There's nothing I love more than getting a hand-written letter in the mail, especially if it's from my boy. I'm not talking about the flesh-and-blood-boy who came from my womb, but the one who came from my heart. He's the one I was asked not to call "my boy" because the home where he lives likes to refrain from using possessive language. I get that, kind of. I just don't know how to tell my heart not to possess this child, because my heart just won't let go of him.
I'm such a "Mine" person anyway. Instead of their names, my phone contacts are: My Man, My Boy, and My Girl. And when I talk about the Shuar Indians, whom I have loved and prayed for these past 10 years, I can't help but calling them My Shuar, because when I love and when I pray, my heart just naturally possesses. And this child? Well, my heart is all-in, and "not possessing him" is out of the question.
He doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to see him soon. I'm losing sleep all these weeks leading up to the visit because I keep imagining the scene on the morning I walk into the cafeteria at the children's home where he lives. I've worked so hard to keep it a secret, and I think I'm going to pull it off. I keep picturing that all over your face smile that I know will break out on that face I love in the very depths of my core, and the thoughts of the reunion feel like everything I've ever read about Heaven's homecoming. I know that Heaven will be nothing short of pure joy, and seeing this child will be a pure reunion of joy.
Because I'm a Mom. Because I love like a Mom, I pray like a Mom, and I bleed like a Mom. And when little boys don't have a Mom to hold them at night, and kiss their little boy face, and pray over their little boy body, my heart just hurts.
Maybe he didn't come from my body, and maybe I can't bring him home at the end of the day, but when I'm with him, everything about him feels like home to me. And in those moments, I may not be able to call him mine out-loud, but my heart is screaming those words inside.
In just a short time, he won't need a mailbox to remind him of how much I love him; he'll have my arms, and my kisses, and my time. He'll have all of me.
I guess then he can say, "She's mine, too".
