Ephesians 5:8-10: “For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light (for the fruit of the light consists in all goodness, righteousness and truth) and find out what pleases the Lord.”
Truth and secrets. Light and darkness.
No more secrets. No more darkness. No more waiting for light.
Becky booted up her computer, logged onto the Internet, and sent Monica a gift—a pair of hand-dipped candles connected at the wick—with a note: From your forever friend. We really need each other. No matter what. Becky.
She paid the exorbitant extra fee for overnight shipping, but slept soundly that night for the first time in weeks.
Four days later Becky called the local flourist and ordered a Thanksgiving centerpiece for Monica—a cinnamon-colored pottery pumpkin-shaped container with rich autumn-colored mums and a hurricane-lamp center. With a candle. To light. To throw light.
Two days of silence later, she pulled Monica’s Christmas gift from the hall closet shelf where she’d stored it since finding it on sale midsummer, before . . . before everything. It was one of the lighted village pieces Monica didn’t yet have in her collection. A flower shop with—what do you know?—morning glories trailing up the side of the ceramic building. She tucked it in a neutral, non-Christmas gift bag, surrounded it with cornflower blue tissue paper, and left it on Monica's doorstep, under the overhang, away from stray snowflakes.
On Friday that week, a package arrived in the mail. A pink flashlight with rechargeable batteries, and a simple note: “Brianne said it was a girl.”
With Jackson playing at her feet, Becky clicked the flashlight on and off, on and off, tears flooding her cheeks and making her nose run. That’s how Gil found her.
“Hi, home! I’m honey!” His standard lame but endearing greeting.
She looked up from the couch and crumpled at the sight of him.
“Becky, my deliciousness, what’s the matter?” His arms were around her before she was conscious of his crossing the floor to her.
She waved the flashlight at him.
“Is it broken?”
“N-no. She is.”
“Who?” Gil pulled back just far enough to shed his coat.
“Monica. And sh-she needs me. I have to go to her.”
“Go!” Gil said, rubbing courage into her back. “I’m here for Jackson. Take as long as you need.”
She leaned into his strength. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
“What are you doing home so early?”
Gil stiffened. “We’ll talk about it when you get back.”
“No secrets. No darkness. Just light.”
“What?”
Becky swiped at her tears, then framed his familiar, bristly face with her hands. “No secrets. Why are you home so early?”
“The good news is I’ll be around more often to help out now.”
“Oh, Gil! You were laid off?”
14
Ivy—1951
Dear Drew,
I was laid off today.
Next sentence. What’s the next sentence?
What was Ivy’s next step? How much of the truth could she share without destroying any hope of Drew still loving her? Mistakes made love disappear. A fact of life. It was not the life Anna preached, but the reality Ivy knew from the day she made the mistake that sent her mother away, the mistake that shriveled her father’s heart.
She erased what she’d written. Even “Dear Drew” didn’t seem right.
Showing up at work, going through the motions, and crossing paths with Jill wouldn’t be easy for the next couple of weeks. Training her replacement would take the kind of courage it took Drew to poke his head out of a foxhole.
If you’d gone to college, Ivy, you could have majored in melodrama.
What was wrong with her? Maybe she was as selfish as people said. It shouldn’t be this hard. Other girls had babies out of wedlock. Those kinds of girls.
If she didn’t care what Drew thought, she’d outright tell him the truth and let the chips fall where they may. She’d figure out what to do with the kid when it came. If she had a job. And a place to live.
Getting rid of the baby hadn’t really been an option, not even in the beginning when she could have taken care of the problem and no one would ever have known. Because she was so noble? That wasn’t it. Could she even define the reason? The baby was a part of Drew. That sweet man who treated her better than she deserved, who looked at her as though she were beautiful, who held her hand as if it were something precious, who talked to her with words that fell on her ears like music and melted in her heart like butter on hot toast. Oh, Drew!
His seed had grown into a seedling in her. She carried part of him with her as she walked through her miserable days. The problem had a face, ears, hands, legs, toes.
And when the truth came out and Drew knew what she’d done, even if he walked away from her, she’d still have—
A flutter! She held her breath waiting for another. There! Life inside her. She held her hand over the spot. A faint tickle against her palm said, “I’m here.”
Dear Drew,
I lost my job today. And felt our baby move.
The tears she’d been sandbagging let loose as she tipped her pencil upside down and erased every word.
Anna—1890s
The dawn of my grief-healing over Elizabeth and her tiny son came not a day too soon. Dr. Noel caught my arm after church and pulled me to the side to speak with me privately.
Have I told you about Dr. Noel? Noel Milbourn. Another of God’s gifts to us. He registered a bit crusty on the outside but soft as down on the inside, like a good loaf of peasant bread. He knew up front that we had few resources with which to pay him. Looking back on it now, I cannot believe my brashness! First Puff and then Dr. Noel. Could you please give of yourself, long hours, intense labor, day and night, with no hint of reward except my gratitude?
Who but God could have motivated these men to say yes?
As we visited after church that Sunday morning, Dr. Noel stood at my elbow, half whispering his request. A young woman, late teens, had been found asleep in the alley behind the hotel, scavenging food from the waste pails. The sheriff, responding to the hotelier’s request to remove the girl from the premises, noticed that her thin coat bulged with more than pilfered goods. Dr. Noel was called in. And now, he called on me.
As sweet-tempered as was my Elizabeth, Corrie was foul and uncooperative. The birth of her baby was imminent. I took comfort in that. Corinda Blake’s presence in my home fogged the air, but it would not last long.
There was no question whether she would keep her baby. She made no bones about her view that “it” was a parasite she was eager to be rid of. I have never been closer to violence against another human being than with Corrie. More than once, my heart reached up to slap her, though my arms remained at my sides.
Corrie spat on my house rules and refused to work. I considered refusing her food in exchange, but relented for the sake of the baby. Had I a similar opportunity today, I’d tie her breakfast to the broom handle, her dinner to the laundry tub. I’ve learned much about being taken advantage of. I don’t believe I helped her by letting her sulk and pout and poison our air with her foul words and attitude.
Puff kept to himself while Corrie lived with us. I don’t blame him. Some nights I wished I lived in a corner of the barn rather than in the house where her complaints resided.
“I’m only here because the sheriff said it was this place or the orphan home.”
“I know, Corrie. But since you’re here—”
“I don’t have to listen to your lectures. Nobody said I did.”
Need I explain why I was so troubled that Corrie’s baby was born as healthy as a horse, and that the mother herself slipped quickly from labor pains to relentless complaining about the loss of her figure?
On the hill behind the orchard lay a snow-covered mound. And now an unwanted chi
ld lay squirming and love-hungry under a borrowed blanket in a room down the hall.
Corrie refused to care for the child. Frankly, and ashamedly, I was grateful. Though my own workload mushroomed because of it, from the start the robust boy heard good things whispered in his downy ears. Gentle, though work-worn hands tended his needs. A voice laced with tenderness sang his lullabies. An appreciative heart noticed that his baby breath was as sweet as clover honey. Love diapered his bottom and prepared his bottles and eased his tummyaches in the middle of the night while the woman who gave him birth caught up on her beauty sleep and regained strength enough to walk away forever.
Because Corrie’s baby lived, and because she did not want him, we were forced to enlist the aid of an attorney.
And so I faced another crisis of faith. With memories of Mr. Rawlins as nose-stinging as ammonia, I was not eager to work closely with any attorney. But that was the least of my concerns. Where on God’s green earth would I find a lawyer willing to handle the paperwork for adoptions without collecting his customary fee? Where could I find a lawyer willing to work for eggs and dried apples? Ludicrous!
Pressed by a sense of urgency, fueled by doubts that Corrie would remain with me long enough to sign the necessary papers, I enlisted the Kinneys’ aid. Before the week’s end, they had secured an appointment for me with an attorney in Newcastle. The extra miles seemed a small price to pay, under the circumstances.
Because Corrie would not volunteer to watch the infant, I feared leaving them together while I kept my appointment in Newcastle. I couldn’t trust her to change or feed the baby—or to care that he needed either task performed. It sounds as though I’m being especially hard on her. But I’m not exaggerating her lack of interest or cooperation.
So the child, whom I called Thomas, for lack of an appointed name, rode with me when Puff drove us to Newcastle. The child remained in my arms when I walked through the doors of the office building and introduced myself to Mr. Grissom’s secretary.
The child, rooting hungrily at my breast as if I could feed him from my own barren body, made his presence known with loud protests as Mr. Grissom welcomed into his office our sorry duo—a woman who was anything but prepared to beg for help from a sophisticated lawyer, and the days-old babe who did not understand that his future lay in the hands of the man and woman who shared the office space with him.
“Miss Morgan. A pleasure to meet you. Please, have a seat.”
I shifted Thomas to my shoulder, covering the infant’s mouth-sized wet spot on my blouse with the baby’s body, and lowered myself into the offered deep leather chair. Thomas nuzzled his face into my neck and cheek, his rosebud lips searching for what he could not find on me. My embarrassment nearly sent me fleeing from the room.
“A baby’s hunger knows no propriety, does it, Miss Morgan?”
“I have a bottle for him.”
“Please. Take your time. We can talk as he eats, can’t we?”
The bottle I retrieved from the bag slung over my other shoulder was mercifully still warm enough. Puff had suggested I nest it in newsprint to insulate it. Where had he learned such a thing?
Thomas settled into a comfortable pattern of sucking and swallowing. Mr. Grissom and I settled into a more comfortable pattern, too.
The man’s face registered a kindness that startled me. I assumed I’d be up against a fight for the rights of the child in my care. But Mr. Grissom’s fists were not raised for battle. His hands were relaxed and outstretched on his paper-strewn polished oak desk.
“How can I help you?”
“I was led to believe you might consider giving legal counsel in regard to adoptions?”
“The Kinneys have talked to me about your ministry.”
That was the first time I’d heard my feeble efforts called a ministry. It both humbled and thrilled me.
“And, yes, I would consider being of assistance. Is this child being put up for adoption?”
“Yes, sir. As soon as possible. The mother is with me at the present. I can’t guarantee her whereabouts for long, I’m afraid. And then what would happen? I know nothing about legal matters. I have heard it has become more complicated. There are rules to follow and adoption agencies with good intentions that sometimes run aground. If the mother disappears, who decides the child’s future?”
Thomas gulped too deeply and choked on the milk for which he was so hungry. I lifted him to my shoulder again and patted him on the back.
“Raise his arms over his head,” Mr. Grissom suggested. “That often works.”
It did. I was grateful and growing more indebted to the man across the desk.
“You have children, Mr. Grissom?”
“Yes. A son and a daughter. Both nearly grown now. My son is away at the university. My daughter will graduate this spring and head to Europe to study music, if she has her way. Since her mother died, she has been comfort, companion, and caretaker for me. A blessing I’ll sorely miss when she is gone.”
“You can understand, then, how important it is for a child to be given the advantage of a two-parent home, if at all possible.”
“Oh, yes.”
“And you must have dealt with families over the years who had not been blessed with children but who longed to provide a home for children who had none.”
“Yes. Are you endeavoring to win me over to your cause, Miss Morgan? Your efforts are unnecessary.”
The infant swallowed contentedly. I sought for words to introduce the financial questions swirling through my mind. That, too, was unnecessary. Mr. Grissom relieved me of the dilemma.
He leaned back in his wheeled desk chair, his vest and shirt stretching over a sturdy chest. “I understand that you are not involved in a money-making venture, that you do not charge the unwed mothers who find shelter with you.”
“True.”
“I also understand that you’ve yet to find a team of permanent backers, that you have had only seed money and God’s grace off of which to live these months of operation.”
“Also true.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on papers representing cases far more significant than mine, of more interest to the courts than a small bundle curled against me, content to be held and loved, even if not by the woman who gave birth to him.
Mr. Grissom smiled as he inhaled. “It’s been laid on my heart to consider tithing the hours I spend behind my desk.”
“Excuse me?”
“I give financially to my church. But the Lord has impressed upon me the good that might be done if I also gave Him a percentage of my time here in the office. I handle an occasional pro bono case, but am interested in expanding to include other service opportunities. Can you be of assistance to me in this capacity, Miss Morgan?”
How gallant of him to turn my need to make it appear I was somehow capable of helping him! I stared down into the face of a child and up into the face of a saint.
“What is the standard fee for adoption legal work? No, please don’t tell me. I would pay too high a price in guilt if I knew. Until I see where God takes me, until I know if I will care for two women a year or twenty, and how many of them will need to consider adoption, I can’t begin to guess how much this might cost you, Mr. Grissom.”
“I will not give to the Lord that which cost me nothing.”
He quoted King David at the threshing floor. It moved me to hear a man of such education weaving Scripture into his conversation as smoothly as “Pleased to meet you” and “Good day to you.”
“As I said, I am not at all familiar with adoption proceedings, Mr. Grissom.”
“Before we’re done, I am confident you will be, Miss Morgan.”
So began our working relationship.
I believe the word bittersweet was invented to describe the emotions that accompany adoption. Bitter-tasting bile pushed against the back of my throat as I witnessed Corrie’s signing away her child. Would she ever regret the way her hand determinedly gripped the pen? Would she live to
regret the decision to pretend she was not a mother? As calloused as she then appeared, would years and longing and disappointments and wisdom sand the edges of her slate-cornered heart?
Corrie and Josiah Grissom and I attended the moment, with Lydia and Pastor Kinney serving as witnesses. With different mothers and sometimes fathers, we would play the same parts too many times. It was always bittersweet.
The young women who shook like willows in an earthquake and cried with wrenching sobs and smeared the legal documents with their tears and needed my hand to steady theirs as they signed their names . . . their sour grief sweetened with the golden nectar of the family they knew waited in the wings to care for their child.
The women who wavered at the last moment, clinging to the fragile thread of hope that maybe, somehow, oh could there be a way . . . ?
But no. They knew the answer. Before signing, the women were experienced wrestlers, having wrested from God’s hands the answer they needed, convinced in their heart of hearts that the choice was the only real choice they had.
“Please don’t put your name to paper until you’ve heard from God,” I counseled, always conscious that theirs was a decision no mother should have to make.
It was grievously difficult for me to hold my tongue sometimes. I advised. But I could not choose for them. Some gave up babies I thought they should have tried to keep. Some kept babies against my better judgment. I prayed the more diligently for them.
Corrie’s Thomas was our first. Not long after the screen door slammed behind Corrie’s “don’t look back” body, an eager man and woman walked through my front door, fell in love with him, and pledged to care for him as their very own. I knew they would. I read faithfulness and gratitude in their eyes.
A lovely young couple. They sat so close on the sofa that I entertained the thought that they might be conjoined twins masquerading as a married couple. Once the child was brought into the room, neither Mr. Grissom nor I could draw their attention back to legal or practical concerns for more than a cursory nod or brief word of agreement.
When the Morning Glory Blooms (9781426770777) Page 13
