Pregnant: The Adoption of Megan, Segment 4

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

Pregnant: The Adoption of Megan, Segment 3

Randy buried his face in his hands and groaned. A hot check was not acceptable. How could we overcome this fatal financial mistake with our adoption agency?

I raised my head and grasped the receiver as the phone rang. A cheerful voice on the other end greeted me. She identified herself as a case worker with Holt Children’s Services. A cloud descended over my crushed heart.  

“We were just about to call you. We discovered this morning our check was insufficient, and we feel terrible.”

“Mrs. McCauley, people who have money are generally not the ones who adopt our children. You’d be surprised how often this happens. We’ll run the check through again. No problem.”

Stunned, I fell silent.

The following weeks we busied ourselves with the application process and its endless bundle of questions about our character. We were asked to explore our marriage, our parenting skills, and our racial prejudices. Trusting. How simple and how hard. We would need over five-thousand dollars to adopt our daughter.  God reminded us His yoke is easy and His burden light, but too often we tried to carry the load and found ourselves rushing ahead of the Lord, obsessed with every detail.

One night, drained from the paperwork’s self-examinations and written responses, Randy and I prayed. Randy felt led to read the account of baby Moses. At first this seemed trivial to us both. I pictured myself as a little girl in Sunday school class. The teacher illustrating this story with felt bulrushes added a basket of reeds to a blue board. Why would God have us read this? I’d heard this story my whole life. But when Randy read Exodus chapter two aloud, and I visualized the Hebrew woman leaving her child by the water’s edge, it hit me. Moses was an adopted child.

We had been told this child would be younger than our youngest, and Jarred was two. Was she safely being knit in her mother’s womb? Or was she a toddling one-year-old? 

The next day the squeak and groan of the backyard see-saw clashed with the boys belting out songs they learned in Children’s Church. I quietly slipped away while contemplating the story of baby Moses. When my shoe slid inside the kitchen threshold, I felt compelled to turn on a certain Christian television show. I glanced at the clock. The show was over. I believed God for a baby half-way around the world, but I wouldn’t turn on the TV? I stepped into the living room, laughing at myself, and hit the power button.

When the beam of light burst into a full screen on the set, the host of the show said they were extending their broadcast by one hour. I hunkered on the edge of the sofa. The minister they were interviewing had just returned to the states from Seoul, South Korea. A camera zoomed in, and the minister said, “God has shown me something in a new light. While in Korea, I saw Pharaoh’s daughter in my mind’s eye. She was standing at the river’s edge, Moses in her arms. Pharaoh, her father, had been murdering babies, and perhaps his daughter could no longer sit in her royal palace, oblivious to the slaughter. Perhaps she could not look into the eyes of this Hebrew child and run from the truth any longer.”

My hands trembled, and my knees knocked. The screech of the see-saw in the background faded. 

Look for Segment 4 of Megan's story in October 2013. 

Listen for His Whispers

Are You Struggling and Can’t See the End?

“You just don’t understand!  I'm not the schooly type.  I'm the cowboy type, Mom.”

My son was nine. We had worked phonics and spelling rules, grueling work for my son battling with dyslexia. Fingers of sunlight filtered through the French doors of our classroom and beckoned my son to come and play. 

I scrutinized the splash of light across his laboring pencil, and his head shot upward, freckled nose following the light like a pointer-beagle targeting a coon. Exasperation darkened his face. He squared his slim shoulders and shook his silky, blond bangs. 

“Can I go out and play, Mom?” At the clear response written on my stoic face, he tried harder. “You just don’t understand!  I'm not the schooly type.  I'm the cowboy type, Mom.”

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed, shook my head, and drank in his earnest eyes. Didn’t this child sleep in six-guns and boots? What would I ever do with this boy? 

Most days this would not have been funny. My heart cried for my son who had to work hard to grasp academics. He was quite accomplished at anything hands-on, and his verbal skills were high. But written words and spelling dodged him at every turn. Obscure, they were burrs under his saddle, trying to steal the glory of each and every day. I can’t remember, but knowing my son and his ability to out-sell a charlatan, I probably allowed him to escape outdoors.

The fruit of adversity is the accomplishment of a goal which dangles, elusively, just out of our grasp… But its fruit is sweeter than any other when breakthrough snaps it from the branch.

Seven years later on a nippy, December morning, this same son strode into the Department of Public Safety to take his written driver’s exam. More than six feet tall, he towered above me. I smiled when I spied his polished-to-a-shine western boots, and they reminded me of a younger cowboy.

I wrangled with what seemed like abandonment when I pivoted to leave him— alone—for his first all-important written exam. Wasn’t this the son who grew sick and sleepless at the thought of test taking?

The driver's test was the first big hurdle into the adult world, and my anxiety level was as high for myself as it was for him. I winked at him and squeezed his nervous hand.

 "You'll do fine. I'll be praying for you..."

An hour later, I returned. His face was solemn as his eyes met mine from his seat across the room, and my heart lurched. Was this the face of good news? Slowly, his features stretched into a relaxed smile, and he stood and stepped the distance between us. Reaching my side, he was breathless with excitement. 

“I passed.”

All the years of letters dancing on a page for my son flashed before my eyes. His tears and endless ways of trying to get out of schoolwork flooded my memories. I could shut my eyes and still hear the droning of the cassette recorder the past weeks—playing the driver’s handbook over and over into the night. This is a day I will hold in my heart forever. A milestone, born of struggle—attained. We’d found a learning style that worked.

The fruit of adversity is the accomplishment of a goal which dangles, elusively, just out of our grasp… But its fruit is sweeter than any other when breakthrough snaps it from the branch.

What adversity do you face this day?  How are you coping in the middle? Or, are you at the end of your long struggle and have a word of hope for us?

When we don't know where to go, His whispers lead us...

Know Your Limits

Recently a friend suggested we adopt a dog for my fifteen-year-old, Caleb, when we had sadly been forced to put down his childhood dog-friend, Trevor. Don’t think for a moment the temptation wasn’t there because I love my child, but I said, “No.” A slight tug of guilt niggled about... One minute. Just what had I endured in rearing six children for a period of thirty years?

• Six hermit crabs, and six hermit crab funerals.
• Four turtles—big ones, small ones, green ones, speckled. Don’t kid yourself that turtles are slow. They ran from my kids.
• Two rabbits, one which lived indoors. Do you know how often and to  what extent Lucy, the indoor rabbit, pooped?
• Add to this list, a goldfish bowl. Three aquariums, one of which my five-year-old, Jarred, wore on his head while jagged shards of glass threatened to sever his carotid artery. Not to mention, the ten gallons of dirty-fishy water and flailing fish that landed on the carpet.
• Three horses: Cricket, Lady, and Chess. Cricket lived in the backyard for a few weeks. What was that like? Well, aside from the balding yard, it was a little like trying to have school with children while being entertained by the circus. Never tie a horse to a swing set. Even if it’s made of iron.
• We had a number of dogs. Sheba, an Alaskan Spitz, as a puppy favored pooping in the floor furnace (while it was radiating) and later climbed sixteen foot fences in rain storms.
• The twin puppies Jiffy and Skippy found new homes quickly since they hadn’t been such bright ideas coupled with potty training two young sons.
• The adopted dog, Cinnamon, Kirk renamed Lassie. Why? I haven’t a clue since she was a Weimaraner mix and not a Collie. Stubborn as the day was long that dog and the boy.
• The Cocker Spaniel pup, Blessing, that should have been named Curse the way she chased cars, bike riders, and school buses.
• Tucker, the Lhasa Apsos, whom someone paid two hundred dollars to own and gave to us. That should have been a no brainer.
• And Trevor, another adoptee who should have had the Native American name rug-lies-in-a-heap-where-you-wish-to-walk.
• Three litters of puppies. One surprise litter had to be kept in our empty in-ground pool, because we had no backyard fence.
• Another litter, delivered by C-section at the vet clinic in the middle of the night, actually lived after the vet took each puppy from their mama’s womb and handed them to one of our eight family members. My husband, children, and I had to briskly rub each puppy with a towel to start their breathing.
• Cats? I’ve lost count. There was the one kitten which lost her life when she darted under a moving rocker. Then there was a white cat, Sassy, that needed a mental institution after young Joshua locked her in a tool box for four one hundred degree plus days.
• The next cat was a gray and white tabby named Seeka, and she lived with us a long while. She was perfect pet with Megan and Joanna. They daily dressed her in doll clothes and took her for spins around the yard in a baby buggy.
• Seeka had kittens. One, we thought a boy, was named Morris until we discovered he had become with kittens. This male, orange cat was hastily renamed Morrisa and had five orange babies, then licked a laundry detergent bottle and died. The next day Seeka delivered six new tabby babies. A proud mother and grandmother, Seeka adopted her grandchildren and nursed all eleven kittens. Now that was a precious lesson.
• Jake and Sweety, our lovely, cheerful, innocent parakeets. How much trouble could they be? They ate one of my expensive second grade ABeka readers. They were not good pets in a house with twelve foot ceilings. Try catching one of those while balancing on a seven foot ladder.
• And, I must mention Lucious, the jack-ass. No, I cannot politely call this animal a donkey. Lucious had one speed no matter how many times you prodded him with cowboy boots. He traveled stand-still-miles-per-hour. Except for when his neck would suddenly stiffen. Then he ran like a streak of lightening, bolted to a stop like a speed racer at a red light, and hurled his rider over the pasture fence with no remorse.

           I have been known to say, I will endure for one of my children when I may not for myself. Love and laughter keep us on a steady course, and the lessons of living, adopting, and dying enrich us. But I know my limits, at least at this stage in the game. Sometimes it is okay to say, “No.”

Listen for His Whispers... Sometimes they're loud.

Popcorn Memories

One night, a few years ago now, my body as always longed for rest, but the alarm jolted me awake at midnight's blue, when the kids would be fast asleep. What?!? Then I remembered. I slipped from beneath flannel sheets and electric blanket into the still cold of our ancient house, looking back with longing at my soft pillow. The century-old stairs creaked as I scaled them in cloak of darkness, a tight fist about a one-dollar bill. I tiptoed through the upstairs maze, my feet dodging dressers, cast-aside shoes, and prickly, little carpet tacks at every portal. As I shivered, I smiled to myself; my mission would soon be accomplished. A baby tooth awaited me in a snack-sized Ziploc tucked under my second-born's pillow.

Carefully, carefully, I inched toward Jarred's bunk.  Five feet… Four feet… Three feet away from his wee, slumbering snore... Faint moonlight softened his little face into a deceiving sweetness. Two feet… I reached out… And the world plunged from its axis! My legs went sprawling in mid-air; the breath I’d been holding burst into a wild, squeal of terror. The room shifted, rocked, rolled, and I landed in a bruising heap among more than a thousand glass marbles. Looking up at the ceiling, I knew with icy certainty— my favorite red-haired mischief-maker had booby-trapped the tooth fairy! Every scene from The Ransom of Red Chief went flying through my head, as I turned red with fury.

That night carried the real potential to send me over the proverbial edge, though I forgave my repentant son, toothless grin and all. The next day, black-and-blue and sleep deprived, I needed a vacation, but there was no money for such a luxury. I calculated the cost of a sitter for the day and decided I was worth it, but none were available. Randy will watch the kids this evening, and I can escape. But events conspired against me, and of course, he had to work late.

I was stuck. Stuck! Stuck! Stuck! And in the midst of my stomping about with no glamorous place to hide from this exasperating day, memories began skipping through my brain like popcorn. Pop! Pop! Pop!

POP! The time my creative toddlers destroyed their room. No, I really mean destroyed. As in every toy out, every stitch of clothing strewn. Have you ever stood at the door to that room? Well, I knew they couldn't clean up their mess alone – but I simply took one look, turned and walked away, shaking my head like a lunatic and babbling, "Just – clean it up." When I returned, they had cleaned it all right. Around the baseboards in perfect rows marched a baseball, a shoe, a Big Bird bank, a sock, a soldier, another shoe, baby lotion, a Fisher-Price tape player, another sock, and on, and on, all the way around the room. I sipped my iced tea and studied the two-man clean-up crew, now chasing their squealing younger sister.

POP! The morning my son, Joshua, decided to take down the chain link fence. I had never analyzed how a chain link fence is put together, much less taken down, but my son visualized a fort built from that section of fencing. Not only did he dismantle the section screw by screw, he also took the garden shears and cut an ingenious doorway through the middle of it. Would you think dull garden shears could cut through chain? I stared at the gaping hole, thinking, My head is actually going to explode this time. I had two choices: I could have an aneurysm, or not. Making the obvious choice, I looked at my son and said – teeth clenched – voice low, "Put. It. Back." By sunset that evening, the section was back in place, the center bound together with wire like a great incision.

I learned from each catastrophe. When did each shenanigan, my children pulled, transition in my mind to an endearing memory? Finally, I sat wilting on the back stoop, watching my kids romping in the yard, and with memories came bubbles of laughter.

I sipped my iced tea and reflected on my life with children. Hadn't God been good to me, after my first child was stillborn? Hadn't He whispered to me that I would have children? Me. The mom of six blessings. My heart softened. Despite my annoyance, He refreshed me. From that night forward, the tooth fairy never again retrieved teeth from under children's pillows—making the exchange instead at the downstairs' bookcase.

But I learned that survival is about clinging to God’s merciful gift of humor, gracing me with the perspective to laugh at, and occasionally even with, my children's hoodlum ways. Sometimes a restorative vacation is just a step backwards into a few blessed minutes of hysterical laughter. 

So, pop back in time, and tell me your funny. When did humor help you survive?

Mornings in our lives are those fresh, new 

beginnings we cherish each time we 

experience God.  

Mornings in our lives are those fresh, new beginnings we cherish each time we experience God.

When You're Tempted to Quit

Twelve months had passed since God gave my husband and me a beautiful vision of having a daughter from South Korea. The faith months, of believing what seemed impossible, were marked by milestones, each a tender expression of the Shepherd’s leading. I had lost a baby girl at birth five years earlier, but God had another daughter for me, whom I’d name Megan.  On the Fourth of July, I cross-stitched her name beneath a rosette of pink flowers and framed the needlework for the nursery we’d soon create.

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.”

But on this Fourth of July 1986, he didn’t balk.  He agreed that the next morning, we would put our daughter’s baby bed together and prepare her room, though we didn’t have a clue how we’d financially adopt her. 

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. 

“No,” I said aloud to the voice.  “God gave me vision for this daughter.”  Not once had adoption crossed my natural mind in the years prior.  This was God’s story to write.

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.