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I sat at church on Mother’s Day, anticipating…again…the annual ceremony where all the moms are called to the altar to stand while the entire congregation raises their hands and blesses them. I reminisced about all of those years where my brother, sister, dad and I watched Mom go up.
I recalled the past four years when I had longed to go up but instead sat in my seat, trying not to think about another year gone by.
Though admittedly sometimes strained, our faith had seen my husband Dave and me through the many disappointments.
And there had been so many disappointments.
Four years of infertility. A failed adoption.
My brother was adopted and I had heard and truly believed all my life that every child is created and assigned to his or her parents. So when the call had come, we said “yes” to the baby we assumed was assigned to us. The agency said it was the only time in their fifteen year history that the birth mother had changed her mind. As we clung to each other after they took him away, Dave and I sobbed with the reality, “He was not our baby.” Though we were privileged to love and care for him for three days, the grief of traveling home with empty arms had overwhelmed us both.
Undaunted and faith-filled, we began the wait…again.
Then, three months later, four days before my birthday, on a Sunday morning I thought, I better turn my cell phone on. I have a feeling the call is going to come.
“The call” didn’t come that Sunday.
Or Monday.
Or Tuesday.
As I anticipated my birthday in two days, I had confided to a friend, “I have a hunch I will share my birthday with a daughter for the rest of my life.”
I repeated this strong intuitive feeling to another friend as we shared lunch on a patio café at 2:00 on Tuesday. A bee landed on my arm. Before I could brush it away, I cried out in pain! I had never been stung by a bee before.
“The call” didn’t come the next day, Wednesday, either.
On Thursday, my birthday, my cell phone rang. It was our adoption agency. “This will be a happy day,” she said.
They are the kindest, most thoughtful people, I thought. “You got my birthday from our records. How sweet of you to remember.”
“It’s your birthday?” she squealed. “I had no idea! A baby girl was born at 2:00 on Tuesday…”
“Will all the mothers please come forward,” I heard the priest say.
As I approached the altar with Mom at my side I could see we were both trying not to cry. I stood with the women of my parish who had watched me grow up, holding our tiny three-week-old baby against my chest.
“Who’s this?” Father Don exclaimed in a whisper.
“She is our baby daughter, Dagny Grace.” I could hardly keep from shouting.
With my little girl in one hand, and my mother’s hand in the other, I bowed my head, accepting the blessing bestowed by our faith community.
Mom and I then took our seats and did our best to focus on the rest of the mass.
As it ended and Father was about to say the final prayer, he nearly leapt from the altar and raced down the aisle. I couldn’t imagine what was the matter. He approached our row, took his microphone from his lapel and put it before my lips.
“Tell us, Christie, what does this day mean to you.”
Normally I’m one of those people who is terrified to speak in public. But this time I stood and faced the hundreds of smiling faces. “Everything.”
Father beamed and nodded to our baby. “Who is this?”
“This is our newborn daughter, Dagny Grace,” I said, hardly believing my own words.
Father simply said, “Tell us.”
“For years I prayed to have a baby and I longed for the day when I could stand before this congregation on Mother’s Day and receive the blessing. And today I stand here with our baby girl. This is the child God created and assigned to us. We know, now, that adoption is not Plan B. It just took us a while to realize that it was God’s Plan A all along.”
Christie Rogers
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