I don't need an interpreter

     Etienne spoke French last night
     He hadn't done this, to my knowledge, in several months.  I went into the boy's room because Blake needed "retucked."  As I was turning to leave, Etienne started jabbering.  He had already been tossing and turning restlessly.  I lay down next to him and put his face in my hands.  He shook his head and continued jabbering in French.  He wasn't consciously awake and yet I could feel his unrest even after I left the room.
     The remainder of the night, we were uninterrupted but I could hear so much movement from their bed.  He called out again so I went to my son but he didn't respond, again lost in some other reality.  I tried to hold him but I don't think it mattered.  So I just prayed over him.  Later, he came into our room to use the restroom and take off his wet layers.  He didn't wake either Ryan or me.  We had previously praised him for the rare occasion that he did this but this morning, in my heart, I knew this praise needed to stop.  No matter how little sleep I get, my kid deserves help in this task.
    Lately, some stuff going down has been a harsh reminder of our boy's beginnings.  Behaviors that are a result of unlove.  Of hurt.  French is a beautiful language but I don't want it in any corner of Etienne's brain.  It is still a part of him that we can't quite reach.  It's a part that maybe I never will get to.
     It's easy to let this sadness fill me.  To let my tears flow for him.  It is also a comfort.  A  comfort that I do indeed love this child.  That I would jump in front of a train for him.  I couldn't always say that aloud.  That is evidence that God is filling in those gaps of my heart.  And hope in knowing that at some time, somehow, that same grace will reach those dark corners of French and hurt and uncertainty.