We didn’t have room really. Five little women, mice running through the walls, and a premature baby boy who took my heart without asking. It was a ten-foot wide in a rough spot where Pit bulls should actually scare you and police should just pitch tents instead of patrol. It was the place friends could never visit, because of the western world shame stuck inside me. But I wonder now what it’d matter anyhow.

He was just so small I couldn’t hold him for a while, but once I felt I wouldn’t drop and break him, I just couldn’t really stop. He would be the first to call me auntie, that littlest one. We’d go down that narrow hallway like it were wide open spaces while I hap-hazardously sang without tone over him. I didn’t see it then. I seen a wood-burning stove we’d have to kindle to stay warm as an annoyance rather than a blessing. I seen family in my way rather than having this most beautiful clan of ladies surrounding me {we’d call the police for the safety of the kids next door endlessly}. I should’ve seen opportunity to love and serve but I don’t think I even noticed they were people living next to me.

I didn’t see it then. It felt like we had such little room. But that little boy came in so premature… and alive. And it stirred up something beautiful in me. I didn’t see it then. I didn’t see that room, or size, or space didn’t matter compared to the smallest of treasures who could whisk my heart from me. Like ten-foots could become wide open spaces when I let go of myself a little to embrace the life that beamed between those four walls… as though family, and opportunity, and warmth would be the blessings to consume the self-seeking in me.

We didn’t have room really. But I wonder what it’d matter anyhow. That little one… that little room is becoming a catalyst of change in me.