I hold the phone in my hand, wanting to reach through to the other side and hold her. Scoop up my daughter and whisper to the core of her soul that she will be okay. That someday, the wounds of her early childhood will heal.
But I can’t whisper that. Because God may not choose to heal in ways we’d recognize until after heaven scoops us both up from this place.
It’s been eight years and three months since I met her at the foster home, the too-small child with fire-red hair—the one who barely spoke to me for the first month. It’s been eight years and just-under-three months since the day she wrapped pudgy little arms around my neck and would. not. let. go.
And it’s been eight years that I’ve been trying to unlock a heart clamped shut by abuse and neglect.
…Today I’m blogging over at Marie Osborne’s site, for her series on what it is to Love Him Well.