Last spring, a freckled-face boy found his way to my door. And my heart. This isn't some clever lead into how I adopted a fluffy mutt. This is a real boy that I will call D.
D spends most his days alone, wandering around the neighborhood, hanging out pretty much with who will have him. He is now in second grade, young and vulnerable, with no discernible supervision or rules. He rings the doorbell morning, noon and night.
Once he showed up here with a 3 or 4 year-old in tote and a puppy, in the pouring rain. He was locked out. I still don't know who the tiny tyke was, but the next day, I went to the school and spoke to the school counselor. Her expression betrayed the truth - my instincts were right. He is a boy living a rough life.
He is a foster child. His parents are in and out of jail. He has diabetes, yet is often hungry, missing meals. I give him cheese, hope for the best.
He came to Zack's party, and didn't want to leave. It was the first time a family member came to my door and met me. He hung his Star Wars medal on his wall. He didn't explain to his family that I gave it to him for being a faithful friend.
As I worry, sometimes I resent. I resent the constant interruption. I resent feeling powerless over his situation. I resent the way he doesn't respect my rules, the way he strikes out at my kids when I say he must go home. I resent that he won't go home, not really, but will roam about. I resent my bitter feelings. What kind of mother harbors hardness towards a kid? What kind of Christian?
His sad eyes devour me; he is so lonely. My throat hurts when I think about him.
Summer will be here soon. I pray for patience and wisdom.
Ding dong. Ding dong. Ding dong.