The Least of These...

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I rushed out of my office this morning to a waiting car parked on a curb directly across the street from a pet store near my work.  I needed to make a deposit in the bank. I felt hurried and anxious. As I reached for the door I heard a conspicuous squeal above the din of travel and commerce.  I looked toward the noise and saw the young girl in the parking lot of the store.

She sat in a wheel chair affixed to a lift descending out and down from a large, commercial looking van that I recognized from a local rehabilitation center in our area. Two other children who looked physically and mentally challenged stood below with two social workers.

They cheered for her.

A broad grin covered the young girl's haggard looking face.  Dark, disheveled hair sat atop her head and jeans concealed what I'm sure were withered legs.  I guessed her for twelve or so. 

Near the same age as my own daughter.

I stood there for a moment; the sound of passing cars on the avenue behind me invading the peacefulness of the late August day.  I wondered about the source of their excitement.  I wondered how long she had lived in that chair.  I wondered if this was her first time being outside and away from the painful memories of more uncertain destinations.

Mostly, I wondered about her family.  The family all children deserve.  The family they so desperately need. 

Maybe she would spend a few minutes roaming the store, stroking the pelts of some furry creatures oblivious to her plight.  For a brief moment maybe she would feel invigorated-knowing the warmth of a mostly elusive normalcy, bothered all the while by the impending truth of her life waiting back outside.

I thought about my charmed life-my healthy, happy children.

My easy road.

I thought about my pettiness too-my infected, carnal self.  I thought about my going here and there and my quest for storing up worldly treasures.

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The vanity of it all. 

Soon, the brief touch faded as I resumed my worldliness. I went on about my business. I suppose she went about her own ...such a different and infinitely harder road, but likely more content than others to whom much more had been given. I focused again on myself, on what I need, what I want.

What would make me happy.

Meanwhile, children all around us in their quiet places long for much simpler things-to walk and run free; to jump and swim; to love and be loved back; to know the security found in a body that's whole.

Some travel easy roads, while others walk more rugged paths.

And for some like her-well, they never get to walk at all...





For more about children go to:  http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/2010/08/carnival-21/

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Sometimes They Don't...

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Little girls should laugh.

Sometimes they don't.

I met her for the first time last December.  Her Mother and Father were abruptly removed from a local shelter, and together with her infant sister and older brother, the five had been sleeping in a car during the cold, early winter nights. 

Lisa called me at work. 

"They need a place to stay tonight. They have a place for the baby, but want to keep the four year old girl and her six year old brother together," she said.

The hastiness of it all caught me off guard-too sudden for me to adequately prepare effective excuses and the proper defense of the negative position.

"Are you sure we can handle this right now?  It's so close to our Nashville trip."  That's all I could muster. 

"I've already asked our kids and they're all on board.  It's up to you," she said.

A few hours later the two new children along with the social worker sat in our family room as I finally arrived home from work. 

Both were striking children. Michael was broad shouldered and muscular.  Rebecca was petite with short black hair and big brown eyes.  He seemed distant and had great difficulty sitting still.  His anxiety produced several nervous ticks and he appeared to be developmentally delayed.  She appeared very smart, but one much acquainted with sorrow....too familiar with things others discover much later in life.

Our association ended quickly. The boy had extremely difficult needs.  He required specialized treatment. The family with the infant agreed to take the younger sister.  The transition happened fast.  She never saw it coming.  After nearly a month, our house returned to normal.

Now, seven months later we stood in line to buy ice cream after our oldest son's baseball game.  I heard the voice from behind.

"Hey Jeff!"

I turned around and saw the face of her new foster dad.  I had known him for many years and talked with him before we made the switch back in the winter.  Immediately I looked down and saw her.  Our eyes met.  She clutched his leg and closed her eyes as if doing so could exorcise the former demons her young heart was so ill-equipped to handle. 

I briefly recoiled, unsure of the wisest course. 

Then I walked over.  We exchanged pleasantries, he and I.  I looked down.

"Hello Rebecca!  How are you?"  She stood silent squeezing him tight.  "Do you remember me?" 

She nodded up and down slowly.  I didn't know what else to say.  She seemed confused and bothered by my presence, showing little emotion on her face.  She laughed nervously.

After all, I had abandoned her too.

And then suddenly it occurred to me.  A day is soon coming when she'll lie alone in the darkened corner of a lonely bedroom.  Overwhelmed by this cruel world, she will deny the pain no longer.  A torrent of tears will start, finally replacing the nervous laughter she's relied on for so long.

She'll cry hard...she'll cry until there are no more tears...she'll cry for something real, for something true, for a love won't forsake her again.

Maybe in that room she'll cry out to the One who breathed the life into her lungs so many years before...

I hope she'll find Him ready and waiting...

Mostly, I hope

she'll believe

He really does care...




For different perspectives on laughter go to:  http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/2010/08/laughter/

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-names have been changed