For This Boy, I Prayed

It’s 6:30 a.m., another hot, dusty morning in Khartoum. I’m heading out the door for school when the phone rings. Over the crackle of long distance from D.C., I hear my sister’s animated voice: “Dona Maria has your baby. When can you get him?”

That was November 30, 1983. Two years earlier, on home leave, I had met Dona Maria, my sister’s Brazilian mother-in-law. Learning of my adoption efforts, this diminutive, feisty 75-year-old mother of 13, let me know (despite her sparse English and my lack of Portuguese) that she was my guardian angel. She would find a child for me. I return to Africa; she returns to Brazil. Two years later, the phone call. Since our meeting, Dona Maria had been checking with doctors and visiting hospitals — until she found an available baby.

For more than five years, I Samuel 1:27 had been highlighted in my Bible. Now Hannah’s gift from God was my gift. Praise the Lord! But not so fast. Before I could cradle that bundle of brown eyes and golden curls in my arms for good, God had something more to show me. I am slow to catch on, stubborn and quick to forget. I think God wanted to so indelibly fix the source of His gift that, however discouraged or tempted, I could never stray from the fact of His existence and His hand on my life.

So, He gave me the gift of a friend who, just before my flight to Brazil, advised me to keep handy the names of any local missionaries — “just in case.” Of course, when I scribbled down “Mattie Lou Bible,” the name stuck, even though I wouldn’t need it during my quick trip to pick up baby Damon.

Over two months later, on a Sunday morning in Belo Horizonte, I awoke weary, unable to stop tears of frustration from relentless complications in the adoption process. Although I was grateful to stay with Dona Maria and care for Damon, our language barrier was a constant problem. I knew I needed to find an English-speaking church. When the taxi driver dropped me in front of the white-columned “Igreja Batista,” assuring me “Yes, English,” I felt I was coming home. Relieved and expectant, I took in familiar details — pew backs racked with Bibles and hymnals, red carpet leading to the altar rail, pulpit flanked with ferns. It wasn’t until I found a seat that I realized the robed man behind that pulpit was NOT speaking in English. I reached for the pew Bible — NOT in English. The tears rolled and wouldn’t stop. Then came a soft hand on my shoulder as an even softer Southern drawl whispered, “Can I help you?”

I looked into the caring eyes of a petite gray-haired lady and blurted, “Are you Mattie Lou Bible?”

“Why, yes,” she said. “Do I know you?”

So God gave me the gift of another guardian angel. Mattie Lou lived a short walk from Dona Maria. In the months ahead, she became a refuge, loaning me a Walkman, inspirational tapes and books — in English. She visited my Brazilian family, translating and smoothing the way.
And when Mattie Lou went on home leave, she put me in the care of another missionary, Janice.
It was Janice who called the evening I learned the lawyer had to be paid in American dollars — cash. Planning to exchange travelers’ checks for dollars, I figured I was $150 short. Janice said she would check her “stash” and let me know if she could help. Before Janice called again, Dona Maria returned from the bank. Travelers’ checks could not be converted to dollars. Now I was $300 short and distraught that we wouldn’t be able to pay the lawyer and make our flight to Rio in time for the last visa hurdles. Then Janice called. “I found $300 cash. How much do you need?”

Still, God’s giving wasn’t through. Damon and I made it to Rio — only to learn the Consulate was closing early due to imminent street demonstrations for free elections. Overwhelmed, I slumped in a deserted office, calculating how we could get the visa or change our flight.
When the phone in a back office kept ringing, on impulse (oblivious to legalities!), I stepped over the low gate to answer. It was my sister calling from D.C. to ask about the status of Damon’s papers — she expected a consular clerk. What relief to hear her voice. After all, Kathy was the first angel who had introduced me to the intrepid Dona Maria. It was to her that Damon and I were headed for our first home together in America.

So — for a child I prayed, and the Lord gave me my petition. It was a gift made even more valuable by the clear print of God’s hand every step of the way. Damon leaves for college this year. May he take with him the sure knowledge of a God who loves and holds him — in every day ahead.