“Not Too Much to Ask,” Ensign, July 1992, 56–57
Not Too Much to Ask
“Mommy.” I raised my head, listening intently. Of course, my sleepy mind realized, one of my daughters needed something. “Mommy. It’s time.”
Time for what?
“Mommy,” the voice called. “Mommy.”
Now awake, but barely so, I threw back the covers and swung my feet over the edge of the bed, peering into the darkness to identify the daughter who needed me.
It must be Christina; Trinell or Melissa would have left the bedroom door open. What I saw, however, was not one of my girls, but a male Indian child. He was clothed in white robes, his arms outstretched.
“Mommy, it’s time. It’s time for me to come.”
I rubbed my eyes, knowing I could not have seen what I had just seen. My ears must be involved in the trick, too, I reasoned as I snuggled back into my warm bed.
But sleep was not to come. As determined as I was to convince myself the incident had been a dream, someone else was just as determined I realize it was real.
A short time later, I was looking at the same Indian child, clothed as before.
“Mommy, it’s time for me to come. Soon I will be coming into the world, and I’m to be your son.”
I spent the rest of the night debating whether or not to tell Ray, my husband. Eventually I did. His reaction was not surprising. He took both my hands in his and told me he’d have to also receive personal inspiration on the matter.
I understood and waited patiently for what I knew would happen. A few months later I was not surprised when my husband related his experience with our son-to-be. While working, he’d been listening to some music. Suddenly, the music ceased. Peaceful, heavenly strains filled the air and a voice impressed upon Ray’s mind and soul that an Indian son was to come into our family. Now was the time for him to start preparations to receive the child.
Our first step was to submit an adoption application to a social services agency. However, because we already had three children, our application was denied.
Our hopes sank, but our faith remained strong. We knew that we would not have to wait that long.
Two weeks after we had submitted our application, we were notified that our application was being reviewed. A short time later, we were notified that our application had been accepted. But again, we were warned of the three- to five-year wait.
At this time, I needed reassurance. I found it at the temple. While silently praying in the chapel there, I was reassured that our son would soon be with us and he was to be called Mathew.
On 27 July 1984, a male child was born in Calgary, Alberta. Carefully, a nurse washed and bundled him in blankets. Then, placing him in a hospital bassinet, she wheeled him to a private nursery. He was being placed for adoption.
A few doors down the hall, a young mother was sealing an envelope. She had the grace and bearing acquired from her Blackfoot heritage. She knew in her heart that what she was doing was right. She handed the envelope to a social worker.
Inside the envelope was her story. She told briefly of her own history and her desire to provide her child with the best possible life. She had prayed that her child would be blessed with a good home. And if it wasn’t too much to ask, she had added, she’d like the family to have girls.
It wasn’t too much to ask. In the late summer of 1984, we received a call asking us to come to Calgary to pick up our son. As they placed him in my arms and his tiny hand curled around Ray’s finger, we knew at last that Mathew was home.