And then it changed. At that moment, I didn’t see her as an addict. I didn’t see her as the villain who had hurt her son. I saw her as a mother. A mom. A mom who had visited her son in the NICU each day for four weeks, dreaming of the day he could come home. A mom who had listened attentively to a medical supply trainer talk at her for two hours. A mom who had proudly chosen her baby’s “coming home” outfit. A mom who had left the night before without her son. She was a mom. Just like I’m a mom.
I understood the reality that she wasn’t ready to be his mom just yet. I would step into that role for as long as she needed me, as long as he needed me. And as I held him and rocked him and enjoyed all of the moments she missed, I would think of her. Not as “the woman who did this to him.” But as his mother. And as I remembered that “but by the grace of God I am what I am,” I would lift her up before this God who gives grace. I would stand before the God who loves us both, who created this child and placed him in this mother’s womb, and I would pray for his mom.
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This post originally appeared at Foster the Family.
