It’s been so hard to blog about the parenting class. A couple weeks removed, I’m going to give it a shot. To say this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done seems ridiculous. There’s nothing to compare it to.
We sit in class hour after hour and hear about the atrocities that children endure day after day, year after year, until they’re lucky enough to get so injured or abused that they are then ripped away from the only life, albeit horrendous, that they’ve ever known. I’ve heard the sickening and stunning statistics of sexual abuse and I’ve faced demons that I would have rather remained dead and dormant in my closet.
And then I feel the ache for that child we’re desperately wanting to save. I can picture holding him, not wanting to put him down in case he has to go back to a parent that won’t hold him enough. I dream of keeping him, and have nightmares of not being able to. I face fears and excitement and more fears, knowing the entire time that this isn’t about me. My roller coaster is getting crazy with loops and twists and I’m typically leaving class nauseous and shaking.
One day, I know I’ll look back on the classes and know that God put me there for more reasons than I can count. My view on the world has changed. My desire to help a baby has morphed. I used to want to adopt. Now, I want to adopt, but I’ll take any second I can to love the unloved, even if it rips my heart out. And my monsters are prayerfully getting a holy beat down.
All that to say - this hurts, it’s going to be worth it and I can’t wait to give God the glory in His upcoming miracles. Because in all this, I know that I know that I know, there will be glory to be given.
