Estranged

It's a sad state, isn't it?

10 years ago, when we were awakened to walk with the Lord, Husband made the very difficult decision to be honest with his favorite brother about our change of mind--indeed, our strong conviction--to reassign custody of our (then only) daughter to my God-fearing, Bible-believing, aunt and uncle. Two years earlier, when Fifi was but an infant and we were still lost, we looked around at our relations and saw only one semblance of a family unit amongst any of them: a young-ish, happy couple who had wanted children, but never had any of their own.

They said yes. We were relieved. We had put this duck in a row, and life went on as usual.

Unknown to us, they had received it as a great honor, and they began investing in Fifi's life through heartfelt notes, gifts of beautiful literature, cute clothing and even the occasional trip north and east to spend time with our small family two states away. This couple had always been our favorite, and it was wonderful to have them so interested and involved.

But we didn't know how tenuous was the relationship, really, until the dread night when Husband told them the news of our decision.

We thought they loved Fifi. But really they only loved the idea of Fifi.

Their pain was so deep; their wound so raw; their ignorance of our reason so profound, that Husband's brother has not spoken to us in any way, shape or form, since.

I take that back. He did respond with a letter last time Husband wrote to say we were coming to town to visit their mother, and wouldn't he please reconsider? The letter was so powerful that had Husband not been sure, sure, sure deep down in his heart that he had done the only thing he could do in reassigning custody of our daughter, his brother's words might well have killed him.

So, we live with it. The other brother lives between it, as does their mother.

And so do our girls.

As happens completely randomly sometimes, tonight, Dumpling asked Fifi from the back seat of the car, "Fifi? What's the name of the man who doesn't want to talk to us?"

She again wondered why, and we told her as delicately as we could. We told her that our choice about "emergency parents" had hurt Uncle's feelings very, very badly.

She wondered if he even knew that she was alive?

We assured her that he did--he surely knew about both Dumpling and Cuddlebug. I even told her that if it weren't for her parents, he'd probably like very much to meet her.

Wait a minute. Wait. a. minute.

I mulled that over quietly for a moment and realized within myself what a cop-out that is! We've not stopped them from writing, calling or having a relationship with their nieces for all these years! They have simply chosen hate and pride over even the simplest, most superficial contact with these girls.

And that's too bad for them. Or so I spend the next few minutes trying to convince Dumpling. I tell her how sorry I am because it isn't fair to her, it isn't right, and it isn't how a grown-up ought to act; and maybe we ought to consider that maybe a grown-up who behaves so unfairly isn't a grown-up that we want to know anyway?

But of course--she does. That's why Jesus loves the little children.

I remind her of the Scripture that comforts us about having to leave mother and father and sister and brother for the sake of Christ, "He promises us an hundredfold, and haven't we seen that in our new church? Aren't we so thankful for Mr. and Mrs. S? And the Ms who love us? And the Ls? And the Gs? And, of course, Pastor and his wife who love you girls? Don't we see the Lord raising up people to be a family to us?"

There is a only a reluctant, "yes," from the backseat.

We park the car and it is late. In a single file line, everyone heads up the short, narrow walk to the front door with Husband in the lead, but Dumpling hangs back by the tree where the walk intersects the driveway. She has something to say to me. And when the little girl who sometimes has trouble finding her words wants to talk instead of stuffing it down--I listen.

"You know what, Mommy? I would give up all those other people for just one uncle who loved me."

*ouch*

Well, truth be told, she does have another uncle that loves her--in Husband's other brother, but that's not what this innocent 8 year old means. She wants that Uncle who wants nothing to do with her, and none of my reminding her of others is assuaging the grief.

And it gets worse.

Moments later, the little girl who sometimes has trouble finding her words is now trying very hard to stuff down her feelings. I can see it in the her right eye--it is just barely welling. I ask her what's wrong and pull her onto my lap where she buries her head in my neck and cries for a loss she can't wrap her mind around.

And all I can do is hold her. And sympathize. I take her little face in my hands and look long into those warm brown eyes and tell her that if she hurts, she is not alone. Her daddy hurts too. The Uncle who doesn't want to know her, is daddy's own brother. How might she feel if when she grew up, Fifi never wanted to speak to her again? It's unfathomable; God forbid it! But that is his reality.

Thankfully, the camaraderie seemed to soothe her a bit.

And right then, a broken part of me quietly prayed--and still prays--about how we'll explain to them someday, the other estrangements with which we have dealt. Sad estrangements that have come by way of the destructive hands of others, not our own. Estrangements that didn't have to be. Estrangements that are simply evil ripened in the hands of the lost.