Hope

survival

NOUN

mass noun

• 1The state or fact of continuing to live or exist, typically in spite of an accident, ordeal, or difficult circumstances.

I see her from a distance- her look of despair, the tears of frustration threatening to become unleashed as she tries to hold her son’s hand. I witness the rejection and the mothers’ features as they slump further forward…her mind going to dark places. 

I see her sleeping in the twin bed in her youngest son’s room because the thought of sleeping next to a stranger who was abusive to her all day was just too much to bear. 

I see her eyes fill with tears at the morning light because she just. Does. Not. Want. To. Get. Out. Of. Bed. To face another day of being screamed at with words she does not understand. The unknowing being the worst. Would it be a good day, or would today be all fight or flight? I see her mind saying the best place to stay is in bed. 

I see her in public places- fake smile barely plastered on as people cheerily ask how it’s going, as they are mid stride walking away, not ready for the response that she can barely make it through the day. 

Lean in! Talk to someone- you can make it!!! You are stronger then this! I want to shout these to her- make her hear that this was not her burden to shoulder alone. 

I could see her desire but felt her shame. 

Shame of feeling the absence of maternal love. 

Shame of seeing a stranger not a son.

Shame at her bitterness, shame at her resentment. 

Shame at her emotional response to a six year old’s rejection. 

Shame of her deep, deep hidden hurts from a far-away past life bubbling and simmering close beneath the surface. 

Shame at saying any of this out loud. 

I see him from a distance, his looks of anger, defiance, fear, and sadness. So many unknowns. So much loss. 

I see him laughing and smiling, desperate to fit into this strange new culture. I see his exhaustion, his lack of understanding,

I see the wringing of his hands, the picking of his nails- wearing his anxiety as a heavy cloak around his scarred body.

I see him clinging to his Baba like a lifeline. This big, strong man before him displaying the character of a Jesus he does not know. I see him looking at this woman who calls herself mama. His insecurity- His uncertainty and silent knowing that she would certainly leave him as many of the women in his life have left him before. 

I see him rejecting her, this woman he calls mama, before HE is the one rejected; his broken heart only being able to take so much.

You are safe! You are secure! Lean in! I wanted to shout this to him, but know these are futile words to a boy who has never had a home or a forever family to call his own. 

I could see his desire and shame like an open wound.

Shame of not feeling as if he is enough.

Shame of his physical aggression and loss of control.

Shame of his inability to love the way he wants to be loved.

Shame of his deep, deep hurts from a not so far away past that is bubbling and simmering close beneath the surface. 

Let me tell you this. The past two and a half months have felt like an out of body experience. I have been floating above myself…watching this dynamic between my son and I. My head knew that this was all going to happen. That adjustment blows. That the language and culture barrier was going to be horrific. That his trauma was going to spew everywhere and leave no prisoners. Knowing and living it out are two different stories.  

This past week I’ve left the house with all the children. I’ve gone to a friend’s house. I’m not retreating, I’m leaning in. I’ve unpacked my suitcase from China. I know. Gross. 

Today? Today he leaned in. He held my face in his hands and my breath caught in my throat. You know what I saw? Hope.