Pregnant: The Adoption of Megan, Segment 8

The wind of the Holy Spirit gusted. A cloud came into view. Rain. A sign of blessing. Thick with promise, this cloud swelled, puffed, and churned out mottled shades of gray and green in a sudden downpour. I flipped my umbrella over. And, the deluge of bills filled it to capacity.

I wish.

We expected a miracle from God. Hadn’t He proved to us He was able? We certainly had no other means of generating wealth for Megan’s adoption.

Four weeks passed from the day we received Megan’s photos, then another two. Nothing transpired other than we learned our daughter’s Korean name meant silver jewel.

Silver in scripture speaks of a refiner’s fire. “You have tested us O God; you have purified us like silver.” (NLT Psalm 66:10) Silver represents God’s personal shaping of His workmanship. Did you know a silversmith must tenaciously watch His creation while it’s in the fire so he doesn’t injure and damage the silver? What love.

And what of jewels? They are a picture of God’s redeemed. By grace we are transformed. Science cannot recreate a jewel. Men have tried, but only God can take something lowly in nature from the earth and transform it into a precious gem. 

But what did this knowledge have to do with us? When Megan was two months old a letter came from Holt. 

September 11, 1986:

“Ht. 23 in. Wt.14.1 lbs. Laughs with a small voice.  Eye follows a rattle, four ways.  Actively grasps a rattle. No head lag. Some weight bearing. Prone—lifts head high, chest up. **Adoptable.”

The word adoptable seared my heart. Time passed—our daughter growing while separated from us. How could I not long to be a part of her earliest moments. Being an earthling, panic tried to rise and choke me.

God gave me a scripture to rely on. “The Lord God will help me. Therefore I will not be disgraced; therefore I have set my face like flint, and I know I will not be ashamed.” (NKJ) Isaiah 50:7 

“Set my face like flint. Set my face like flint. I will not be ashamed. I will not be ashamed.” Daily, I must have recited this a thousand times. But the weeks grew longer and longer.

October 18, 1986:

 “Three months old. Ht. 24 in. Wt. 13.7 lbs.  Laughs loudly. Brings hands to midline. Some weight bearing. Prone, lifts head high, chest up. **Adoptable.”

Full-fledged panic ensued. Wouldn’t Holt call at any moment and take Megan away from us? We schemed, but could not come up with the money. Then the most heart-wrenching scenario occurred. Three different sources promised the money. But over the course of that month, none could deliver.

Many well-meaning friends desired to help, but their hands were tied. My heart like a yo-yo on a string couldn’t take the strain. I felt near collapse, and Randy did. On Sunday morning, in the middle of church, a violent attack of inner ear struck and men from the church had to help my husband home. Stress related?  No doubt. But weren’t we threats to the enemy, as well? If Megan came to our home, she’d hear the gospel. 

November 15, 1986:

“Four months old. Ht. 25 in. Wt. 14.1 lbs. Makes vowel sounds. Babbles. Sits alone with two hands held forward. Rolls over both ways. Some weight bearing. Reaches out, grasps toy with one hand. **Adoptable.”

Those words. Adoptable. My first daughter? Stillborn. This one? Held at ransom halfway around the world. We fasted. We prayed. We begged God. And then—a knowing settled over me. Our refiner’s fire burned hotter, the silver molten. Our July 5^th jewel, an oriental ruby, teetered just out of our reach, and time had run out. 

***

Megan—Mighty One, Victorious Spirit

Come and let us walk in the light of the Lord. (Isaiah 2:5)

Hope—Faithful, Understanding Heart

Delight yourself also in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart. (Psalm 37:4)

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

Pregnant: The Adoption of Megan, Segment 6

The adoption home study was finished. A bill arrived from Holt for four hundred and fifty dollars. My heart squeezed. This payment was time sensitive since it would cover immigration expenses. Randy and I chewed nails waiting for God to tell us what to do. The obvious? No extra money had magically appeared in our bank account.

One day passed, then another. On Sunday morning—just as I slipped one foot over the bathtub to towel off—I heard the still small voice of God speak two words inside my head. The Coin.

I pulled on my bathrobe, cinched it, and sat down on the edge of the tub. Really God? Something as important as this and You speak while I’m climbing out of the bathtub? But I knew exactly what He meant by those two targeted words.

My precious father figure—my grandfather—had died a little more than a year before and left me a single gold coin. Papaw Kirksey was a small man. Not very tall. Not wealthy. But a gentle, soft-spoken soul who loved me. I can’t tell you the hours I spent in his lap, combing his dark, wavy hair. He was a patient man. His most endearing feature? His slow and boyish grin. It was a fact, he loved children more than anything. You could see it in his sparkling baby blues when they rested on any child, but especially on my brother and me.

April 1958
This is me with Papaw eight months before my dad passed away.

Papaw owned a gas station. And his only material treasure was a coin collection he’d started when he was very young. As a five year old, he'd purchased a minuscule rawhide coin purse from the Sears, Roebuck and Co. catalog where he kept his first prized possession—an Indian head nickel. Through the years, Papaw kept his coins in a dresser drawer and then a foot locker. He’d polish them, and show them to me on a regular basis. And when he was gone, each immediate family member received one of his cherished gold pieces. It was like they were holy—not meant to be spent.

September 1976
Papaw, while struggling with Parkinson's disease, walked me down the aisle to Randy.

Selling the coin would be difficult.

The next day, my husband found the local coin dealer’s number in the phone book and scribbled down the street address.

“How? How are we supposed to know what this one coin is worth, Randy? How can I give it up?"

“We’ll see… Just because he makes us an offer doesn’t mean we have to take it.”

Three blocks from the coin dealer’s home my heart raced. Two blocks… One block…

“Pull over! Pull over in that church parking lot, Randy.We have to pray, again. Family will be incensed when they find out we sold this.”

Randy parked under a tree sprouting new spring leaves and switched off the motor. He took my hand and prayed for wisdom.

When he finished, I pulled my Bible into my lap and randomly opened it to Mark 14. My gaze fell on the story of Mary, who washed the feet of Jesus with her hair. I began reading it aloud. It said people were indignant that she’d broken an expensive bottle of perfume—some sort of precious oil—and used it to wash His feet. They shouted at her. But Jesus told them to leave her alone. In the last verse of this account, Jesus said that what she’d done would be remembered and retold as a memorial to her.

I looked up into Randy’s face. “Granny Kirksey called me a week or so ago. She spent her gold coin. Did you know that?”

Randy reached over and squeezed my hand tighter. “No. Why?”

“Because Papaw's been gone more than a year, and she had no other way to pay for his headstone. She wanted him to have a memorial. Those were her exact words.”

A smile stretched across Randy’s mouth. “You know what I think this means? I think your grandfather loved children. Megan will be a living memorial in his honor. She is the only thing worth spending this coin on—ever.”

The coin dealer studied the gold piece. “I have an offer.”

My gaze flitted to my husband.We'd made a pact not to tell the man how much money we needed. Randy motioned for the man to continue. 

“I’ll not give you a penny less or a penny more than four hundred and fifty dollars.”

Listen for His whispers...