My Burnt Offerings

Somewhere tonight a piece of my heart is tucked into a bed that I don't even know where is.

How can it be that a piece of my heart is so far removed from me that I don't know its location? 

Seems like that should be impossible. 

Yet here we are. 

I don't even know where you are,

But I can hear the rhythmic thump thump thump it takes to get you to sleep. 

I don't know where you are,

But I can hear the snores that rival any grown man's. 

I 

don't 

know 

where 

you 

are

and 

we 

are 

all 

so 

broken.

Do they know when you ask for hot you want oatmeal? 

Do they know when you ask for Kitty that you are asking for an eleven-year-old big sister and not the thing that goes meow?

Do they know when you ask for Cookie you want your 8-year-old big sister and not a snack?

Do they know that KK is your 13-year-old big sister that you clung to over a year ago accepting her love looooong before you ever accepted my maternal love?

I don't know where you are.

My heart is broken. 

You were supposed to have been in a home that would love you unconditionally no matter what. 

But our world is scarred. 

Broken. 

Downright ugly. 

Life has been unfairly messy for some of the babies. Especially you baby. That yuck comes out as defiance and ugly and it's hard to love, attach and bond when you're living with the overwhelming fear that trauma brings with it. 

And boy do I know firsthand how that looks for you. One of my earliest memories of you is circling a parking lot on a hot day with you strapped in a stroller snarling like a feral cat because you were so stinking upset and scared and didn't know why this strange lady had taken you away from everyone you ever knew. The fourth strange lady in less than a year. We couldn't disrupt classes that day so we circled the parking lot. Again, and again and again. Me singing with my wretched off-key voice just trying to comfort you. You hissing, spitting, and biting the air. Because you had to hurt whatever you could get your teeth on. Even if it was just air. Because hurt was all you knew.

Trauma has broken you.

And so the home that wouldn't give up did. 

And you have been failed again.

I wish you knew how much you are loved and wanted. 

But all that you know is that we are another family that left you. Another family that failed. And we really and truly did fail. 

They called us into the office and told us they were taking you from us and we begged and argued and cried to no avail. They had their own perspectives and ours didn't matter. They saw that our lives were too stressed out, that we were yelling too much. That our marriage was in danger. That other kids in the home were miserable. They couldn't figure out how to provide you with the therapy you so desperately needed. They were afraid you would hurt us somehow. Our rebuttals fell on deaf ears. They said if they were wrong that we could come back and punch them in the face. As if that was a logical, acceptable way to extend to us the slimmest possibility that they really didn't know what was best. Then we came home and we lost you. For thirty whole minutes I was running up and down streets, barefoot, frantically searching for the baby who escaped in under four minutes. Four minutes was all it took to completely amputate me and leave me with no leg to stand on. No way to fight to keep you.

In those four minutes, our fates were sealed and you would be eventually taken from us. It took four tragic unreversible minutes for our names to be written on forms that we had only seen in case files that belonged to other people's children. 

We knew you were a runner. 

You had done it before. 

We should have known better. 

We should have never let our guard down. 

Not even for a second. 

You were worth whatever it cost us.

So now you are out there somewhere sweet baby. 

Completely lost from me once more. 

I would run a marathon barefoot through the desert if it would bring you back home to me. 

I don't know if you will ever come home to us. 

I can't come running this time. 

It is up to the powers to be to decide where you call home. 

I can't come looking. 

I'm just another Mom who failed you. We are many. You don't deserve this.

In this darkness there is light. 

You are safe. 

There is a glimmer of hope for us all. 

I can cling to the hope of Christ. 

That even when I fail. 

He does not. 

I can't guarantee you will come back to me.

There is no guarantee you will ever know how desperately wanted you are.

So I lay it all on the altar of my heart.

I choose to share it all openly because that is the only way I know how to pay for my offering. To make my failures public. Instead of hiding them deep within.

My sacrifice is burnt offerings of my sin, my grief, my shortcomings, and failures. My doubts. My hopes. My dreams. My fears. Poured out on the altar for all to see. 

I have wrestled with this long and hard but I am ready to make Abraham's prayer my own. As he lifted the knife to sacrifice his only son. I lift up and acknowledge that we may not be what is best for you dear, sweet baby. And you deserve the very best that God has for you. Even if that isn't me. 

Here I am God. I trust You to provide.

I give it all to God.

I trust Him with you.

With me.

With all of our story.