by Angela Hunt
She shook those thoughts away. She wouldn’t worry. She would take one day at a time and wait to see what God would do. He was in control; He owned the entire situation. Surrendering her dreams and her child had been the most difficult act of her life, but she had done it. Now she couldn’t—wouldn’t—take those things back.
Her thoughts filtered back to the day when they had first learned there would be no biological babies. Dr. Comfort had stood in her kitchen and given her a promise: “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when the desire comes, it is a tree of life.”
When would her tree of life bloom?
“Hey, Meg,” Laurie called from the reception desk. “Take a look at what’s coming our way.”
Megan stood from her chair behind the filing cabinet and looked out the glass door. Instead of the pet owner and patient she expected, she saw a man approaching, his arms overflowing with yellow roses.
The flowers drooped as the man struggled to free his arm and open the door, and that’s when Megan saw his face. This was no florist or delivery person—it was her husband.
Without a word, Megan rounded the corner of the desk and flew to the door, nearly tripping over a Weimaraner stretched out across the tile floor. “Dave,” she cried, coming to an abrupt halt in front of him. Strangled by a sudden rise of hopes and fears, she could scarcely breathe. “What’s happened?”
The yellow blossoms tilted to one side, and Dave’s lopsided grin appeared. “You’re looking at the new assistant principle of Pleasant Hill Elementary,” he said, stepping forward to place the bundle of roses in her arms. “I received the appointment this morning. It’s the same job I had at Valley View, and at the same salary. It’s not a promotion, but—“
“It’s perfect.” Megan threw her free arm around his neck. As the people in the waiting room looked on in amusement, she planted a loud, smacky kiss on his smiling mouth.
“We’re okay,” he whispered, holding her close. “We still have a job.”
We still have a baby.
“Thank you,” she whispered, closing her eyes as her thoughts lifted to the One who had made it all possible. “Thank you, Jesus.”
One month after their visit to Washington, Megan called the Welcome Home office in Washington to check on the progress of their case. Helen reported that Danielle’s paperwork had not yet arrived from Korea, but they were confident the documents would arrive soon.
Megan hung up, simultaneously frustrated and relieved. The night before she’d draped herself in hope and fortitude and attended a baby shower for her friend, Susie. Susie’s baby, a beautiful little boy, sat in the center of the sofa, while another friend, Debbie, bounced her infant daughter on her lap. Not to be outdone, Megan passed pictures of Danielle around the circle. “I’m so sorry your baby isn’t here yet,” Susie whispered in a private moment, but the words didn’t sting like they would have in a few months ago.
“I’m grateful to have pictures,” Megan said, handing over a snapshot. “I thank the Lord for these.”
On Monday of the next week, the bank called with more good news—the Wingfield’s house had appraised for $15,000 over the amount they owed on the mortgage, so they could pick up a check for the $7,000 they needed whenever they could find the time to stop by.
Once the money had been safely deposited in their savings account, Megan paced in her empty house and stared at the calendar. She’d been unemployed for three weeks, and her soul was beginning to feel rusty again. School would begin in one week, so Dave had his hands full with preparation for his new students. She had hoped to be busy mothering her baby by this time, but it looked as though September would arrive without Danielle.
The days melted into weeks as September slid away in a blur of reds and golds. Near the end of the month, Helen Gresham called to ask for Danielle’s airfare. “The check will be sent to Korea as soon as the baby’s documents arrive here,” Helen explained, “then she will be issued a Korean passport. While the passport is being finalized, you can finish filing with the Department of Immigration. Our babies usually arrive about four weeks after the paperwork.”
Megan was delighted to have a task to exercise the rust away, so she hurried to the bank, ordered a certified check, and sent it to Washington by registered mail.
Unfortunately, her task did not take long, and soon she found herself waiting again. Inactivity chafed upon her—like Martha of the New Testament, she had never been happy to sit when she could be working. She consoled herself with the thought that if the documents were due any day, and Danielle would arrive four weeks after her paperwork, she’d probably be arriving sometime in late October . . . perhaps in time for Dave’s birthday on the twenty-first.
The days fell, like the autumn leaves on the oak outside her window, one after the other. Megan read books on child care, visited her mother and sister, and tried not to be jealous of Melanie’s progressing pregnancy. She did not covet Melanie’s baby, but she did resent her sister’s security. Mel knew where her baby was and approximately when it would be delivered. Megan had no assurances.
One day, when the tedium of waiting grew intolerable, Megan picked up the phone and called her mother. “It’s so hard not to want her here now,” she said, taking pleasure in the liberty of venting. “Danielle’s five month birthday is in two weeks and I could go crazy if I think about missing these early months of her life. So I try not to think about it, but it’s almost impossible--”
“I wasn’t going to tell you this,” her mother interrupted, her voice quiet and thoughtful, “but maybe it’s something you need to know.”
Megan’s inner alarm bells rang. “What?”
“Your baby shower. Melanie and I are giving you a shower next week. We wanted it to be a surprise, but it sounds like you could use something to look forward to.”
Megan could hardly sleep the night before the shower. And when the last party guest left her mother’s house, Megan looked over the mounds of frilly dresses and diapers and books and crib sheets and marveled at the generosity and good wishes of her friends. Then, sighing, she prayed Danielle would have a chance to enjoy their gifts before she outgrew them.
On a gray afternoon, Megan sat in the living room window seat and stared out at the rain drizzling over the driveway. It was the eleventh of October, and they not only did not have their daughter, they still had not heard when she would arrive. Lately Megan hated even to go to church—everyone she knew insisted upon asking when the baby was coming home. Each time she answered, “I don’t know” she felt as if she were acknowledging a colossal defeat.
She was trying to be patient. Every day she struggled to silence her fears and doubts. God had done so many things for them—protected them during the job crisis, directed them to a special baby, provided money when they had no means to earn any—so why was He testing their patience? Megan had been waiting three years for a child, and every other expectant mother waited nine months. Why did she deserve such a long-term sentence?
“Sometimes,” she told Samson as the cat jumped into her lap, “I think I’ll still be sitting here a year from now. Danielle will have outgrown everything in the nursery, and you’ll be the only one to play with her toys.”
The cat purred, and Megan straightened at the sight of headlights shining through the gray drizzle. The mail carrier had come early, probably in an effort to outrun the rain, and was placing what looked like a letter in her mailbox.
“Be back in a minute, Sam.” She dumped the cat off her lap and hurried to the front door, then sprinted through the drizzle. Inside the mailbox, a blue airmail envelope sat atop the catalogs and bills. She pressed the precious packet to her chest in an effort to keep it dry, then ran back into the house.
This letter from Korea did not contain pictures, just an update from Susan. “Joe was hoping to come to Alta Vista and personally escort Danielle home,” she had written, “but now it looks like he’ll be unable to get away. Danielle is doing well, but she’s so attached to me that she scre
ams even when we leave her with a sitter to go to the market.”
Megan felt a sharp twist of pain. Danielle should be home, attaching to her. She felt a sharp pang of jealousy, followed by regret for what Danielle would have to endure in the coming days. The baby would have to leave the loving foster home she’d known and come to America—a tremendous adjustment, even for an infant. Megan’s heart ached to think of causing Danielle pain. Babies adapted quickly, the experts said, but how easily could a five-month-old adapt when she was taken from the home she had known half her life?
Desperate for comfort, she picked up her Bible and settled back into the window seat. Flipping through the thin pages, she read her favorite proverb again (not if the desire comes, but when), then idly turned a few pages back.
Another verse caught her eye, a Psalm:
You keep track of all my sorrows.
You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
You have recorded each one in your book.
As if the verse had called them forth, tears welled in her eyes. God was keeping track of every tear—and she seemed to be weeping buckets these days. She wept at the slightest provocation, even sentimental television commercials and sappy country songs could send her into a crying jag . . .
The ringing of the telephone broke into Megan’s thoughts. She carried Susan’s letter into the kitchen and stared at it through bleary eyes as she picked up the receiver.
Her heart jumped at the sound of a familiar voice. Helen Gresham was calling from Washington with good news. Danielle’s legal documents had finally arrived from Korea, so the agency required only three more items: a letter of approval from the Department of Immigration, a letter from the Virginia state office in Richmond, and Danielle’s passport from Korea.
Megan could hear a smile in the social worker’s voice as she finished her report: “It should be two weeks at the shortest, three at the longest. She’s nearly home.”
Tears of joy blurred Megan’s vision as she hung up the phone.
On the 26th of October, Helen called again. Danielle was ready, another child was ready, but they were waiting on a third child to be cleared before they would book the children’s flight. “Plan on next Tuesday,” Helen said. “If there are any changes, I’ll let you know. And as soon as I have her flight information, I’ll call.”
Megan hung up and sent a smile winging across the room. “Tuesday,” she told her husband, knowing her smile explained everything. “Seven more days.”
Megan filled the long week with busy work—she cleaned the baby’s room, scoured out the kitchen cabinets, and organized the clothes in Danielle’s closet—the tiny 12-months dresses on the right, followed by the 18-months, then 24-months, and finally a couple of larger dresses she’d been unable to resist in a Polly Flinders outlet. One dress, a red-and-white concoction of tulle and ribbon, hung at the far left, size 6x. Megan looked at the huge dress and shrugged. Danielle would fit into it eventually. Her coming home was truly no longer a matter of if, but when.
On Saturday evening, Megan’s mother called with breathless news. “Melanie just had her baby,” she said, yelling to be heard over the commotion in the background. “A boy! She had him at the birthing center, and barely had time to get there before the baby came.”
“You should have called me,” Megan said, frowning. “I would have liked to be there—and I could have handled it.”
“There wasn’t time, believe me.” Her mother’s voice was soothing. “Melanie had the baby quickly. I didn’t get here until after it was all over.”
“Wow.” Megan smiled, drinking in the unexpected wonder. Melanie’s due date was November 16, so this little guy had come early . . . and he’d managed to beat his older cousin home by at least three days.
“I’ll be over to see her tomorrow,” Megan promised, making a mental note to stop by the mall to pick up a gift for a baby boy.
She hung up, knowing she could be happy for her sister without reservation. After all, she was a mother, too, with a baby arriving in seventy-two hours.
On Monday morning, Helen called with concrete details—Danielle would be arriving with four other children, not on Tuesday, but on Friday evening. Megan swallowed her disappointment about the date and consoled herself with the realization that at last they knew a definite date and time: 5:59 p.m., November fourth. Their little girl was finally coming home.
Megan spent the week in domestic activities—she planted tulips, raked the last bedraggled leaves from the lawn, and began a cross-stitched family portrait for her mother, complete with two new babies in the family. On Thursday night she boiled baby bottles, packed a diaper bag with disposables, and tucked in a new outfit, pink booties, and a soft yellow blanket. The car seat and baby stroller waited in the car.
After a leisurely lunch on Friday morning, Dave and Megan got into the car and began to back out the driveway. Another vehicle screeched to a halt in the road behind them, and as Megan turned, she saw Dr. Stella Comfort leaning out the driver’s window, waving. “I heard the good news!” she called, her eyes shining. “I’ll be praying for you!”
The four-hour drive to Washington National Airport seemed to take forever, and not even the stark beauty of the autumnal countryside could take Megan’s mind off her impending motherhood. Washington traffic had shifted into flee-for-the-weekend mode when they hit the Beltway, and after they finally found a parking place at the airport, they had to run and catch a shuttle to the terminal.
Breathless, Dave and Megan reached the gate at 5:30 p.m., where they learned that the children’s flight had been delayed from 5:59 to 6:33. Helen Gresham stood there, soothing each of the four anxious couples with a calm and gracious smile. Megan wanted to camp out next to Helen’s side, but realized she shouldn’t be possessive. Each woman in their small circle probably saw Helen as their personal rock of Gibraltar.
She suppressed a smile as she looked around the group. Each couple was as loaded down as she and Dave were, for each expected a child: one, a 21-month-old girl, another a six-month-old boy, and the other a ten-month old girl.
When at last the plane arrived, Megan stood on tiptoe and scanned each face as if by some miracle Danielle might walk herself off the plane. Every single passenger—a seemingly endless stream of them—entered the gate area before Helen and three other Welcome Home social workers boarded the plane to fetch the children. Finally the quartet reappeared and stepped into the blinding light of strobic camera flashes. Helen, the last woman off the plane, carried Danielle.
Megan stared in stupefaction when she recognized the smile she had memorized from precious photographs. Weeping silently, she took the baby from Helen for a brief hug, then handed her to Dave . . . her daddy.
Danielle grinned the entire time. As a few curious spectators drew near, she grinned even more . . . an active, curious little ham.
Megan wasn’t sure what impulse guided her actions, but she opened the diaper bag, spread the yellow blanket on the carpet, and gently pulled off Danielle’s pajamas and wet diaper. In no time at all she had dressed her baby in a clean diaper, fresh cotton booties, and a soft flannel sleeper.
And as she passed their precious daughter to Dave, she couldn’t help noticing that the other families were changing their babies, too. Perhaps, she thought, watching them, the urge to dress these children came from practical considerations—after all, they’d been flying for nearly 24 hours. But Megan believed the urge sprang from deeper instincts. After waiting so long and working so hard, each family wanted to dress the child in clothes they had prepared and provided. Somehow, the simple act of placing clean clothes on a baby helped make him yours.
The words from a long-ago afternoon returned on a tide of memory. In the park, Andre’s mother had described the experience perfectly: adoption was a time of waiting and a time of hard labor, complete with every pain and every joy. And now that their child had come home, Megan knew she had been blessed.
As Dave cooed and bounced the baby in his arm
s, Megan gathered the top and bottom of the orange pajamas Danielle had worn on the plane. She’d save these things for her daughter’s memory box.
Then her gaze fell upon the crumpled yellow socks she’d peeled from those chubby little feet. They were unlike any booties she’d ever seen—longer than American baby socks, and embroidered with an image of a bumblebee hovering over a blossom.
She laughed softly as she smoothed out the wrinkles. She held a little bit of Korea, a small part of her baby’s history, the essence of everything she had dreamed . . . and God had allowed. In the last three years she had been tested, tried, shaped, and hammered. At time she had borne the pain stoically, at other times she had whined and screamed and pounded the floor. But through it all, she had been able to trace God’s hand of provision. And that assurance of His abiding faithfulness would get them through the terrible twos, adolescence, dating . . . and the heart-rending moment when they would watch their darling daughter walk into the arms of her future husband.
Megan’s throat tightened at the thought.
No one had ever promised that adoption—or parenting—would be easy. Just worthwhile.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, then wrapped the yellow socks in the pajamas and placed the bundle into the diaper bag. “Come on, Dad and daughter,” she said, lifting the bag to her shoulder. “Let’s go home.”
* * *
About the Author
Angela Hunt and her husband have adopted two children, now grown, from Korea. The story you’ve just read is fiction, but just barely. Names have been changed, but the emotions are true.
