When I was ten I went from the belief that God was unknowable, possibly out there, to feeling His presence close to me. I think this happened because my grandmother and my mother had both gone through similar encounters with Him. I know they talked to Him about me.
I remember my mother saying that what convinced her of God’s love was something Jesus had said about the imperfect nature of human love being a reflection of God’s love. She knew how much she loved me and my brother, ergo God loved her.
I would think of this many times over the years, especially after my husband and I lost a foster daughter we dearly loved to an adoption tinged with inconsistencies, maybe even injustice.
Once, in an argument my mother said that she had hoped I would learn something from losing Veronica.
This is what I learned, this is what I believe:
Losing Veronica rocked my faith. Until that time I think I regarded God as my own personal Santa Claus, giving me good things, shielding me from the truly bad. But this was bad. So bad that violence entered my veins and tore inside me like a storm. I could only just endure the pain. And worse was the thought of my fourteen-months old feeling
abandoned by me–never to see me or hear my voice again. I cried out why? just as I begged Him to send others to soothe her, love her, sing her familiar bedtime songs.
Why? I kept asking. Finally the answer came: Look, He said. Look at what you did for her–the interviews, the letters, petitions, you made yourself ridiculous trying to keep that one little girl, trying to get her back. Now look around you–all these people are my babies. Love them for me. Love them like you love Veronica.
Never stop looking for ways to bring them Home.
And when I hear Christians condemn things in people without expressing this unconditional love I ask myself–would I still want to see Veronica if she was like that? If she had this problem would I turn her away? I can’t think of anything. I can’t think of anything she could do or be that would keep me from loving her. Or wanting her to come home.
Sure sometimes when we come home we don’t smell too good, sometimes our clothes need to be washed. But that is what home is for, right? A warm bath and fresh clothes. And then a hot meal in a well-lit kitchen.
that’s what I believe, anyway…
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