Epiphany Kids

Yesterday was Epiphany. 

Traditionally celebrated as the day the wise men find the baby Jesus. 

It was also one of those whiplash days when I wonder where the balance of life can be found. They don't come often. 

In the morning, my family celebrated the day when a second parent adoption was granted for two little ones. We welcomed them into the world in June. For once in a long while, the state of Tennessee did a good job. The judge in the case had granted their big brother adoption 5 years ago. So all three children “get” two parents that they already had and already knew. A seal, if you will, on a family already made. 

That was the morning.

The afternoon was spent visiting with a little boy whose mother will die in the next month. He jumped into my arms as I got out of the car. We first met one warm summer day and in order to calm him down a bit, we did yoga. For some reason he loved it and we do it every time we get together. I taught him the motions to “YMCA”. We learned to read. He drew me pictures. We pray a body prayer every time I leave, gathering our arms to ourselves, raising them to God, receiving Gods love and sending that love into the world. His school photo is on my refrigerator.

I went to bed last night processing the day. A day of great joy certainly. A day of relentless sadness. A day I held held children in the hope I could love them.

 I realized more than anything, that while we pray over our children and pray they are protected and work as hard as we can to care for them, the world happens. Life happens. We can’t protect them from anything really. Hell, we can’t protect ourselves from much.

The best we can do is give them tools to get through. Safe spaces to cry. Listen to their lives. Hold hands together so we aren’t so small when the world is so big that we can’t get our arms around it.

Praying for the grace to see ourselves through.