Yes. I know it has been over a week since I last posted. But we've been busy with a newborn here at the Phillips house. And yes, I know you really want to see pictures. And we have lots of those. However, I wanted to take a beat and reflect on this wackadoo roller coaster God used to bring Grace to us. And it seems that Grace chose her own name, for her story is so richly amazing that there is no other explanation except to shrug our shoulders and say, "Umm, yeah. I know it makes no sense. It's a God thing."
Were she to have been a boy, I suppose we would've had to name her Ebenezer. (Praise God she's a girl.) I say this because scripture tells us that the prophet Samuel took a stone and named it Ebenezer as a monument to God's faithfulness and help. As a sign of restoration, literally meaning "the stone of help." Were her story to be set to song, it would have to be a Methodist hymn. Of course
Amazing Grace would be appropriate. But what is even more our story is another one of my favorite hymns--
Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing.
Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing
By: Robert Robinson, 1735-90
Come, Thou fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
While the hope of endless glory
Fills my heart with joy and love,
Teach me ever to adore Thee;
May I still Thy goodness prove.
Here I raise my Ebenezer,
Hither by Thy help I’ve come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood.
Oh, to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be;
Let that grace now like a fetter
Bind my wandering heart to Thee:
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it;
Prone to leave the God I love.
Here’s my heart, oh, take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.
Oh, that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face;
Clothed then in the blood washed linen
How I’ll sing Thy wondrous grace!
Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
Take my ransomed soul away;
Send Thine angels soon to carry
Me to realms of endless day.
And though you may be tiring of hearing me write of God's grace and want to get down to reading about my little Grace, God has given me a daughter to be the fetter of His mercy to my wandering heart. His grace and my Grace are intertwined and I cannot think of one without the other.
Two Fridays ago, around 4:30 in the afternoon, the phone rang. I saw that it was the adoption agency on the caller ID and assumed it was simply to confirm our signing of papers and placement of dear little Emma Sloan. The painters had just finished painting the nursery. I'd registered at Babies R Us. A sip and see invitation was ready and prepped to be sent out for Monday. But our case worker called to say that Emma's mom had come back into the agency, along with her Aunt, and wanted to reinstate her parental rights.
Sloan was watching TV in the family room as I was in the kitchen taking the call. As our case worker spoke, I fell to the floor--my legs literally gave way. My chest began heaving and I was having difficulty listening. Between sobs I mouthed to a now obviously concerned Sloan, WE LOST EMMA. I suppose we knew this could happen, but had had a great meeting with the birthmom and knew that the birthmom had told most of her family (who was against adoption) that the child had not survived the delivery. We were uncomfortable with her having to live with this lie, and yet also saw it as a security blanket. Yet every adult knows blankets are just blankets. They can provide warmth, but that's the extent of their powers.
But then the case worker continued to talk. She said something about another opportunity for placement. That another birthmother had liked our profile, but they hadn't approached us about it because they thought we'd be receiving Emma. Now with the phone on speaker, Sloan told our case worker to tell us about the child. It was a little girl. Born at UVA on October 22nd. But there were some hurdles this little girl would have to overcome because of the birthmother's drug addiction and poor prenatal care. She was in the NICU and doing well. She was on target to be discharged from the hospital on Monday. Originally, the birthmother had chosen another family. But this family, because of the medical needs this girl would have and the birthmother's history, declined the placement.
This little girl had nowhere to go. Would we consider the placement?
Our case worker told us we didn't have to make an immiediate decision. That we could think about it because she knew we were overwhelmed with grief and that she did not want to seem like she was pressuring us, as she was certain they could find a family willing to take her, but we were a family that the birthmother liked. She liked that her daughter would have an older brother. My gut reaction was no. In fact, I walked out of the room and told Sloan, "I don't want to deal with this right now. I want Emma." And then I proceeded to bubble snot cry on our couch. Sloan told our case worker that we'd call her at the beginning of next week with our decision but not to rule us out.
We sat on the couch, holding each other, crying for awhile. Sloan looked at me and said, "Let's do this. Let's be the ones to fight for this little girl." Wishing it could just be easy, I said, "I'm afraid. I don't want to risk the family we have. Can't just one thing be easy for us? Just one thing?" Then Sloan sat up and was resolute. He said, "For whatever reason, Emma was not our daughter. I believe this girl is. I'm afraid too, but we cannot allow our sin to get in the way of what God is doing. Let's do this. Let's love this girl."
His entire demeanor was something I'd never seen before. It was as if I were meeting him for the first time. And similar to when we first met, in an instant my heart changed. I had fallen in love all over again, and this time with both my husband and my daughter.
I wavered some the next day. I began to think that maybe we were acting out of desperation. I kept telling myself that maybe some other family would step forward. In fact, the prayer I posted about felling Goliath and my unbelief was not in response to grief over Emma--but fear over Grace. I oscillated between joy over her life and fear of giving up my smooth life I have now. (Have I read this blog? Smooth life?) A friend of mine emailed me and told me to read an
old blog post of mine where I clung to God as my only source of comfort, rather than the health of my family. I awoke on Sunday painfully aware that this little girl was my daughter. That Jesus loved her and He was asking me to as well. That this was a good work He'd prepared in advance for me. That I couldn't weasel out of knowing God was pretty serious when he said we were supposed to look after widows and orphans and that if Christians didn't step up and do this, who the heck would? Once again God brought me to a place where I knew the right thing to do and yet was afraid to do it. Afraid to trust Him so completely. Gracefully, this resolve evolved into genuine joy. We didn't tell anyone but our parents about this opportunity, but we knew that little Margaret Grace was ours. Beyond a doubt. And yet, what Mommy turns her child away in fear?
On Monday, we woke up early to get to Charlottesville to meet her and her doctors and find out what else we could. We had an appointment back in Richmond at 5 to sign all of the paperwork, as the birthmother's rights were to be terminated that evening. We dropped off Henry at my sister's house on the way, where he spent the night, ate lots of doughnuts, chased chickens and turkeys, slept in a bunk bed, played with legos, and literally thought he was at a party.
At UVA, we met all of her doctors. We had been expecting a child who was easily aggitated and unconsolable (how Sunday's nurse had described her). She was chirping a bit when we got there, but within seconds of being in my arms, she calmed down. She fell asleep while taking a bottle. As I kissed her sweet little head, I whispered, "It's okay, my baby girl. Mommy is here. You are home." The doctor told us he was impressed with her development and was hopeful for her prognosis. That the horror stories we hear about on TV are untrue and that more studies find that when children born addicted to drugs are completely removed from that environment, they develop normally without ANY lasting effects. That when she had completely been weaned from the Methadone, she would have no more symptoms. Her main physician had wanted to send her home last week, but knew she had nowhere to go and didn't want to send her to the state. She had had nowhere to go. She was a baby in need of a Mommy: I was a Mommy in need of a baby.
And as if you aren't already astounded as to my little miracle, Margaret Grace, it gets even creepier. Creeptastic, I tell you. Her main physician, the doctor who delivered her and was responsible for keeping her in the NICU until Bethany could find a family for her--is a sorority sister of mine. I got home on Monday night after signing all the papers and posted pics to facebook. I get this email saying, "Hey, EJ, you may not remember me. But I delivered your daughter. I've got a new last name now. Page me at the hospital tomorrow."
Seriously, God? Seriously? I get it. You are soveriegn. You made Grace our daughter a long time ago. But for her to be delivered by my sorority sister just seems a little flashy. Uncle.
So we met with Brooke and she told us the story of Grace's delivery and we both agree that despite being born at UVA, Grace is officially a Carolina girl by default.
And in typical Carolina girl style, my daughter is freakin' beautiful. Her fingers are long and smooth, reminiscent of the fact that her birthmother, in a former life, was a concert level pianist. She has a precious smile and apparently has lots of funny dreams. Her skin is smooth and oddly enough, the same color Henry was when he was born (of course, he was jaundiced for awhile). She is a good eater--taking between 3 and 4 ounces roughly every four hours. She only wakes up twice in the night--around 11:30 and then again at 3am. We have to wake up at 3am anyhow to give her meds so it all works out. She then wakes up again around 7:30. So she is a Phillips--loving to eat, sleep, and look pretty.
Henry adores her. He'll point to the Purell and say, "Wash hands" so he can be near her. He likes to help me burp her and rub her hair. He has even kissed her feet. He even played the drums for her, but was shocked to find out that she wasn't a fan. He loves that since her arrival the "30 minutes of TV a day" rule has been rescinded, and that if Grace is crying and he asks for Halloween candy, he pretty much will always get it. He loves our new Phil and Ted's double stroller. He loves that people from our church keep bringing over meals and that they all make us brownies. He loves the new Lightning McQueen car that Grace brought him. He'll even give her "Rain Man" hugs where he touches her forehead with his and then say "Kiss Kiss Kiss, Baby Gwace."
Kiss Kiss Kiss, my sweet children. By the way, I just love saying "the kids". I say it a lot. Kind of how I gestured a lot with my left hand right after Sloan proposed.
I'm not a total scrooge. It is just that it is so much work for so little reward. It takes us roughly 30 minutes to get suited up. And this is not an easy endeavor. Henry does not want to wait to put on extra clothes and his coat. He wants to go in the snow. Now!!!
And once we're outside, let's talk about the frustration of being 2 and wearing so many clothes you can barely move. It doesn't help to start chanting, "Mommy, I stuck" or "Daddy, I fall. Fall down. Help!" if your parents are laughing at you. Seriously. We laughed at him, because he couldn't bend at the waist to prop himself up. No matter, he still wanted to simply roll around in the snow. I thought about teaching him how to make snow angels, but not owning snow bibs myself, I simply was too lazy to get down in the snow and do it. Yeah, I know. I'm a sucky mom. But that there snow is cold. And wet. I'm also completely helpless as to how I'm supposed to build a snowman. I think maybe the snow isn't wet enough. Is this a possibility? And I've got an unattended baby inside in her swing... 
Eventually, we did head inside for cookie making. I was imagining Henry really being into this. He loves to play with playdough. We would sing Christmas Carols, decorate cookies, and sneak bites of raw cookie dough. Nope. When I attempted singing, he told me to be quiet. When I tried to get him to eat a piece of cookie dough, he promptly spit it out and said, "Out of mouth." (Which tells me that he has been listening. Sometimes...) I did get him to punch out a couple of cookies. But mostly, he just looked out the back of the house, screaming that he wanted to go outside again.
I wavered some the next day. I began to think that maybe we were acting out of desperation. I kept telling myself that maybe some other family would step forward. In fact, the prayer I posted about felling Goliath and my unbelief was not in response to grief over Emma--but fear over Grace. I oscillated between joy over her life and fear of giving up my smooth life I have now. (Have I read this blog? Smooth life?) A friend of mine emailed me and told me to read an old blog post of mine where I clung to God as my only source of comfort, rather than the health of my family. I awoke on Sunday painfully aware that this little girl was my daughter. That Jesus loved her and He was asking me to as well. That this was a good work He'd prepared in advance for me. That I couldn't weasel out of knowing God was pretty serious when he said we were supposed to look after widows and orphans and that if Christians didn't step up and do this, who the heck would? Once again God brought me to a place where I knew the right thing to do and yet was afraid to do it. Afraid to trust Him so completely. Gracefully, this resolve evolved into genuine joy. We didn't tell anyone but our parents about this opportunity, but we knew that little Margaret Grace was ours. Beyond a doubt. And yet, what Mommy turns her child away in fear? 
So we met with Brooke and she told us the story of Grace's delivery and we both agree that despite being born at UVA, Grace is officially a Carolina girl by default. 
So, as we're grieving the loss of the little girl who was to be Emma but turned out to not be our daughter, God was being sneaky. No means to be disrepectful, but the story I'm about to tell is a little creepy. I think the churchy way to talk about this is to say God is mysterious. But people, hold onto your hats, because God has gotten all kinds of crazy good.
