When I was a little girl, a picture hung on our Sunday School room of a very anglicized Jesus surrounded by blonde haired children. Jesus is depicted as gently holding one adoring little face cupped in his tender hands – God as Man enraptured by his own creation. I could relate to the children in that picture because they looked so much like me; I loved that picture. At various times throughout my life, I’ve owned copies of that picture, but there was always someone who needed it more than I. I don’t even know if that particular picture is still in print, but if it is, I’ll find it again.
I’d like to think that those children knew Him for who He was, the Lord God Emmanuel, Lord and Giver of Life, the Word Made Flesh. I’d like to think they knew it deep down to the dusty soles of their feet, deep into their beautiful souls and hearts, because, while children are born into this tainted world, sin nature intact, they have yet (mostly) to have had the opportunity to explore/exploit that nature. Children are as close to pure innocence as we get to experience until we are fortunate enough to be called Home.
A friend asked me recently what it was that I enjoyed so much about working with children, and didn’t it hurt me to spend time around what I couldn’t have. Hmmm…well, by that theory I should avoid bakeries, jewelry stores, and car dealerships, not to mention most grocery store, but I digress. I needn’t ponder this question of working with children one bit. With children you generally get what you see. They have yet to learn to deceive or conceal the black tar-like goop that exists within us all. If kids like you, you know it: you receive get well cards, offers to hold guinea pigs, and begs not to leave. They dislike you, well, then, it’s French fries and chicken nuggets in your hair, Slurpees dumped down your shirt, fingers slammed in cupboards, gum in your hair. I have never personally experienced the latter terrorizing behavior, but I’ve seen it, and would like to say I would trade places with those poor unfortunate souls in a heartbeat, but you’d see right through that deception; I am a terrible liar.
I can’t have my own children, and getting the shreds of myself together enough to say “NO MORE,” and ushering D out, also ushered out my last chance at adoption. That was the most devastating part of that whole debacle. But I trust that God has even the most painful things in His capable hands, and while I may be staring through a glass darkly now (Let’s face it: some days find me pounding on that smoked window and shrieking for an answer ), someday I’ll know His heart’s plan; I’ll know why. Until then, every new baby that friends or girls from church bring in to proudly show off, I snuggle, and rock, and hold their tiny bodies, and gaze in amazement at their tiny baby feet, and in those moments, my heart doesn’t shatter. Because each and every one of these children are miracles formed from the dust and ash of Earth simply to fulfill God’s need to create something to love.
And, that, my friend, is the miracle.
The Unexpected Life 