Monday, January 4, 2010

A Little Late

I was a little late. But, the pain it caused was great.

I am guilty, I know it. I tend to stand around church after the service is over talking to people sitting around us. Yesterday I was so excited to visit with a young couple we met a few months ago...we knew he was planning on proposing to her and we couldn't wait to hear all about it. Then, there were many well wishes for a happy new year for many. And, we were enjoying catching up with some dear friends, anxious to hear about their holiday.

As the sanctuary was emptying out, I suddenly realized that I was the one who needed to pick up the boys. I ran up the ramp and toward the Sunday School rooms, buzzed around a few corners and then saw the looks from the teachers. You might know that look. The look that says, "You are late!", but with a smile.

I then saw George, standing all alone, head down. What struck me in the gut was that this is how George stood for the first few weeks of his life with us. Defiantly standing still, head down, refusing to look at anyone let alone talk to anyone.

I did everything I could think of. I held him tight, I lifted his head so I could look into his eyes. I sat down and pulled him onto my lap. All the while, I said many times that I was sorry and kept promising that I was never going to leave him.

It was too late, the damage had been done. George was not the same the rest of the day. He was mean, grumpy, and told me many times he hated church.

I can't even imagine what was going through his mind as he saw each and every child being picked up by his/her parents. What deep pains came rushing back to his mind in those moments? What immeasurable hurts were remembered and the fear of wondering if he would be abandoned again!

As parents, we work from birth to create a self-security in our children. We leave them in a room and walk away, sometimes listening to them cry. But, we always come back. As they get older, we leave them with a babysitter and leave the house. They are scared, may cry a little. But, we always come back. They get even older and we walk them into a school, kiss them goodbye and tell them we'll see them in eight hours. They might be nervous. But, we always come back. By the time my kids are around the age of George, they are very secure in the knowledge that Momma comes back.

George is not. Eight months of Momma coming back is not nearly enough to cover the scars of his birth mom NEVER coming back.

By this morning, George was doing fine. He was skipping around the house before school and gave me lots of big hugs. I learned me lesson, though. I don't want George to have to think about being left behind again. "No talking for Momma after church! Or, at least Momma can talk AFTER she picks up Georgie."

OK, son. I promise...again.

No comments: