I Mean Everything to You Part II

It’s Wednesday morning, and I’m on the phone with my mom. I’m trying to explain to her what I feel in my heart for my son, how torn I feel, and yet how overcome with love I am, and all I can do is cry. I’m not hurt. I’m not upset. I’m not scared. Well, I'm not that scared. I’m just overcome. The passion that is burning in my heart is just flowing from my eyes and down my cheeks. I have talked with every possible person in my life, looking for advice. I have prayed and prayed. I have weighed my options. God’s been getting me up at 4:15 AM every morning no matter how late I am up the night before, and I’m wide-awake, so I just start praying. The more I pray, the more I read the Word, the more I know that the Gospel is so simple. Either the Bible is true, or it’s not. Stop for the one. Love the one. Love your neighbor as yourself. The majority of advice I’ve gotten from people trying to protect me has been to put Josuan in 21 de Octubre until he can recover enough to go to Teen Challenge. Months ago, before ever adopting any of these boys, I had texted Raúl randomly telling him that I NEVER wanted to put any of my children—adopted or biological—in an IHNFA center, especially not 21 de Octubre and that my children could kill me first before I would abandon them in that form. My standard for myself in adoption even long before adopting has always been that I want to treat my adopted children the same way I would treat my biological children (who don’t even exist yet). God has no ugly stepchildren in His Kingdom. He doesn’t treat us like we’re second-class. He loves us all as His children in the same way that He loves Jesus. How can I be any different in my love for my children? So, I’m struggling because I’m not a rebellious person. I’m actually very submissive to the advice and ideas of others, but I cannot deny what I feel so strongly to be true—that love does not look like putting my son in a center where they treat the children like animals just because it’s more convenient, safer, or financially cheaper for me. All I can think of is what the Bible says that whatever we’re doing to the least of these, it’s as if we’re doing it to/for Jesus. If Jesus, my loving Lord and precious Savior, were to be in the same situation as my son—with a broken leg, with no family willing to take him, and in need of rehabilitation because of years of hurt and drug abuse, would I really put Jesus in a center where I wouldn’t even send my dog? Obviously not. So, how could I do the same with my son who I love more than I never knew possible? I always want to respect the ideas and wisdom of others, and I appreciate the concern that so many people in my life have, but I cannot shake the deep deep conviction that it would be a grand sin to toss my son into whatever convenient location is possible. The Bible doesn’t say to love your neighbor as yourself only if you think the person is going to change. It doesn’t say love your neighbor as yourself if you’ve known your neighbor for x amount of time and can trust him or her. It doesn’t say love your neighbor as yourself only if it won’t disturb your comfortable, convenient life. It says love your neighbor as yourself. Period. Would I want to be in 21? Absolutely never.


I reach a point where I feel like however I handle myself in this situation is going to determine my life as a missionary from this point on. I can feel the weight in this decision not just for Josuan but for myself, for my character, for my faith, and for my future. I begin to think about how it’s going to be necessary to stop going to 21 de Octubre, Sagrado Corazón, and Casitas so that I have sufficient time to take care of my son. And, I’m worried about how that’s going to look since that’s more or less all that I do other than office stuff. But, I have to analyze what my being a missionary really means. Is ministry going to these centers to “minister” to children who are just like my son—street kids, with drug addictions, with sad stories, etc.—with teaching and prayer within the comfort of those four walls where I can come and go as I please? Yes, but ministry also has to be very simple and very practical. How can I call myself a missionary if I can’t do this basic thing of stopping for the one? How can I call myself a missionary if I refuse to love this precious child back to life by caring for him until he recovers just because it’s going to mean letting go of my “ministry” for a time? How can I call myself a missionary if I don’t feel enough compassion to feed, clothe, provide shelter, and demonstrate love tangibly? I can’t. And, if I’m only here loving and helping others in order to see results or in order to fill a Christian quota or in order to make myself look good, I better just pack my suitcases now. No, this goes deeper. This is about intimacy with God. This all boils down to my motives. This boils down to the question of who do I love, fear, or respect most—man or God? Whose opinion and direction is more important to me? The heart of a missionary has to be a heart of intimacy with God, and my work as a missionary has to spring from a motive of love and being in love with God. Christ’s love COMPELS me—not because it’s what I’m supposed to do to somehow earn God’s love. It’s not because other Christians are going to approve of me. It’s not to build some grand, spiritual kingdom of numbers and programs and strategies. It’s about love and being in love with Jesus in such a way that even the thought of treating someone—a wreck of a human being in human eyes or the most upstanding citizen—any less than how we’d treat Jesus or want ourselves to be treated that it grieves our spirit just as it grieves the Holy Spirit.


I spend a significant span of time talking to Raúl about this, and I get overwhelmed with his protectiveness and advice because I feel lectured as if I’m doing something wrong when all I want to do is obey God and love like Jesus. I finally explain that while I appreciate his concern and protection, he is presenting me with problems without giving me a solution. I don’t mind being protected. I like being protected and receiving the perspectives of other people—and in this case, Christian men especially—to help me make my decisions. But, what good does it do me to receive so much advice and perspectives on possible problems if I’m not being presented a solution? Talk is cheap. Action and support mean everything and make accepting protection actually possible and enjoyable.


It’s Wednesday night, and I’m sitting beside my son’s hospital bed. We’ve been laughing and joking and talking about all kinds of things. I can’t help but feel that I am so privileged to have this time with him. I treasure it. I treasure each little thing I’m learning about him. I feel often that I’m not a very good mom because I’ve never had the experience of being a mom. So, a lot of things that normally occur to moms, don’t occur to me. It doesn’t occur to me that I should probably bring him some food until I am right outside the hospital ready to go inside. It doesn’t occur to me that I should probably demand to talk to a doctor to know what pain medication I should be buying him. It doesn’t occur to me that I should probably bring him a toothbrush and toothpaste and other hygiene items. I’m just not used to being the only person that someone has. I’m not used to being the sole provider or only person responsible. I don’t dislike being in the position I’m in, and I definitely don’t regret opening my heart so wide to help my baby. But, I am constantly learning and feeling inadequate and begging God to teach me.


As we’re talking, some doctors come over without introducing themselves and start discussing his case. (It’s called Hospital Escuela [School] for a reason.) They mention in their conversation that he should be ready to go home tomorrow, and I can feel the panic rise up within me. I knew it wouldn’t be too long after he was operated on that they’d release him, but I have nothing in place. I haven’t found a room to put him in. I haven’t found out if Teen Challenge will take him while he is on crutches. I haven’t gotten his clothes from his mom. And, when they leave, the question I anticipated but dreaded came up, “So, where am I going to go tomorrow?” I have no reason to ever lie to my children, so I told him clearly what my options were—finding a room on terribly short notice or putting him back in 21. As a single, young woman living on the property of another family, there is no way it would be appropriate or respectful for me to take him to my house. He, himself, tells me that I should put him in 21 so as not to spend so much money and time on him. But, to me, that’s the point. I want to spend time and money on him because I want him to know he’s not some random street kid to me. He’s my son. I love him. What a great opportunity to show my child the love of Jesus. How could I miss that? But, my son starts trying to convince me to put him in Casa Alianza. As mentioned in the previous post, the things I’ve heard about Casa Alianza do not in any way make me excited to send him there. However, in talking to him, I can see that in comparison to 21, it is better. So, I feel slightly more at peace that if I absolutely have to put him in a center, that at least he wouldn’t be treated like an animal in Casa Alianza. But, I’m terrified of losing him to drugs again, and I don’t want to put him in an environment that sets him up for failure. But, what are my options realistically for tomorrow?


When Raúl picks me up to take me home, we talk. I explain what my son has told me about Casa Alianza, and I’m surprised at how adamant Raúl is that that isn’t a good idea—for the same reason I don’t like the idea. I will lose him to drugs because of the proximity and easy accessibility in that center. This is coming from the man who just lectured me about not renting a room and told me to put him in 21. How am I supposed to win? We talk some more and weigh the options together, although at the end of the day, he stands by the truth that this is really my problem, not his. I go to bed having no idea where I will take my son tomorrow.


I get up early this morning and start praying. I tell God that I trust Him, that I’m ready to have an adventure with Him today, and that I believe He’s already giving me favor and opening the doors. I read Isaiah 49 that has been so wildly encouraging and such a personal promise to me. And, I head out my door ready to tackle whatever the day holds with a worshipful heart and a smile. I go first down to Raúl’s business to check and see if Nahum was able to bring the crutches he’s loaning me. (I’ve pretty much pulled out all the stops in asking for favors from everyone I know for this very special case.) As I’m walking to the business, God reminds me of something I had forgotten long ago. But, like a flash, it’s such a beautiful confirmation that I’m doing the right thing that I can’t help but laugh and dwell on God’s goodness. When I was around 16-years-old, I felt God very clearly tell me that my first son’s name was going to be Joshua. I thought that meant that I needed to name my firstborn son Joshua. But, it’s one of those things I felt like God told me but later forgot about or thought that had come from my own head, etc. In any case, it was long buried until this morning. Although Josuan’s name is not spelled like the English name Joshua, it is pronounced by him and his mother as we pronounce Joshua in English. He is the first of my adopted boys who has become mine outside the four walls of a center. He’s the first who has become mine in the sense of complete responsibility, and he got out before Jesús. He was first. God knew eight years ago that all of this was going to happen, and He told me in an obscure, random moment so that I could have that strong confirmation on just this day. What an amazing story teller!


I head to see his mom to pick up his clothes and surprisingly run into another one of my sons from 21. He’s one that wasn’t there for long, and I really only helped him by contacting his family to let them know where he was and to come visit him (since no one in the office had let them know where their missing son was). “Sarah!” He calls out to me with a giant smile and a hug and proudly tells me that he’s working with his uncle and that he’s doing well. And I hear words from Isaiah 49 echo in my head:
Lift up your eyes and look around; all your children gather and come to you. You will wear them all as ornaments; you will put them on, like a bride. . . . Then you will say in your heart, ‘Who bore me these? I was bereaved and barren; I was exiled and rejected. Who brought these up? I was left all alone, but these—where have they come from?’ . . . Then you will know that I am the Lord; those who hope in me will not be disappointed. I spend a lot of time talking to Josuan’s mom, and I hear a lot of her side of the story for the first time. I won’t lie—I still struggle to understand how a mother can refuse to visit her wayward son in the hospital, but I have a better understanding and greater compassion for her own hurts and struggles after hearing her experiences. It’s impossible to give a Love you’ve never received.


Next, I head to the Teen Challenge office, and I cautiously ask the secretary if they accept boys who are on crutches temporarily, and I think I’ll jump out of my skin with gratefulness to God when I hear that they will. So, I start making plans. I can get his medical tests done today. I can scan the picture I have that is necessary. I can get his birth certificate from his mom today. And, I can take him to his interview tomorrow. He could go as early as tomorrow. I excitedly call Raúl to let him know and ask him if he wouldn’t mind talking to Estiven (who lives with him) about Josuan’s staying there just until he’s accepted at Teen Challenge. He agrees to talk to Estiven and to let me know. I call Raúl’s dad who has agreed to help me pick up my son to take him wherever he’s going to go. He can’t until the middle of the day, though, so that buys me some time.

I head to the hospital, but they won’t let me on my son’s floor. As always, God sent me some friends (of course, they were in it to try to get my phone number) to help. When I arrive, I talk to one of his doctors and find out that he can indeed go home today but that he’s going to need his wound cleaned every other day, his stitches taken out in two weeks, and a check up in three. That changes the game plan. So, I call Raúl to let him know. I ask if he can still stay there even if it’s just for a few days until I can find another room or another option. He says that’s fine. When I return from calling Raúl, my son has visitors. His grandmother and a man are there. My heart sinks. In a flash, I can just envision this elderly woman who has raised him more than any other person in his life demanding to take him home with her, and I feel like I’ll drown because this is my son. I love him like mine. I’ve worked so hard this week to take care of him and to make him see that he is loved and that his life is worth getting help in Teen Challenge, and in a second, I could lose him because I have no legal rights. But, I also know that I have to be content with what I’ve always said that even if nothing changes, if I never see any results, if I’ve been obedient to love like Jesus and please God, I’m content.

But, it becomes apparent that he has no intent of deserting me. When the nurse comes in, she sees me and the grandmother and asks Josuan if his grandmother is his mom. He points at me and says, “No, she’s my mom.” And, knowing that his grandmother might feel slighted, I quickly explained, “And she’s his grandmother.” Josuan explains to his grandmother how I’ve been there for him, paid for his operation, and have plans to take him to Teen Challenge. And, I feel such an intense relief when I hear his grandmother say, “I’m so glad. God is going to bless you for helping him. All I want to know is how I can visit him there.” Now, I not only have my son’s permission to act as his mom, but I also have his biological mother’s permission and his grandmother’s permission. He is mine in every sense of the word.


Raúl’s dad arrives, and we finally start heading home. But, it becomes apparent with each passing moment, each grimace of pain on my baby’s face, and each difficulty in the slightest movement that there is no way I’m just going to be able to put him into Teen Challenge immediately. He is going to need some recovery time, and I don’t know if Raúl and Estiven are willing to bear with me for that long. But, I just decide to focus on this moment. The road to Raúl’s apartment is so terrible, steep, and full of giant, rocky bumps. I have never had my own kids, so I, perhaps, cannot truly speak about this. But, hearing my child literally yelling in pain as we drive up the road and as we carry him down the stairs to Raúl’s apartment and not being able to do anything about it is the worst feeling in the world. It makes me sick to my stomach even now to think about it. But he is finally situated. Estiven asks me how long he’ll be there, and I can’t answer that question. The thought of putting him through the kind of pain I saw him experience today just to move him pains me.


After some hours of recovery sleep, he is awake, reading some books I brought, and telling me how hot it is. I spend the afternoon with him. We talk about a lot of things including stories from the past. And I let him call his sister who is his best friend. I contact the nurse from 21 who just happens to be a neighbor to ask her to come clean his wound rather than having to drive him to a health center every other day. She readily agrees. I didn’t even know this woman was my neighbor until about a month ago. God is so good to me. I talk to Orlin (who is back around with Papi and trying to leave behind his own drug addictions) about helping my son bathe, and he also readily agrees. I ask Mami Nelly to let me have some food from the house to take him just for today since I have no groceries in my own house (since I haven’t been home all this week—I also have piles of dirty laundry and clutter because I’ve been running so much), and she readily agrees. And this is the beauty of obedience—that I take a step (even in defying all of these people’s advice), and my own faith and adamant obedience in love releases those same people to be compassionate, obedient, and loving, letting their own guards down even just a little. Undoubtedly, the biggest change I’ve seen in the ripple effect of my own obedience is in Raúl. Words cannot express my gratitude for how he is helping me in allowing Josuan to stay there. And this is coming from the man who adamantly insisted that I put Josuan in 21.


It’s getting later, and Raúl is planning to try to find something to eat. I haven’t eaten all day since I’ve been in Mom mode, so I ask if I can go with him and if he can take me home afterward. He agrees. I do a final check of my son who is reading a newspaper, and he assures me that he’s fine and doesn’t need anything else, so I tell him good night and leave. As Raúl and I sit together eating greasy, fried chicken and drinking Fresca, I feel so grateful to be able to leave Mom mode for even just a little bit of time and to have someone to share the stories with. And, he starts telling me about his own situations with some young female family members of a friend of ours who showed up needing a place to stay because their mother kicked them out. I am appalled at myself at how quickly I jump into protective advice mode just as he has done with me—not so much in the act of helping but in doing so in a way that is appropriate for a single guy with two teenage girls. I have to catch myself and backtrack and even as I’m protectively lecturing him, I also cautiously add just as he has that it’s his life and his decisions, but I’m always willing to support him and help him in any way I can. Because of respect for Mami and Papi and the fact that I live on their property, I can’t tell him to tell them to come stay with me. But, if I were in a position where I didn’t have to consider the privacy, etc. of Mami and Papi, I would, because my heart is to support him in his desire to help others just as he is doing for me. At the very least, he can send them my way for a female listening ear and some advice.


Now, I’m sitting in my bed so unbelievably sore from walking the long, long walk from my house to Raúl’s apartment about four times today. (And that’s only going to increase.) I’m realizing that my child doesn’t have any deodorant, probably has dirty clothes I need to wash, and I have no idea what I’m going to give him for breakfast. And I’m marveling that today has fallen so perfectly into place and has been an amazing adventure and that tomorrow is another day. This year thus far has been crazy in the absolute best way. As has always been the case for me in my life, when I finally let go of how I think my life is supposed to look or how my life purpose is supposed to unfold and just let God dream for me, my life explodes with greater meaning that I ever knew was possible. I can’t help but smile knowing that God knew ages ago and told me eight years ago that my first son would be Josuan, and while I never thought I’d be pushing my first (16-year-old) son in a wheelchair instead of as a baby in a stroller, I can think of nothing more perfect to commence my motherhood. As Nahum told me this morning (after lecturing me just like everyone else), “Really, Sarah, it’s about time. I’m surprised you haven’t started opening your heart to help like this sooner. It’s about time.”


What a beautiful life I lead. What a privilege it is. What an unspeakable joy to know that just as this son means everything to me more and more each day. He, Raúl, and I all mean everything to God. And so do you. Do you feel that love? As soon as you let yourself, it will turn your world perfectly upside down.