People speak of how difficult babies and toddlers are, to parent. As a mother of six stair step kids, I seemed to inspire mostly shock and awe when they were little. I never got that. It wasn’t rocket science. Challenging? Absolutely, but not the hardest part. Perhaps it’s the passing of years, that makes it seem so simple, but I find myself longing for diaper changes and milk stained shirts. I yearn to pry the Barbie head from the crawling boy-zilla’s jaws. How easy reparations were, when her biggest fear was quelled with the flip of a light switch.

Now they are grown to a preteen, two teens, and three young adults, each bearing wounds from the blows struck by an unjustly harsh life. Even in a family that clings so well to hope, faith, and love, the constant hits have brought varying degrees of scarring. There is sorrow. There is anger. There is bitterness. And yet, there is a barely flickering spark begging for oxygen. I see it, and I weep. 

I pray, and I weep.

It would seem that no matter how I try, I will always be wondering what I could have done differently; if I could have been less rigid, more wise, better prepared. How could I have known that all but a handful of the well meaning critics, and spiritual mentors were snuffing a bright flame? Why didn’t I believe I was enough? If only there had been fewer speakers allowed on the stage…

I am human though, deeming the wondering futile. I can’t change the past nor predict the future. I can only believe that I have done the best, as I am, with what I had at hand, in the moment, as it unfolded. I can only trust that God has seen, knows, and heals those for whom I weep.

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