Ken, and his wife Cindy, are house parents at Treehouse, where they help, and are helped by, children who have been in trouble.
Living with and loving kids who never got an even break. I put aside the idea of climbing the mountain together. I read case histories and wonder if I could make even a small impression. Could they learn to love me as I love them? Could they begin to love our brothers and sisters as well? Is it even possible that they could learn to love parents; foster-parents; judges; probation officers; and policemen, who, in their own weakness, do the children so much wrong?
I look into a new set of old eyes to see hate and fear — it is not so hard to figure. We are wounded in that we believe ourselves unlovable and we cannot believe another saying: “I love you.”
But just a few weeks ago a girl could greet my care for her with embarrassment instead of suspicious disbelief. She threw a pillow at me. Then she could acknowledge my love for her and now she voices her love for me. She comes to Cindy and me with her feelings, her treasures, her vulnerability. And she said: “I feel a lot better.” And she said: “I like myself better.”
Now I am full with feeling. To watch a person unclench his bud and let it bloom brings me joy. My world is filled with flowers. That’s all I ever wanted.