The Yellow Sock: An Adoption Story (11 page)

She walked to the kitchen, plugged in the coffee maker, then cracked open the front door and shot a furtive glance up and down the street. When she was confident there were no neighbors about, she dashed out in her pajamas and picked up the newspaper, then took it to the kitchen.

Dave joined her a few moments later, his hair slicked back and shiny with wet. He wore a long-sleeved shirt, a dark blue tie, and matching navy pants. The conservative look, suitable for an educator eager to impress.

He lifted a brow when he saw her sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. “I saw that you were up already, but making coffee? What’s gotten into you?”

She shrugged. “I just wanted to help get your day get off to a good start. Figured a cup of coffee and the paper couldn’t hurt.”

He sat down beside her, sipped the coffee, and smiled in appreciation. “Perfect, Meg.”

“Thanks.” She nodded slowly. “That’s what I wanted to tell you this morning. Whatever happens in your meeting today, I know things are going to be perfect. We want what God wants and we’re committed to Him. So I know things will work out.”

He looked at her, a question in his eyes.

She lowered her coffee cup and met his gaze. “Last night I couldn’t sleep, so I went into the baby’s room to sort of argue my case before God. And I realized that what I said yesterday about nothing being able to give Danielle up—well, I was being stubborn. So, before I finally went to sleep, I gave her to the Lord. He loves that baby even more than I do, and I know He wants what’s best for her. So whether she comes home to our house or someone else’s, I’m okay. I want what God wants, no matter what that is.”

Dave’s eyes burned with the clear, deep blue that burns in the heart of a flame, then he reached out and gently stroked her cheek. “I love you,” he whispered, gratitude gleaming in his eyes.

His hand pulled her forward until they met forehead-to-forehead. “Father, we are Yours,” he prayed, his hand warm against the back of her neck. “Work Your will through us today, and we will give You the power, and honor, and glory for whatever comes. In the name of Jesus we ask these things.”

When Megan lifted her head, Dave’s eyes shone with confidence. She smiled, knowing that no matter what happened in the school board meeting, Mr. and Mrs. Dave Wingfield would be at peace.

Later that morning, Megan moved through her usual routines of attending patients, assisting Dr. Duncan, and helping Laurie at the desk. She functioned automatically, only half-thinking about her actions, while her brain wrestled with the idea of revoking her resignation. She had another week and half before her resignation at the clinic became final . . . but what if she’d made a terrible mistake?

If Dave lost his job, she certainly couldn’t afford to leave hers. Dr. Duncan would almost certainly love to keep her, but he had already begun to interview prospective veterinary technicians. In fact, if Laurie’s scribbled notation on the calendar could be trusted, Megan was fairly certain he had already had asked someone to report next week to begin training for her position.

Begging to keep her job at this late date would be unfair to Dr. Duncan and to whomever he planned to hire. So she couldn’t change her mind about leaving.

She bit her lip. If the news from today’s school board meeting was as bad as they feared, she could always apply at another veterinary office in town, though that would seem disloyal to Dr. Duncan. Or she could set aside her training and investigate a new line of work—pet sitting, dog walking, or perhaps pet grooming. She knew nothing about how to give fancy hair cuts to poodles and Malteses, but she could wash a dog as well as anyone. The world of dog shows had always interested her—she’d have to be trained, of course, but if she wormed her way into the circle of professional handlers who worked the dog show circuit, she could make a tidy sum working weekends and summers . . .

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 screams 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.