Broken

Broken.

That's the single word I can use to describe the heart condition of these sweet kiddos, like my son, when they come to us. Because that's what trauma does...it breaks them.

I've read about, studied, and tried to prepare for this broken state...but nothing prepares you for it in full and then you suddenly find yourself laying on a cold tile floor next to your son who won't let you near him. Who fights you if you try. Because his heart has been so broken and no one has ever tried to repair it. 

So you lay there next to him, holding on to your husband as you fight away the enemy who whispers, "Just take him back and go home."

And you plead for strength and all you can do is whisper, "Jesus....help him. Help us."

And after several hours he finally turns to you and you gently slide the water and cookie over to him and he glances up....and he realizes you're still there. You didn't leave, you stayed by his side. So he takes what you've offered and scoots a little bit closer to you...and a little closer....and a little closer until he lets you pick him up and hold onto him for dear life. For his dear life and his dear heart and you beg Jesus again to please help us...help him.

Because your precious child has a never known forever, unconditional love and all the months and years of paperwork trying to prove yourself as a parent to so many people....yeah, it totally prepared you for this moment when you're trying to prove yourself as a parents to the only one who matters in this whole broken and trauma filled process.

And you ask your friends to join in this fight for his heart and they do. Oh they show up big time and prayers are felt and walls are crumbled. You let out the raw emotion and your anger and you use words your mama taught you not to use, but for some reason you just need to use them to describe your true emotion. And the very ones you can be this emotionally raw with - they're standing in the gap for you and they're praying the prayers you cannot begin to form in your heavy and weary heart.

And you keep whispering, "Jesus....help him. Help us." 

And then you watch as your son starts to get a glimpse of what this whole "being a son" thing can really be...and you see that familiar look when a child walks with his daddy, holding his hand, and looks up at him and smiles. 

And you put him to bed and praise the Father for the good things He has done in this tiny hotel room in the past 48 hours....because 48 hours ago, if you were honest....you weren't so sure.

And then you wake up again....and you pray, "Jesus....help him. Help us." You do this every day and commit to keep doing it every day for as long as it takes.

Because the Lord is doing good things. And we keep our hope in Him.