The tousled child lifts the so-called donut into the light
Examines it and pressed for
Comment, asks, shouldn’t there be
a heart-shaped hole in the middle?
The tousled child lifts the so-called donut into the light
Examines it and pressed for
Comment, asks, shouldn’t there be
a heart-shaped hole in the middle?
In the stories of Jesus’ public ministry there are accounts of people who have been healed of skin diseases which would have set them apart from their communities due to infection prevention measures codified by the Mosaic law.
In some of these stories, Jesus heals them and gives them permission to not tell people they were ever infected with these diseases.
I think this injunction was made (at least in part) to allow them to have a new life, unencumbered by prejudice.
When my family moved to a new place a few years after we found out that our adopted son had sexually assaulted some of our children, I realized that this was our chance to “start anew.”
We had pushed for legal consequences for Charles. We had a good counselor in the aftermath. We moved to protect the children. We were open with everyone in our previous community.
But we chose to continue
To tell our story.
The result has been fascinating and lonely.
There is a lot of prejudice about victims of sexual abuse and their families, maybe especially in churches.
We could be contagious?
Maybe
Or maybe it is our openness that scares them.
Either way, we call it “the island.” We live on an island
An island made of truth and pain and loneliness
With a single, unwavering resident
The one who heals us.
The one who knows this quiet place.
The one who tells us the truth will set us free.
My family is healthy, happy, and stable because we have never tried to hide
The story of our grief
But it can be quiet
On the island.
I pull down the old book, look for recipes for cultivating children, like the time she sewed the earth with dragon’s teeth and made them into men…
I don’t want men
I want daisies
Dozens and dozens, hundreds and hundreds, legions and legions, fields upon fields
Filled with Bellis perennis–beauties everlasting
Because only God can
Make lasting
Children out of words
And wildflowers
It is a line from a song sung by the super-heroic woman who can restore what has been lost or broken and I borrow it as I search for the little ones, so brave, so beloved
I want them all back, past undone
gordian-knotted he would say
Every family has a hot-head he would say
Oh my beautifuls,
All treasure
I started this blog eight years ago, when it became clear that no one was going to come to our rescue.
At that time the issue was my adopted son, who had sexually assaulted some of my children and some of the other children we knew, was being released from the Texas juvenile system. He would not have to register. His crimes had been lessened in a plea bargain, and then they were to be sealed.
We lived in the house where he had lived, where he had hurt the children.
I started the blog because I didn’t own a gun. I started the blog so there would be a record.
It has become more than all of that, and (at least so far) we have survived.
I believe in writing. I believe words can stand where people have walked away. So that is what lighthouse is about–a blog about fosters
Wherever you may find us.
Wisdom says, “the only copy of Crime and Punishment is in the locked bookmobile. We will have to break in and steal it.”
And how would that look?
I made a mess in an extended Easter egg hunt for Crime and Punishment
Such chaos in my wake
As the chidren singing,
prove Lewis’ hypothesis–
The antidote for Hell must be
Strong, most strong
Bright, so bright
Weirdly bracing
As we are surrounded by all
The forgotten
words for joy
He says
We do things a little differently here
And I guess I didn’t see
How literally he meant it
the shady pecan, the shotgun shack
Give me
Give me
these tokens we have in our hands but cannot staunch
Such indelible grief
my little ones
all gone
What if God were just twice as smart as you? Twice as nice. Twice as precise. Would you worry then, Darling?
Worry about the things He would tell you
Before, not after, the flood
The possibility of both
Righteous anger and a casual
Ordinary
Blast of glory
Refuting all the
niggling details of narcissism
And all your little monsters
Eyeing you hungrily from their corners
Waiting to take all
The clues, the love-notes, the blazing stars
He has strewn about this place
Only hope for
Ransom.
I left the paperwork on the books with the state of Texas
Left the judge in the shade of the beautiful burr oak
Walked away from the running lights
Left that old me behind
All I got left for you, kiddo
Is these words, these prayers poured out
In a language God understands