The separation of families at the border is a tragedy. I think about them. Pray for them. But that is a pathetic effort to assuage their feelings of abandonment. 

 

There was an episode of Madame Secretary that addressed this problem. Elizabeth McCord went to the detention center in Arizona, and was heartbroken by what she saw. The governor was affronted by her presence, and had her put under arrest. She, the third in line for the presidency, was locked behind bars for visiting children seeking asylum. Lawyers from Washington arranged a plea bargain for her release, but she refused. If the children were not reunited with their families, neither would she be. 

 

The pain of knowing that these innocent children have lost the only people that love them is heart wrenching. I grapple to find evidence of the Lord's protection in their lives. 

 

There is no way to quantify their suffering, though it does seem safe to say it is enormous. When I reach to identify the pain I have endured, a few things come to mind. One is my mother's mental illness. Another is the births of our nine children. Benjamin's outbursts also rank among the worst hours of Odhner life. 

 

If I try to weigh the minutes of labor, even a long one, against the miracle that is each of our children, the cost means nothing. A day of contractions in exchange for two girls whose presence has blessed me beyond measure? Plus they have only begun their impact. Seventeen years is a blink compared to eternity.

 

And if I am truthful, I cannot recall the pain.

 

Intellectually I can, I suppose. When I went to visit the midwife three days after Mercy was born, her two year old brother poked his fingers in his ears. He knew that the last time he saw this lady his mother started yelling, so he expected me to start howling again. But the physical sensation of giving birth has seeped out of my memory. 

 

When I think of the chaos of my mother's mania, I know that it was hard. Sort of. But that sensation has faded like the wallpaper in my childhood home. It no longer matters. The proportion of time in which my mother is free dwarfs her years of internal struggle like a child's castle on miles of warm sand. When the tide changes, no trace remains.  

 

Perhaps the ending of Madame Secretary touched me because it resonates with how I see God. It is not that the Creator of the human race offers us condolences from the comfort of heaven. He chose to come down to earth and suffer with us.