Rocking

Sitting here rocking my newest son...praying for God to heal his deep scars...they are so deep...and I am so overwhelming saddened that we have let this crisis develop. We, the Church, the hands and feet of the creator of the universe, sit by and let these kids suffer and wait, for years. How does that happen? How do these very real children sit and suffer while we debate politics, culture? While we complain about not having enough time, or money, or patience, or not having the "calling"? When we have been commanded to take care of them. The fatherless. Those who can't care for themselves but have been forced to live in a state of hyper vigilance for years for their own survival. Those who have to be taught what security and safety is. That it is ok to relax and play. They have to be taught to play-sweet babies.

You see, my kids were in a good place. And they are doing so good. And yet, they have suffered without families. Without love. Without touch and security and safety. Oh how they have suffered. Why are we not screaming? Protesting? Demanding life for these kids? Why do we put the problem off on someone else and give a hundred excuse why we don't go? Is adoption easy? No. Is it worth it? Oh yes.

But beyond that, no matter how little money or time or patience you have, it is far better than what these kids have now. They have nothing. If you don't go, who will? How is nothing better than a family? Can we even comprehend nothing in this country? Even those in the best places have nothing. Oh how my hearts hurt for them, and for those in the not good places. I can't even think about it. We think, now is not a good time for me. We need to save money or we need a better job or we need more space. We can't deal with their needs. Someone else will go. In the mean time, the kids sit. They wait. They are real. I have seen their faces. I have held their hands.

Thinking to my time in orphanage around the world and the most overwhelming thought is the poverty. These kids truly have nothing. Even the clothes of their back-as too small, and old, and so very out of style those outfits are-even those things aren't theirs. They are labelled with a number. They are communally shared. They own nothing. I look at my son's feet deformed by wearing shoes too small for him for years and I hurt for the time he waited for me. And he didn't even own those blasted shoes. Nothing.

And here we sit in absolute luxury in this country. And we wait till it is convenient to us if we do anything to help. We give excuses and we say not everyone should adopt, when in fact we need to just step up and do something.

God show me how I can make a difference. Don't let the trappings of comfort and money block me from doing Your work. Abigail has taught me so well how this world and all those things we are concerned with every day just Do. Not. Matter.

Watching my newest son violently rock himself to sleep every night reminds me again and again of those still waiting. Babies with such hope and such pain. Where are we church?