I'm not the type to stay up late either. But I just can't sleep. Perhaps that last Oreo I ate while trying to stay awake during a training class from 6-10 this evening after work was just one Oreo too many. I'm awake.
And I'm thinking about my Buddy and my Precious.
Ever since the doctor said "tethered cord" over Buddy, something inside me seems to have gotten shaken up. I'm emotionally overwhelmed. I ache for him. I ache for his parents who, in a semi-perfect world, should have been the ones sitting beside the huge MRI machine yesterday.
I ache because they probably don't even know.
I ache because, for once in my life, I am deeply troubled that the answer to "Is there a problem?" is yes.
I ache because, I just returned from a class that mentioned "trauma" in the form of early hospitalizations can develop things in children that they'll have to overcome.
My gut is ripped in shreds though, at the thought of his tiny, fragile, thin little body enduring the pain of surgeries, catheters, needles. When I stop and imagine it, I can hardly breathe.
Foster child or not - HE IS MINE.
I am not his.
I've thought about the differences the last few days as I tried to understand why my body was physically reacting so strongly to his potential problems, and I put it together as this:
He IS mine, but I am not his.
He is mine. He is my child, my responsibility, my blessing, my chosen opportunity, he is my joy, my sweet sunshine as he grins at me. He is my heart, and as I hold him I'd swear he is my flesh. I would give him all I have and more. I desire so much for his future, his body, his mind, and most of all his soul.
I am not his. Even now, after a month, he cries for someone else. There is someone that holds his heart in a deep, impenetrable way. The time spent in her womb, knowing her voice, and eventually his blessed arrival and feeling her arms hold him. He likes me, yes. But when I left him alone with someone else tonight while I went to class, I knew he would not cry for me. I am not his.
And as I considered these things this week, I almost marvelled at the line that I can draw between those two definitions of who is whose, and who I am to God, and who God is to me.
I believe, firmly, that when God looks down on me He sees me as His. "She is mine".
But I wonder, from Gods infinite view of my life, if He sees that He is mine.
Does my heart cry out for other peoples validation, love, respect, honor, acceptance, more than it does for His? Have I spent time with Him, the birthing time, the quiet hours, days, years, where I just listen for His voice and learn to love it?
Do I cherish the feel of these tiny babies hands, arms, hair, more than I do the arms of my Father?
Am I still willing to lay everything, and everyone down, for the sake of His glory?
Precious, from day one has been of such infinite value to me. She is precious indeed, and dear to my heart. And as I picked up Buddy last night to put him to bed, I knew how precious he too had become to me.
It reminded me of a song that a woman used to sing in my old church: "Jesus is precious to me."
I'd say He is, but... raising two babies and working full time I've found my brain becoming too full. I don't want to read, or listen to things that require my brain power. I want to sit, in a silent house and just recover. But in that, I've wondered if I've slipped some. If I've allowed Him to be less precious to me.
Or perhaps I'm simply taking Him for granted.
Tonight was a good night, that restored to me some energy to pick up and fight again. And I want to reaffirm, or reestablish (whichever word works best) Gods position in my life.
I am His. He is mine.