You’re a gentle giant. Always courageous and kind for a kid your age.
You’re the baby of the bunch (sometimes) and you’re surely the last offspring from my womb. I promise-this shop is shut down.
I snuggled in next to you tonight and my lips met the squishy section of your soft cheek. They sank into the only morsels of baby fat still left on your growing toddler body. My eyelids instinctively sealed shut as if they knew my mind needed to etch this moment into the deepest parts of my soul.
You’re practically grown.
You were five weeks old when our first placement left us. You were born into this world of change and challenge. It’s all you’ve ever known and most of me is okay with that. But a small part of my mama heart mourns what we could have had if it weren’t for the weight of this busted world. I imagine we’d play legos for more than the five minutes I can muster most days. Or we would go to places other than the grocery store and the health department and the WIC office.
It would just be you and me. Just us.
My checklist wouldn’t be so long and my burdens would be lighter without the barrage of brokenness encountering our family. I want to promise you it would be different and you would get the best parts of me-because you don’t always. Sometimes you get whatever’s left. And the crumbs of me that fall to you are hardly worth holding on to.
But hold on anyway, would you?
In all the moments I’m not enough for you, I’m met with equal hope of the human you’re becoming.
We’ve waded deep into the waters of discouragement, battling for little souls and families to be made whole. You’re along for the ride, on your raft of safety, but surely soon you will find your footing. You were called here too. Your Creator loves you passionately and he isn’t surprised that you’re only four.
I desperately hoping your empathetic nature is being molded and developed as you see pain and endure the sacrifices we make together. I’m not certain you see them as sacrificial now. You’re still carefree. You’re captivated by trucks and sand and simple seconds of sprinting across the parking lot together.
You’re eager to hold the new foster baby as soon as you hear of his impending arrival. You gently share your space, your life, your world. You say goodbye to the next kid and look up at me with a hopeful grin imagining who’s coming next.
My precious baby bio, your silly faces and side arm snuggles are so significant. My mama heart longs to wrap you in and release you all at once. You are the real hero on one heck of a hike you never asked to walk on. But I’m begging you to be brave with me.
People ask me about you and how this is all going down for you. They tell me to keep you in the back of my mind, but you know you’re always right there in there in the front. And what I want for you is more than safety. I want you to know the Savior.
So press your growing frame right into mine so I can breathe you in before you dream. This is our story. And I’m so glad you’re in it.