Our sons’ dossier is ripped and crinkled in various places where I read something that compelled my hands into fists. I’ve read certain sentences aloud, hoping for some reason that they would become less awful in the hearing. They rarely did. And the dismay didn’t fade after multiple readings, either. I even highlighted passages, transforming them into kaleidoscopic scars on the page, and the marker in my hand became as malicious and dangerous as a Pharisee’s stone. (See John 8:1-11.)
Every story has to have an antagonist—a villain, the person on whom blame rests—and in the tale I was weaving, the boys’ birth mom fit the role perfectly. What kind of woman could neglect her child’s medical needs like this? I would ask myself. Who could continue making such awful choices, knowing she was hurting her kids? Over the next few months, my anger crystallized into a spear, and I aimed it directly at her heart, this woman I did not know.
When the boys arrived, they came with a colorful assortment of challenges and developmental delays, some of which were unavoidable challenges of biology. But far more were caused by poor medical care, sporadic school attendance, and a lack of safety and structure. The sheer amount of work before us was staggering, and though I’m not proud to admit it, my anger turned to wrath. I wanted to ride into the story like an Amazon warrior from Themyscira, decked out in gleaming armor, sword drawn and eyes blazing. This kind of failure, this sin, required justice, and I was more than willing to dole it out. Christ’s admonition—“Do not judge so that you will not be judged. For in the way you judge, you will be judged; and by your standard of measure, it will be measured to you” (Matt. 7:1-2)—was nowhere on my self-righteous radar.
