When Richard and I married we had our future planned. In two years he would finish his degree, then I would get pregnant. We would name our baby Michael or Michelle.
Ten years passed and no child came. It was a decade of roller-coaster rides through a false pregnancy, infertility tests and watching enviously as our friends and siblings were having children. And it was a decade of hopes and prayers that God would give us the baby we desired.
Sometimes Richard and I talked of adoption, but worried over finances, long waits and family acceptance. Finally, in the spring of 1990, we attended a class for prospective adoptee parents. “This is our chance,” Richard whispered. Is it, Lord? I sent up a silent prayer.
Every Monday evening for the next 10 weeks we attended parenting classes. At home we prepared our extra bedroom. Lovingly I placed bottles of lotion and powder beside bibs and stuffed animals.
Then in November our caseworker called and told me about an eight-month-old baby girl. “You can pick up her file in the morning. If you like what you read, next week you’ll meet her foster parents.”
Within a week we said yes, and three days of visitation began. “Her name is Theresa Michelle,” her foster mother explained. “But my children had trouble saying Theresa so we’ve always called her Michelle.”
I looked into my daughter’s face. She smiled and held out her arms. I thought my heart would burst with joy. Our Michelle had arrived. After so many years God had indeed sent us the baby we wanted.
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