She is scared. Her eyes are red from crying and she is fragile and lost. I smile at her and she smiles back, but mostly because she thinks she is supposed to. She looks like she always does what she’s told. We go to the closet to pick out new clothes from the donations. She will be 12 next month. She wears a size six shirt and size seven pants. She looks undernourished.  I show her the room she will sleep in and let her choose a bed. I tell her how much I love her hair, and what a beautiful name she has. She smiles compliantly. But I can see she is scared.

He is tough. He is six and full of energy. He is a mixture of wanting to please and wanting to be naughty. But after he’s naughty, he is supplicating and desperate for approval. He is naughty again. He is playing on the steps to the upper bunk bed where he will sleep tonight. I ask him not to. He lies, and says he wasn’t. Then a loud cry as his shin connects with an unforgiving wooden step. I pick him up and put him on a chair. “Let me see, buddy.” I pat his back. He shows me and I tell him if he rubs it, it will get better faster. He says he is better. He says he is tough.

She is full of words. She is his six year old twin. She is dressed in a Disney dress and wants me to see. I tell her she is a beautiful princess and ask if she can twirl. She twirls until she is dizzy, then stops and rushes to find my eyes to see if I’m still watching. She is surprised when I am, and I clap with joy at how she can twirl. She is desperate to show me her room, her new shoes, her McDonald’s toy, her backpack. But I mostly see her heart, which is starving for recognition and attention. She is unaccustomed to receiving so much of it. She tells me about her teacher, her playdough, her fingernail. She has a lot to say about everything except what she is going through. She gives me little information. She is full of words.

He is tender. He is three and more verbal and articulate than the six year old. He has big brown cow eyes and tiny wrists. I show him the trains. He plays and plays, now and again glancing up at his infant sister who is crying in my arms, to tell her it’s ok. Back to his trains.  “Thomas the train is scared.” He tells me. “He is just little and he’s scared.” I choke back the sob and tell him Thomas is not alone and that he has friends to help him. I tell him even though he is little and scared, his friends are here for him. “Yeah,” he acknowledges. I hear him tell some other toys that he has to save his mom and sister, and then I remember that domestic violence brought him to our shelter tonight. He is honest. He is smart. He is adorable. He is tender.

She is inconsolable. She is almost six months old, and has tears running down her cheeks. I hold her and I tell her in soothing tones she is special. She tries to drink from her bottle, but then she abruptly stops and wails. I feel guilty that I have to turn my head to breathe for a minute, because she smells so badly. I cannot bathe her until she goes to the hospital for an exam and documentation. She is the one most accurately telling me her feelings tonight, and I can’t help her. I try and I soothe and I walk and I am gentle. But she is inconsolable.

I am undone. I get home and take off the clothes that smell like the baby. I fall in a heap at the cross. I tell Jesus they are no one’s, and they need Him. He tells me they are His. He tells me they are mine.