Heart-On Collision

Sixteen years ago today, I was involved in a 3-way collision.

I woke up tired but joy-filled — having slept (very little) next to our new baby girl, Devon Mara-Leigh. Though I’d not delivered her into this world, Baptist Hospital in Columbia, SC treated me, the adoptive momma, as though I had — giving us a “mother / infant” room and allowing us to spend that first night together. (I didn’t know it would be our last.)

I sang to her as she ate — sucking down life-sustaining formula, held closely to my breast. “…Before I knew your name, before I saw your eyes, your chin and your nose, before I counted your fingers and toes, I asked Heaven for someone wonderful as you, and every prayer and wish came true. I dreamed of you before I knew your name…”

And I had.

For years. 

And then, in an instant it seemed, she was gone.

We were waiting in our room for the final papers to be signed. Our attorney had poked his head through the door to let me know he’d arrived and to meet this new little one. He was kind. Thorough. Both personal and professional.

He’d handled our Ian’s  adoption, too — and Bill and I considered him a friend. I was thankful to see his smiling face that morning. And I knew that his arrival meant our departure was near — when I would load our “Precious Cargo” into her infant carseat and turn toward home, where Devon’s daddy and Big Brother Ian (who was 3 months old) were waiting.

Just a few papers to sign…

We’d be on our way.

But the minutes grew longer.

No word.

And then, suddenly, our attorney returned. He looked alarmed. “Stay here,” he said. “Don’t leave the room.”

I don’t remember asking “Why?” Perhaps my worried, questioning countenance posed the question.

“There seems to be some conflict… some uncertainty. Don’t leave. I’ll be back.”

And with that, he left again.

I waited, holding Devon Mara-Leigh more tightly.

And then, I blinked…

And she… was…

Gone. 

You know, I don’t even remember saying good-bye.

Honestly, I’m not really sure I did.

I think I just kept believing that she wasn’t really going…

All.Just.A.Bad.Dream. 

But then, the room was empty of all but me.

And I wondered, how could something — Someone — so small leave such a void?

The empty infant seat felt too weightless as I carried it to the car.

The baby bag — too heavy.

Somehow, I was to manage the impending two-hour drive from Columbia to Greenville alone. That hadn’t been the plan.

Bill had arrived at the hospital to meet his daughter shortly after her birth — probably half-asleep behind the wheel, having gotten off his second-year residency shift. But he had to return quickly to work and so was not with me for the journey home.

It WAS to be me and her.

Mother and Daughter.

Maureen and Devon.

Us. 

But the car was empty of all but me.

And a vacant infant seat.

Or so I thought…

I’m not sure when the collision occurred. Somewhere along I-26 to be certain.

My fists flew out punches just before they folded (though perhaps not literally) in prayer.

First I expressed my anger.

Then I expelled my anguish.

And then, I earnestly prayed… asking…

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why?” 

Hadn’t we heard? Hadn’t we obeyed? Hadn’t there been confirmations even, all along the way?

Even her name — Devon — we found out, after deciding upon it, meant “obedience.”

And Mara — “bitter.”

Oh, yes — this ‘bitter obedience.’

I wanted to spit it out…

Spit out the vile anger…

Anguish…

And I did — by asking… pleading for an answer.

“Why?” 

And it was in my asking that I found I was not, after all, alone in the car.

Hardly alone.

Never alone. 

And in the miles that passed from hospital to home, the collision.

His Word in my heart…

It can be a messy thing. 

Yet, He makes something from our messiness.

Beauty from ashes.

Joy from mourning.

Purpose from pain. 

Oh, yes.

Perhaps He was right beside the empty infant seat.

Perhaps He was in it.

My guess, He was everywhere — filling up my car, all those empty spaces.

Especially the empty space in my heart.

He filled it up.

Right up

To overflowing

Somewhere there on I-26. 

He said I would NOT travel alone.

He would NOT allow it.

And He made good on His promise.

He always does. 

The words — His Words — collided there in my Nissan Altima.

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future” (Jeremiah 29:11).

“Consider it pure joy… whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given…” (James 1:2-5).

“You are good and what You do is good; teach me, [O, LORD]…” (Ps. 119:68).

Yes, it was messy.

But in this 3-way collision, there were no victims.

Only victors!

I cannot say I fully understand all that happens in this life — mine or others’.

Pain exists.

Ugliness results.

Devastation happens.

But I don’t (usually) shake my fists at God anymore.

I don’t blame Him.

Mostly, I just join Him…

Hurting.

Weeping.

Interceding. 

I think the things that break our hearts break His a million-fold.

This world is not as it was to be.

Not as He created it.

Not as He intended. 

This sin-sick, suffering world was not His intention.

It’s the result, I believe, of ours.

A birthmother intended for me to be her child’s momma.

I intended to do the best job I could.

I didn’t get that opportunity — not with Devon.

Nor did her other mother — or, at least, not for long.

Death takes away.

Robs.

Steals.

Can destroy. 

For me, Devon’s absence was the death of a dream.

Her biological mother experienced the death of a child.

Both us mothers had no choice but to let her go.

But Heaven gives me hope.

And I wonder if Devon’s birth mother finds comfort in that, as well.

Oh…

I hope.

And sometimes, I wonder what Devon’s biological momma named her. What name she whispered in the dark as she fed or changed or loved on this little one?

I’ll likely never know, this side of Eternity.

But I do believe with all that is in me that, in Heaven, this little lady was given a new name — a new name on a white stone (Rev. 2:17) and that she hears the One who loves her most sweetly calling to her, saying, “…I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are Mine” (Is. 43:1b).

After all, she never really did belong to me.

Nor her.

Our children never do. 

The collision left me changed.

The scars, reminders…

He does have a plan to prosper and NOT harm me.

He does use our sufferings to grow us and build our faith.

He does give wisdom to all who ask.

And He is good…

All the time.

Looking back over these sixteen years, I truly can see past the sorrow to the sweetness…

The sweetness found in a baby boy named Jacob, who’s now a wonderful young man.

The sweetness realized in a little girl named Allie — who makes me laugh, and yes — sometimes cry.

And even more, the sweetness found in a deepened, ever-deepening relationship with the One who traveled with me from hopelessness to hopefulness on I-26.

He is my Hope.

In Him do I trust. 

“I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us… the Spirit helps us in our weakness.. And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose…” (Romans 8:18, 26, 28).