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