A Painful Kind of Love.

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Depleted of vices to hide behind, raw and real are all that remain.  Perhaps it is where He wants me.  My true authentic self, helpless before God. I’m okay with that.  For a long period of seasons, I was anything but. Yet now, even a midst the ruins of my soul, the chaos of my existence, there is peace and it is Him others see, not myself. Grateful for that as life seems to be in shambles.

Twenty-five days ago, a moment of anguish that towers above all others crushed my soul.  The drive over the pass was non-eventful, even quite pleasant.  Which made the endeavor that much more unbearable.

As I drove, memories flashed and I was taken back to the first day.  The room was chilled due to the concrete surroundings. Dirty brown, floral print throw rug softened the staleness. 70’s style cabinets lined the walls with toys, just out of reach of the children, taunting, behind sliding glass doors. He stood at the door, lower lip between his teeth, head down but eyes up on us. Caution in our voice and approach let him know he was safe. Not even minutes passed before giggles from the gut made my cheeks hurt.  A good kinda pain.  Three and a half years old, no indication his life was about to change.

Once again, present day, his life was about to change.  The Russian orphanage was pleasant compared to how he would view this place. Anger and suicidal tendencies drove us here. Yet all he perceived was abandonment.

“His disorders are beyond our ability.”  “We have exhausted all other resources.”  “We have to get him help before it’s too late.”  Justifications, all valid, still could not soften the edges of the knife that twisted in my heart as we drove away.

Five hour return drive was blurred by first one flash back then another. “How did it come to this? I blame RAD, FAE, early isolation in the orphanage. I blame everything, but I don’t blame him.” Again, that makes the endeavor that much more unbearable.

I walked through the door of our darkened home, no comfort found with the absence of one voice. My youngest slept. I entered the room of my eldest, 19, and sat on the edge of his bed. He lifted his arm around me and I wept. “I still love him. In spite of all his disorders, all he’s done, I still love him.”

“I know,” was his gentle answer.

This facility is temporary. The next step unconfirmed. Certain though is his safety for a time. Respite is ours.

Contemplation over the distorted view some have that love is always a warm fuzzy that draws you in. It is not. Sometimes it is hard nosed and involves letting go.

It’s an admittance that you love your child enough to entrust them to someone else when your own skills have been surpassed.

“This hurts me more than it hurts you,” debatable by both instigator and receiver, is never more true when the child perceives your actions as rejection. It is in those times, we as parents, see further and wider than the child. We experience a slight resemblance of what God must have felt when His son cried out to Him on the cross. A bitter sweet sensation that the pain will bring healing and hope to all who accept it.

As parents, tough decisions are a constant. Control of perception is in the child’s hand. That, we can only give to God and trust He loves them more.

“Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it.” MATT 7:13

When our children are on the wide path, sometimes we have to make a choice to narrow it.

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