Living Reliving

Tears have lingered in your eyelashes all day.  There's no make-up left, but the streaks show anyway.  You are glad the screen isn't reflective.   Your phone is dying from all the incoming calls and texts.  Each conversation seems to make him feel worse.  You can do nothing but say again and again, 'Everything will be okay.'...'I love you'...'I miss you'...'I will not forget you'...You are living this fresh with him, while you relive it with her.  It was one year ago that you sent her back, too.  You were and are helpless.  And a coward.  Your husband is doing the hard thing.  He always does the hard things.

Getting involved, doesn't get your hands dirty...it's bloody.  It's a heartbreaking, bloody mess getting involved with orphans.  Hear a name.  See a face.  Hold a hand.  Break a heart.  You will never forget.  You will never be free again.  Not that freedom was worth anything.  It was achieved in ignorance.  Ignorance that this baby (and millions more) has a dead mother, an incarcerated father.  He is being raised like an animal because he's "mentally retarded."  Except that he isn't.  Maybe he's hyperactive, maybe dyslexic, maybe a little delayed.  But it doesn't matter because he doesn't count.  He's living in a kennel.  That's what you just sent him back to.  You gave him everything and then took it away and he doesn't understand.  He's seven, but not really.  Because he's never seen anything and he didn't even know that ice cream melts or families are real or how to count to ten.

Until you taught him.

You drove an hour away to buy him just the right teddy bear.  His first.  But the $30 stuffed dog was the one that grabbed you.  You didn't know he was terrified of dogs.  Or that he would throw it at you every night when you sat by his bed trying to win him over, to make him feel safe.  For weeks.  On the first day, in the first hour, he ran.  He ran from you straight into the airport traffic.  He vomited all the way "home". On the second night, you knew it was going to hurt.  He wouldn't look you in the eye or speak to you, but when he fell asleep, you watched his baby face.  And you knew it was going to hurt.

He was afraid of showers.  Boats.  People.  Chickens.  Dogs.  He would scream and claw his way into the house or out of the room.  He would push you underwater when you tried to help him up.  You had to prove to him that the life jacket would keep him afloat.  That the boat wouldn't sink.  That the dog wouldn't bite him.  That the shower wouldn't burn him.  That the chickens wouldn't eat him. 

That you wouldn't leave him.

Except it was hard.  He didn't believe you because he had no reason to trust you.  What does trust even mean to a malnourished, seven year old orphan?   He hit, bit, screamed, cried, ran, hid.  You lost your patience.  You lost your temper.  You lost time, space, sanity.  You thought about quitting.  It all made you feel evil.  You had to talk each other into it every day.  Into getting out of bed.  You woke up, wanting to stay asleep because you had a brand new day to get through.  You went to bed, wanting to stay awake because it meant you had already made it.  You wanted your life back.  

But he learned.  And things got better.  He jumped into the water.  Again and again and again.  He let you move away, further and further, without catching him.  He stopped running from the dogs.  He stopped to pet them.  He got down on the floor and put his face next to their big scary jaws.  He let them lick him.  He laughed about it.  He turned on the shower himself.  He washed his own hair.  He got in bed without crying.  He put the stuffed dog at the end of the bed.  He put it under the covers with him.  He looked frantically for it.  He held it in his arms as he fell asleep.  He said sorry.

Today, when you finally made it, you want to set back the clocks. Today you want to answer his calls with certainty.  Yes, he can stay.  No, he doesn't have to get on that plane.  He doesn't have to go back to the nothing that is waiting.

When you weren't looking, when you had your guard up, when you were playing the heavy, when you were bathing, feeding, teaching, driving, holding, hugging, kissing, disciplining, listening, reading...that mama's heart God gave you, loved him.  The only thing in life you have ever been sure of, really, truly sure of, is that you were born to be a mother.  It doesn't seem like much.  You're not talented, you're not famous, you're not sought out.  You are 

the very thing he needed.

He's calling you Mama.  He's saying I love you, Mama.  I miss you, Mama.  When can I see you, Mama?  But he's already gone. 

Your hands are dirty.  You're a bloody, tear stained mess.

 

You don't know what God's plan is for this treasure in the mist, this orphan in your heart.  You know five other children need you, too.  You know your body is exhausted, your heart is broken. You can't let go.  You know that thousands of people know her story, so your bleed his case, too, and wait for answers.  Because nothing is impossible.