Our foster daughter is a makeout destroyer, constantly crying and screaming whenever I kiss my wife. Hugs are also unacceptable. Holding hands is iffy.

I responded to this annoyance as any other grown person would: I whined. Then I courageously went out of my way to hug and kiss in front of the girl, hoping she’d just get over it. She didn’t. I then told her loudly to to cut it out. That didn’t work either.
I’ve lived in a small town long enough to know that the next stage in dealing with this issue was gross speculation. We don’t get a whole lot of information about the backgrounds of our foster kids, so I figured it was possible the girl had seen domestic violence at home. She acted so traumatized when I’d do something. It’s so obvious.
I could’ve stuck with that answer and moved on with my life, assuming the worst out of others and loathing the tiny chaperone now living in my house, but then I started to notice something. The little girl wasn’t scared of me. She’d always enjoyed my affection, coming up to my lap, twirling my hair, and grabbing my face. She held in every one of my hugs and kisses as if they were precious gems that would crumble within seconds of being let go. "Little Hand" by Nathan Marx

Her protests against my affection were no different, whether I was loving my wife or my kids. If my daughter came up on my lap the little girl would stomple over to make it stop at once. But she never wants my love to stop. She just wants to be the one who’s loved.
She wants all the love. She’s making up for lost time, and she’s not yet two. I wonder how often she craved love and attention, but never got it. She isn’t about to let any chance go.
A friend of mine adopted an orphaned boy from Bulgaria. They could only adopt one, but their stories about the orphanage were crushing. It was full of children so malnourished they were half the size they should be. These kids hadn’t developed properly because the care they received, if you can call it care, was the bare minimum. No love, just some food and drink.
To be an infant orphan is to cry out again and again, but have no one come alongside you. On Holy Week, before Jesus is crucified, dead, and buried, he tries to prepare his followers for his absence, which at first lasted for a little over a day and then lasted a lifetime. He says, “I will ask the Father, and he will give you another advocate to help you and be with you forever—the Spirit of truth.”
Advocate sounds so formal. Jesus describes the Spirit as an advocate, yes, but the image of the word he uses is one who comes alongside another who cries out for help. I suppose you could refer to the help of lawyers this way, but just a few verses later Jesus says, “I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you.” Perpetrators need advocates. Orphans need parents.
People can be orphans at any age. They’ve craved this world’s love, but it never loved them back. They’ve thirsted for God’s love, but have found his Spirit elusive, crying out for him in all the wrong places. They’re constantly making up for lost time.
If you’re around a perpetual killjoy, maybe even a person you might call a makeout destroyer, you could react as I did to my foster daughter at first. Or you could see them as the orphans that they are and introduce them to Jesus.
Jesus ends his talk with his followers by saying this: “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
This world can be overcome in many ways, including long, sweet hugs to one little girl. How is Jesus using you to overcome it?