Happy Birthday to Me

Last year I had not yet written an obscure self-published memoir called Just: a story of the lost and found.

I was not on Facebook. I was a private citizen wading through the havoc and grief caused by our decision to adopt a boy who would rob us all of our innocence.

My birthday is a watermark. Three years ago I did not know my children were being abused. We found out the weekend of Columbus Day 2009.

Rough memory
It stalks through family
Pictures, movies
Dates and times
No one is safe from it
The dark ominous
Scowl of truth

I have given myself some birthday gifts:
The gift of freedom from what people think
The gift of mobility
The gift of prayer (to the God Who Indeed Lives)
The gift of preservation and strength for my children
I have walked away from people I wanted to trust because they did not fight for my children
I fought instead

So it will be strange for me today, my birthday because I do celebrate these years–this gift of a broken life redeemed.

And I bless my God, my Friend for this new community He has given me

In place of the years
The locusts have eaten


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