I saw the face of inconsolable sadness. Twice. And it was a lot to bear.
I saw sadness on a mother's face. Deep, lingering, all-consuming sadness that I tried my best to ease. I had arranged to meet with the birth-mother of my youngest adopted son. The circumstances of his adoption are not important - other than to note that he came to our home, and by default not to her home, at birth. I've known that as fact for some years now. I saw that as reality two days ago. And I was deeply moved by her story, in her own tearful words, of the grieving that she went through -is still going through - in returning home from the hospital to the room that she had set up for him, without him. I saw the years of sadness on her face, and heard them in her voice.
I had risked meeting with her, against the advice of others, to answer the questions that I knew she would have after all these years. Simple questions. Basic questions. Was he happy? Was he healthy? What does he look like? What is his day like? I could answer those questions, and provide her pictures and stories, and assure her that yes he is a happy, healthy, and handsome young man. I could also offer her hope for a path for a future reunion. I think it was the right decision to meet her, and I think I offered her hope, and I know that I shared in her sadness, though I couldn't erase it. The only thing sadder that I can imagine is the alternative, that he hadn't been born. But he was born, and God provides, and there's hope for the future. God bless her and comfort her.
And I saw sadness in a little boy's face. My other son's sweet and troubled face.
He suffers in silence, still - as a preteen - deeply affected by the circumstances of his birth and the months of neglect and malnourishment that occurred before he came to us. Not visibly affected, but affected nonetheless.
We were having special time with Dad, playing on the playground on an unexpectedly beautiful day. In the midst of the frenetic activity of the playground I saw him. Alone, separated, sitting hunched over on a strut underneath the structure - distraught. He was frustrated in his attempts to succeed on the standard playground equipment and was grieving that his talents were not the ones that he coveted - standard talents of playground baseball and basketball and such. His talents, while considerable, are not the ones that a little boy craves.
We had a good talk, he and I, and I had the opportunity to explain that God blesses each of us with different talents and that God has blessed him with an intellect and with creativity that will shine some day and that God can use some day to help others. It wasn't enough, but it was hope and his countenance brightened somewhat.
In one of God's little miraculous coincidences, that hope was confirmed the next morning. I teach Bible Memory class on Sundays for my son's class. The verse for this week, which was selected months before on a random schedule by a publishing company somewhere far removed, was 1 Peter 4:10, which reads:
Everyone should use the gifts he has received to serve others.
As a last straw, I discovered during a talk with this son over dinner during "Dad time" that he has been experiencing almost daily harrassment from a bully, a privileged and athletic kid, for years from which he has suffered in silence. Incomprehensible and uncalled for abuse. I was enraged. How can that be, that a child would pick a weaker child to victimize daily for sport? It was all I could do this morning to not climb on the bus and take that punk out. I want to protect my son, which I did by intervening with the school authorities today, but I can't do it retroactively and my heart aches for the pain he has already suffered.
There are no easy answers. Sometimes there's only sadness. And God's hope.
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