Fostering Heart Blog

Why This Foster Mom is Pro-Life

Mon, 10 Oct 2016 02:13:00 GMT

Baby Meggie was born with seven or eight questionable substances in her blood, from nicotine, to morphine, to cocaine. She was a seventh child born to a 25-year-old felon. Every sibling had a different father.

Jenn was born with thirteen questionable or illegal things in her system. She was severely addicted to heroin. Her grandfather paid her mother to abort her, but the mother took the money and used it for more heroin. Jenn suffered from withdrawal symptoms for three months.

Jay has a chromosomal abnormality that could mean anything from nothing to complete disability. He was abused for his first four months of life and spent his fifth month sedated in the hospital.

Jason’s father was a child abuser who heard Satan giving directions in his head. His mother was mentally disabled.

Naomi’s mother is homeless.

Nina’s father is unknown.

Maggie arrived just eleven months after her sister. Born into poverty, she failed to thrive and was hospitalized.

One of the birth mothers was HIV positive throughout pregnancy, labor, delivery and breastfeeding.

Part of our society would say that these children never should have been born. They tell us that babies like this have no chance of a good life and should not have to suffer through the things they did. These children would have been better off aborted.

I say, no way.

Meggie was adopted with three of her siblings. She has no lasting problems and hits every developmental milestone early.

Jenn’s mother trembled with emotion when she held her baby for the first time four months after she gave birth. She was motivated to go into rehab so that she could get her baby back.

Jay is my son now. He is a happy active four-year-old. Yes, his first five months were appalling, but the rest of his life has been overflowing with love and family. Were it not for the scars, you would never suspect his past.

Naomi, Nina, and Maggie are beautiful, advanced, funny, and so intelligent. Their futures are incredibly bright.

These children were given a chance and life, and because they were, I have been so very blessed to be their mother for even a short time. They have brought such joy to my life, to their birth mothers, to my children, to my husband, to each other.

And, yes, we do grieve so painfully when they leave us. And, yes, heaven knows raising little ones is a lot of work. But, but even as I look through their pictures and cry or buckle six carseats everytime I go anywhere, I am so grateful that their mothers chose life. My life would be darker without theirs.

Many people are saying that with such choices for president they will just sit out this election. Please don’t! There is a lot more on the ballot than presidential candidates. U.S. Senators and Congressman will approve or deny nominated Supreme Court justices. At the state level there are laws being made all the time that can affect foster children and abortion availability. At the local level we elect judges who hear foster care cases. They have a ridiculous amount of power in a foster child’s life. Please DO VOTE! But first, research your options so that you maximize that vote to protect the least of these.

Add Another Charm

Tue, 31 Mar 2015 19:28:00 GMT

A few months after our second foster baby left I bought a charm bracelet. Yesterday I added a charm. This time I didn’t go alone to remember and grieve. I brought my little ones with me to remember and celebrate a baby we loved.

I asked, “Which one reminds you of Jason?” My five year old pointed to the elephant “because it’s a boy and Jason is a boy.” (Apparently all elephants are male?) The seven year old liked anything pink. My two year old just wanted to touch whatever he could. I began to doubt the wisdom of bringing them.

Then, “we should get the heart charm because we love him.”

I noticed the tense she used, not loved as I had said, but love. Removing this baby from our home didn’t place our love for him in the past. We can still love him, just like we still love Meg and Jenn.

“The heart is perfect, Katie,” I told her.

I didn’t add it to my bracelet then, with the small ones clambering for my attention. I waited until later when I was alone. We stopped at a park and the little ones ran off to play, to run. Blond, red, and brown hair shining in the sun. Sundresses whipping in the wind. Shrieks of laughter. Calls for mama to join in. Life continuing so free and bright as I removed the small chunky heart charm from a hinged white box.

I took off my bracelet and stared at it, spending an absurd amount of thought deciding the order. Three charms and one cross. A charm for each of the babies we’ve loved and let go, the cross for the One who watches over them. Whose should go beside Jesus? I wondered, as if the cross beside a charm somehow kept that child nearer to their savior. I slowly threaded Jason’s onto the chain beside the cross and moved Meggie’s away. She is safe in a good home; her need isn’t as desperate.

I didn’t cry as I refastened it to my wrist. Sometimes the tears don’t come, just the hollow brittle feeling that something is terribly wrong. I think of a fostering family I know who had a baby in their care for less than a week. I wonder if I envy them. Would I rather have had Jason for just a few days? Wouldn’t the pain be less? Is being the one who saw his first smile, the first person he called mama, the one he reached to for nearly a year, worth this pain, this loss?

Are the memories worth the heartache?

"Oh, are you starting a charm bracelet?" an acquaintance asked, looking at the sparsely clad chain on my wrist. I didn't, couldn't answer. "Hopefully, you'll get a few more soon," she added helpfully.

"Please, God, no," I prayed in my heart. "Never again."

It’s hard now, but we’ll grieve. We’ll go on. The One who called our family to this is faithful and is carrying us through. Someday, I’ll spin the little heart on my wrist with a smile instead of tears, remembering the good times and praying for Jason wherever he might be.

How Do You Say Good Bye?

Fri, 20 Mar 2015 13:03:00 GMT

Today I went from being the mother of seven to being the mother of six. I’ve been here before; it doesn’t feel any better this time, doesn’t seem to get easier. Maybe there are foster parents out there who get used to this. How could they keep doing it otherwise? But, that doesn’t seem to be me.

A month ago we had the first overnight. Baby with his birth mom. Me at home rocking in an empty chair beside an empty crib, clenching my arms to my belly as if to keep myself from coming apart. Then two nights. Then three, four, and now --gone. A baby inexorably pulled from the only family he has ever known.. A baby we brought home from the hospital at just two days old nearly a year ago and told we would adopt.

I was out with the four youngest at a store recently and people stopped me repeatedly to remark on how full my hands were. Yes blessedly full, blissfully full, but for just a little longer. Next time those people will see me with only the three and make the same remark, not realizing just how empty these hands truly feel.

We’ve never done it this way before. Our first two foster babies were here one day and gone the next. There was no gradual transfer. It was horrible, but the grief could come and the healing begin. This time, it’s a yo-yo of pain. The leaving, the returning. The way he cried and reached for me when I handed him over, having no choice but to walk away. His joy to return to us, only to be torn away again a few days later. Can an eleven month old feel betrayal?

Can I forgive myself for betraying him? My brain knows I have no choice, but my heart won’t quite believe it.

Add to this caseworkers who are the epitome of apathy. A lawyer who hasn’t seen his little client (or asked how he’s doing) in the last nine months. A prosecutor going against DHS recommendations rather than gathering evidence and doing her job. And a judge who made all this possible with one life destroying decision. A recipe for bitterness and cynicism.

People say to me, “Nothing happens apart from the will of God.”

These people failing this little baby? That’s not God’s will. The reasons he came into foster care in the first place? Not God’s will. Brothers divided one from the other? Not God’s will. Human free will, human choice, and a fallen world are bringing more pain to a sin filled earth. This isn’t God’s doing.

Come, Lord Jesus. We’re ready for your return, for a new heaven and a new earth, for an end to the sorrow and the pain.

How do we say good bye? How do I help my kids grieve? Grief is different for each. My seven year old slept an extra four hours yesterday, then cuddled for much of the rest of the day. My five year old alternates between hugging and crying and dancing and playing.

Jacob, our two year old who is Jason’s biological brother, is too young to understand. He points at the empty crib and says, “Shhh!” thinking the baby is there and asleep. I didn’t know how to help him say good bye. I just put his carseat beside Jason’s in the van yesterday and listened to them babbling away at each other, giggling over things that no one else could understand, brothers for a final fifteen minutes.

Then there are my older boys, old enough to really get it. They carried, cuddled this baby for hours, days, months. They’ve changed diapers, given bottles, bathed, dressed, comforted. A grief so real. So strong it takes my breath away. Knowing that I brought this on them.

I try to share what I have with them, because even in the pain I can feel the Presence. Solid. Definite. Almost like a cave of granite solid around me, under, and above, cradling. The blessed assurance that I am loved, sheltered, seen. The grief --so strong-- will not overpower me because He is stronger. I will heal. I will grow. I will be better able to understand, to serve others who grieve.

I touch on this with my sons just a little at a time. Can they understand that He’ll comfort them, too?

Then there are Matt and me. The parents, if just for a time. How do we let go? How do we move on? We wonder, is this pain what it takes for us to grow deeper into God? Is this what it takes for us to feel his comfort, his steadfast presence? If so, I say, even as I weep, let it come.

Bring Your kingdom.

When People Speak Evil Against You

Thu, 29 Jan 2015 01:48:00 GMT

“Ms. Varblow, this is N---, licensing worker with Washtenaw County. I’m calling to inform you that a formal complaint has been filed against you.”

“Oh, really?” I rolled my eyes. We had been told to expect false claims by unhappy birth family, but I had thought we were doing pretty well with those we’re currently working with.

“I am required to read the charge to you: Code 9---, Hindering Reunification: refusing to return phone calls and hanging up on the caseworker on the phone.”

A stunned moment of silence and then the torrent, “Excuse me? I have never hung up on anyone in my life, and I’ve returned every call from the caseworker within 24 hours. You can check the phone records. That caseworker and I have never even talked to one another in unpleasant voices.” I went on in this vein for a while.

What a slap in the face. We bend over backward to have a positive relationship with the birth family. I count the birth mother a friend. Doing everything I can to help put the baby I love into a different home is not easy, but I do it. I want him to have the easiest transition he can. Instead of gratitude and compassion I get defamation of character. I was irate: How dare the caseworker slander us like this?

In that moment I didn’t just hate her, I reviled her.

I knew where this was coming from. One of the caseworkers was planning most of the visits between our foster baby and his birth parent with less than a day’s notice. I would imagine the supervisor came down on the caseworker, the caseworker lied about me to cover her poor planning, and a complaint was filed.

“Well, I have to do an official investigation. Myself and another worker need to inspect the home. We can be there Monday morning.”

I spent the weekend cleaning the house from top to bottom.

They rescheduled to Thursday.

We cleaned again.

They looked in every room of the house, every closet, peeking in some cupboards and drawers.

“You keep this basement locked when there isn’t an adult present? Where do you keep your emergency numbers? How high is your water heater set? We’ll need to see in that room as well.”

I wondered what evidence of “refusing to return phone calls and hanging up on the caseworker” they expected to find beside the water softener or furnace.

I had compiled all of the phone records and e-mails between myself and the baby’s caseworker. I put together a ten page document telling how I befriended the birth family and aid in reunification. I also enumerated the times the caseworker violated policy and the time she perjured herself in court.

Holding my cell and landline records I asked, “Which days did I supposedly refuse to return calls or hang up on someone? Show me the time and date, and I’ll show you the timely response.”

“Oh, it’s not specific dates or anything like that, just hindering reunification: refusing to return phone calls and hanging up on the caseworker on the phone. I can’t even say which caseworker it came from, just the agency.”

“How am I supposed to defend myself against such a vague charge? That’s like the police sending me a speeding ticket with no time, date, speed, location, or vehicle.”

Shrugs. It was clear that they didn’t really care. The allegations were pretty tame. Even if I had done those things, nothing would happen. They would do what was required; file their findings and be done with it. This accusation would be on my permanent record, but they wouldn’t be losing any sleep over it. It was just my character and integrity in question.

Bitterness.

Cynicism.

Anger, so much anger.

Lord, take them from me.

This all made a great moral lesson for my kids. (I got to explain that even if you feel someone is a wicked witch, you shouldn’t pray that a house falls on them.) It also made a good vocab lesson as I spewed out every synonym I could think of for “hate,” “anger,” and “liar.” (Okay, not so much a good vocab lesson…)

And I’m getting a lesson in forgiveness, in choosing to forgive, in not passing judgment. In praying for those who persecute you.

It simply amazes me how God heard my prayers and took away that anger, that bitterness, that cynicism. In just a few short weeks the hatred is gone. In its place frustration and exasperation remain. But, I know in time those will go, too. Will I get to the point of loving my enemies? I hope so. For now, I’m awed to watch God heal my heart and draw me nearer to him through this mess. He is so good.

When Reunification Isn't

Wed, 03 Dec 2014 02:08:00 GMT

I took two year old Jay into the nursery this evening for his jammies and story. Matt was already there with eight month old Jason. Jay saw the baby and began to laugh and crow happily, trying to jump from my arms. Matt set Jason in the crib. As soon as Jay was changed, he leapt from my arms to climb in the crib with his brother, yelling, “Hi, hi!” as he kissed, patted and hugged the baby.

Much of our day looks like this, Jay loving on the baby, the baby smiling and cooing back. We even call Jason “your baby” when we’re talking to Jay. When a child is in foster care and a new baby is born needing to go into care, the baby is placed with the sibling whenever possible. This is what happened with Jay and Jason. The system recognizes the sibling as the closest relative after the parents.

Watching these two bond, I understand the reasoning. They get to be true brothers. They share a room, stories, and toys. Jay sits on my lap and “helps” spoon feed Jason. But, watching them together gets harder every day. Because as they draw closer, the end draws nearer. You see, while we are adopting Jay, Baby Jason is being reunited with a birth parent soon.

Funny that tearing two siblings apart should be called reunification. Funny that moving a baby from his home of eight months to put him with someone he has never lived with should be called reunification. Isn’t reunification about putting things back together, not tearing them apart?

Let’s look at another set of siblings: Meggie’s birth mom had seven children. She made adoption plans for three. The other four were in and out of foster care and were finally being adopted by their foster parents, foster parents with whom they’d lived for two years.

Enter birth dad. Meggie’s brother Nathan is twelve. He went through countless foster homes before the current one. He never lived with his birth father, but the father decided he’d like to give parenting a try. (I guess he was finally ready after twelve years.) So, the court took Nathan from his three siblings and his adoptive parents and “reunited” him with his birth father.

It all makes me think: Should the parent-child relationship really take such precedence over the sibling relationship? What if you take into account all the things that got the child taken away in the first place? The fact that the parent and home need to be deemed “minimally adequate” for reunification to occur? And if the parent-child relationship does indeed take precedence over the sibling, then in cases like these, is forcing the siblings to bond when you plan to tear them apart even ethical? Why develop that bond, if only to cause pain and separation? I know that we say it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but is that true of a two year old about to lose his baby? Is it true for my other children? Is it true for me?

I know that the answers to these questions are murky and don’t matter anyway; no one in the system gives the pretense of pursuing what is best for the children. We are all very well versed in the fact that it is all about getting the kids back with the parents in all but the absolute worst cases.

But, it does make me think, and a deep dark part of me wishes that the birth parents would walk away, would see that it’s not in the children’s best interest to be torn apart. Then I wonder what I would do. Could I walk away, if it would give my kids a better life? Could I walk away so that my children could be together? Can I expect another very broken person to make a choice that I won’t ever face?

For tonight two small boys sleep contentedly in their cribs. And I am especially grateful for the day they had together, because I know there may not be many more.

Baby Jennifer's Story

Fri, 14 Nov 2014 16:26:00 GMT

Baby Jenn’s birth mother had been addicted to heroin for six years when Jenn was conceived. Halfway through the pregnancy Mary* finally told her parents. Her dad gave her five hundred dollars to abort the baby, but Mary used the money for drugs and hid her pregnancy from her parents until she was in labor.

Jenn was born full term with thirteen different illegal substances in her system. She was addicted to heroin and began to scream and shake within hours of birth. The doctors immediately transferred her to a hospital with a newborn intensive care unit. Mary tried to make an adoption plan for her baby. She signed all the appropriate papers with an adoption agency, but with no birth father sign off, Jenn went into foster care.

I was called in when Jenn had been in the hospital for two weeks.

“I have another baby for you,” our licensing worker told me over the phone. My sister, who was helping me clean the attic at the time, began jumping up and down.

“Say yes, say yes!” she whisper-yelled.

“We’ve just been hit with so many newborns this month,” the licensing worker went on. “We’ve run out of homes for them. But I thought of you for this one because you’re willing to adopt. Megan’s (our other foster baby) future is uncertain, and this baby is definitely going to adoption. It will be good for you to have one you know will stay while you go through everything with Megan.”

It was an insane idea. We had five birth kids ranging from two to thirteen, and we were homeschooling them. We had brought our first foster baby home only two weeks earlier. But, somehow I couldn’t say no.

The first time I saw Jenn her legal name was “Unknown.” (After a few days, her child protective services worker called; he was thrilled that he had gotten her name legally changed to “Baby Girl Williams” instead. He was surprised that I didn’t think this a vast improvement.) She lay in a clear plastic bassinet, wrapped in a hospital issue blanket, wearing a hospital issue hat. Thanks to a paperwork snafu, they wouldn’t let me hold her. In fact, no one but the occasional overworked nurse had held her for her entire life, because birth mom hadn’t signed a paper allowing it. Jenn lay there alone for lack of a simple form, and thanks to caseworker incompetence, I couldn’t hold her either for three days after we were called.

“Why does her ID bracelet say BUFA?” I asked a nurse.

“It means ‘baby up for adoption.”

It seemed cold.

I signed the papers saying everyone and their uncle could visit and hold this baby as much as they pleased. My parents, in laws, siblings, siblings-in-law, and friends were there with her around the clock, holding her, feeding her, advocating for her. I was there every day, bringing along Baby Meggie and one of my sons. We would sit kangarooing with both babies and reading aloud to them. (Someday Jenn and Meg will wonder why they have this great love of Jane Austin.)

A baby who has had no name for more than two weeks needs a name with meaning, carefully chosen by people who love her. Matt and I struggled and prayed over what that name should be. After a few days, praying over her, holding her, looking at her, researching meanings, we knew that she was Jennifer Elizabeth. Jennifer for my sister, Elizabeth for Matt’s mom, a name that claimed her, connected her to us. I wrote it on the white board beside her bassinet while Matt rocked her in the chair.

But, a question niggled. Were we what was best for her? Were we crazy to bring home a second newborn? Jenn was a mere twenty-two hours younger than Meggie. For days I prayed and held her, prayed and drove home, prayed and cared for Meggie overnight, prayed and drove back to the hospital. And God answered. Out loud and clear as day. Call me crazy, if you want. Call me sleep deprived. Call me a hallucinator. I still know what I heard today, as surely as I did that day, gazing down at her tiny form in her little bassinet:

“Take care of this baby and love her as your own.”

And we did. We fought for that baby. She was difficult. She spent four months going through drug withdrawal. There was every indication of early and severe autism. She didn’t want to be held, but we held her. She didn’t want to be cuddled, but we cuddled her. Her body was stiff and unbending, we worked her limbs. We snuggled her, wore her everywhere close against us, skin to skin. We wrapped her up with Meggie, put them together in the swing, in the bouncer, in the stroller seat. Meggie would pat at Jenn’s face and gnaw on her hands or hair. And slowly Jenn began to come out of it. She cried less. Her twitching decreased. Her digestion regulated. She calmed and settled when we picked her up, rather than crying to be put down. She stared at human faces instead of avoiding eye contact.

I cried when she first smiled at me and sobbed even as I rejoiced over her first laugh.

Then Meggie left us. At five and a half months the inseparable babies, who had been like twins, were torn apart. Jenn grieved with me. She stopped smiling. She grew stiff again. She regressed, but we pulled her back. I don’t know how I would have survived Meggie leaving without Jenn there needing me to be strong.

Then, when she was six months old, Jenn’s birth father, never interested or involved before, showed up at a court hearing. He and Mary were getting back together. Mary had changed her mind and wanted the baby back. He was the way for that to happen. I knew then that we were going to lose her, but I fought it. Why would God have told me to love her as my own, if she wasn’t going to be my own?

The caseworker did a lot of very evil and painful things at this point. The hardest was when eight month old Jenn was sick and needed special care and daily physical therapy. The caseworker, angry that I filed a complaint over her violating policies and breaking laws, sent Jenn on a five day visit with her birth parents.

Until that point Jenn had never been away from me for more than two hours. The caseworker carefully orchestrated it so that I wouldn’t have warning, would show up thinking I was just bringing Jenn to her scheduled two hour visit, so the caseworker could suddenly spring the news on me that Jenn would actually be gone for five days. She sent Jenn off sick, against doctor’s orders, without training the birth parents in her care or physical therapy. And she smiled as she did it.

My heart still breaks when I think how happy Jenn was to see us again after that visit. She couldn’t talk yet, but she made a soft hooting sound when she was happy. She saw me coming and began hooting and squealing and waving her little arms and feet. She was giddy for the rest of the day, but wouldn’t let me or most of the kids out of her sight without screaming.

And then the end.

An emergency court hearing with the goal of reunification. Now a seven year heroin addict, Mary had been out of rehab for a full week. This had been Mary’s fifth trip through rehab. The caseworker told the judge she was certain Mary wouldn’t relapse.

I stood up in court that day and tore my own heart out by testifying that I thought birth dad would be a good father and should be given a chance to parent my baby Jenn.

The judge ordered that she be given to the birth parents, but that given how long Jenn had been with us and how strong her attachment was, the move should be gradual, “taking longer than ten days.”

The next morning, the caseworker called and told me to have Jenn at the office (an hour away) in an hour. I packed up her clothes, her formula, her toys, and a case of diapers. I tried to lay her teddy bear in the top of the box, but I couldn’t. I needed to keep that little piece of her. I set it back on the rocking chair.

Two of my sisters came with me. My other sisters and my parents stayed home with my kids. I handed Jenn to her birth father, and stroked her cheek. She didn’t meet my eye. I took in her pink helmet, her huge blue eyes, her chubby body clothed in purple polka-dot pajamas, and I turned and walked away.

I never saw her again.

Today is the two year anniversary of that day. It’s hard because I feel there is an acceptable amount of time society allows for us to grieve. One year, and then you better be over it. But, grief never ends. It changes, but it doesn’t go away. That empty hollow feeling that lightly covers a well of pain is always there. It’s there when I see Jenn’s little outfits being worn by my niece. It’s there when I look into Jenn’s crib and see a different baby (one I love just as much, also destined to leave me). It’s there when I reach for the phone, but can’t force myself to call and see how she is, because I’m so afraid of the truth. The grief will always be there. And that’s okay.

And once in a while I let myself dream, imagine a day in the future… I answer the door to find a teenage girl, slim and a little shorter than average, with familiar blue eyes and sunny smile. I recognize Jenn at once, come to meet the family that loved her first.

Which ones are your fake kids?

Wed, 12 Nov 2014 21:09:00 GMT

Betty: So fill me in on all these kids I see around here.

Me: Well, the one in the mismatched shoes is mine; so is the one trying to write on the wall. The kid on the table is mine, and I left a few at home. Those four are my sister Jane’s. This one belongs to my sister Terry.

Betty: Okay, now which one of these is Jane’s real kid?”

I knew immediately what she meant; Jane adopted three of her children and had one by birth, but I didn't like Betty's phrasing.

Me: Real kid? They all look pretty real to me. Jane hasn’t played with dolls in years.

We both laugh like what I said was quite witty. I look pleadingly at Terry to rescue me, but she is redirecting the wall draw-er.

Betty: What I mean is that she had one of them the normal way…

Me: There are lots of normal ways to have a child.

Betty: But, which one is hers?

Me: All of them.

She must have decided at this point that I was really dense because she finally spit out what we both knew she was getting at all along.

Betty: Which one is her birth child?

I would have just told her, because it’s no secret who is adopted and who was born into the family; it’s a nonissue, but I was a little irritated by the long lead in.

Me: All of the kids are so much a part of the family it doesn’t matter how they came to us.

She looked a little surprised and changed tactics.

Betty: Now, I hear some of them are siblings…

Again, I knew where she was leading. Two of my adopted nieces and nephews share birth parents, as do my foster sons.

Me: Yes, there sure are a lot of siblings.

Betty: But aren’t some of them real siblings?

Me: Oh, yes. My brother has two kids. They’re real siblings. My seven kids are real siblings. Jane’s four are real siblings. Terry only has one. The poor guy doesn’t have any siblings, but we make up for it in cousins.

I smiled brightly as if I had just delivered incredibly enlightening information. Poor Betty. It wasn't that she was asking anything invasive; I just didn't like her wording. At that point she went looking for someone else to talk to.

It's a little insensitive you ask someone which kids are “hers” or “real,” . Instead, try asking her to share their adoption story, or how each kid joined the family. Everyone is curious, and it's okay to ask, if your friends. Just please discuss adoption in a way that shows you believe it is one way of bringing a family together, just as childbirth is, and that both are normal and valid.

(I didn’t ask anyone if I could use their names. So, I just made some up…)

Family Trumps Race

Tue, 26 Aug 2014 18:22:00 GMT

When he looks at me he doesn’t see pale freckled skin; he sees his mama. When I look at him I don’t see caramel brown skin; I see my son.

Well-meaning people (of different races) have commented that it might be best if we did not adopt our foster son because he is half African American. They tell me that it would be better for him to be “raised with his own kind.”

They advise me on how to raise a black child:

“Don’t dress him in overalls.”

“Don’t feed him watermelon or corn on the cob.”

“Don’t call him ‘bubba.’”

“You’re not styling his hair right.”

And they warn me:

“He won’t know his culture.”

“He’ll talk like a white person.”

“He won’t be prepared for racism when he encounters it.”

“He won’t fit into either white society or black society.”

You know what? They could be right. We are German-Irish and look it. He is all-American: black, white and native. Being a different race from everyone else in his family may be hard for this little guy.

But, you know what would be harder for him? Being ripped away from the family that loves him.

We are the only family J. remembers. He has lived with us for over a year and a half. He looks at me and he sees his mama. He looks at my husband and sees his daddy. He looks at our other children and sees them for what they are: His brothers and sisters. And it’s the same for us.

Someone would suggest that we throw that away based on race?

Wouldn’t it be racist to take him from his family just because our skin is different than his? My birth children aren’t very big. My foster son is quite tall. Would anyone suggest that we kick him out of our family for being too large?

It’s odd how the negative comments of a few misguided people can so impact my perception. The vast majority, well over ninety-nine percent of the people we encounter, accept J. as part of our family without comment or question. Yet, I feel defensive of our decision to adopt him due to the words of very few. I shouldn’t let them have a stronger voice than the many many more who have been completely supportive. The racist few don’t speak for the majority, or anything near it.

I won’t let racism dictate who our son’s family is. God brought him to us. Love binds us together. This is where he stays.

God Comes Through So Powerfully

Tue, 20 May 2014 21:01:00 GMT

Today, I sat in court with tear filled eyes as Baby J.’s birth mother chose adoption for him. Just like that, in less than fifteen minutes, he was legally a ward of the state, the first step in the process of our adopting him. As we left together, she asked if I was okay. In the elevator I thanked her for giving him, us, this chance.

A few minutes later, I closed the door of the car, and the tears came. Great gulping sobs. Joy because, by the grace of God, our baby won’t have to leave us. I’ll always get to be his mom. I’ll get to watch him learn to run, and teach him to read. I’ll be there when he is sick or scared or happy or mad. His future suddenly looks safe and secure.

Yet, so much sorrow is intermingled with that joy, because he has come to us at such a cost. Another family torn apart. Another mom who he will never call mommy. Her arms will ache to hold him, but he’ll be gone. The tragedy of our fallen world, so real, knowing that losing his birth family is what is best for this little guy.

And, I’m humbled that God’s best for J. is our family. Despite our flaws and brokenness, God has seen fit to once again bless us immensely. Gratitude overflows that He has chosen Matt and me to be the parents of this special baby, and He has chosen my kids to be his brothers and sisters.

When I got home I passed right by my faithful mom, who was on her fifth day of babysitting the troops in a week. I went straight to J.’s room, where I knew he was napping. I lifted him, all limp with sleep, and clung for long minutes to his little body. He rubbed his bushy hair into my neck and hugged me back.

“I’m your, Mommy,” I told him, “I’ll always be your mommy.”

He blinked at me all sleepy and confused. I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know.

Two More Weeks

Mon, 28 Apr 2014 19:34:00 GMT

Newborn Meggie came into foster care because her mother tried to sell her. Meggie had seven illegal substances in her blood stream. When the attempted baby sale was stopped, the mother threatened to kill her and the hospital staff that intervened, “If I don’t get my payday, no one else can! I’ll kill her before you can have her. I’ll kill all of you!”

Meggie was the sixth child born to a crack addicted felon who didn’t have custody of her other children. Any sane person could see that the parental rights should be immediately terminated with no attempts made at reunification. Meggie bonded to our family, like any new baby would, and we were all set to adopt her. Then the judge on the case ordered her moved from our home when she was five and a half months old to be nearer the woman who tried to sell her so that they could be reunited, though the mother was in prison (again) at the time. Two weeks from now, this same judge will decide Baby J’s fate.

J’s case is horrific. I keep a lot of the details to myself, but those in the system who are privy to them wonder why they even tried to reunite him with a birth parent in the first place. Policy said they shouldn't. The problem is that in our county all the foster care cases are handled by the most biased judge any of us have ever seen. He is doing unheard of things when it comes to putting children back with dangerous parents.

As the court date approaches, we prepare the testimony, take pictures, line up evidence, prepare as much as is possible, but I wonder if it even matters. This judge could just order J. be given back to the people who hurt him and that will be that. J’s lawyer believes that such an order would be J’s death sentence.

J. is my son. It doesn’t matter what the court says. It doesn’t matter what the birth certificate says. It doesn’t matter who carried him for nine months. It doesn’t matter if he looks like me. I’m the one who loves him. I’m the one who takes care of him. I’m the one who nursed him through his injuries, sought out specialists, and pursued treatments. I’m the one who has battled for him for nearly a year and a half. I’m the one he looks for when he enters a room. I’m the one he comes to when he is upset. I’m the one who sneaks into his room at night and prays over his sleeping form. And one word from this judge could destroy that.

This date two weeks away looms over me, eating away at my peace during the day, preventing sleep at night. I know the Bible verses about worry and anxiety. I say them. I read them. I pray them. I post them around the house. But, the stress is rising to a crescendo, building inside me as I mentally check each day off my calendar. Sixteen days left, fifteen, fourteen… It’s as if a cliff rises steeply before me that ends at that court hearing and then nothing. Blank. Empty.

Another Family Torn Apart

Sat, 12 Apr 2014 16:44:00 GMT

I hardly slept last night. It wasn’t because I went to bed at midnight, or that I had to get up so early to get my boys from the airport. It wasn’t even the newborn squeaking hungrily every so often from the bassinet beside my bed. I couldn’t get my mind to stop replaying the scenes of the day, scenes of heartbreak and loss.

That evening I picked up a newborn from the hospital, not that unusual for foster parents, but this case is different. This baby is the brother of our other foster baby, and over the last months I have come to know the birth mother very well. The day after the new baby was born I brought Baby J to visit them in the hospital. Bonnie was so pleased and proud. She posted a hundred pictures of him. She hugged and cuddled, nursed and fussed over little Jason. We had all waited to see if CPS would intervene, and it appeared they were going to hold off and allow Bonnie to try to parent.

When they called me yesterday morning to say they were getting a court order to take the baby I cried. This baby coming into foster care is a guarantee of heartbreak. Heartbreak for Bonnie as her baby is wrenched from her. Heartbreak for a baby who can sense something isn’t as it should be. Heartbreak for us to love again and lose again.

Of course we said we would take Jason. He’s J’s brother. I knew that Bonnie had asked that he come to us and would feel better knowing he was here. But, I hated to be a party to her heartbreak. I hated to be asked to be the person who would take him from her arms.

Bonnie was there when I arrived. Weeping, she nursed her baby one last time, then dressed him in a tiny outfit and buckled him into his carseat. She walked to the car with us and gave him one last kiss, reminding me to feed him, to change him, to drive carefully. Then, at last, she turned and walked away.

I felt ill as I drove home.

I know that CPS and the judge looked at the case carefully as they made their decision. I’m not saying that they made the wrong one. I wasn’t there; I don’t know their reasons. But, I think there is a tendency to believe parents whose children are taken into foster care somehow love them less or aren’t as effected as you or I would be if our children were taken away. Bonnie’s heartbreak is very real and very lasting.

This scene is played out across the country everyday. It is the necessary and sad reality that is foster care.

Recruiting for the Enemy

Sun, 02 Feb 2014 13:27:00 GMT

The day that Meggie was taken away, I sat numbly on the floor of her room, back against the wall, knees pressed to my chest, occasionally crying, but mostly just sitting and staring. My parents and sisters had arrived earlier to hold her one last time and pray with her before she left. They remained because they knew I needed them. They helped to pack the last of her things, took apart her crib, and rearranged the furniture, as if we could somehow make the gaping hole less obvious. The crib went into the attic, where it was later joined by Jenn’s. And there it stayed until a few weeks ago--

--When I took her crib, her mattress, and her butterfly quilt, down from the attic, loaded them, along with a lot of other baby stuff and five kids, into our van and headed for Wisconsin.

My baby sister Amy and her husband are in the process of becoming foster parents, and having no kids of their own, needed some things to get started. When we arrived, we set up the crib and bed, arranged the toys and books, then headed out to buy a mattress for the bed. It was kind of fun getting the room together, but a cloud of unease followed me throughout the day. There was no way to handle Meggie’s things without dredging up feelings I try to keep buried.

That night I looked down at our foster baby sleeping in Meggie’s crib, tucked her quilt up around him, and rubbed his fuzzy hair --remembering the baby who slept there before, and wondering who would sleep in this crib next. Baby J. snorted and then began to snore rather loudly, even as I grinned, tears puddled in my eyes. I love that baby so much, yet I know that at any point I could be called to give him back. Treasure every moment, I told myself.

The feelings that had been niggling at me throughout the day rose to the surface at last: Sorrow. Guilt. Pride. Guilt. Sorrow for the babies I can no longer hold, whose laughter I will never again hear. Guilt that I encourage Amy in something I know will cause her terrible pain and push her to the very limits of her being. Pride in my sister. She knows the pain and yet willingly walks forward to meet it. Guilt that I could stop her, but don’t. Instead I cheer her on.

Sometimes I feel like I’m recruiting for an enemy. The system is so flawed, so fallible, some caseworkers are good, others are like the spawn of Lucifer (not to be overly dramatic or anything). I don’t like being associated with it; I feel wrong drawing others into it. I hate to think of my sister being tainted by it, and yet I encourage and recruit, because the biggest flaw in the very broken system is a lack of foster families who care, who are willing to love again and again.

The other night I had a dream that Amy called me sobbing inconsolably. A newborn had been placed with her, and she couldn’t stop crying because she loved the baby so much and knew she was going to lose her. I didn’t feel any better when I woke and realized it was a dream because I know that it is likely prophetic. My baby sister is going to follow in my footsteps and may get her heart broken. I ache to know it, yet I am so proud of her.

A Desperate Need

Fri, 17 Jan 2014 02:13:00 GMT

Washtenaw County currently has about 300 children in foster care and a desperate shortage of foster homes. Our licensing workers call us semi-regularly asking for names of anyone we know who might be interested in fostering, anyone at all.

When a child or children cannot be placed in a home several things happen. First the caseworkers start calling homes that are less and less ideal for that child. An ill-fitted placement is better than no placement at all. Sibling groups have to be separated. Kids are put in homes that will take them temporarily and then will be moved multiple times as a long term placement is located.

While these things are bad, two are worse. The first is this: Kids who can’t be placed, even young ones, will be sent to a homeless shelter overnight and a placement will be sought again the next day. The second is this: Many, many teenagers are being placed in group homes, essentially modern day orphanages. In the words of a Navigator I spoke with in November, “If they weren’t already damaged, the group home will damage them real quick.”

When the subject of foster home shortages came up at a recent foster parent training I asked why they thought that this might be. Without a pause, the three Foster Care Navigators agreed that it is because Washtenaw County is such an affluent area. “Wow,” I thought, “how very backward.” But, I don’t believe that it is necessarily that the well-to-do are less compassionate; I think that, perhaps, they are less aware of foster care and the needs of foster children. Occasionally, I meet grown adults, people in their 40’s and 50’s, who don’t even know what foster care is.

Many object to allowing foster children to be placed in homes with same sex couples. Our foster parent support group contains about 30% such couples. There is a serious need for homes, and these are some of the people who have come forward to serve. Perhaps those with objections might choose to volunteer as well?

So, how do we find the needed homes? I did a quick internet search and found a list of 187 churches in Washtenaw County. Given that so many foster kids come in sibling groups, just one foster family from each church would solve our county’s problem.

People offer many excuses to me for why they don’t do foster care. They don’t need to. Each person’s life choices are between them and God, they don’t need to justify them to me any more than I need to justify mine to them. I understand that many people can’t do foster care for any number of very real and valid reasons. But, I do want to quickly address two things I hear quite a bit.

“I could never love a child that isn’t my own.” Believe me when you see that little face for the first time, and know that you are the only one the child has, the only one who will protect and battle for him, the love comes real fast. Plus, it is okay if the feeling of love doesn’t quickly arrive, love is a choice that we make and show with our actions.
“I could never bear to have them go.” I will be the first to tell you that the pain of losing a child is the most excruciating thing I have ever experienced, but that doesn’t mean that the children don’t need us. Additionally, many foster children become available for adoption and their foster families can become their forever families.

Three hundred kids in our county are hurting, grieving at being separated from their homes, abused and neglected. They deserve love and care every bit as much as our own children. I would love to see a county known for its affluence also become known for its compassion.

(The easiest way to pursue foster parenting in Michigan is contacting a foster care navigator: www.fcnp.org 1.888.335.3882.)

May Those Arms Be Mine...

Wed, 25 Dec 2013 01:49:00 GMT

Last year a baby I had never met spent his first Christmas in the ICU. Doctors worked to get him breathing on his own, believing he would be blind and mute for the rest of his life.

This Christmas he is safe. He is healthy. He is happy. He is loved. When he is sad, his face turns to mine. When he needs love, his arms reach for me. When he is scared, his voice cries for me.

And I wonder…

What will his next Christmas be?

Whose arms will he reach for?

Whose voice will calm him?

Will he know love?

And I thank God for this time. This baby. This Christmas. May it not be a happy oasis in a desert of his life. Rather, may it be the standard.

Always arms to hold him.

Always a voice to calm him.

And may those arms --that voice-- be mine.

Each Human Life

Sat, 07 Dec 2013 01:29:00 GMT

I have always held that each human life is precious and deserves a chance, but sometimes that belief is challenged.

As our foster baby’s birth mother rose to her feet today I noticed a tell-tale bump. We hadn’t seen her in a few weeks. Now, there was no denying the obvious. What heretofore had seemed normal post-partum weight was the beginning of another human life. Baby J. is going to be a big brother.

Pregnancy in mothers of children in the system is the norm. Our first foster baby, Megan, was the seventh child born to her twenty-five year old mother. Before her adoption was even finalized Meggie herself was already a big sister. Praise God that her adoptive family greeted Meggie’s newborn sister with open arms.

Our county faces group after group after group of six and seven siblings, groups that have no hope of staying together in a foster, let alone adoptive, placement. Rarely do any of these siblings have the same father. This causes more problems when members of the various birth fathers’ families decide to take in the ones related to them. The sibling group is broken and the sibling relationships lost.

As I loaded J. in his carseat my mind was on the baby to come. Sorrow weighed me down as I thought of what J.’s little sibling’s life will be --born to a very troubled mom, child of a sick and evil man. Destined to repeat the lives they have led. Odds are that he or she will spend years in and out of foster homes, sucking up all the social services available only to inevitably end up in jail or pregnant with babies who will land in foster care themselves. What a hopeless mess. So many would say that it would be best for everyone if the birth mother simply had a little surgery and thus retained her figure.

THAT is why I’m a foster mom. Because even in the face of a seemingly hopeless situation I firmly believe that God has a wonderful plan for each little life. I want to be front and center watching his miracles unfold.

I watch a video clip of Meggie happily babbling away to her new baby sister. All the odds were against them and yet God pulled them out. I think of Jenn, whose grandfather paid her mother to abort her. I remember the way the mother’s entire body trembled the first time she took Jenn in her arms, her look of disbelieving wonder. How near she came to never experiencing that.

And finally I look at Baby J. The first part of his life was ghastly, yet amazingly, he has overcome it. He is curious and funny and personable. He loves to rub bananas in his hair and feed his toast to the dogs. He smiles, waves, claps, and hugs. What if he had never even had a chance? Yes, he would have avoided the pain and the horror, but he also would have missed the joy and the laughter.

So, while I look at the situation of J.’s little sibling, and I can’t help thinking of how bad his life could be, I know that the God who saved Meggie and her sister, Jenn, and J. is strong enough to save one more.

The Shrine

Wed, 13 Nov 2013 22:02:00 GMT

Tomorrow will mark a year since we lost Jenn. More than once I have gone to write about the day she left, the purple fuzzy jammies with white polka dots, the look on her face as I walked away… but I just can’t. Even a year later the wound is still too raw, the pain too deep.

For the first few months I felt empty and brittle, as if the slightest touch or one insensitive word would shatter me into a million pieces that could never be reassembled. Though I didn’t shatter into a million pieces, I will never be the same. And that’s okay.

It’s hard to carry a grief that few people understand. Yes, she is alive. There is hope for her future. Ours is a God of miracles. He is watching over her; He will lead her to the cross. But, the harsh reality is that this baby, who I love, is being raised by a heroin addict. Each day I need to place her back into the hands of the Father. If I couldn’t do that I would be those million shards strewn across the floor. I have learned more about trust in this last year than in my other thirty-four combined.

I can’t look at pictures of her. As I go through Photo Gallery with my kids and stumble onto a picture from those eight months, something inside me freezes. I instantly close the program and start talking about something –anything- else a little too quickly and a little too loudly. Many times I have shut the kids down when they began talking about Meg or Jenn with a hasty, “I can’t talk about that right now.” I have to go back later and tell them that it’s okay to talk about them, and I’m sorry that I stopped them earlier.

When people hear that we do foster care the most common response is, “Oh, I could never do that! I would want to keep the baby!” or “It would be too hard when they leave!” These people aren’t trying to cause pain; they don’t understand that their words twist an ever present knife in still bleeding wound. I avert my eyes, tell them, “yes, it is hard,” then try to get away.

On Monday, I set up a little display which can only be called a shrine. Large glossy pictures of my Meggie and my Jenn, little outfits they wore, Jenn’s rattle, Meggie’s blanket, Jenn’s teddy bear –right in the middle of the living room. I wrote out their prayer and placed it beside a lighted candle. It was hard to do. I cried as I gathered the pictures. I cried to once again hold their things. I cried as I explained it to my family.

It stands as a reminder of the babies we love, the loss we've experienced, that God is watching over them, and that it's okay to remember them.

[caption id="attachment_446" align="alignleft" width="300"] Meg and Jenn's Prayer[/caption]

Let My Heart be Hardened

Sat, 05 Oct 2013 01:16:00 GMT

One of the hardest things about foster parenting is taking a child who thinks that he is yours to a visit with a birth parent he doesn’t know at all.

All morning I am tense. My hands tremble slightly, and I keep forgetting what I am doing. I don’t even attempt to eat breakfast. The kids joke and I attempt a smile, which gets nowhere near my eyes, not having heard a word. I snap at them over nothing, and they pat my shoulder to show me that it’s okay. I pack a diaper bag overflowing with snacks, toys, and extra clothes. Finally, I get the baby dressed in a cute outfit, making sure everything matches and nothing is worn out or stained. A friend once had birth family file a complaint because the child was wearing two slightly different white socks. The story has stayed with me.

I arrive a few minutes early and hold the baby in the car until the last moment. Then, kissing his fluffy baby hair, I gather his bag and hurry across the parking lot to the DHS building. Inside he sees his parent and leans nervously into me. I talk to him happily, soothing. I whisper one last prayer that only he and I can hear. The caseworker arrives, ready to take them back to the visitation room. I take the hint and try to hand him over. He clings tightly to me and starts to wail. I try to gently pry his arms from my neck as he goes into a full scream. The caseworker meets my eyes with sympathy as I finally get him into the parent’s arms. Baby reaches toward me as I step back, his eyes full of confusion and betrayal.

I turn quickly and nearly run from the building, but not in time to hide my tears from the security guards and the people nearest the door. I try to scrub them away before getting back into the car with my kids. My son tells me something, but again I don’t hear. The empty carseat mocks me in the review mirror. I pray desperately, while keeping a calm face for the kids. A few words from a cartoon musical play repeatedly through my head, “Let my heart be hardened.” A very tempting thought. It would be so much easier if I didn’t care.

We go to my mom’s house, because it is nearer to the DHS building and begin our schooling. I try to push my concern aside, but it’s impossible because I know that he will be screaming for the whole two hours, just like he does every week. My phone vibrates. I grab it and check the ID. It’s my sister, another foster mom. I pour out my heart.

“I was hoping you were the caseworker calling to tell me to come back early,” I admit as we close our conversation.

She understands.

The phone rings again forty-five minutes after I left the baby at his visit. This time it is the caseworker.

“He screamed so hard that he vomited. Can you come get him?” She asks

“I’m leaving now,” I tell her.

My brother-in-law is there.

“Just go,” he says.

He understands, too. He’ll watch the kids.

It takes a desperate minute to find my keys. I run to the car. Nauseated and shaking, I push the speed limit, picturing my baby red faced, screaming himself voiceless, thinking that I’ve abandoned him, not understanding. I run across the street and into the building. I can hear him crying through the lobby, two locked doors, and down a hallway. I grab my phone to call the caseworker and let her know I’m here. It’s dead. I get in the line at the window, but one of the security guards from earlier asks me what I need. She offers to go tell the caseworker I’m here. An angel in a moment of need. She returns quickly to assure me they are coming.

And there he is. So sad. Red swollen eyes reduced to slits. On seeing me he lets out an angry bellow and lunges into my arms, where he quickly quiets and soon cuddles his soft baby head into my cheek.

On the drive back, I’m so upset I try calling my husband and each of my sisters, but no one answers. I’m so used to my support base being there, I don’t know what to do. I quickly realize that I’m looking for human help, instead of turning to God. I pray for my little passenger, that he will not be scarred in any way, that this trauma won’t stick with him. I pray for peace, and it comes like a blanket, covers me, comforts me. God is good. Baby is sleeping peacefully in his seat, and I’m no longer begging for a hardened heart, I’m singing:

Where can I go from your presence,

From the heavens to the depths of the sea,

Where can I go from Your Spirit,

Knowing that your love surrounds me.

Ever After

Tue, 04 Jun 2013 01:32:00 GMT

Ah, sweet Meggie, the first baby that I brought home who would not stay, the baby that I fell in love with in a matter of days and spent five and a half months loving and raising before she was taken from us. When she first left I e-mailed each month on her birthday to see how she was doing. After several months I called her caseworker to check on her. I was devastated to hear that, while Meggie was at that time still safe with a good foster family, it appeared she would soon be going to live in a very bad situation.

And I stopped e-mailing. I stopped calling. I couldn’t bear to have the worst confirmed. I wanted to hold onto my fragment of hope that maybe she would be okay, that God wouldn’t let that happen to her. So the months passed and I hid in my fear, embracing ignorance of the truth rather than facing the pain that truth might bring.

Finally, as an important meeting loomed, things were dredged up that I had tried to keep buried. I found that I was just barely brave enough to seek some answers. I was going to have to face the truth of Meggie’s fate no matter how much I wanted to keep my head buried in the sand. And so, with shaking, hands I e-mailed her new foster mom and asked if Meggie was still there and how she was.

I very nearly couldn’t open the response, so terrified to have my fears confirmed. I sat on the porch holding my laptop in the sunshine as my girls picked flowers in the garden, but I did it. And rather than the worst, which I had expected, I found the opposite. Tears began to run down my cheeks unnoticed. Because the e-mail contained a mother’s love, the same love that I feel for my Meggie, coming from another mom. Meggie is safe. Meggie is loved. God in his goodness did not abandon her. He protected her and delivered her and brought her to a place of love and stability, just as I ask him to everyday. She is being safely adopted by her foster family. She’ll have a big family with brothers and sisters and love and craziness, a family that loves Jesus and will teach her about Him.

I clicked the first attachment and saw a beautiful brown eyed toddler smiling back at me; I would have recognized her anywhere. And I was humbled. I had let fear rule my heart. I had questioned God’s goodness. I doubted that He would respond to my pleas. So, many kids languish in the foster system; why would He take note of this one little baby? I had forgotten the power of prayer. I cried a lot that day, but it was more for relief and joy than sorrow. Joy that our God does hear our prayers, does take notice of one small baby, and did in his infinite goodness bring her to a place of love and safety.

Dreams

Thu, 09 May 2013 19:17:00 GMT

The car that took Meggie away pulled into my driveway and there she was, just as I remembered her. Her brown hair stuck straight up and she seemed to recognize me with her quizzical little smile, almost as if she knew that she had come home at last. The ache in my heart eased. I picked her up and clung to her as I carried her to the rocking chair in her room. I began to feed her, tears of anguished joy pouring down my face, not understanding how she could be there but thrilled beyond reason to hold her again…

And then I woke up.

Baby Jenn’s parents walking up to me, “We think that she’ll be better off with you, and we miss our freedom.” They hug me and put her back in my arms. She turns enormous blue eyes on me and hoots happily, bopping up and down in excitement. As I take her in my arms pure elation mixes with disbelief, I turn to find little Meggie, as the tiny newborn I first loved, laying in a hospital bed, abandoned and alone. She wears only a diaper, her ribs poke out from too thin skin. Seeing no one to care for her, I scoop her into my other arm. She nuzzles into my neck. So does Jenn. I cuddle them close, feeling a blinding unspeakable relief and joy. I take them home to feed them and find Baby J. already there in the place that should be theirs, but rather than thinking him an interloper, I happily move him over to make room for my girls, and snuggle them all close. So happy I feel like I might fly apart, yet crying in unbearable relief to have my three babies all safe and together at last right where they belong…

A cry cuts through my dream, and I feel it starting to slip. In panic I try to cling to the little forms in my arms, but they’re already gone. I lay there for a moment clutching at the memory of a moment ago, how it felt to be Jenn and Meg’s mom again, to know they were safe and happy and cared for. A silent tear slips down my cheek as I go to Baby J. in the dark and hug him and press my cheek into his soft fluffy hair, then lay him back in the crib that was once Meggie’s, and then Jen’s, and for now is J.’s but will likely be empty again too soon.

The sense of longing for what will never be lingers as I return to bed.

“Everything okay, honey?” Matt asks sleepily.

“He just needed a cuddle,” I reply.

Well-meaning people tell me that I have a special gift to be able to do foster care, that they couldn’t handle giving the children back. To them I say: No, I do not have a gift. I really don’t, and it makes me feel awkward that they think so. I feel the loss acutely.

Love Comes Softly

Tue, 07 May 2013 00:48:00 GMT

I’ll be honest, when the call came asking if we would foster Baby J. in fewer than five minutes I had said, “no.” I had plenty of good reasons; there were numerous complications with his case. Plus, we were busy. We weren’t even in the state at the time. I was already numb with grief and had five kids to care for, never mind two new puppies. I had no time for one more thing.

But, he stayed on my heart, I felt no peace, and they called again. They didn’t have anyone else who could stay home with him. They needed someone who could really care for his special needs. Yes, they could get someone else, but it wouldn’t be a good situation for the baby. I said we would consider it. Then, I hung up and asked God to send someone else.

He sent us. Sometimes God says, “no.” And that’s okay. Because He knows better than I do what J. needs, what I need, what my family needs. I’m not the first one to beg, “Oh, Lord please send someone else.” These words are just an echo of Moses, who spent nearly an entire chapter of Exodus trying to convince God that He had the wrong man, his words uncannily like my own: “But Moses said, ‘Pardon your servant, Lord. Please send someone else.’” (Ex 4:13)

Before we even brought him home I was determined to care for J. while holding firm the knowledge that he was leaving in just a few weeks. I begged God to help me not to love him, feeling guilty for even asking it, because he deserved a mother’s love and I knew that if I didn’t love him, who would?

Weeks stretched quickly into months, and my prayers grew more urgent. “Lord, please take him away soon. I know it’s better for him to be safe with us, but I just can’t go through this again. ” I caught myself calling Matt “daddy” to him and myself “mommy.” I heard my five year old singing to him, “I love you, baby brother. I love you, and you are my favorite.” I looked into the crib and saw his pudgy cheeks and thick lashes, and my heart lurched. He straightened his weak legs, held his own weight for a moment, and I was ridiculously proud. He rolled over for the first time, and the whole family cheered. He cried in his crib, and I went running. He saw me and broke into an enormous gummy grin, the tears still wet on his cheeks, and I scooped him up and cuddled him and blew raspberries into his neck. Then we both laughed with abandon. And tears welled and spilled from my eyes to his soft curly hair because I realized it had happened. Softly creeping in over the days and weeks and months, love for this baby had blossomed and grown and was now firmly rooted.

What if he rolled over and no one cared? What if he cried in his crib and no one came? What if he smiled and no one smiled back? He deserves to be loved, especially if it’s only for this brief time. And I thank God that he told me “No” yet again and has given me the privilege to be his instrument of love to this baby.