Her Father’s Joy

 

 

“You’re just waiting to get pregnant,” my doctor assured me.

But days of thermometers and planned lovemaking and monthly disappointment tore at thinned emotions, feelings also frayed from too much doing, too much identity seeking in serving.

Adoption doors hid behind lines that flowed into forever.

“The company wants us to move,” my husband told me. “It’s just for 12-18 months. They want us to lease this house, rent in Tampa.”

I loved Georgia. It was too much. I snapped. “You go right ahead. I’m not going.”

But God was gutting me of myself.

Preparing me for sacrifice. Preparing me for selflessness. Teaching me joy in all things.

“You’re going to come back with a baby,” said Judy.

But I was losing hope.

We found an infertility doctor.

There were so many tests.  And finally major surgery to correct the scarring in my one remaining tube.

The nurse called one day after a blood test. “Sandy,” she’d said. “You’re pregnant!”

But now I lay in the hospital bed with empty arms. That short pregnancy almost killed me.

It was over. There would be no babies.

We began to make other plans. Plans that didn’t include children.

We were good now, moving on. Counting it all joy.

Then our pastor called. He’d been to a meeting. “There’s an interdenominational group that’s been counseling young, unmarried, pregnant girls,” he told us. “They want to do more. Adoption might be an option.”

So we put together a packet–resumes, biographical and spiritual histories, a financial report, a poem. I still have copies on yellow carbon paper.

We did it mostly to appease him.

CHOSEN FOR LOVE

We’ve
love to share
through joy and care
bound with ties as yet unseen
we’ll learn together the way to grow
that to the world His ways we’ll show.

As God is my Parent
you’ll be my child
we both are adopted in one family
so I’ll care for you as He cares for me
that you can be all He wants you to be.

We’ll bake cookies for Dad, play catch outside
we’ll listen to music or read a book
I’ll check your homework, we’ll talk of your day
at bedtime I’ll tuck you in while we pray.

We’ll share the wonders of butterfly wings
we’ll climb a mountain and walk on the shore
in nature’s classroom with childlike surprise
we’ll find new things that will open our eyes.

Love has to be tough if it’s love at all
and it may hurt when I have to say, “No”
but I’ll kiss your bruises, always be there
to comfort and hold you through every tear.

We’ve
love to share
through joy and care
bound with ties as yet unseen.
He chose you long ago, you see
a special gift wrapped up for me.

Your mom ~ May 1984

The group  liked the packet enough to send out a state social worker for an interview. Then came the call, and we were dizzy with the news. We bought a crib, set up the nursery, waited for our little girl to be born.

But the adoption fell through. That baby was not meant to be ours. We dismantled the nursery.

Then another call. Another baby.

Two days after her birth, nine months from the time I wrote the poem, I cradled and cried over this special gift.

Planned before time for the fullness of time. Because His ways and His timing are perfect.

We’d been in Florida now for four years.

Almost immediately and before the adoption was even finalized, the company transferred us back to Georgia.

Judy was right. We came back with a baby.

Abigail Elizabeth.

Her father’s joy. Consecrated to God.

Abby

My daughter.

My best girlfriend.

I love you.

Happy birthday!

 

 

 

 

In the stillness,

Sandy

 

Resurrected from the archives in honor of Abby’s 30th birthday