Bruises

I have a new bruise on my leg now. It's not very large, it doesn't hurt much, but I'm rather proud of it. It's my first war wound.

As I'm sure those possible few who read my posts will have gathered, my job is hard. Every day, I deal with the "untouchables" of society, children and teenagers with psychological and behavioral disorders so intense that they are a danger to themselves and society. They are strange children, each struggling with their past, with their desires, with the uncertainty of their futures. Many of them simply don't have homes to go back to; they are the product of trauma and foster care, their eyes are dark and sad beneath false smiles. Others have parents who love them, but who are so overwhelmed by their children that they just don't know what else to do.

And so, for 8-16 hours a day, I clock in, and I love these lost children. It's not hard; even though they're emotionally volatile, rash, and borderline dangerous, they have the most fantastic smiles. I love my job, even the heart-racing parts, when I'm in between two boys trying so hard to charge at each other, to pound out their anger and fury and terror with their fists. I like to believe that, in some small way, I am offering these children hope.

And so I don't mind my little bruise; it is a small, temporary reminder that sometimes, even through life will hurt you, the pain will fade, and hope will return again.