When You're Tempted to Quit
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.”
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.
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.
