If rabbits could talk

Today I want to tell you all a story. It's a true story and it's a story that makes me happy. Maybe you might smile, too.

I was nineteen, and my second year of college had just come to an end. In a couple days, I would be joining a team of people to fly to Bolivia and help with the building of a Bible College there. A couple months after that, I would be getting married. It was an exciting time in my life, but also chaotic and stressful. I had no idea what to expect, either in South America or in marriage. And I had no money.

For months I had been raising money for the trip, and had secured just enough, but there was no extra. Other members of the team were talking about fun gifts they were planning to buy for their friends and family as souvenirs, but I had to be content that at least I had enough money for food. It was enough. But I prayed a little prayer, anyway, asking God if just maybe He would send some extra cash my way.

As I packed up my dorm room, my eyes fell on a small collection of stuffed animals sitting on top of my dresser. I liked stuffed animals. I still do. In the middle of the stuffed animal pile was a Velveteen Rabbit. I had received this rabbit as a Christmas gift from my Aunt Bev when I was little and I loved her. She was soft and pretty and wore a red velvet dress with a white lace collar. I walked over to the dresser and picked her up.

You know the Velveteen Rabbit story? How the stuffed rabbit becomes real because of how much it was loved by its owner? I thought about that story, wondering what my rabbit might say if she could talk. I imagined she would say something like, "Please, won't you wash my pretty, red dress? It's dusty and stained and oh-so-shabby."

Sure, I'll wash your dress, I thought. Then you'll look as good as new. I unfastened the dress in the back and pulled it over her head, careful of her floppy ears. And that's when it happened.

There are moments in life when you feel like God is watching over you. As a hundred dollar bill fell out from under the Velveteen Rabbit's dress, I knew it was one of those moments. I picked the money up off the floor and stared at it. A hundred dollars. God had given me a hundred dollars.

Holy smokes.

Now, I don't consider the fact there was money in the bunny's dress a miracle. My whole childhood I'd had a habit of hiding money in various places in my room and forgetting about it. Surely this monetary discovery had something to do with that old habit. Right? But the fact the money had remained lodged in the rabbit's dress all those years, even through a move to Montana? And that I had decided for some reason, at the most unlikely of times, to wash the rabbit's dress? Yes, that was a miracle.

I washed the dress, took the money with me to Bolivia, and bought a variety of interesting items in the market, including a red Quechua blanket I still use to this day. The trip was an amazing experience. But even more amazing was the gift the Velveteen Rabbit gave me that day. The gift I believe God gave me.

It was a small thing that had a big impact on my life. It made me want to appreciate the little things. It made me feel like God really cared about me. It made me want to believe there is always hope. Always.

And in the fourteen years since, anytime I've been without enough money, which has been many times, I've thought about the Velveteen Rabbit and her pretty, red dress.

Through thick and thin?

Things have been a little chaotic around here since little LH came to live with us, as you can imagine. There's no end to the bottles and diapers and laundry, and now he has visitations six days a week. Life is full.

Luckily, I have a few good helpers around the house. Patience loves to fetch me things I need from the nursery, and Simon loves to hold LH whenever he gets the chance.

The other day, just such a chance arose. LH was hungry and I needed to make him a bottle but he did not want to be put down. You may or may not know that fixing a bottle with only one hand is a difficult endeavor. So I needed a little help.

"Hey Simon," I said. "Will you hold LH for a minute while I make his bottle? He needs a buddy."

Simon was sitting on the couch, and he smiled and eagerly held out his arms. I carefully placed a crying LH on his lap and Simon gazed down at him with a look of adoration. LH immediately stopped fussing.

How sweet, I thought.

As I walked around the corner and into the kitchen, I heard Simon talking to LH in a soft voice.

"I'll be your buddy," he said.

Oh! That made my heart melt. I paused to hear what else he might say.

"I'll always be your buddy," Simon continued. "Until something more exciting comes along."

It's a mad, mad, mad world

Our first foster child, whom I will refer to as LH for privacy purposes, has now been with us for 29 days.

During those 29 days, his parents have missed two doctor's check-ups, a meeting with an orthopedic specialist about his foot, his umbilical cord falling off, the first time he opened his eyes and actually SAW what was going on around him, a pound and a half of weight gain, and his first attempts to roll onto his side. They have missed his first bath and his first diaper rash (and by golly it was a good one). They've also missed countless snuggles, bottles, burps, and kisses.

And I want to be angry at them, but I can't. Because it could've been me. But for God's grace, I could've been a teen girl having a baby I wasn't prepared for, with no support and no clue what to do. I could've been trapped in dysfunction and ignorance with no one to pull me out or show me a better way. I do not stand in judgment over this little boy's mother. I will not. But OH it makes me sad.

The worst part of it is that LH was supposed to go home tomorrow. And though I would have missed him, I was ready to say goodbye. "Go with God, little man," I would have said. "It has been my privilege to care for you."

But he's not going home.

His parents have not yet met the requirements of the State and so he will remain with us until they do. And you know the first thing that went through my mind when I found out he would be staying? It was that I can't believe how lucky I am. I can't believe how lucky I am that I have a loving husband, a supportive extended family, close friends, a place to live, and enough emotional, spiritual, and financial resources to love "one more." To bring "one more" into our already full house. I don't think LH's mother has any of those things.

So I want to be thankful for what I have. I want to make the most of what I've been given. And, I want a nap.

But in the immortal words of Warren Zevon: "I'll sleep when I'm dead."