Thursday, August 27, 2009

Apparently a p*sting spate has come over me

So. Reading Writing Begins With The Breath. by Laraine Herring. On page 89, I read "Are you drawn to a culture or a time period that is not yours? Chances are, it's because the stories of those places intrigue you. [...] They pull you in the most unexpected places, and if you follow, you'll find signs, some written in sand, some blasting yellow neon: You over there. Yes, I'm talking to you. You're on the right path."

And I think - what culture calls me? And I think of my dear high school friend, recently found on Facebook, who has seven adopted children, all under 10, and how much I wish I could live like she does, and how many times I've asked God why I'm not patient enough for that many children, and I realize - I'm focussing on the wrong thing. Why do I ache for that life?

Because all seven of her children are safe*, or, at the very least, safer than they would have been otherwise, or as safe she can make the world for them.

It's not the child-loving adult in me that yearns for that life. It's the terrified five year old that never felt safe, for whatever reason. (I used to think I knew why I spent my early years so terrified, but I was wrong.)

Suddenly it's become enough for me to look at the two children God so graciously gave me, and do my best to be a safe place for them.

*yes, safety is an illusion, but that's not what this post is about. We can have a theoretical debate some other time. Or you can, with friends who like that sort of thing, and come back and tell me about it. :)


Karen said...

Very insightful. And it has definitely given me something to think about.

Misplacedwestsider said...

It is true that we are never truly safe. My oldest daughter escaped an attacker on Wednesday by fighting him off after he dragged her to his car. I don't feel secure about her safety because he knows where she lives. Thank you for this post because it is just 1 more way God is showing me I need to trust Him for her safety. Michele from Glen Eyrie