A Grander Plan

The other day, one of our boys and his three sisters were reunited with their biological family.

It was an emotional experience, as it always is. A few days up to the court hearing, we had our usual routine with any kids we are close with before a hearing: morning with coffee, some food, and long conversations about what they want and what they hope will happen. We remind them that even if they want to go home, they may not be allowed to. We inform them that they are allowed to say "no, I do not want to go home," which may sound bizarre to kids who never really get to choose what happens in their life.

We remind them anyways.

We encourage them to be strong. That they are loved. That we will take care of them and be there for them no matter how hard it gets. And some times, they are close enough to us that they believe us.

This was one of them situations.

This family was known as "that family." The rough and tough kids to look out for. And by all means, they were. Heather and I did not know them well throughout the last 4 years of coming to Guatemala, but when the boy was put under our guidance, we became quite close. It took around six months to get him to have any level of trust with us. And it was hard. All day, every day, trying your best to not disappoint a kid who knows disappointment all to well.

And to disappoint any of them was too easy. It was effortless, at times.

But throughout the last fourteen months, we both grew closer to the four of them. We knew that they were labeled "that family" only because of what they experienced in life and their inability to handle it. So we worked to chip away at the layers. Every day. Twice a day. Some times ten times a day. Often times more times than I could count. Always checking in on them, saying hi, asking how they are doing, asking if they need anything, being there for anything and everything. Always.

Doing work above what we are supposed to do here. We were working with our twelve boys plus another fifteen girls that needed the attention. And I enthusiastically gave them that attention. At points beyond exhaustion. Because I knew that the one day I forgot to hug them when they walked home from school, would mean that they thought I had forgotten all about them. The time I only half told them good night and that I loved them, it would be the time they no longer believed it. The time I forgot to say I was sorry quick enough, was the time that they lost all trust.

Breaking layers and walls down inches at a time. There's no time to allow it to grow back by the feet with slightly off key comments.

But it happened. And the work started again. Trying to regain trust. Trying to reach out. I do not know everything about working with children with severe trauma backgrounds. But I do know that consistency is vital. It should rarely, if ever, be broken. So for me to be the helper, or the hugger, or the go-to-guy for support, meant I always had to be that person. For me to correct and to become harsh was impossible, because I am a man and I am not allowed to be like that around children who particularly fear men. I'm after progress after all, not regression. So punishments went out the window. And small comments scattered here-and-there became the norm. Hoping my seeds of advice could grow into a fruitful tree. And in many cases they did. And the fruit was great.

And surely enough, with more time, more fruit may have grown. But time is not always our friend.

And "that family" who pretended to be tougher than any of them really were, went back to the place that made them decide they had to act that way in the first place.

And that may have been a bad call. Or the best call.

It is difficult to understand that it is not up to me when to decide. When is someone safe. Or when is someone better off.

No matter how much work is put into it, I am left empty handed hoping that my words were great enough to stick. That my advice was true enough to last. That my love was strong enough to penetrate so much hurt. That our teachings led them to the same God that led me here.

And if not, I know there is a grander plan. And it is so beautiful.