The Long Winding Road
Today, the girls and I were heading out to camp on a long winding road.
We began the conversation about our Haiti Baby.
"Mom," Eden (9) asked, "Will our Haiti baby have a mom and dad in Haiti?"
"Maybe," I reply.
And the conversation began - again - about the realities of orphans in third world countries.
"Maybe his mom and dad died," Bethany - who is 5, replied.
"Maybe," I muster.
"Or maybe his mom and dad don't have enough food and water to take care of him," Eden finishes.
Leaving the small town we live in, we have to eventually turn onto a narrow road, barely enough space for two lanes.
Our conversation shifts. To thoughts about how we are called to do the work of justice and of mercy. Of not just opening our hearts and homes to orphans, but also the call to the hard work of orphan prevention.
"Last week," Eden began, "When we were making food bags to send to Haiti with Granny, I hoped our brother was getting one of them."
The road is now too narrow to pass. I have to wait my turn as a bus pulling a trailer comes through.
"I pray our Haiti Baby isn't hungry," Bethany replies.
"Me too," my voice hitches as my car is now able to continue on.
As the talk back and forth - mostly with each other - about their hopes and dreams for their baby brother, my heart is heavy. Every day the waiting gets harder. Can I admit that? Every single day the waiting gets harder and harder and harder. Heavier and heavier. The road narrower and narrower.
"Look, mom!" Eden exclaims, as we start to turn in to the camp.
"I never thought we would get here!" Bethany shouts.
"Of course we would," Eden replies, "We believe in hope.
Ah, right. Hope.
Thank you, Jesus, for those moments where you remind me, that even on the long, narrow, winding road - even sometimes when it gets hard to pass - we have Hope.
We began the conversation about our Haiti Baby.
"Mom," Eden (9) asked, "Will our Haiti baby have a mom and dad in Haiti?"
"Maybe," I reply.
And the conversation began - again - about the realities of orphans in third world countries.
"Maybe his mom and dad died," Bethany - who is 5, replied.
"Maybe," I muster.
"Or maybe his mom and dad don't have enough food and water to take care of him," Eden finishes.
Leaving the small town we live in, we have to eventually turn onto a narrow road, barely enough space for two lanes.
Our conversation shifts. To thoughts about how we are called to do the work of justice and of mercy. Of not just opening our hearts and homes to orphans, but also the call to the hard work of orphan prevention.
"Last week," Eden began, "When we were making food bags to send to Haiti with Granny, I hoped our brother was getting one of them."
The road is now too narrow to pass. I have to wait my turn as a bus pulling a trailer comes through.
"I pray our Haiti Baby isn't hungry," Bethany replies.
"Me too," my voice hitches as my car is now able to continue on.
As the talk back and forth - mostly with each other - about their hopes and dreams for their baby brother, my heart is heavy. Every day the waiting gets harder. Can I admit that? Every single day the waiting gets harder and harder and harder. Heavier and heavier. The road narrower and narrower.
"Look, mom!" Eden exclaims, as we start to turn in to the camp.
"I never thought we would get here!" Bethany shouts.
"Of course we would," Eden replies, "We believe in hope.
Ah, right. Hope.
Thank you, Jesus, for those moments where you remind me, that even on the long, narrow, winding road - even sometimes when it gets hard to pass - we have Hope.
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