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

Megan's Adoption Story

We were on a working vacation, Randy making sales calls while the kids and I played at lakes and parks. And, the week couldn’t have gone worse.  The one-year-old threw up in the car, every commission sale fell through, the radiator sprung a leak, and our cash was stolen at one of our last stops. I glanced back at my two young sons in their car-seats. Blissful sleep. I actually had time on my hands to worry about us. How would we buy groceries next week?

Kirk, age three on that memorable day in 1985.

Jarred, age one.

Randy drove. My gaze swiveled from the boys to out the car window and locked on the beautiful Ozark mountain range. How could I worry when looking at God’s incredible creation? The stretch of countryside awed, and the Holy Spirit rose inside me. I declined worry and chose to pray.

No sooner had I silently begun, than something strange and unusual unfolded. Something that had never happened to me before. A picture—like a photograph—appeared in front of my eyes. I shook my head, but the profile of a baby girl remained, pasted between me and the windshield.

“The two in the back seat were born of your womb, but she is born of your heart.”

Whoa… Did God just speak to me? The photo didn’t move. The car lumbered on, and Randy, lost in his own thoughts, seemed oblivious.

The child had straight, coal black hair. Her skin-tone was olive. She looked nothing like me or my family members.

“I came to give the desires of your heart, Ann. I know how much you’ve wanted a baby girl since yours was stillborn.”

An adoption, Lord? Never once had Randy and I spoken of adoption. I could still biologically have children.

“Call Marsha.”

Marsha? Why Marsha?

I waited, but God said nothing else. How did calling my old friend, Marsha, make sense? She’d lived in our neighborhood for one year, the year my firstborn was delivered stillborn. She and her deaf child, Carrie, had moved to Washington D. C. a few months later where Marsha had landed a job in speech pathology at Gallaudet.

The photo in my head faded, yet was imprinted in my memory. This would obviously be a Native American adoption or an overseas adoption. Asia perhaps? Wouldn’t a work so magnanimous as foreign adoption or Native American adoption need to be headquartered in Washington D. C.? 

I didn’t know a single person with an adopted child except for those who had done private or state adoption where the child was matched to his or her family. I didn’t know a single Native American or Asian person. Although,I had gone to school with a girl whose parents had been from China, but that had been years ago.

Then it hit me… How would I tell my husband what had just transpired? A heavy lump settled in the pit of my stomach, and a cold sweat spread across my brow. This was weird. Which meant, I was weird. I blew air from between my lips and garnered Randy’s attention.

“Uh… Something just happened.”

“What?”

“Something spiritual.”

“Like what?”

“I think I had a vision.”

His eyebrow quirked. “And?”

I spilled my guts.

When I finished, he nodded. Slowly and for quite awhile. “You know, Ann, I respect the spiritual side of you. If you say you heard God speak and saw a vision, then I believe you. We’ll see what happens.”

A tremor of excitement shot through me. I was pregnant. I was having a baby. A beautiful baby girl. God said. And, yes, though another daughter couldn’t take my first daughter’s place, I wanted a baby girl more than anything.

“Do you realize what this means, Randy? We’re having a baby!”

“Slow down… I don’t doubt you, sweetheart… But keep in mind… I haven’t had the same experience as you. All I have to go on is what you have told me. We can’t even afford a long distance phone call to Marsha.”

I smiled. The man slumped.

When we arrived home, I bustled to the bedroom telephone where in privacy I dialed Marsha’s number. Randy wrangled with the boys. The phone rang once. 

“Oh my goodness! What am I doing? Marsha’s gonna think I’ve lost my mind.” I hadn’t spoken with her in more than a year.

Too late. She answered.

I swallowed, greeted her, and began my story.

“I know God spoke to me today, Marsha, and I understand if you think I’m crazy—over-the-top crazy.”

Marsha’s warm laugh gave me hope. “Ann… If anyone else called today and told me God had spoken to them, I would’ve already hung up. But not you. Not you, my friend…”

I took the plunge. “God told me we were going to adopt a baby girl, and He told me to call you, and I don’t know why, but I know He said so, and I… well… there you have it.”

Dead silence.

I squeezed my eyes shut with the pain of being so peculiar. “You do think I’m a lunatic, don’t you?”

“No…”

Dead silence, again.

“Marsha, why was I supposed to call you?”

“Because, my husband and I have been discussing adoption for quite some time, and we’ve done all the leg work for you. Gotta a pen?”

This photo of Megan developed three years later at Christmas time, stunned me. It is strikingly similar to the picture God planted in my heart that memorable day in 1985.

The next segment of Megan's story will be in August.

Listen for His Whispers

The Gift of Avery

Linda Requard Hatcher

A bright shaft of sunlight welcomed me to the window and warmed my face. Spring blossoms peeked out of their buds. What a lovely April day. A car door slammed, and I charged to the front door and stretched it wide to catch the first glimpse of my daughter, Becky, and her husband, Ferris. And, when my daughter turned the corner of the house, my arms flew open.

“Hurry!” My feet danced in place. “I can't wait another minute.”

The flannel bundle Becky bore wriggled in her arms, and my heart did a flip flop. A sigh escaped my lips as my chest rose and fell with grandmother pride. A fifth grandchild… Avery Lynn. Hadn't I relocated near my daughter for this moment? Between a newborn and an active toddler, she needed me. After being widowed, I longed to be useful.

Avery's tiny features mirrored those of her mother's as a babe. So sweet… But when I lifted her higher and the blanket slid to her shoulders, my breath caught. Her skull was like a coconut—too small and underdeveloped. The top of her head appeared darker than her face and across her forehead ran a deep ridge.

The news hurled me onto my bed in prayer. I grabbed my Bible and thrust it open.

Oh dear Lord, what is wrong with my precious grandchild?

Craniosynostosis, a condition gripping our baby girl and challenging her future, served daunting prospects. What was craniosynostosis? Avery had no soft spot (fontanel) on her head, and the skull sutures over both her ears were fused shut.  Without surgical correction, her growing brain would have too little room to expand, risking brain damage and disfigurement.

Becky and Ferris traveled to a consultation with doctors at Arkansas Children’s Hospital. The news was heart-wrenching as the specialist described a long, extensive surgery which the baby would not be strong enough to undergo until she was ten months old. A blood transfusion from the mother would be necessary, and there would be steep risks involved in opening the cranium.

The news hurled me onto my bed in prayer. I grabbed my Bible and thrust it open.

God hear my cries for help…

My gaze fell to a verse in Proverbs 10:6 (NIV). “Blessings crown the head of the righteous.” The voice of my Father brought comfort. With this specific promise in mind, I referenced Scriptures on the word head. I combed verses, and they seemed to leap off the pages and into my believing heart.

Without surgical correction, her growing brain would have too little room to expand, risking brain damage and disfigurement.

Jesus was crucified on a hill, Golgotha, shaped and named for a skull. He was pierced in his head as His captors forced a crown of thorns to his brow. Oh, how Jesus suffered in his head! But wasn’t that the point? He suffered for my peace and for Avery’s healing. As I prayed, the Lord’s presence seemed to cloak me, and I envisioned baby girl in some sort of white turban God would provide. A turban like the Levitical priests had worn. And when I stood, the burden I carried for Avery rolled from my shoulders. God took my fear and heartache and made them His own while promising me future joy over her healing.

The first miracle came when we heard about a support group for parents of children with these birth defects. The group, National Craniofacial Association, offered testimonials from other families faced with my granddaughter’s same heartbreaking condition. Again and again, the name of a medical group in San Antonio at the university hospital drew my attention. This team was seeing great success with an endoscopic alternative to the full open dome cranial surgery. I read with keen interest about this team headed by Dr. David Jimenez, a distinguished neurosurgeon who was operating on young infants using endoscopy before the fused bones had time to harden. This endoscopy was far less intrusive to my baby’s brain.

My children and I investigated the possibility of Avery seeing this San Antonio group of specialists. With approval from my son-in-law’s insurance company, a few photos of Avery, and medical records, she had her first appointment and was approved and scheduled for this corrective procedure. How faithfully our Father God cared for Avery and our family.

We received a generous care package from Cranio Care Bears, a loving network of families with like challenges. We learned that the Cranio Facial Association would help underwrite our traveling expenses to and from the hospital, for the initial surgery and follow-up care. Friends from St Andrew's Church in Little Rock organized a garage sale to defray our expenses in going so far from home.

One of my former pastors who now leads Grace Fellowship Church in San Antonio learned of our upcoming surgery. His wonderful church folks readied meals for us and prepared to babysit Avery’s three- year- old big brother during her surgery and hospital stay. Ronald McDonald House, located near University hospital, welcomed us with little expense.

 “Blessings crown the head of the righteous.”  

On and on, provisions presented themselves as we walked out this adventure. Our own Fellowship Church in Arkadelphia encouraged us with prayers and traveling money. God blessed every detail of our Avery’s medical journey. The first time I laid eyes on my little granddaughter waves of emotion had swept me because I didn’t know how my daughter and her husband would provide for the baby’s medical needs. God astounded us.

The musical mobile above the hospital crib played a soothing tune while little Avery recuperated in the hospital. She smiled and cooed at the mobile, and I wept. Thanks to our wonderful Father's grace, Avery had a bright future and hope.

Months have passed. One-year-old Avery toddles forward, her plastic helmet sporting a red gingham bow that matches her seersucker sundress.

“Come on, baby, walk to me. You can do it.”

Thank you God, she has this sturdy headgear during this season when she daily takes falls like other children her age.

Becky strides through the door to retrieve her child.“Only three more weeks with the helmet, Mom. Can you believe it?”

“Well, yes… I can sweetheart. I saw that white turban when I first prayed for God's help, and while it was sometimes difficult hanging on to His promise, the Lord has crowned Avery's head with blessings just like He said He would.”

While I didn’t realize this would mean three different helmets during her months of cranial expansion, my grandbaby’s head is now shaped and lovely.

Sovereign Lord, my strong deliverer, you shield my head in the 
day of battle. Psalm140:7 (NIV)

 Listen for His whispers...

When God Closes a Door

Family summer camp, Buffalo Gap, Texas 1997 was a long anticipated trip. But who could guess my world was about to tilt? 

My youngest of five children, an adopted Filipino daughter, was ten.The speaker grabbed my interest right off since she was a missionary from the Philippines. 

I scooped a friend’s three month old son into my lap and took a seat in the middle of my row of church companions while the program started.

Only a moment passed, and God whispered, “I have another child for you, Ann. Baby. Boy. Biracial. Blind. And remember, when a door is closed, I will open a window.”

Stunned and questioning, I wept. Had I really heard God speak? I had to get out of the conference room. I scoured the length of the baby boy in my arms, born the past April, and I tried to imagine myself starting over as a parent. I stood and thrust the babe back into his mother's arms to skirt down the row and flee outdoors.

Two months later, I turned forty. I asked God if I had imagined the incident. We didn’t qualify with immigration for international adoption anymore, and in the online listings across the states, not one child fit the description of B.B.B.B. (Baby-Boy-Biracial-Blind). 

On that day, God led me to a passage of scripture about Caleb of old. He showed me the faith and courage of the Biblical Caleb, and told me to name my son after him.

Caleb Andrew McCauley

December rolled around. I decided I was missing something.Why couldn’t I find this child? I had to think outside the box. My husband passed me one evening while I was sitting at the computer, head in my hands, and he patted my shoulder. “Ann, you’ll know him when you see him.” Hadn't we been through this together three other times, having three internationally adopted children? And God had never done anything the same way twice.

No child in the USA matched Caleb’s description. I was forced to look abroad. I explored the expression, When God Closes a Door, He Opens a Window, and when I did, a story about a Russian adoption popped onto the computer screen. With new-found faith and courage, I navigated to a site which posted Russian children available for adoption. A newborn picture flashed across the screen. My husband was right. I knew him. Our son was a reality.

This baby boy had been born the past April. Same age as the child I had held at camp the night God spoke to me. A shiver ran my spine.   Their birthdays were one day apart.

The caption under the pic said the baby was born without a right eye and that he was biracial. He was a baby. He was a boy. Blind? I supposed being born without a right eye qualified for blindness. But, biracial? He had straight black hair and light skin. In my mind, I had pictured curly, black hair and a much darker complexion. 

Further reading explained it all. The baby was half Asian and half Caucasian. He lived in an orphanage in Siberia.

Then the waiting really started...

First, how could we qualify for international adoption when we were not within the income bracket to apply? Second hurdle? We had no savings, and this adoption required more money than we could imagine, plus travel.

Nine months later, I was heartsick from crying at the altar week after week for direction. My baby boy had turned one year old the past April, and now it was September. I was attached to the baby I prayed for daily, and I was either missing his infancy, or I had truly imagined it all…

But then—God.

Boss called my husband into his office. The man knew nothing of our situation, and my husband had worked for him many years without a pay raise. That single, September day would turn everything around. The boss announced that he was giving my husband a raise, and it was just enough to put us over the requirement for international adoption. 

Now, with an empty savings account, we only needed thousands of dollars...

The agency reduced the fees by several hundred dollars right off because this was a special needs adoption, the child having only one eye, but we still needed twenty-three thousand. 

All we could do was tell people about Caleb’s need and establish a fund through our local church, the Caleb Club.

People in our Louisiana church, a very small congregation of working class people, began giving as they could. Giving was a sacrifice and a blessing for them. A baby bed was donated. Small beginnings.This church family helped us do a barbecue plate sale fundraiser, and we earned fifteen-hundred dollars. Only a drop in what seemed like a bottomless bucket.

Then something extraordinary began to happen. 

Word traveled through email all over the country. A pastor and author in our denomination, whom we did not know, sent five hundred dollars to us from Oregon. 

A homeschooled boy walked up to us at a meeting and handed us a one dollar bill.

A family with adopted Russian children sent hundreds of dollars from California. 

A local physician offered free services. 

Old and dear friends stepped up to help financially.

Families in our homeschool group began giving with big hearts. 

When we went to get our shots to travel abroad, the nurse gave us a check for two hundred dollars. Why? Just because she wanted to be a part of it all. 

Another family gave us frequent flyer miles to purchase tickets.

And, the waterfall of God’s goodness plunged over us in overwhelming proportions. Every penny we needed came to us little by little. Each precious dollar representing one of God's faithful.

April 20, 1999, while holding that newborn picture of Caleb, we met him for the first time. He had turned two the day before. How often in our lifetimes do we stare at the closed doors of impossibility when God’s window curtain is flapping nearby in the wind?

"... Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and strength belong to our God forever and ever! Amen!" Revelation 7:12 (New Living Translation)

Caleb Andrew McCauley

December 2012

Listen for His Whispers

Seasoned

I wouldn't be a Southern gal if I didn't own an iron skillet or two. When I married, I was given ten. 

Opening the final gift of my bridal shower, I tugged tissue paper away to reveal yet one more five pound, cast iron bludgeon to add to my culinary arsenal. My grandmother hunched forward to whisper in my ear that skillets needed to be seasoned. The entire circle heard her raspy revelation which led to a round-table discussion on best methods.  Rolling my eyes, I thought: Somehow the excitement of being in love overshadows this Suzy Homemaker session.

When despite my heartfelt newlywed labors, I scorched the eggs four mornings straight; I humbly realized Grandma knew what she was talking about—seasoning is serious. I had a vague idea that seasoning had something to do with iron changing to a darkened state. After all, my skillets had been slate gray when new from the gift wrap unlike my grandmother’s coal black ones. And what was the current condition of mine?  They were orange with rust. Tongue in cheek, I swallowed my pride, and approached my grandmother, asking, "How DO you season a skillet?"  
            Her answer sounded tedious, not in the least romantic. In fact, it sounded like WORK.  But then a space bubble appeared just above my head, where I pictured myself scrubbing scorched eggs off the surface of the skillet while droplets of sweat ricocheted from the pan's surface; and I decided it wouldn’t hurt to listen. Though, this kind of activity was not how I imagined my first days of wedded delight, Grandma’s gentle admonition of marital purpose caused my heart to rouse, and I listened to her instructions with new found ardor and allegiance to backwoods kitchen warfare. 

1.      Grease the skillet

2.      Allocate the storage of the skillet to the oven

3.      Whenever you heat the oven to bake, the skillet will turn red hot

4.      Remove it from the oven while baking whatever you heated the oven to cook

5.      After it cools, grease the skillet again

6.      Repeat

7.      Repeat

8.      Repeat

9.      Repeat

Just as Grandma vowed, the oil and the heat seasoned my iron skillet over a period of time. Cornbread batter stopped sticking to the sides and bottom, and my eggs turned out light and fluffy. This meant my groom became a happier and less-hungry man.

Twenty years later, I lounged on the sofa, awake before the children for a rare moment of quiet. As I considered all the challenges and tangled problems of my life and tried to tell God how He could fix them, the image of my large iron skillet popped into another space bubble just above my head. Of all things to envision! And in the deep quiet place of my heart, I heard the Lord say, “Ann, you're just like that old, iron skillet.”

I grew quiet. Forevermore! How am I like a skillet? As I pondered the analogy, I realized that through the years of use and faithful seasoning, that heavy, blackened skillet had become my most desired kitchen tool and dependable friend.

How have You seasoned me, Lord? I just feel rusty, I thought as tears streaked my cheeks, and a sob swelled in my throat.

And the answer came. The fires of life: money pressures, marriage challenges, the blur of diapers, meals, training, homeschooling. Oh, the hours of homeschooling!  Will I ever make it through to graduation with one child—much less six—and, what about their unique learning differences? How will I meet everyone’s need when there is only one of me? He reminded me, I am never alone. Then His tender disclosure made my eyes grow wide with understanding. All the circumstantial difficulties of life knotted together were the oven of my seasoning. 

But I know that heat alone does not a seasoned skillet make; and I realized, neither do trials alone grow us into instruments of service fit for our Master. Layered between my red-hot oven moments when I think I might die from all the demands. God is the Faithful One who seasons me by anointing my head with the oil of His Holy Spirit. He soothes me with His presence and His Word. His mercy, new every morning, covers me while His love streams through me providing genuine joy. His patience gives me hope. He hardly ever takes the trials, the heat, or the oven away. But He consoles me again and again, oiling me to tackle the fire because I have an intended purpose. What about you? Are you a little smoky from the frying pan?

Listen for His Whispers

Joyful Christmas Season! Chosen One

Chosen One

“Look at my servant, whom I strengthen. He is my Chosen One, who pleases me.

I have put my Spirit upon Him. He will bring justice to the nations.”  Isaiah 42:1

God is the author of an awesome non-fiction. The Bible, with its intertwined stories, development of compelling characters, and all-central theme of restoration through His Son, reads like a novel.

Who is the ram in Genesis? His Chosen One.

Who is the Passover lamb in Exodus? His Chosen One.

Who is the high priest in Leviticus? His Chosen One.

Who is the city of refuge in Deuteronomy? His Chose One.

Who is the scarlet thread in Joshua? His Chosen One.

Who is our king in Judges? His Chosen One.

Who is the kinsman-redeemer in Ruth? His Chosen One.

Who is the trusted prophet in 1^st and 2^nd Samuel? His Chosen One.

Who is the reigning king in Kings and Chronicles? His Chosen One.

Who is the faithful scribe in Ezra? His Chosen One.

Who is rebuilder of broken things in Nehemiah? His Chosen One.

Who is the faithful one at the gate in Esther? His Chosen One.

Who is the redeemer who lives in Job? His Chosen One.

Who is shepherd in the Psalms? His Chosen One.

Who is wisdom in the Proverbs and Ecclesiastes? His Chosen One.

Who is the beautiful bridegroom in Song of Solomon? His Chosen One.

Who is the suffering servant in Isaiah? His Chosen One... Messiah... Jesus...

The thread of Jesus Christ is woven throughout each portion of God’s story. His Book is one of love, compassion, appointment, and redemption. Jesus is the book... (John 1:1-2)

Listen for His Whispers...