sticky hands

I wouldn't trade this life for anything. That seems to be the only sentence I currently can complete. I keep typing it and re-typing it hoping better words will come. My thoughts are overwhelmed with where I am, the things I used to think mattered most, and the very people that I can now not imagine my life without.


This time last year, I would have traded it all for a cheeseburger. I would have said no to the sweaty weather, the temper tantrums, spiders, chaos, and in purging that lost the little joys, little people, little sticky hands that always seem to find a way into mine. I would have missed that hug and that kiss, or that letter or that time we did homework for 4 hours, in French, when I don't speak French. I would have missed the 70 best things that ever happened to me. And even though some days it feels like the 70 loudest most insane dirtiest things, they are mine. Or better yet, I am theirs. They have me in every way, I am completely baited and hooked to their lives, past, present and future.


There are ample days where I walk to my house and wonder how in the world did I make a difference today? I should have stayed in America eating cheeseburgers. But for every day like that there is one around the corner, filled with fruit. Precious moments where a child lets you know that if you were not here, it would make a difference to them. And that sounds obvious to you, because you see my pictures and you know I am a relatively nice person and you think of course Jessica is making a difference. (Don't believe all the pictures, 5 seconds later they morph into tazmanian devils :) ) Yet oddly enough I have never felt "called" to children, never professionally studied them, really have no qualifying experience other than that one time I was one. The crazy thing I have discovered is that it so often feels reverse. There is not one child I can imagine my life without, not one little voice, personality that doesn't make a difference to me now. It sounds like a number but its my heart.


This may sound a bit melo-dramatic all laid out but I love my kids. Because they're mine. I am not a mom, I have never known THAT pain. But I ache when they hurt, I wash the Cheetos off their face, and nothing has ever sounded the way my name does on their lips. Nothing feels like the moment I pull into work and see my littlest one waiting for me, or the way he walks me to my house each night and sits at the stoop as long as he can get away with it.


So in case you are worried about me, wonder why I am here, what the heck I am doing, don't worry, I think all those things too. But it vanishes when I am with them. When the work is piling up and I am overwhelmed my answer is to swing, to play, to enjoy the lives I am here for. I could stand on a street corner and shout the name of Jesus and yell the Bible to unopened hearts and I wouldn't do as much as I did by holding them today, by listening to their stories, by kissing their foreheads, letting them know they matter, they are important, my life is forever different and better because they are in it.


Pray for my kids. Pray that they know the depths heights widths of God's love for them. That they are rooted and grounded in that love, for healing in their hearts, healing in their bodies, protection, grace and compassion to surround them. I am confident that though they may seem random, God chose each one of them to be in this home, chose each of us working with them and He has big things in store for their lives.


Today we had our monthly birthday party. My darling dear turned 4. He is our littlest one and I just cannot believe how quickly they grow. I will never again tease my mother for those public moments she became a story teller of my most embarrassing memories, younger years and how tightly she clung to them. I will never be too cool for you mom, just as I hope I never see the day that I turn the corner and I don't have at least one chubby smile waiting for me in the driveway, one sweet little hand to hold mine and walk me home.