If there were words to say, I would say them. But it seems they catch in my throat.
I wonder if my tears would tell you what my heart can’t seem to express.
We are waiting for you.
I run my hand over the door.
I don’t go in…I’ve memorized every inch of the emptiness.
I think of him…
…the boy now famous for voicing his need for a family. I think of Davion and I choke on my own emptiness.
Do you know this boy’s story? Have you heard his plea for parents…for a family…for a place to belong…for love?
Who hears your pleas?
I wonder where you are tonight.
Are you safe?
Are you warm?
Do you know my sweet child that I’m waiting for you….we’re waiting for you?
I don’t know what road you are on or what hell you will go through to get to our arms. If I did I’d walk there. To hell and back. Through hell and back. Just to hold your hand and whisper that you aren’t alone.
Whispers of God’s plan. Jesus. Death. Life. Loss. Salvation. Love. Adoption.
That it is God…that even when it is dark and painful…when life is empty and hard…He is there.
And I’m in Him. Or He’s in me.
That He’s carved a space in our lives for you. That our hearts won’t be full until you fill them up.
The beautiful chorus of your someday siblings laughter fills our home every day. It is one of my favorite sounds, but lately I’m aware of the notes that are missing. That the chords are not full. Your laugh will complete our symphony.
I think of your scars – the ones I’ll see and the ones you’ll guard. Of our gaps where trust will grow to make us family. I pray now for your healing then. That we aren’t merely bandaids for a soul in need of grace but skin grafts that become part of you…part scar and part healing…the place where God touches.
Through tears I beg Jesus to wrap you in Him…in a hug…a presence…a breath of hope, because my arms can’t reach you yet.
“My name is Davion and I’ve been in foster care since I was born. . . . I know God hasn’t given up on me. So I’m not giving up either.”
Do you know that God hasn’t given up on you? That we haven’t given up on you?
There are days when the waiting is long and the emptiness is heavy. There are days when it seems like we aren’t meant to be your parents, because you haven’t arrived yet. There days when the rules, the restrictions, the “system” seem like they are too much. There are days when it feels like I won’t be able to find you or reach you or help you. And I want to quit.
I want to lay down. Give up. To stop grasping at emptiness.
It wasn’t an idea or a calling that God laid on our hearts. It wasn’t a process or piles of paperwork or a ministry that God lead us to.
It is you.
And, my sweet child, we’re waiting for you.