My Road to Ebenezer

Never did I imagine that West I-26 would become my Ebenezer; yet, Divine assistance is always only a whisper away, and God is more than able to decipher the guttural groaning of one of His children behind the wheel of her Nissan. 

I’d driven that same stretch of road the day before. Traveling eastbound, I sang along with the radio, joyfully imaging the hours that lay ahead. En route from Greenville to Columbia, South Carolina, I would soon meet my daughter. Devon Mara-Leigh was due to be born later that afternoon at Baptist Medical Center, and I’d been invited to be present for her birth — a privilege not always afforded adoptive parents. The previous night, as I swaddled our infant son before placing him in his crib, I reminded him in whispers how we’d been present for his arrival too, and although he couldn’t understand my words, he recognized love. Bending to kiss him, I breathed a promise in his ear. “Tomorrow, Dorian, you’re going to have a sister.”

After leaving detailed instructions with the sitter and hugging my husband Bill, who was a second-year orthopedic resident and on call, I checked again to be sure I had everything  — diaper bag, infant seat and my suitcase — then headed out in the early morning light. Bill was to join me the next day, for the signing of our birth mother’s relinquishment papers and the bittersweet farewell to our newborn daughter’s biological family — with our commitment to see them soon, as was our plan. I was grateful Bill could be with me for that difficult transition, when a birth mother named Stacey would say goodbye to her baby and place her very own flesh and blood into my waiting arms. 

Only three months earlier, we’d experienced this with someone else, when our Dorian’s birth mother Cindy made a last minute decision not to abort but rather, to place her newborn son for adoption. This eucatastrophic turn brought an arduous season to an end, finally making us parents. In only a brief span of time, we’d come to love this young woman immensely, and although every adoptive situation is unique, we envisioned our experience with Stacey being much the same. 

After all, hadn’t we sensed the Lord’s blessing when we’d sought His will regarding this situation, asking for wisdom? We knew having two children so close together would be a lot of work, but we felt ready and excited. Besides, I’d hoped for years that God might bless us with twins, which was a greater possibility due to the fertility medications my doctors had prescribed. Although I’d imagined my abdomen distending much like my mother-in-law’s when she carried my husband’s much younger twin sisters, I believed this was perhaps how the Lord would answer our fervent prayer. Like God’s promise to Noah, I hoped our children might come to us in twos, and my heart swelled with this dream. Dorian and Devon — just the sound was a song on my lips.

The space inside my car felt sacred as I traveled East I-26. I sensed God’s presence and felt His pleasure — as though He smiled upon me and upon the infant seat that would soon hold the newborn life He already knew and cherished. During those ninety minutes, I reflected on God’s faithfulness in the past — kneeling at the altar I’d erected in my heart over more than a decade, built with stones of remembrance. Despite my barrenness, I felt blessed, and the journey of infertility had been fruitful in many ways — birthing, among other things, a greater faith. Devon’s adoption would be one more stone in our story.

Arriving at Baptist Medical Center, I parked, and with diaper bag on one shoulder, suitcase in hand, I made my way through the parking garage and down the elevator into the  hospital. Emotional butterflies stirred in my stomach as I prepared to see Stacey again and to meet her extended family for the first time, not to mention finally getting to hold our daughter. 

Stacey seemed at peace when I walked into her room. She smiled, and I hugged her gently. Having been induced earlier, she grew increasingly uncomfortable; so after a brief visit, her mother Rita invited me to have coffee with her. Settled on a couch in the lounge, our conversation was surprisingly easy, and in those moments I learned a bit more about Stacey and her family. Rita expressed how thankful they were for us  —  telling of hardships that made placing Devon, difficult as it was, the best option for them. I assured her that our plan was to have an open adoption — to send letters and pictures and even visit on occasion — sharing how this was working beautifully with Dorian and Cindy. In those moments over coffee, I expressed that Bill and I were both humbled and grateful that they’d chosen us to be this baby’s adoptive parents, and I promised to love Devon and to always tell her of her birth mother’s love.

A couple hours later, right on schedule, Devon Mara-Leigh was born. I proudly took pictures, filming those first moments — her dark blue eyes, just opened, squinting into the bright delivery room light. I called Bill and my parents, as well as our sitter, who held the phone up to my infant son’s ear so I could tell him that his sister had arrived as promised. “Devon’s here, Dorian! You’ll get to meet her tomorrow.”

As the sun set, Devon was finally brought to me in our private hospital room, and in the hours that followed — bringing a close to one day and ushering in the next — I barely slept. Mostly, I sang to Devon, prayed over her and whispered words of love. In those still dark, early hours, I memorized her face as she drew sustenance from each bottle I carefully prepared. I held her close as she suckled — marveling at the miracle of life. Although she’d not grown in my womb, she’d been born in my heart, and I loved her beyond measure.

Morning light poured through windows as I packed our things in preparation for our discharge later that day. Our attorney stopped in briefly to meet our new daughter, then left to check on Stacey. I said a prayer, knowing the next several hours would be very painful for her — praying the Lord would ease her sadness. Honestly, I prayed also that sorrow would not overcome Stacey, compelling her, thus, to change her mind. Anxiety began to stir, but I found comfort knowing that Bill would be arriving soon with Dorian. I could hardly wait for our family to be four. Focusing on this eased the fear that threatened to steal my joy. Still, I held Devon more tightly.

Suddenly, and without warning, our attorney returned to the room. “Don’t leave,” he commanded in a hushed tone. “Something’s happened.”

He left as quickly as he’d come. The warmth that seemed to permeate the room only moments earlier dissipated, leaving the space sterile, cold. I sat on the edge of the bed cradling my daughter close to my chest — speaking words that were as much to calm my own fears as to comfort her, as though I could will everything to be alright. 

“Shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

But it was not okay, and in what seemed like a single sweep of someone’s hand, my arms were emptied, and I was alone again in the room. All I was told was that Stacey changed her mind, and just like that, my daughter was gone.

I don’t remember walking out of the hospital. I don’t remember finding my car or turning the ignition or making my way out of the city and onto the interstate. I must have called my husband to tell him not to come, but I honestly do not remember.

Somehow I made it to westbound I-26, and even though I’m certain there were other drivers in the lanes near me, all I remember is how utterly alone I felt. Someone so small had filled such a big space, and her absence left an aching void, with no chance to say goodbye or to kiss her once more. As I looked in the rearview mirror, the infant seat mocked me — as though the enemy sneered, “It’s empty — like your womb.”

Somewhere along I-26 I pulled over, and my arms began to flail — beating the air against fiery accusations of failure, of my infertility. The confines of my car were a war zone, and had it not been for the unfailing love of my Father — by God’s grace — I likely would have been overcome. But somewhere along that stretch of interstate, I was handed a sword with which to fight. With three interrogative words, my answer became a wielded weapon.

“Am I good?”

What? Even the enemy was silenced by the question — asked in a gentle, yet authoritative tone, not to be ignored.

“Am I good?”

An impregnable pause, and then, once more…

“Am I good?”

My heart knew He was, and so I heard myself say, “You are good.”

And in that moment, my sword — God’s Word — defeated the enemy, and a palpable peace beyond all understanding settled. I didn’t know exactly where in the Bible those three words were, nor did I know their specific context. I just knew God was good — in all things, at all times. Yes, even in this.

“Okay then. Let’s go home.”

And we did — and I wasn’t alone. God’s presence filled every space — spilling in and out of and all around that infant seat. Mockery silenced, a quiet melody stirred in my heart, though my lips could not yet sing.

It wasn’t until later that day that I discovered the words that had been my sword — those three words unsheathed by God’s question, “Am I good?” 

“You are good…”
But there was more. Psalm 119:68 says, “You are good, and what You do is good…” 

As I reflected on this passage that day and in the dark days that followed, I was able — even through pain — to affirm again and again that God was good and only did good. 

Yes, even the loss of Devon.

And I wept these words again several weeks later when we received a letter informing us that Devon Mara-Leigh had passed away — the cause of her death, unknown. Our attorney asked if we might consider writing Stacey a note of sympathy, to comfort her in her grief. My heart understood, and so I did.

More than two decades have gone by; yet, I still think often about those few hours I had with my daughter — feeding her that first night and in those early morning hours, singing over her life-giving words, sustenance for her soul. Did they make a difference in her brief stay?

God is good, and what He does is good.

And my travail on West I-26, when I discovered that the Sword of the Spirit is sometimes merely three small words, wielded by one weak and weary with sorrow? 

You are good.

And I pick up another stone and place it on the altar. Yes, my Ebenezer.