A months’ time has
passed, sweet seconds reverently bowed with the deepest of praise. Patiently I
have waited for the heavens to write her poetry, whisper words graced with
sensitivity.
As a Mother I wish
every moment of my children’s lives were strokes of pure silver, eloquently
draped along lines of love, yet the page of our daughters are blotched with
broken that I never imagined would become so intimate. May Grace be a delicate
scribe weaving my heart into a written letter of love.
When the house’s
quite wraps around a midnight feeding,
A curl of cozy under
a canopy of beautiful black
Moments filled with
heaven, I hear the whispering of something holy, details strung together
miraculous as the millions of blended stars. I store our moments like the Mother
Mary, tucking each miracle
“In her
heart and thought of them often”
It was a kick that
first imprinted her life into the palm of my gentle touch, placed there by a
mother, she, one of the many I met through
mentoring under a roof of safety, a home where love opened shelter to the most
needy. Instantly I knew that stately stride of Africa with the strong that
conceals a continent of wounds.
My heart beat thick
with thoughtful care for the life sealed beneath her dome of darkness.
As God knit his most
profound miracle within another, a powerful surge of expectance welled deep
within my soul, somewhere soon I felt a babe was to be given into our family.
We used all logic, thinking our next would be birthed into our life through
agents of social services; we filled forms, read books, researched and spent
many a day talking and praying.
An urgent certainty
filled my moments that right beyond today our child waited.
Then faith’s crux
stirred something deep inside. A silent knowing that I was being guided to lay
these God birthed hopes down. Three tear blurred hours I knelt in a sanctuary
of prairie sky, golden fields witnessed the wrestle to release all hope over to
trust. Each tear was for the loss of a child I felt so near.
The very days that
God lead me away from the perusal of adoption God spoke adoption to another
Mother.
She had birthed her
daughter beneath a haven of hope with summer’s full choir singing lullabies.
She bravely attempted
the challenging role of Mothering. Bravely she made a decision only the
strength of a Mother could carry out, placing her daughter into the
humbly honoured life of another.
Tenderly I wrapped arms
around a babe I have loved forever. Instantly she filled a chasm of longing within
our family, so wide and deep only the wonder of her life could fill.
It feels beautifully
whole to watch her sweetness of smile warm a deep part of our heart, reserved
for this child alone, to feel her heart beat strong with life, causing your own
to shudder with the thoughts of how close hers came to fading into a sorrowful
sea of statistics. I see in her the beautiful velvety brown of her heritage and
the hope of all heaven within her soul. I as a parent with all the passion of
Motherhood will breathe daily my love over her; I will clasp and cover her
tight against my own heart fiercely sheltering her from the dangerous ugly of a
world she was released from. I will pray a million humbled thanksgivings for
the tremendous gift of
Mothering this precious girl.
Grief will also be
carried on the grace of this blended blessing. Just beyond the good of my life,
a young women lives lonely with ever ugly truth, completely crippled by the
horrors of abuse and abandonment.
During
the midnight hours of wrestling through the birthing of adoption, Roger and I
wondered if life could have been different if love were to have met her in
those recent childhood years.
Outwardly this one is the look of every other
with her smart phone, skinny jeans, tremendous smile… if you can witness one
during those teen years.
Anger is desperately concealed by normal.
Her life exposed
a difficult, that lost will never be found sitting in our ‘holy’ temples of
safety.
The scoffing person with their eyes averted is the one screaming the
loudest.
Where was I when the Mother of my daughter needed the flooding warmth
of love covering and caring for her?
Where was I when she felt the hunger pains
of childhood weeping in an ally of darkness for rescuing paternal arms?
Where was I?
I wish I could turn back
tides of destruction. I look into the thrashing wild of this young women’s soul
and search for a beacon’s guide to safety. On the shoreline of my life I see a
beautiful stretch of silver hope.
My daughter once
adrift brought still by the breath of all things lovely a true Holy Grace.
~
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