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.

Seasoned

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

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

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

1.      Grease the skillet

2.      Allocate the storage of the skillet to the oven

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

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

5.      After it cools, grease the skillet again

6.      Repeat

7.      Repeat

8.      Repeat

9.      Repeat

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

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

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

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

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

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

Listen for His Whispers

Joyful Christmas Season! Chosen One

Chosen One

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

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

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

Who is the ram in Genesis? His Chosen One.

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

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

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

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

Who is our king in Judges? His Chosen One.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who is shepherd in the Psalms? His Chosen One.

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

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

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

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

Listen for His Whispers...

Joyful Christmas Season! The True Light

The True Light

The one who is The True Light, who gives light to everyone, was coming into the world.  John 1:9 (NLT)

My fingers grasped air as my eighteen-month-old granddaughter dashed from my side. She expected me to give chase through the house—a game she loves to play. 

Barreling around the living room sofa, I chanted; “I’m gonna get you. You better run!”

She bumped into the wall at the front entrance. Stranded. Dancing in place, she squealed. No place left to go. The room was dim, her hiding place dark. She stood two feet in front of me, a giggling, bouncing ball of energy and eagerness. 

That’s when I snapped a light on just above her head. The bright light burst into the space, and she was undone, revealed and loving every moment of it.

Laughter tumbled from her lips louder than before as soft baby curls swayed round her chubby cheeks. She hugged herself in hysteria, then bolted to grab hold my knees, nearly toppling me.

So it was with The True Light. Jesus annihilated the darkness and splashed the world with great and everlasting truth, enlightenment, and joy. 

When He burst on scene, the powers of darkness quaked, and angels rejoiced. The prophet Simeon extolled Him as God's salvation, the one to bring the light of revelation to all people. (Luke 2: 25-35)

Though this world can be a dark, desolate, and evil place, it's darkness is obliterated by the brightness of a Savior who emancipates and shines as bright as the noonday.

The Message Bible says: “The Life-Light was the real thing: Every person entering Life He brings into the Light."

Listen for His Whispers