The morning started in tears.
Facetime with my mom sharing Compassion letters
and me- sharing the hurt and brokenness of what I have come to know as normal.
I welcome the salt water puddled below me.
Reminders of my longing for Heaven,
for a restoration and perfection I will not know here.
My mom speaks with wisdom.
She always has- but this year I'm finally learning to listen.
There is tenderness in her voice, she doesn't tell me to stop crying- not once.
For that I am thankful.
And too soon for my liking, it's time to begin my normal.
The littered village is no longer a surprise-
a child searching through the trash doesn't seem out of place,
so I don't ask questions.
I begin to wash and sing and dance and love.
Ignoring the reality of today's date,
refusing to believe our time with these littles is coming to an end.
The heartbreak of the unknown is unbearable.
I have believed the lie that they are safer with me-
I'm who they've been waiting for.
And in the distance a little boy finds what he is looking for in a pile of trash.
We keep on singing, I look to the sky.
Praying, begging, bargaining…
fighting tears all the while.
And a little boy sits alone.
He doesn't notice me, just furrows his brow.
I know the look, it's the look of determination-
I started the month with that look, hungry for change.
That was before I knew what real hunger looked like.
He is folding and taping and tying.
I am telling the girls they are beautiful and loved and smart.
Hoping for a sign of glory-
just a glimpse so I know they'll be okay without me.
And I know it's time to go.
Because I've forgotten my smallness-
I've forgotten His greatness.
I turn, but walk a little slower.
Hesitation to leave makes my feet heavy-
I just need a reminder.
A promise that God is sustaining and restoring and healing His creation-
from within.
Because that's what I've prayed for all month-
what I've believed in and hoped for.
I settle in my heart to praise Him regardless.
To sing of his goodness, to recite Psalms-
even if it hurts.
Then I see it.
In the field to my right- another glimpse of glory.
From the trash has come joy.
Streamers and a tail and all the right measurements-
A feed bag high in the air.
Morning's hard work is afternoon's play.
How many times will I learn?
His ways are not my ways.
How many times will I ask to see His glory?
How many times will I catch my breath when He uses the broken, forgotten, the cast aside, and
the easily dismissed to show me?
