilled. The man’s wife was Asian.
Finally, Randy cleared his throat.
“Yes. She’s Korean.”
“Korean, you say? That’s interesting. My wife and I
have been praying about a Korean adoption.”
The man’s eyes lit. “My wife was adopted from Korea
in the 1950’s. Her parents were neighbors with a family who adopted a little
Korean boy. This boy always carried a tattered photo of his sister in his pocket.
My in-laws adopted that young girl, but before the brother and sister were
reunited, the neighbors moved to the East Coast. A year or so passed, and the
boy’s adoptive father called and asked my in-laws if they could meet in a
neighboring state. There, the man told my in-laws his wife was terminally ill.
He asked if they would be willing to take the boy and adopt him as their own,
reuniting him with his sister. So, my wife and her brother grew up together
near here.”
Electric pulses ran Randy's arms, but before he could
respond, the man shifted his stance and pinned a steady gaze on him. “My wife
was adopted through Holt International Children’s Services. Have you heard of
them?”
Randy sprouted wings and flew home. Needless to say,
he mailed the application fee to Holt. But in spite of our vigilant watch over
the bank account, the check to Holt bounced like a rubber ball. Was it possible for human error to wreck God's plan?
The third segment of Megan’s adoption story will be
posted in September 2013.
Listen for His Whispers
