Injustice

I was distracted in church this Sunday, sitting in the pew, staring, yes, staring at this 4 month old baby two rows ahead of us.  She had on one of those little headbands with the giant flowers attached to it that are almost larger than the baby's head, you know the ones I am talking about, her cute little outfit, matching shoes and stripped tights, a bag of teething rings, fresh diapers, bottles, toys, changes of clothes, etc, etc, etc, you get the picture.  She was surrounded by grandma, grandpa, mom, sister, brother, all ooohing and ahhing and jumping at any little wimper that came out of her adorable little lips.  As I stood, sat, kneeled, with my eyes fixed on the spectacular show going on in front of me I felt myself becoming more and more furious.  Furious that my babies didn't have that when they were infants.  That they wern't oohed and ahhed over, that they didnt get picked up the second the let out a wimper, that they didn't have an extended family that played with them and made silly expressions while blowing raspberries on their tummies, that they sat in their waste for hours and hours crying for someone to change them, that they never knew what it was like to fall asleep in mama's arms listening to her heartbeat, that they came to believe the only one they can rely on in this world is themselves, that they had their little hearts broken over and over again and convinced themselves that the world isn't a safe place because there was no one there to keep them safe when they were so vulnerable.  The thought of my kids crying for help and no one coming is unbearable to me and so stiffling that it becomes difficult to breath, but I didn't have to live through it, they did.  That injustice remains with them and I can only do my best to help them heal.