Fostering Home

I rock this tiny creature in my arms and hold him close to my heart.  I watch the little chest rise and fall with the rhythm of a pumping machine.  His little fingers and toes are perfect.  His head is full of hair.  His eyes look this way and that.

And I marvel.

If I tell you he still has not reached his due date, though he has lived with us for more than two weeks, or if I mention that he tested positive for METHAMPHETIMINE when he was born, these facts will likely alter the way you see him.  Your heart breaks at the mere suggestion.

But that is not how I see him.

Well, actually it is.  In fact these things are never far from my mind, and these realities come flooding back frequently.  But no, actually I tend to marvel at his shear humanity.  He is so innocent, so sweet, so good, so vulnerable and fragile.  And somehow, just the mere beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his little chest, glorifies God!

I celebrate his little life in my arms.  I talk to him and make faces and noises.  I look into his eyes.  They do not look back at me, but I keep wondering what he thinks.  Of course he is too small, and this is too early for him to have thoughts.  His eyes wander this way and that and barely focus on me.

He is utterly dependent on me (on us actually).  He cannot even tell us when he is hungry; he only cries and we figure it out.  He craps on me, pees on me, pukes on me, and farts a lot.  He cries every night at odd hours, and keeps me exhausted round the clock.

And he suffers.  He suffers the sins of parents who in their selfishness make him a hard-core drug addict even before he was born.  My wife has researched his diaper rash and discovered that the METH in his system makes his poop highly toxic and caustic.  We can’t hardly keep the sores at bay.  He is so utterly needy, and there is no end in sight.

And then I look at his fingers and toes, and I marvel at how perfect he is.  I praise God for his wonders and love.  And I beg God to touch this child with his healing touch, but he gives my exhausted bones to hold him in my arms and says, “You be my touch”.  And I contemplate life, the universe, mystery, and God.  And I wonder, what is this world coming to?  And why can’t we love God with all our hearts, souls, and strength, and love each other, and thus order the world differently?  And will I be able to teach that love to this child?

I wonder.

One comment

  1. Amy Murphy · August 3, 2016

    Agent X, you made me cry – again. The answer is a resounding YES. You are sowing love into hearts all around you, right this very moment. Including your tiny, suffering charge and all those you touch. My prayer today is for your strength, and don’t forget: we all must rest. Rest in God. Love to you. Amen.

    Liked by 1 person

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