My melancholy moments are few and far between. Tonight I'm having a few.
Bedtime was much less than acceptable. At 8:45 our trumpeteer decided she needed to practice even though there were three kids in bed.
Forty five minutes after bedtime, our youngest was still talking, and the boy from therapy -- well, I caught him sneaking into the kitchen an hour after the appointed time.
I'm alone waiting for my husband to come home from his late night meeting and sensing the weight of parenting more than usual tonight.
Ten kids. Ten histories, none of them pleasant. Ten stories of abuse and/or neglect. Ten sad starts. Ten lives that we were supposed to be able to, if not rescue, at least improve. Ten kids who at one point appear to be normal, typical kids, and the next seem unreachable, too damaged, beyond our ability to help.
And yet, even in the midst of the angst, there is always that beacon of hope. There is always that remind that each of the ten is better than their former self. There is that hope that with God's help and healing, and our persistence, commitment and tenacious love, that they will continue to move towards the people they were intended to be.
There are days when the hope wears thin, but no matter what, we will be their parents and we'll never, ever give up.