When Wendy arrived, the scars of abandonment were two months fresh on her tender, broken heart. There was a story no one wanted to hear in her deep, longing eyes. She wanted to be free, to laugh and to play, but trusting us with her heart was going to take a lot.
It was outside one afternoon when we saw a layer of fear slowly peel itself away from Wendy's sad contenance. The day before she refused to go down the slide, sitting at the top... scared, until someone carefully lifted her down. Today it seemed like it would be the same. But then it was discovered that, with each hand being held, one in mine and one in Myra's, she would cautiously slide down, a smile emerging as she reached the bottom. It helped that Lily was right next to her on the other slide, encouraging her as well. Wendy's joy grew as she went down again, and again, and again. Soon she was laughing.
Then Myra held one of her hands and I encouraged her to slide down. "No." she refused. Two hands or nothing, sliding down is a scary thing. We encouraged her that she could do it, Lily reached out to hold her empty hand, and I crouched down onto the slide, promising to catch her. She slid. She laughed.
We slid down that way over and over, then Myra let go of Wendy's hand and crouched down onto the slide herself. "Come on, Wendy," we called, "You can do it!" Then, with both hands free, Wendy slid into Myra's waiting, open arms.
Some call it progress, but we'd rather think of it as a miracle of love.
Cakes for Daddy's Birthday!
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