Climb High Photo Credit: Casey Alexander
When our children came to live with us, we learned about despair. Loss. Grief.
Theirs, not ours.
Our son, then five, woke up screaming between 3 and 4 am. Every morning.
I dragged my laptop (and myself) into his room each time, sending email and running searches. As long as I sat in the room—near the bed but not touching him—with lights on, he slept. Or appeared to sleep; if I left my assigned location, he screamed again.
We couldn’t touch him.
The rare exception was during the screaming fits, when he clung to me like an underfed, sleep-deprived monkey.
He never looked anyone directly in the eye.
He scooted himself underneath any cave-like spot. At our church, they learned to leave him there until he came out on his own. A children’s church volunteer sported a nasty shin-bruise after getting too close.
His first reaction…
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