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
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