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 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...

Pregnant: The Adoption of Megan, Special Segment

Twenty-eight years ago my husband, Randy, addressed an envelope to Holt International Children’s Services, stuffed a check into the folded application for adoption, sealed it, and deposited it on the entertainment center to wait on God. Taking me tenderly by the shoulders, he whispered, “I believe you, Ann, when you say you’ve heard from God, but I need to hear from Him before I can go through with adopting a Korean baby.”

I agreed.

In August 2013, I told you the story of how Randy’s job out of Huntsville, Alabama assigned him to travel two hours away to a city where he’d deliver a sales pitch to a man whose wife had been adopted from Korea through Holt in the 1950’s. There is no way Randy or I believed this was a coincidence. This woman’s story of how she was later reunited and grew up with her biological brother, gave us incentive and courage to follow through with Megan’s adoption.

I did not tell you the name of the city. I did not tell you the man’s name.There was a reason.You see, for two weeks prior to posting the blog in August, I searched for him and his family. I wanted to tell you who he was. He and his wife had been an intricate part of our testimony for almost three decades, and I suddenly wanted to meet them. What happened to them? 

Randy no longer remembered their Texarkana, Arkansas address, and he only vaguely remembered the location of their neighborhood.The only tidbit of information he could recall was where David Baker attended church. I phoned the Texarkana, Texas church and spoke with the secretary, but she was relatively new to her job and had no record of David. She called the long-standing members of the congregation; still, no one remembered him or his Asian wife.

Next, I tried an internet link.There were several David Bakers in Arkansas and in Texarkana. But one listing named a wife, Glenda, and two daughters, Hollie and Tamara.The man Randy had met years before had two young daughters. The man’s age matched, too.So though it seemed a long shot, I let my fingers do the walking. I called the home phone, got a machine, and left a message. Two or three days passed and there was no word.

Back in 1985 David Baker had invested in a line of medical vending machines through Randy. Perhaps his business had not done well. Maybe he didn’t want to be found.

But a small nudge in my spirit kept me going.

I plugged David’s name into my Facebook search engine. Nothing.

I tried the wife’s name I’d gotten off the internet link. Nothing.

I decided to type in the oldest daughter’s name (using her maiden name in the middle), and a picture came up on Facebook of a young woman who didn’t look particularly biracial, but her children did.They had Asian eyes.

I brought up her friend’s list, and there was the name I’d labored to find. David Baker. 

I clicked on the link, and when his profile enlarged, it was a photo of him taken with his wife. He was white, and she was Asian. Delighted, excitement bubbled in the pit of my stomach.

But David’s Facebook page was private, his last status very old. How did I even know he was alive? I decided to message the daughter, Hollie, in California and request her friendship. She was active on her Facebook account. But I never heard from her. I suspect her privacy settings bumped my message to her spam folder.

The thought came to me to visit the other daughter’s Facebook page. Tamara lived in Little Rock. I glanced over her picture, but since I had left a phone message on what I thought was David’s machine and a friend request on Hollie’s Facebook page, I decided not to send a message to Tamara.

Defeated, I prayed. I asked God to help me find David and Glenda Baker, but I was running out of time. I needed to post the blog before the end of the month. I told the Lord I’d wait a day or two longer to post the story, but in the end, I was disappointed. I was forced to rewrite the story, taking the names of people and places out of it.

Skip forward to last week. I gave my first interview to Author Carole Brown, and in that interview, I told my “never quit “story. (http://www.sunnebnkwrtr.blogspot.com/2013/11/a-warm-welcome-to-ann-mccauley.html ) But on Friday night, I never wanted to quit writing more. Between the Morning Glory blog and my interview, I felt I’d exposed too much of my heart for the sake of writing.

The enemy viciously attacked my mind. Randy did his best to scrape me up and stick me back together, but I cried until the wee hours of morning.Writing and publishing is a lonely, solitary, and sometimes painful process.

By Monday morning, my feelings were not lining up, so I made a conscious choice. “Lord, I will only care what you think of me. I will write Your stories.”

The phone rang a few hours later and it was my daughter-in-law, Rachel. I hadn’t planned a trip to Bryant (almost an hour away), but I suddenly had a strong desire to see my two-year-old granddaughter, Addy. I found myself telling Rachel I would come and visit them the next day. My plan was to shop at Target, then run over to their house. But the next morning, Rachel asked me to come and get them first. She had some shopping to do, as well.

We had a wonderful morning and visited several stores. Right before lunch, I made it to Target with Addy. We shopped the Christmas aisle for a very long time, talking about Christmas and enjoying each other’s company. Rachel joined us when it was time to leave.The checkout lanes were crowded. I left one and moved to another where there was only one person ahead of me. Rachel decided to take Addy to the restroom for a diaper change.

Once I was alone, my gaze fell on the person sliding her card through the credit card machine. At first I skimmed the pretty, younger woman, but then every one of my nerves stood at attention.This woman looked like Tamara—David Baker’s daughter. I studied her eyes and held my breath as she entered her pin number. Hadn’t Tamara’s profile said she lived in Little Rock? This was Bryant, twenty to thirty minutes outside Little Rock. I’d only seen Tamara’s picture once. It couldn’t be. Could it?

That’s when I realized a shorter woman stood next to her, a woman with graying hair, holding a squirming baby boy. I leaned to the left to examine this other woman. She was Asian. A sudden thrill teased its way up my spine.

The two women moved aside to add their purchases to their buggy and leave. I had to act or forever wonder.

“Excuse me.” My hands trembled, and my voice shook. “Are you from Texarkana?”

The younger woman smiled a bit. “My mother is.” She nodded toward the older lady as my heart fluttered and blossomed in wonder. What have you done, Lord? How did you orchestrate this? Texarkana is two hours away.

“Is your name Baker?” The words rushed out of me of their own accord.

Tamara’s smile faded, and her face took on a puzzled expression.“Yes, my mother’s name is Baker.”

“Oh please, can you wait on me to check out. I’ve been searching for you. I really need a moment to speak with you. Please?”

Tamara’s shoulders relaxed though her eyebrows raised. “Of course.”

I don’t know how I got through the transaction. My mind sped one hundred miles an hour.When I finished and closed the gap between me and Mrs. Baker, she smiled and the baby relaxed on her shoulder and drifted sound asleep.

“Oh how, I have searched for you. I can’t believe this! Twenty-eight years ago, our husbands met in your home over business. We had been praying about adopting a daughter through Holt. We don’t believe it was ever a coincidence that Randy met your husband that day. We now have four adopted children, three through Holt International.”

Glenda’s smile grew wider and Tamara said, “So… This is a God thing.”

“Yes! Yes, this is a big God thing. Your mother and father have been a part of our testimony for years. I am a writer. On my blog, I’ve been sharing about our first daughter’s adoption. I blogged about you and your personal adoption story back in August, but not before I searched for you. I actually saw your photo on Facebook, Tamara. That’s how I recognized you.”

“You should have friended me!”

“Yes, I should have. Don’t you live in Little Rock?”

“No, I live here in Bryant. Where do you live?”

“Arkadelphia.”

“Really? My sister and I both went to Ouachita Baptist University in Arkadelphia! Ya know, Mom comes to help me once a month with my three little ones.That’s why she’s here today. Do you know about my Uncle John?”

“Yes! I wrote about him and how he and your mom were reunited and grew up together in Hooks, Texas. It’s an incredible story. I hope I got most of the details right.”

“Well, Uncle John is writing a book.You must talk to him.”'

Friends, I should probably end this story, but not until you know this. I never planned on going to Bryant, Arkansas this week. On Tuesday morning I awoke at 3AM, couldn’t go back to sleep, and I felt physically ill. I thought about staying home, but I wanted to see Addy since I won’t see her during the Thanksgiving holiday. I didn’t have a particular time to shop at Target. I am not sure why we checked out when we did. Or, why I changed lines...

But there is a God, and He is personal.This I know. And, when He chooses, He will peel back the curtain for you to see Him in action.There are no coincidences, only divine appointments.God is the same, yesterday, today, and forever. He is a supernatural God.

As I drove home from Bryant, I thought about how much I love the holidays and surprising my children—showering them with good gifts. I am sure my Heavenly Father was smiling. He loves me. He couldn’t wait for the opportunity to thrill me and give me two gifts named Tamara and Glenda.

Know this, dear ones. God feels just as passionately about each of you.

Listen for His Whispers

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

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

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

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...