My words are few. Just prayers. So many prayers. Prayers for tiny fingers that were meant to be wrapped around a mama’s, and in so doing, to feel love and care.
Loving sometimes means being cared for by another until the one who grew you in her drug-filled womb can get the help she needs. And you. You wait, wrapped in the warmth of a foster mama’s touch. Learning another mother’s heartbeat. Kindest of strangers, who brought you to her arms.
Just days old. Days.
And this busted-up world brings you this:
Tiny One, your hope-story is as fresh as your newborn scent. You are a beginning, and hope stretches down like a temporary mother’s fingers and embraces long, a grip of love.
Covering you in prayer, Tiny One.
Prayer and tears.