The counter before me is covered. Running the count in my head (9 dozen, 10 dozen, and on to 11), I think it. “And isn’t it every kid’s birthright, this, here? To schlep in from the bus and find Mama. And fresh cookies. Oh, surely. Surely, it is.”
Hot cookies. Dotted with chocolate, the favorite here. And I’m measuring and counting and baking.
This bountiful batch? It’s got goals. Yes, it does. A goal-oriented mess o’ fresh cookies. Some will go to our friends (that mama is ill). Some will go to the school for a party. But some–oh, yes, plenty of ’em will stay here at home. Happy mouths. Happy tummies. Happy family.
And I’m thinkin’ on birthrights, and on children.
I remember it, working hard at my counter, what he’d told his daddy just last night. They were tight, were those two, Little S. and his dad. Hand in glove, notch and arrow, big and little.
After a two-day business trip, Daddy was back home, back to covering his bedtime duties. And Little said it. “I prayed that your plane wouldn’t crash. I don’t want to be without a dad at the age of nine.”
And on my counter, hot treats, melting chocolate.
Birthrights, and children. Some with fathers. Some without. And our racer across the great sea. Loving orphans.
Teenagers, orphaned. No moms and no dads. Younger kids who have been orphaned, too. And I’m crying. The tears, they start rolling for those who have none. No parents who call them their own. This world’s crazy!
Then and there I am wishin’. How I wish I could do it. Could walk into that orphanage, bringing cookies. Bringing love.
I’d gather them ’round, and I’d pour out the milk. Then I’d pass out the love shaped like cookies, melting chocolate. Made of butter and sugar and oats. And that chocolate.
So I do the only thing I can do, “Father! Come! You come for the orphans. Please find them.”
I remember today that the orphaned aren’t all in a home o’er the sea in Albania. They’re not. There are plenty of orphaned right here in this land who’ve been left and abandoned, alone. Right here. For even the best earthly parents are only reflections of what His love is like. Even them. But when parents are absent or, worse yet, abuse, a kid can be orphaned there, too. But He’s bigger.
If you’re feeling the lack in your heart, in your bones, I’m asking the Father to find you. He can.
You are loved.
“Father of the fatherless, a protector of widows is God in His holy dwelling (Ps. 68:5).”