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.

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.

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.

Looking for God

Thu, 09 Aug 2012 13:07:00 GMT

I wake up this morning with a stomach bug so bad I can’t even straighten, after spending most of the night awake, in tears, and, I’m loathe to admit it, utterly despairing. This is coming on the tail of a nasty virus I’ve had for days, my boys being away at camp, and my mom far away when I so desperately need her. Despite all my calls to lawyers and caseworkers they plan to come and take away our little Meggie on Wednesday, and not to a better future, but to put her in a different foster home in a different state, to be a victim of the system. Such a beautiful happy baby, who smiles in her sleep every time I go in to check on her, almost as if she senses me standing there, who belly laughs when her sisters play peek-a-boo with her, and who is thriving and well adjusted. And I cry out to God, “How much do you think I can take? Are you even paying attention here!?” And I wonder, “Is this how Job felt?” And I ask, “God, where are you in all of this?”

Then, I pick up baby Jenn and she gurgles with joy. I help her with her physical therapy, and she’s able to reach her toes -a breakthrough for her- and my broken heart catches a glimpse God. My toddler, with her frizzy blond hair all fly away and sleepy morning eyes looks at me beseechingly, puts her little arms tightly around my neck, and asks, “Mommy, why you sad?” And there I see God. My five year old gazes in wonder at the much needed rain falling outside the window, and gasps in delight at the lightning and thunder. And God is there.

I open my inbox, the same one that so callously delivered such devastating news on Tuesday. But, today there is an e-mail from my little sister, the one who was such a handful in highschool that my parents kept threatening her with being homeschooled by me. This is the sister who has been my rock for the last five months of raising two babies, who, along with her husband, has been here with me every day this week, who has carried Meggie around in her arms and cried just as I have. She offers me verses and encouragement and ends by saying, “If you need anything at all, I am a phone call and 25 minutes away. Anytime and all the time.” And, once again, God is there.

I see the messages piled up from friends and family who are praying for us. Prayers that I count on in times of doubt and despair. Because, knowing that someone is praying for me when I can’t muster up the words, well, God is definitely there.

Then, I hear a little voice from the next room, a call I’ve been waiting for. I go in to get Meggie, our late riser, my eyes so blurry that I can barely see her enormous smile of welcome, but I feel it in her joyful wriggles and in her little head nuzzling into my neck and I know, once again, that God is there.

The Heartbreak of Saying "No"

Thu, 01 Dec 2011 23:46:00 GMT

As I settle in for dinner and cozy family time on this chilly December evening, my heart and thoughts go to three little boys on the other side of town, boys with no home tonight, no one to love them, or hug them, or hold them, boys who I denied a place in my home earlier this afternoon. We finally got our foster care license in the mail two weeks ago. Our first call for a possible placement came today. Three little boys. Brothers whose home life was so bad that they were being fast tracked for adoption, boys who had witnessed too much pain and violence in their short lives and knew little else. They could be ours, ours to help, ours to love, part of our family. We could help them and hold them, teach them that Daddies can be gentle and Mommies can be kind. But, we have our five children to consider, gifts from God placed under our protection, children we need to safeguard. With two little girls, only one and four years old, how could we bring these children into our home? Children who knew violence and are likely to act out what they’ve been taught? I didn’t consider it long before saying no. The oldest two boys were big enough to be threats to my daughters. It wasn’t that difficult a decision; I felt that I really had no choice. I know that someday, when my own children are grown, I’ll be able to say yes, but that does little to ease the sorrow I feel for these three who I’m unable to help. As my oldest son places a delicious meal on the table before us, my thoughts and prayers turn to these children. Do they have a nice meal tonight, too? Did they find a home, even temporarily, where they will be sheltered and cared for, or are they spending this night in a shelter? Who will welcome them? Who will love them? Will they grow? Will they thrive? Will they ever play in a tree house, hold a newborn kitten, or build a blanket fort? Is there any hope for them, or will they be lost in the system, doomed to repeat the cycle of violence they’ve known? But, I know that our God is mighty. He is a miracle worker and He has a plan for these children. So, I ask you: Join with me tonight as I lift these children to Him, innocents who have seen too much at too young an age. He is their hope and their help.

Featured Posts

Add Another Charm

God Comes Through So Powerfully

Recruiting for the Enemy

Looking for God

The Heartbreak of Saying "No"