Pregnant: The Adoption of Megan, Segment 5

Everywhere I turned, God showered me with assurance about His plan for our adoption, right down to the family who moved across the street. The father of the young family was Japanese, and I gathered perspective on what it was like to be a mixed Asian family in the American South. Blended families did exist, even in our small town.

God networked behind the scenes. Families came into our lives that year who would be instrumental in Megan’s adoption: Richard and Belinda Burns, Bud and Sue Wood, and Ron and Stacy Smith.

We met Bud and Sue early that fall through our church. One evening they invited us to dinner. When we’d finished, the husbands left for a men’s prayer meeting. Sue and I curled up on the sofa to cross-stitch while our children played. I shared with Sue our plans to adopt a Korean baby. Her hoop and aida cloth dropped to her lap as her mouth fell open. I remember thinking she must not understand why we’d internationally adopt.  But before I could further explain, her eyes glistened with tears.

“All day long, God nudged me to phone you, Ann.  I couldn’t understand why, so I ignored His promptings. I feel so foolish, now.”

“Why?”

“I have a dear friend where we moved from that has a brain tumor. God kept telling me to call you and have you pray for her. Tomorrow she goes into the hospital to have surgery. Since I don’t know you well, I couldn’t understand the connection. Now? I do. My friend and her husband have four children, two biological and two adopted, one child from Japan.”

My heart clenched as faith for this woman’s healing rose in my gut. Certainly God wanted her to live and rear her children to know Him. Sue and I prayed. The next day, Sue’s friend had seventy x-rays and the doctors marveled. Not a trace of the tumor could be found.

Soon after, Bud told us he’d been adopted, and that was the special reason we’d become friends. The man thrived on every detail of Megan’s adoption and literally prayed her home.

Belinda and I became fast friends soon after I met Sue. Like Sue, I met Belinda at church. I had something special in common with her. She, the mother of boys, had a heart’s desire to have a daughter. But would her husband go for another baby in hard economic times, or would God grant the desire of her heart? We agreed to pray for one another. Her daughter, Mallory, was born on my birthday one year later. I think God smiled. Oh, and did I tell you? Turns out, Belinda’s husband, Richard, was adopted.

September 18, 1957/ September 18, 1986

A few months later, high school friends, Ron and Stacy Smith moved to our area. Ron, fresh out of medical school, opened his first practice. As we helped them move into their home, we had no idea the strong direction their lives and ours would branch and take. But one thing was sure. Ron and Stacy believed in miracles and prayerfully supported us. Stacy’s dad is Author Gilbert Morris

God brought others into our lives, for certain, extraordinary moments. Important others like Ed and LaVerne Midyett who slipped a crisp fifty dollar bill into Randy’s lapel pocket when he picked up his suit at their dry cleaners. It was January of 1986, and we were to leave bright and early the next morning for Memphis, TN and our first adoption agency interviews.

Sweating bullets, we stepped into the adoption agency office. Compact, its walls were covered in photos of Holt children with their forever families. These calmed our nerves a bit before the upcoming interrogation. How would we explain that we didn’t have a plan for coming up with our adoption monies?

The social worker rushed to greet us, and we were whisked into chairs. “I am so sorry, but before we begin, I must tell you there has been an oversight. Immigration is now requiring an extra fifty dollars, immediate payment.”

Fall 2013: Soon after Megan’s homecoming Bud and Sue Wood moved to Northwest Arkansas, Richard and Belinda Burns moved to Alaska, and Ron and Stacy Smith moved to Texas, and then Georgia. This summer the Burns returned to Arkansas, and Megan reconnected with her childhood friend, Mallory, now married and living near Houston. Richard and Belinda bought one of Megan’s paintings upon her graduation from Henderson State University this past spring, and it hangs in their living room.  Megan had no memory of Bud and Sue, but as we moved Meg to Fayetteville, AR this summer, she reconnected with the Wood family. Now Megan and I are separated by miles, but Bud and Sue are watching over her as though she were their own.

Bud and Sue Wood with Megan, June 2013

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, Segment 2

The first phone number Marsha presented led to Holt International Children’s Services in Eugene, Oregon. I’d never heard of it. When I called, they told me about their Korean adoption program. Don’t ask how I knew, but this was it. Our daughter was Korean. It matched the picture etched in my mind’s eye.  I asked for their $15 pre-application packet. They explained they’d recently opened an office in Memphis, Tennessee. The South, steeped in prejudice, had not been ready for Asian adoption until the eighties. Now they were placing children in Arkansas.

Four weeks later, Randy wrote a check to Holt International Children’s Services for the $50 application fee and sealed the envelope. He wagged it in front of my face.

“You know I respect you, Ann. But this is big. I have to juggle our money to have the fifty dollars, and I haven’t heard from God about this.”

“I don’t want something God isn’t directing. It’s scary to think of entering into something we aren’t together on. Whatever you decide, we will do.”

“Okay. Then I’m putting this envelope on top of the entertainment center, and I will pray. I’m not mailing it until I’ve heard from God, understand?”

Thankfully, I was busy with toddlers as time seemed to drag. 

Two more weeks passed, and Randy’s job out of Huntsville, Alabama phoned. They were sending him two hours away, to interview a couple interested in purchasing a line of medical vending machines. A huge investment for this couple, Randy made the appointment to see them both. He’d been trained on how important it was for the wife to be present when talking about an investment of these proportions. He couldn’t mess this up. We desperately needed him to close this sale.

Upon his arrival, he was greeted at the door by the husband. They chatted in the threshold, and found they had things in common. As they meandered through the hallway, the man told Randy his wife had taken ill just before he’d arrived. She had gone to bed.

Later, as Randy recounted this story, he told me how his heart sunk at that moment. With no wife to hear his sales pitch, chances were slim he’d close the deal. He paused where he stood, about to suggest they postpone their meeting, when the husband swept his hand through the air. Randy’s gaze followed.

“This is my wife and children.” He gestured toward a large wall portrait, and Randy stilled. The man’s wife was Asian.

Finally, Randy cleared his throat. “You’re wife is Oriental?”

“Yes. She’s Korean.”

“Korean, you say? That’s interesting. My wife and I have been praying about a Korean adoption.”

The man’s eyes lit. “My wife was adopted from Korea in the 1950’s. Her parents were neighbors with a family who adopted a little Korean boy. This boy always carried a tattered photo of his sister in his pocket. My in-laws adopted that young girl, but before the brother and sister were reunited, the neighbors moved to the East Coast. A year or so passed, and the boy’s adoptive father called and asked my in-laws if they could meet in a neighboring state. There, the man told my in-laws his wife was terminally ill. He asked if they would be willing to take the boy and adopt him as their own, reuniting him with his sister. So, my wife and her brother grew up together near here.”

Electric pulses ran Randy's arms, but before he could respond, the man shifted his stance and pinned a steady gaze on him. “My wife was adopted through Holt International Children’s Services. Have you heard of them?”

Randy sprouted wings and flew home. Needless to say, he mailed the application fee to Holt. But in spite of our vigilant watch over the bank account, the check to Holt bounced like a rubber ball. Was it possible for human error to wreck God's plan?

The third segment of Megan’s adoption story will be posted in September 2013.

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

Count Your Firsts

Three weeks had passed since I labored sixteen hours to deliver our son. Taking the elevator to the pediatrician’s office, I smoothed the silver silk on my son’s head, straightened his rumpled appearance, and readied myself for the excitement of showing off my treasure.

The doctor’s eyes locked with mine, and we savored the richness of this moment.  The year before, this doctor had grieved with me after I delivered a stillborn daughter.  My son—this nine-pound, three-ounce cherished cache of body, soul, and spirit—was a double portion of God’s blessing.

The pediatrician did a thorough examination, declared my son healthy, and then in his thick East Indian accent asked me a question—something about reward.  I didn’t really understand what he meant, but nodded.

            The next visit, the doctor asked me the same question—again referring to reward.  I swallowed and admitted, “I don’t understand.”  The doctor laughed, dark eyes dancing, and said with exaggerated articulation, “Has he rewarded you for his delivery?  Has he smiled at you?”

To my wise pediatrician, the first smile would make mother forget all her woes of pregnancy and delivery, and he was right.  The first time my son focused his baby blues on me and consciously spread his mouth, the pain of delivery melted away.

           You see, the way an infant grows and develops after this is astounding—their list of firsts grows at a rapid rate: first coo, first tooth, and first step. But as I mothered my son, and his siblings after him, I encountered a variety of new firsts along the way.

The list grows with each passing year, each first a treasured mental snapshot: first words on the telephone to Dad; first trip to the zoo; first day to color a picture in the lines; first day to ride a bike without training wheels; first day to read a string of words, making sense; first day to strike a homer; first day to say the pledge.  The parent learns to recognize the sparkle in the eyes of success. 

Yes, moms are privy to thousands of extra-special moments if we look for them. God planned them to come one at a time—marking days, months, and years.  Each of those moments—each first—is for our reward and great satisfaction because with passion, we love our kids.

Discouraged? Count your firsts.

Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord,

the fruit of the womb a reward. Psalm 127:3

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...

Do You Ever Feel Like the Last Laugh is on You?

After thirty-six years of marriage, six children, and twenty six years of homeschooling, I finally understand. Who would have thought after all the play dough I've mixed, bread dough I've baked, and kid character dough I've shaped, I was the ball of clay? I've been the big mix of the Master Potter all along.

I remember mornings I rummaged blindly for the coffee pot, desperate for that single cup to start my engine. My boys would someday provide for families, so I pushed myself into each new day before the sun was up. Could the Lord have been making a morning person out of me? I never was, you know, but now I relish the quiet moments before sunrise.

Many days I was tempted to switch on the television and self-medicate from all my responsibilities. But, I wanted my kids to remember their mom as industrious. Could God have been protecting me from hours of wasted time and the squandering of my gifts? Self-discovery happened, instead. I love to write.

Somehow amid all the giving and teaching going on at my house, God is smiling.

Once I made a chart for the children to instruct them in the disciplines of keeping house. One of the little guys said, “Mommy, your bed isn't always made, and your room isn't always clean.” Ouch! While I did my best to teach the children consistency and good habits, God nudged me. Grace is a lovely, undeserved thing. 

Every time the kids took on a project—there I was—smack in the middle of it. I endured to spark their creativity, but discovered talents I possessed; I would not have endeavored so hard for myself.

Then there were all those precious moments when their elbows were on the table and they rested their faces in their chubby, little hands, and said…“I can't.” Who knew I would learn motivational secrets as effective as Dale Carnegie?

I rehearsed scriptures with the children time and again, hoping to build their characters strong and sound: Griping makes us discouraged, honey. A just man falls down seven times, but he gets up. A fountain can't bring forth bitter and sweet water, baby. Ask and He shall give. Could the Lord have been training me?

Grace is a lovely, undeserved thing. 

What about this new season? I still wear a high school teacher homeschooling hat, but I’m also a grandparent and babysitter on call. I’m my mom’s caregiver. I’m an addicted to the core writer. Watch me juggle like a Barnum and Bailey Circus clown. Watch my keyboard as it clicks, documenting my heart. I may have dinner in my teeth, a diaper pail running over, homework to check, deadlines to meet, and an elderly mother asking me to program the DVR for Dancing with the Stars, but I am still growing up.

Somehow amid all the giving and teaching going on at my house, God is smiling. He’s looking down upon my home and sizing up the job. Then in laughter and delight, He’s custom making me fit it—just a little shaping at a time.

Do you ever feel the last laugh is on you? How is God gently molding your life? Certainly, I am not the only one.