Grant Alexander: Wonder of Wonders, Miracle of Miracles

We are home.

I've done my first night as a mom flying solo without a battery of NICU nurses coaching me and taking the night shift. We've successfully completed numerous diaper changes, multiple feedings, and we put a sheet on a baby crib. Big stuff, folks, big stuff...

And now it's time to tell you the beginning of "Grantlet's" story. It's a good Christmas story--lots of miracles, sparkles, love, and cuddles. So, grab your favorite wintertime coffee blend, curl up in a big comfy chair, and let me tell you a story of how a wee-small baby changed our world.

It was a cold, incredibly normal Monday night. I was curled up in bed, diligently avoiding the remaining dishes downstairs, and browsing for Christmas stories on my Kindle. Scott was at the community center and I was feeling a wee bit lonesome, hopeless and nostalgic.

Two weeks earlier, on a brittle, sunshiny day, Scott and I had driven south to Bloomington to meet another birth mother. This was our third "connection" since starting the adoption process, and "anticlimactic" could not have more fully described our emotions on that drive. Hope was dead. After a very brutal let-down, and a slow fade-out by two other moms, I was very far from believing that we would ever get a child. Christmas was approaching, and memories of our lost little baby would make me cry on an almost daily basis. Each date around this time of year was full of very painful memories of last Christmas.

I am ashamed to say, I was wallowing in a very pale-blue despair, which gently permeated multiple areas of my life.

So, we were not excited to meet this mom. We were not anxious. We were not nervous.

Over a lunch of creamy potato soup, we chit-chatted with two social workers and the birth mom. Within the first 30 minutes we learned that she had considered an abortion (I almost cried), couldn't do it, and was willing to place her boy with us. She was due the end of December.

I cried three times at that lunch, because God knew. God knew Scott and I were biased towards having a baby boy (we agree on more boy names). God knew that I wanted a baby at Christmas time (Scott said it was like a Hebrew redemptive story-line, God restoring what was lost). God knew that we couldn't handle a long wait, so He gave us a birth mom due five weeks from when we met her. God knew! And He orchestrated.

We may have been calm driving to that meeting. We were definitely not calm driving from that meeting.

And then the waiting set in. I tried not to go crazy. I tried not to buy ridiculous amounts of clothing (and I succeeded... kind of... I lost my heart to some little elephant jumpsuits and corduroy pants with a cardigan--preppy baby!). I didn't plan. I didn't bank on it. Although we had met birth mom, she had not signed anything legally binding. She could still change her mind. Even when the social worker called and said birth mom was deferring to our wishes in several areas because it was "their baby, not mine," I still tried not to hope.

So, that is why, two weeks later, curled up in bed, sipping hot cocoa, I was trying to assuage my anxiety and despair with fluffy, Victorian Christmas stories. (This genre is my weakness...). A little after 10:30 my hubby arrived home, bearing a letter. A dear sweet friend, struggling with similar feelings of motherless, aching arms, had written me a letter. As I read it, all my frustration, fear, and worry, spilled over in tears of relief. I cry every time I think of that letter... We have prayed, every step of the way, that God would use this story to proclaim His sufficiency. Her letter breathed encouragement that this was really happening: that God was really being glorified. That the waiting and longing were being used to proclaim His glory.

Tears dripping off the end of my nose, I turned to Scott and said, "It's happening, honey. Someone saw. Someone knows that God is enough for us."Stifling my last little sob, I cuddled down next to my hubby and said, (what I had said every night since we had met the birth mom), "Maybe tonight a baby will come..." (because in my mind, women only go into labor at night.)

We were jolted awake at 11:25. Phone ringing.

"Courtney?"
"Yes?"
"This is Carol, from the agency. You guys need to get in your car. The baby is coming. Do you have a bag packed?"

Did I have a bag packed!?! No, I didn't have a bag packed! That would have created hope. It would have meant that it was definitely happening, and the baby wasn't supposed to come for another two weeks!

Fifteen minutes later, we're in the car, rubbing sleep out of our shocked eyes, with a bag full of slippers, a camera, baby clothes and a bra. Somehow, I labored under the delusion that I had packed everything I could possibly need. And, who cares? There was a baby being born.

We got to the end of our driveway, and we get another call,

"Courtney? It's Carol. The baby is here. The birth mom pushed for less than 15 minutes."

Another. Answered. Prayer. Birth mom's last baby came after 36 hours of labor, and she was terrified that would happen again. We had been praying with her for a speedy delivery. I wasn't banking on it being that speedy.

We learned that little baby was very tiny, and had been born with meconium in his lungs. He was in NICU. But stable. My heart took a motherly leap, and immediately started worrying. (Because God hadn't proven Himself faithful up to this point... right.)

We held baby for the first time at 2:34 on Tuesday morning. Grant Alexander was 4 pounds, 10 ounces at birth. Incredibly tiny for such an incredible blessing.

The next twenty-four hours were emotionally grueling. According to Indiana state law, a birth mother can not place her child until 24-48 hours after birth. There's always a chance she could change her mind. Fortunately, we were blessed with an amazing birth mother. She and I chit-chatted, sipped Starbucks, and talked about our lack of athletic ability.

I told her about Baby's name... Grant. I explained that his name meant "gift," and that each time I call him, all throughout his life, I will remember that he was a precious gift from the woman who carried him, and the God who protected him.

At 11:00 on 12/12/12, the final papers were signed.*

Grant Alexander.

Gift.

Man's defender.

And proof that God will write a better story than you can possibly imagine.

Grant, less than 24 hours old... and already given us dramatic faces. He was born for this family!

* Our adoption will not be finalized in court for approximately four months. Also, Grant's biological father has refused to claim the baby and sign the necessary papers. He has 30 days to complete multiple steps in order to claim the child. Technically, this is a "legal risk" adoption. However, we have been counseled by our lawyer to continue to pursue the adoption. In over a 1,000 adoptions, the lawyer has seen less than 20 contested. Pray ours is not one of that small number, please!

'Tis The Season... for imagination, truth, and a Savior

This Christmas, as we usher in yet another year of glitz, glam, and gingerbread, I was searching for a task which would direct my heart towards Christ.

Although this holiday was not originally a Christian holiday, it has since become associated with the birth of Christ, and serves as an excellent opportunity to marvel at the all-powerful God becoming a "wee-small baby."

Amidst all the glitter and wrapping paper, I often find my mind too distracted, too wrapped up in happiness and tradition, to meditate on the beginning of the Gospel message. So, this year, as we journey through the chaos of December, I am going to try something new.

Over the next few weeks, you'll find several posts (hopefully), with a tag "Imagining Christmas." These posts are based on the scripture found in the beginning chapters of Matthew and Luke. But they will be expanded (i.e. fictionalized) from the original texts. I want to feel the sand in the wisemen's tunics as they crossed the desert. I want to hear the angels' chorus with goosebumps of awe along with the shepherds. I want to tremble in fear at the unknowns before the Savior's young virgin mother.

And my hope is, this Christmas, that the terror, awe, dirt, praise, peace, darkness, pain, and glory of God becoming incarnate will be a startling reality. For the Gospel entered the world in a startlingly simple way, and love began to work in a very humble crowd.

My prayer is that we would be gripped anew with this truth.

 

Merry Christmas.

When Everything Falls Through... And Stays The Same

Well... I suppose that it's time for another adoption update.

Clearly, we have no baby.

The mother we were talking to has continued to take her time. She had two months in which to finalize the adoption. But after multiple meetings with us, a weekend visit, and countless texts/phone calls,  she has chosen to continue to put off the adoption and refuse to set a date to sign any papers. At this point in time, our agency has communicated with her that we will now be shown to other moms. If we are still available when (and if) she ever becomes ready, then wonderful.

Until then, we will be shown to other moms interested in placing their children/babies for adoption.

We're back on the market, folks!

And we are both very calm and at peace. God has granted a wonderful amount of grace, and we are resting in His sovereignty. I'm thankful that as we walk through this, God is helping us grow in ways that I never before would have realized. Times of uncertainty are not a waste. God can redeem everything...

And I hope there's a baby (or two, or three) out there for us!

But lock up your babies... I'm going cuddle-crazy over here!

Weeping Responsibility

This morning I wept as I looked at the election results.

I did not weep for national debt. I did not weep for governmental health care. I did not weep for the degradation of our military strength.

I wept for the babies.

Since abortion was legalized in the United States, 55.6 million babies have been killed.

That means today, as I am writing this, 1, 086 babies have already died. Today. Just today.

I was hoping, all last night, as I peered anxiously at my Google election tracker (the downside of no television), that there would be a Republican house, a Republican Senate, and a Republican president. Then maybe, just maybe, there would be a chance for the babies... Just maybe...

But when I heard, yet again, that a party which believes women should choose who is allowed to live and who is allowed to die, my heart curled up into a hard, tight ball, and I cried.

I am living amidst genocide. And I am standing still, doing nothing. I am waiting for a political party, a president, or a judge to change the current status. After all, my hope was resting in a man who was only pseudo-pro-life (yes, Mitt Romney).

I feel like a German in 1940.

“When all this is over, people will try to blame the Germans alone, and the Germans will try to blame the Nazis alone, and the Nazis will try to blame Hitler alone. They will make him bear the sins of the world. But it's not true. You suspected what was happening, and so did I. It was already too late over a year ago. I caused a reporter to lose his job because you told me to. He was deported. The day I did that I made my little contribution to civilization, the only one that matters.” 

(The Dream of Scipio, Iain Pear) 

 I am watching mass murder. And I am hoping that my vote (in a state that was going to be Republican anyway) would be enough. How foolish.

I was convicted while reading this story about my lack of love and support to these women facing this decision. I have been appalled at the numbers (there have now been 1,130 abortions on today's date), but I have been motionless. I have watched the death and suffering, and I have said nothing. I have held no hands. I haven't wept with grieving women, or pleaded for a child's life. In my self-righteous laziness, I have never moved beyond "appalled" into action.

May God forgive me.


1,197 babies and mommies... and counting...

Our Story: Coffee?

Precisely one week after being gifted with the lovely pumpkin, "Bub," I was once again at church. The counseling class I was taking was riveting (and the intern in children's ministry was very attractive). How could I miss?

After soaking up wisdom (which I promptly forgot as soon as I saw Scott), I bumped into this handsome intern in the hallway. We exchanged a few awkward pleasantries. Very awkward. Poor Scott. He was fumbling all over himself, and I hardly perform well under pressure.

"So... another counseling class?"
"Yes... How were the kids?"
"Great. Did you enjoy the class."
"Yes."
"Good."

**awkward pause**

"Okay. Well..."
"Yeah... umm... have a nice night!"
"Will do. You too!"
And we parted in breathless exhaustion at that very strenuous exchange.

A very few minutes later...

Scott, wheeling a cart past me, "Hey! Wanttograbcoffeesometime?" He blurted it out. Fast. And still pushing the cart.

"Yes!"

And that was it.

Apparently we were getting coffee sometime. I had no idea when or where, but I knew with who, and I got a little thrill of excitement at the idea of coffee with Scott.

What we were going to talk about, I had no idea. But coffee (plus a cute intern), definitely sounded like a good idea.

Our Story: Bub, A Toga, and Vomit

We have a love story.

I am right in the middle of my (tumultuous, laughter-filled, crazy, unplanned) "happily ever after." And I'm loving every moment of walking with the wonderful man which God gave me.

I always loved hearing every detail of my parents' story, and God's plan through marriage is one of the most delightful workings of His grace, so, I'm going to use this fall-into-winter, to commemorate our crazy rush down the aisle.

Because we were crazy. Stark-raving mad. And totally, completely meant for each other.

It began as October began to wrap its crisp fingers around the world. I had begun my career in September (finally!) after six long years of school. I was in love with life. And I was blissfully content. Alone. With my wonderful roomie, a fabulous job (money, finally!), and family.

Other people were not quite as content as I was. It does seem like as soon as you become fully content with being alone, everyone else decides it's an absolute necessity to find you someone. I would smile, nod, and ignore all suggestions. God had finally planted me in perfect peace. It was heavenly. I did not want a man.

Which is, of course, when he entered.

Scott Allison. His picture in the church bulletin insert made him look about 32 years old. His educational background (Pensacola Christian College) made me think of ankle-length skirts and panty-hose. I shook his hand in a long line of people welcoming him to the church. It was cold. And he looked like he was trying really hard to be cheerful.

Through the remnants of September, into October, we would bump into each other occasionally. He always looked chronically tired and determinedly happy. And he was busy. All the time. Constantly. He worked like crazy cakes. So, even though he wore old man jeans, too much flannel, and had a hyper-conservative college experience, I started watching Scott Allison.

The vomit sealed the deal.

A very distraught, whining child worked herself up into a frenzy. And then she hurled all over a preschool classroom one Wednesday night. I was picking up my little sis, Julie-Bop, and I saw Scott, down on his hands and knees, cleaning up vomit for the queasy teachers.

That was it. Any guy who would clean up that mess--voluntarily--was worth some attention. Plus, I had a sneaking suspicion that he didn't really need help when he asked me to serve in the Community Center on October 16th. But, since he was willing to clean up vomit, I was willing hand out gym towels and find out more about Scott Allison.

So, I curled my hair, bought a new sweatshirt (so I could look effortlessly pulled-together), and showed up for a four hour shift. It was entertaining. The people I talked to on that day... I went toe-to-toe with a volunteer's adamant stance on questionable movie choices, counseled a crying mother, and cleaned bathrooms, and passed out lots of towels. Scott kept taking me places and "training" me: how to raise and lower basketball hoops, doing laundry, stocking the janitor's closet... And he kept talking. He shared his testimony, family history, upbringing, and how he's not a Bible-thumping-King-James-only preacher.

It was fun. I liked him. He was funny. And quirky.

Which is why, on October 27th, 2012, at the Annual Harvest Party, after my Wednesday night FCI class, I walked up and down the hall, ostensibly to find different people and chit-chat, I actually just wanted to see Scott.

And there he was! Wearing a bed-sheet toga. Because he was Pontius Pilate. Obviously. My mouth wiggled as I controlled my laughter. Our brief conversation was stilted and unsatisfactory. It's very hard to small-chat with a man draped in cream, 300 thread count bedding.

I left. A little bummed. After all, that Saturday may have just been a fluke.

"Courtney!"

I turned. A toga-clad man was jogging towards me.

"Here. There are some extra pumpkins. You want one?"

I grinned. Yes. Of course I wanted a pumpkin. "Sure. What's this one's name?" Everyone knows that each pumpkin has a name.

"Ummm... Bub?"

"Bub. Okay. Thanks."

We exchanged awkward grins... And our love story began.



Happy October 27th!

"I will never leave thee..."

 Waiting is hard. And scary. But God's "steadfast love is great to the heavens, [his] faithfulness to the clouds."

"Thou art all I need.
Let me continually grasp the promise,
'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.'''
"I cry out to God Most High,
to God who fulfills his purpose for me.
God will send out his steadfast love and his faithfulness."











(Valley of Vision, Psalm 57)