I enter the little pink playhouse at the edge of the playground. The summer breeze drifts lightly through the air and sunlight spills through the windows. Here I am, surrounded by three of my favorite girls in the entire world. Malaisa is nine years old and Kim and Reondre are both eight. Kim reaches for a doll in a crib.

"Let's play house!" She suggests excitedly.

I beam at her. My mind flashes back to summer days when I was eight years old. My sister and I could have played with dolls for hours.

Reondre takes the baby and rocks it gently. "Shhhhh, it's okay. You're safe here."

I snap out of my image of happy eight year old days as her words register in my mind.

Malaisa smiles with excitement and takes another doll from the crib. "Here's another baby!"

Kim takes charge, her blue eyes sparkling and her mind brimming with ideas. She steps out on the porch of the pink playhouse, holds a doll up with one hand, and calls "Child for sale!".

I step out on the porch. "Hey now, Kim! We can't sell the baby! We have to take care of it!"

Kim turns to me and shakes her head. "No, we're taking care of the baby! But we're just a temporary home. We take kids who don't have nobody until we can find a family for them."

I start to realize what this is about. "You mean," I ask slowly, "Like foster care?".

The other girls join us on the porch. "Yeah! We'll call it Jerusha Care!" They place the dolls in my arms. "And we'll make sure they're safe until they get real families."

For the next half hour, we brushed the hair and changed the clothing of the dolls. We cooked them food and sang them to sleep.

And as Reondre pats the doll on the back and whispers that it will be okay, I wonder if she's really saying it to herself. Because Reondre doesn't have a mom or a dad. Her parents are in prison and she lives with her aunt.

I wonder if Kim is remembering that, just like this doll she is holding, there might come a day when she has a real family. There might come a day when she's not shuffled from home to home like an inconvenience.

And I wonder if the pretend plastic feast Malaisa has prepared for dinner reflects her own deep fear of going hungry. Malaisa is one of the 15.8 million children who comes from a food insecure household.

I look at my watch and realize that it's time for dinner. "Come on, girls! Time to close up Jerusha Care! We're gonna go get some food!".

The girls gently tuck their dolls back in the cribs before they scramble onto the porch of the pink playhouse. I shut the door and smile at my girls. I hoist Reondre on my back as Kim and Malaisa take my hands. As the last rays of summer light dance across the playground, we turn towards the dining hall.

And as I sing my girls to sleep that night, I whisper an extra prayer over them. Kim, Malaisa, and Reondre: Please never forget how to be compassionate. Never forget to love. I look into your eyes and I see the future. You are here for a purpose. Don't ever forget how to be a family to those without a family.

To the Person Who Hates Mother's Day

To the women who wish they had a child, thank you for treasuring the children of others, even when it doesn't feel the same.

To the women whose kids are rebellious, thank you for never giving up on them. I was one of the angry children, and my mother's patience and perseverance saved me.

To the people abandoned or never known by their moms, thank you for battling bravely to forgive. Thank you for adopting other mothers to help you. My mother is not a gift just to me -- she is yours to share.

To the people who lost their moms, thank you especially for celebrating my mother with me. Thank you for taking the time to remember your mom and reminding me that life is short and fragile. When I am in your place, I hope I can handle it with as much peace as you do.

To the moms whose children died, I admire you. You have come from one of the deepest pains imaginable to us as women. Thank you for loving your child for however long you knew them. You will never stop being a mother.

You live in silence about the battles you fight in your heart every day. And today, on Mother's Day, the stinging wound can be ripped open once again.

I can't thank you enough for the gracious way you've let us celebrate our moms and motherhood. Thank you for your patience when your own heart is hurting. It's an incredible example of love that you choose to celebrate with us.

Thank you for being the kind of women who keep going. Thank you for not giving permission to the pain.

This is not how your story ends.

The Saddest Part of Traveling

The saddest part of traveling is not leaving home. It is not leaving the comforts of your own room or your friends.

The saddest part of traveling is not the last day of your trip. It is not saying goodbye to the lands that take a piece of your heart. 

The saddest part of traveling is not when your airplane taxis on the runway of your home airport and you realize that you are home. 

The saddest part of traveling doesn't come until a few days after you return home. It is the day you finally zip up your suitcase for the last time and roll it down to the storage shed. It's when you carefully place the suitcase in the corner and let go of the handle for the last time. It's when you start to close the door, and then open it again just to take one last look at the bag that went everywhere with you. 

The saddest part of traveling is the day when you put away your suitcase. 

Because that is the day when you realize your adventure is officially over.