No Longer an Orphan

“I waited patiently for the Lord;

He turned to me and heard 

my cry.” 

– Psalm 40:1

We see their sweet faces when we open our e-mail, or when we visit the website of waiting children, or when someone posts their pictures on social media.  They are the children who, after spending much of their childhood in the unpredictable, unstable foster care system, are looking for permanency, a family of their own.¹  They are the children in orphanages on the other side of the world who have never known what it means to have parents, who pray every night for a family who will love them.²  Or perhaps most tragic of all, they are the children who were adopted, who thought that they were going to live happily ever after, but who are now in need of a new adoptive home.³

We see their pictures, their eyes filled, understandably, with deep sadness, or, inexplicably, with steadfast hope.  Those eyes fill our tender hearts with deep compassion, and we can’t help but respond. . .

“Aww!  She is so cute!”

“Look at those beautiful curls!”

“I just love that face!”

“I would bring them all home if I could.”

We cry at the injustice of it all, the unfairness that some children want for nothing, while others have nothing they want.  It’s almost as if we can hear their cries, their pleas to be rescued from their plight – their lonely, precarious, frightening circumstances.

Let the Little Children Come

But Jesus called the children to Him and said,

“Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.

-       Luke 18:16

I almost didn’t come to church today.  If you had even an inkling of how difficult it is to get children with special needs out the door in the morning, you would understand my hesitancy to come.  However, my soul’s hunger for spiritual food, along with my thirst for fellowship and encouragement, or at least a little adult conversation, compels me to pull it together.  Timing the g-tube feeding so that it finishes before we need to leave.  Drawing up all the right doses of medication.  Getting spaghetti-like arms and legs into a dress shirt and pants, praying the whole time that he doesn’t choose this moment to vomit (pretty much a daily occurrence).  Making sure all of the emergency supplies and medical equipment are packed.  (Never again will I complain about packing “just” a diaper bag!)  Folding up the wheelchair and loading it into the car, making sure there are enough seats for the rest of the family.   Getting the other kids and myself dressed and fed.  By the time we are ready to leave, I have already worked up a sweat and feel like I have put in a full days’ work.

Love Your Neighbor

Story based on “The Good Samaritan” found in Luke 10:25-37. 

Ponderings based on a journal entry by Marc Ulrich,

a man who is learning what it means to “love your neighbor.”

Once upon a time there was a child.  An innocent child who experienced from a terribly young age what it means to live in a harsh world full of sin and evil and broken people who hurt one another.  Her parents, the very ones who were supposed to love her and protect her, were unable to do so.  Instead of being fed and clothed and cleaned, she was naked and cold.  Hungry and soiled.  She wept tears of pain and loneliness, longing for someone to love her.  But instead of receiving soothing caresses when she cried, she was beaten.  “Shut up!,” they screamed into her terrified face.  And then they abandoned her, leaving her half dead.

A man passed by.  A nicely-dressed, well-educated man who loved the Lord and had dedicated his life to studying God’s Word and teaching others the truths of the gospel.  What perfect timing!  When the child saw him approaching, a small glimmer of hope sparked in her heart.  Hope that someone, finally, had come to rescue her. 

Chosen

How did I get here?  What happened to me?  My tiny body is slouched in a miniature wheelchair, and I have various tubes running in and out of my abdomen.  I am trying to hold my head upright and trying to make sense of my surroundings.  I am trapped in my own little world of severe disabilities.  And to make matters worse, I am trapped in the foster care system.  This is not the life I would have chosen.

What if . . .?

We sit on the floor of the sunny, colorful little room, each of us holding a specially-formed child in our laps, introducing them, some for the very first time, to the beautiful sound of music.   Because these precious children are blind, they are especially enjoying the rhythms of the songs, the tactile sensations of the drums and shakers, and the physical movements of the motions.  Some spontaneously try dancing to the tempo – awkwardly and yet completely uninhibited.  Some, like my foster child sitting on my own lap, are hesitant and fearful, reluctant to participate in this unfamiliar environment.  And one little girl across the circle from us just smiles and rocks back and forth the entire time, her ears savoring every delicious beat.

I can’t help but notice the little girl sitting next to me, the one with the disfigured face, whose deformed hands can barely grasp the musical instruments, and whose head is wrapped in unsightly bandages – either from a recent surgery or from a misshapen head.  It’s hard not to stare.

Suddenly, my 15-year old daughter, who is attending the musical event with me, interrupts my thoughts.  Leaning over, she whispers into my ear, “Do you see that girl over there?”  She discreetly glances over to the same one I had just been noticing.  Uh oh, I hope she doesn’t say anything too loud or embarrassing, I think to myself.  To my utter astonishment, she continues with pure sincerity, “She is so adorable!”

Becoming Beautiful

There is nothing immediately noticeable about her that distinguishes her from most young ladies her age.  She is not exactly lovely, but her milky-white skin is free of blemishes; her sparkly, slightly mischievous blue eyes are framed by eyelashes that could use a little accentuating; and her long dark hair rebelliously escapes from the styles that try to contain it.  She spends carefree summer afternoons alternating between giggling with her best friend about the stylish new dress in the window at the village shop, and exploring the small woods near her home, imagining that she is on a quest to find a hidden treasure.  A perfect combination of feminine daydreams and tomboy amusement. 

She has heard the legendary tale, of course, of a girl named Cinderella, an ordinary girl like herself whose mundane, predictable life was turned upside down when the prince chose her above every other maiden in the kingdom.  How she longed to be beautiful like that!  To have the prince search tirelessly until he found her, and then whisk her off to the palace on his white horse for a perfect, story-book ending.

Oh, how she dreams of the future!  She can only imagine what an exciting life awaits her “out there,” away from this provincial village that hasn’t changed in centuries.  She longs for a life of adventure, to travel to far-off countries with exotic sights and strange-smelling food.  To do something important!  She wants to experience the world, to become someone whom other people would describe as interesting and confident and brave.

One chilly autumn day, the young woman strolls down the path on her way to town, daydreaming and anticipating the annual Fall Festival that is being planned.  Hard-working farmers and jovial shop-keepers and skilled tradesmen from the surrounding countryside will all be coming together in a few short days to celebrate this year’s bountiful harvest.  She knows she will be meeting a lot of different people, and she wonders what she should wear and tries to imagine how her hair would look in a cute new style that she had heard was becoming popular in the bigger towns.