Unfixable, yet Standing

The social worker's words are a backdrop to my inner dialogue.

She speaks of dead ends and fizzling attempts; I'm designing the hail marys, the final chances, the last shots that could make their dreams come true.

My eyes fill with tears, because I understand that though my nature craves to fix, to save their day...from my end, this is unfixable.

Together we tiptoe among the shattered glass...the workers, the lawyers, the judges, the counselors, us and all the in-betweens...though we make our way across the sea of splinters...we are peering from the outside into the lives of the ones who bear the hidden wounds, those who bury the glass of broken dreams embedded in their sides.

And not one of us can remove the pain; we're unable to dig deep enough to expose the wound, the source of their sorrow.

Because this was never meant to be.

Though she stretches her hands to me, striving for rest, her eyes peer past me, longing for what she has ached for since the moment she crossed my threshold.

And as I take her 10-year-old body and rock it back and forth, my soul screams in fury rather than faith, because all I can do is stand.

You tell me it's so much. They whisper she's so blessed to have me.

But I was never meant to be.

This space I claim, this position I hold...it is one born of brokenness.

I lay her to rest in her tears on the bed that has never quite felt like home, smelled like home, to only turn and hear her mama's voice weeping over my phone...

You don't understand. I didn't mean to screw up. It was never suppose to be this way.

And, I can't seem to fix it.

The shattered glass breaks into a few dozen more pieces, as the pain pushes it deeper into the aching heart.

All I can do is stand, listen, beg the Restorer to whisper through me.

Some moments, I feel as if my calling is to absorb the grief of their worlds, because there is no one else to listen, to be still with them.

I realize that somewhere along the way, my home became associated with immeasurable grief for child after child. Safety, provision, and moments of joy, yes, but cast against a overbearing backdrop of grief.

Somehow, my presence came to represent her greatest loss, the removal of his priceless treasure. At times, even being seen as their highest hurdle, most overwhelming obstacle.

Yet, the Restorer calls me to stand, a conduit of His movement, of His silence, of His mercy, of His redemption.

I turn from them all to weep into the wings of my Father, and He whispers, Let me stand for you. Watch me stand for you. Just say, Yes.

So I rest in the One who is standing for me, 

In our only Restorer, our only Hope ~