I heard a story today.
I heard a story of a woman dressed in all fear decide to adopt 3 kids.
Many said, “Wait. Dear, you’re dressed in black things and your coat smells of broken words.”
Many said, “Wait. You’re not one of the white coat people dressed ready to go and make things tidy.”
Imperfect black thing wearer moved towards a holy gift.
The 3 children.
One 8 years old.
He still sucks a finger because it makes sense given what his eyes have seen.
What his eyes haven’t seen.
What his hands haven’t felt.
What his heart hasn’t known.
She moved towards them even though her clothes smelled of broken things.
All the “unbroken” clothes people said no. Wait. Stop.
Brave, broken one, she wanted to touch holiness and broken things are ripe for the holiness harvest.
She’s now in the rainy season.
Pouring the soil. Drenching the dirt with heart things.
All of them are now.
All of them are now in the farming business.
All their hearts need the plow, and the seed, and the soil, and the rain, and the sun.
Honestly, she’s praying rain still works.
Hoping soil pushes.
Hoping Dad knows.