I sat at a table this morning with five other people who have had such an intense impact on my life.
A few years ago I met Marcus in my sister's house as we packed her belongings. She introduced us and he said, "oh yes, you're the sister who talks too much." As much as I have always resented this negative character trait of mine, I wonder if he had any idea how true this was.
Yesterday I was part of a Christmas event with my kids. More than 30 of them in the same barn at a local tennis club. I picked up a handful of them, strapped them in my car, and carried them there. The rest poured in shortly after. It never fails, no matter how many times I do this, that my heart brims with love and devotion for these small people.
I watch "A", letting him roam and wander. We keep him in our sight, but give him much more autonomy and freedom than the others. He is old. Fragile in all his brute strength. There was a hidden joy bubbling up in him yesterday, a light rekindled in his dark eyes that captured my attention.
He was sick. I heard someone say he was in the room and I dropped everything to go find him. He looks grown. In a way a fifth grader should never look grown. I described him to a friend as one of those children who has so much anger and so much light in himself at the same time. A visible, tangible battle waging before my very eyes. Even in his sickness he saw me and ran to me, throwing his arms around me. I spent part of the day rubbing his back, wishing he knew how hard we were fighting for him.
Another was sick too. "Miss Anna, my head hurts" he said as he climbed into my back seat and buckled himself in. He was subdued, quiet. Definitely not feeling well. He rubbed his head, his hands, gave him water, chalking it up to dehydration. I kept one eye on him for the next few hours, watching him in his lethargy. And I am who he came to find when the fever hit. He leaned forward, his head on my stomach, eyes half closed. "Miss Anna, I can't do this anymore". I bent low, like my Mama used to do, and felt his forehead with my lips. He was burning up. I laid him down on a bench and went to grab my keys. Maternal instinct kicked in and I carted him out the car, buckled him in again, and let him sleep in the back seat as I took him home. I knocked on his door and was greeted by a much smaller version of my sweet "J". I was told not to come in. I was told I wasn't welcome, they'd take care of it. And I watched as J climbed the stairs on all fours, my heart fuming with resentment because I knew he wouldn't be taken care of the way I could. I was tempted to storm in, yell at them to pull up their pants, and carry J out with me again.
It's amazing I have even a piece of my heart left. As much as they've stolen. With their inquisitive faces and heavy attitudes and vulnerable spirits. It really is a miracle I have anything left. They've stolen it all, it feels like. I'm okay with this. I wish I could give them more. I wish I could give them everything they need.
I haven't seen these two in a few months. Schedules have kept me away from their site. They are thinning out, getting taller. New braids in their hair. It's almost like a tradition, the way we do things around here. I saw them walk in, planted my feet, and called their names. Dark eyes look up for the source of a voice familiar to them and they take off running. Never have you seen a child launch themselves off the ground until you've met my children. She wrapped her arms and legs around me and "M" waited patiently for her turn. Hurt runs deep. Love runs deeper. I replay images in my head as I embrace them. Of "M" in a bathroom stall, screaming uncontrollably. Of "N" leaning close to my forehead as we talked about grace.
They are mine. And I love them in a way I didn't even know was possible. A few years into this, I still have my doubts about my own capability. Am I cut out for this? Do I have what it takes? When everyone else demands respect and obedience, when everyone else seems to be in charge, seems to know what they are doing, I often stand at a loss.
Last night I was walking through our city with two of my best friends. Beautiful women who have rarely seen me in my element, but they know. They know my heart and what pumps this blood through my veins. To be fully known and completely loved is a miracle beyond comprehension. And I am thankful for them.
We were walking through Triangle Park. A place where so much life has happened to me.
I saw him then. My snotty nosed, theatrical, intelligent older boy. He and I do not get along. Not even a little bit. He makes me laugh uncontrollably. But I have resisted, on multiple occasions, just tying him to a chair to keep him sitting still. In the middle of discipline he often cocks his head, and in a voice drowned with snot just grins and shakes his head, "Anna, you know it's funny. Come on. Just laugh, you know you want to." He was there. Walking through the park. In white Nike and a gold, fur lined coat. I almost didn't go after him. We don't like each other, after all.
But I did. Because in the brief moment of hesitation, I heard Him say "he is yours too. Go get him."
He ran from me. I am not surprised. But he was with his god brothers and cousins and sisters. Children I didn't know... yet. Within five minutes I had a big five year old sitting in my lap. I was calling names and chasing little boys. Swinging them up into my arms, carrying them on my back. My two dear friends stood there, watching something they'd never really seen. My heart exploded with the sweetness of it.
They are mine. I claim them. I ask for them. I, along with a host of others, have rallied around them. Daring the world to try to take them back. They belong to us -- to the God who made them. And in that moment, surrounded by Christmas lights, I knew. Again and again I am reminded. Only to forget again. So I can remember, I suppose. Because the moment of remembering is the sweetest.
I was made for this.
I am most myself when surrounded with small people. Small people in need of a big love. The fight in me, the energy I have left, belongs to them. As much as they are mine, I am theirs. What I wouldn't give to have a big house where I could take them all. So that I'd know they'd get tucked into bed at night. Eat good meals. Learn about life in a way not so destructive. So that they could play and be children -- small, small children who the world cannot touch. My heart breaks for it.
In a year, the only tears I have cried have been for them.
I am better for this. The past four months have changed me in a way I could never have fathomed. The sweet moments when Marcus said, "you're getting it". And the bittersweet ones when I ran face first into the things I am not good at. The days I walked away in defeat. The days I laid on the floor in a puddle of what felt like failure.
I am not done.
But I had to walk away this morning, wiping tears from my eyes, wishing the caring didn't hurt so much. Wishing I was one of those lucky people who got paid to do what she loves. Wishing there was room for me where there is none.
I am better for this.
I hope they are too. My sweet ones. After countless hours in the cafeteria and in the classroom. Hundreds of long division problems and sounding out words. Every fight, every match of strength and will. Every demand for respect and obedience, every failure of mine to stop and see. We push through and I only hope they hear. I hope, at the end of every day, they know I love them.
With all and every piece of my tired, broken heart.
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