He was at work when he got the call.  The job site was a difficult place to talk on the phone.  A biting north wind was blowing against his cheek, interfering with the reception.  And the noise of construction rattling along behind him was both loud and distracting.  But after a couple of attempts, he heard the message.

“Your ex is in some trouble, can you take the kids?”

His mind raced.  It had been 5 years since he had even talked to his ex.  He remembered when the first one was born – had been at the hospital for that.  She was a sweet little baby girl with red hair and blue eyes.  Within 18 months she was pregnant again, but their relationship had been deteriorating for a long time, and not long after she told him, she had kicked him out of the house.  He had gone willingly at first, not in the mood for all the responsibility.  Two kids and a wife was not the dream everyone makes it out to be.  But certainly there had been lots of nights when loneliness crept in.  And he had wondered about that little girl.  And whether she had a sister or brother.

The wind hit him again, as did the high-pitched voice on the other end of the phone.  “Sir, are you interested in taking the kids?  You would have to have a home study and a background check, but if that went OK, you could have them with you in a few days.”  As he snapped back to the present, he felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders.  But this time it was different.  This time, for whatever reason, he wanted to step up.  Wanted to embrace that.  Wanted to be a dad and a provider.  Wanted a new family. 

And that is exactly what he got.  At Christmas.  Complete with hopes for baby dolls and teddy bears and soccer balls.  From his now not so little baby girl, and her little brother.  It was the best Christmas ever.

He was a cute, freckle-faced little kid, not yet 4 feet tall. The foosball champ of the foster shelter, or so he told me. Hmm, we’ll see about that, or so I told him. He gave up video game time for a chance to play against me – even recruited a friend for his team. I scored first, but then they caught up. Back and forth, neck and neck. Until the final goal rolled in. Then a shout of joy!!

By two freckle-faced little kids. Who beat me 4-3.

Time matters – spend yours well today.

I saw her crying, and it caught my attention.  It was family night at a local restaurant, and while my kids played, I was people watching.  And that is when I saw her.  Crying.  She looked to be early 30′s – not much younger than me.  Her husband was trying to comfort her.  Occasionally a 3 year old burst from the play area to come check in with them, and when she did, the woman would quickly dry her tears and smile at the girl, but then the tears would come again.  Next to her was a baby carrier with a small infant inside.  He was a different race than the family, and I wondered what their story was.  When her husband wandered into the play area and sat down, I saw my opportunity and followed him in. 

Didn’t take much to get the story.  They were foster parents who wanted to adopt.  A month ago they had been called about a newborn who the worker felt certain would be adopted – bio mom had lots of history with DHS and had lost other kids.  It was a done deal.  At least in the minds of the worker and the parents.  They went shopping.  They bought baby furniture.  Their friends threw them a shower.  They celebrated.  The baby came, and they fell in love.  Took family pictures.  Visited grandparents. 

Then, a call.  Can you bring the baby to the office?  There is an aunt, and the baby is going to live with relatives.

Devastation.  Grief.  Anger.  Loss.  Exhaustion.  Emptiness.

The mom mustered enough energy to say “no, it is supper time for my family.  I will meet you tomorrow.”  This was their last supper together.  Family night at a local restaurant. 

I sat with them for an hour.  Answered questions about the system.  Cried with them. Encouraged them.  Talked with them about life and faith and purpose.  When we parted, the tears had stopped, but the grief was still present. 

I bumped into them again a month later, again at family night.  This time smiles.  Excitement.  The mom came straight over to me and began telling the story.  She had taken the baby to the DHS office.  Along with diapers, and clothes, and bottles.  And a photo album, full of many pictures of the baby.  And one of them together.  She met the aunt, and the bio mom.  Both were amazed that she had brought all the baby items.  But mostly they were amazed at the pictures.  There was hugging – a lot of it.  And gratitude.  And tears – but this time they didn’t hurt so badly. 

It was a reminder that moms love their children, even when they aren’t able to take care of them.  That they are grateful to others who come to love them too, even if they aren’t able to fully express it.  That even in the face of loss and grief, love wins.  It wins. 

I saw them again a month later.  Grinning ear to ear.  A new baby boy with them – the adoption was in the works.

Have you ever seen something that you know has been there all along, but you never noticed it before? That happened to me this weekend. If my house is ever going to resemble clean, it does it on Saturday. I used to make fun of my mom’s scheduled Saturday purging of the household clutter, but as a working mom myself, I now understand that not only is Saturday the only day available to do it, but also that without it, the mess would overtake us all…but that is another story. So during my weekly attempt to resemble June Cleaver, when I was putting away my vacuum cleaner, I leaned over to wrap up the electrical cord, and that is when I saw it. This little tool, attached to the side of the vacuum, that is for reaching into corners and tight spaces. I have needed that tool for years. And I am sure it came with the vacuum cleaner. But I have never seen it. Not once. Even though it was right in front of my nose.

She was not a very noticeable person – a little short, with shoulder length brown hair, brown eyes, and a quiet, not very memorable manner. I guess I had seen her before in the clinic, bringing in the kids she fostered for checkups or illness. At least that is what my clinic notes said. Honestly, when I went in the room this time, she didn’t seem familiar at all. We talked about the child she had with her today – general health, school, behavior, vaccines – the routine stuff. But for some reason, the conversation turned a little. I was curious why she became a foster parent. Her face changed a little bit and she paused, as if weighing her next words.

“I was never in foster care, but I probably should have been.”

She went on to briefly describe years of emotional and sexual abuse that left her broken as a teenager, looking for ways to end her life. But right in the middle of that chaos came a series of relationships that showed her she was valuable. That her brokenness was normal, it was to be expected, and it wasn’t her fault. That she was lovable, and in fact, was loved very much. It changed her, and now she has learned to love. The object of her affection? Broken kids.

It was an amazing story – one that inspired me, but also convicted me of my own inattention to what is sometimes right in front of my nose. Be sure and look around you today – there might be someone amazing in front of YOUR nose.

Trust is a small word with large, even gigantic, implications.

I remember those moments like they happened yesterday. She was 14, and was in my office for a check-up. We talked through some of the normal stuff that I like to know – how she is doing in this foster home, her school grades, whether she has good friends. Oh, and what about boys? Any of them hanging around? On that day the conversation was easy, though it had not always been. After a few moments of catching up, she handed me a notebook. The cover was faded blue and torn a little bit. It was also a little discolored, as if water had spilled on it. Or perhaps tears. I didn’t say anything, but my eyes must have asked the question. “It’s my story,” she answered. “My counselor made me write it, then told me I had to find someone I trust to give it to. I have carried it around for a while, but I decided I want to give it to you.”

I opened the pages slowly, carefully. Contained there were stories, poems, and drawings, each representing a piece of her history. Stories about her family, about loss and grief, but also joy and excitement. Pictures of her siblings, who she rarely saw but thought of often. I sat next to her on the exam table as we thumbed through the pages, and she filled me in on even more details than the pages contained.

It was a holy moment, a sacred time – one that changed me. Like many people, somewhere between childhood and adulthood I quit trusting people. Got burned a few times. Once bitten, twice shy – that sort of thing. But the truth is that trusting people is part of our DNA. Without it, we aren’t able to fully engage the humanity around us. Aren’t fully able to enjoy all that a relationship offers. It is not something to enter carelessly, to be sure. But if we are able to trust and be trusted, we will experience an unusual depth to our relational interactions.

That kid needed someone to trust, and I needed the reminder that I do too.

Yesterday afternoon I spoke at a conference hosted by the Nation Council of Juvenile and Family Court Judges (www.ncjfcj.org) a great organization that spends it’s time, energy, and resources improving the court outcomes of kids in foster care.

I was invited to talk about health care for foster kids and kids who enter the juvenile justice system. As an expert. Someone who should know something about foster kids and health issues. There were lots of other experts there too. Experts on law and mental health and families.

And yet, all the expertise, all the knowledge in that conference room doesn’t necessarily translate into one single changed life. We get that, don’t we? For instance we KNOW that we should eat lots of vegetables and exercise regularly. But knowledge doesn’t always translate into behavior. We KNOW there is such a thing as a speed limit. But we don’t always drive under it.

The truth is, only one thing changes lives. 

Love. 

That’s it.  Nothing else.  Just love.  The problem is, that loving someone is risky.  It costs us.  And sometimes it is painful.  But if we are willing to go there, to love people anyway, then maybe, just maybe, we can change the world.

Are you willing to get your heart broken?  I am.

In-flu-ence* – [IN-floo-uhns] – verb – To quietly affect the nature, development, or condition of a person or course of events in a way that operates without any direct or apparent effort, to MODIFY.

To have world-changing influence, we must be intentional.

She was not quite 2 when they took her in from the foster agency.  Her mom had a lot of struggles and could barely take care of herself, much less a toddler.  Her new foster family fell in love with her immediately, enjoying her laughter and the silly tricks that she would do, but especially the brief moments at bedtime when she would sit on one of their laps and snuggle.  Over time, both she and her biologic mom achieved milestones – hers included memorizing the alphabet and writing her name and learning her phone number; her mom’s had more to do with parenting classes and a steady job.  And after some time it became apparent that they would reunite.

They moved a lot - never could quite achieve the stability that most people crave.  She lived with her mom some, as well as a variety of extended relatives.  She called her old foster family every once in a while – she had never forgotten the phone number – and every single time they inquired about her new address and made a trip to the post office, sending off a box filled with goodies.

Art supplies.  Candy.  Books.  But most of all, love.

They were intentional in their influence.  They didn’t just answer the phone and have a conversation – they acted.  Even though it was painful.  Even though they worried about the fact that every call was from a new phone number in a new state.  Even though it took thought to adjust the contents of each box to match her age and interests.  Even though there was a physical and an emotional cost associated.

To have world-changing influence, we must be intentional.  We must be fully aware of the potential of our decisions, even when they seem insignificant, and we must choose to be intentional rather than careless.

So how did it turn out?  One day the phone rang at the old foster family’s home. “Mom, can I come home?”  It was her 18th birthday.  You can guess what the answer was.

Will you choose to be intentional with the decisions you make?

In-flu-ence* – [IN-floo-uhns] – verb – To quietly affect the nature, development, or condition of a person or course of events in a way that operates without any direct or apparent effort, to MODIFY.

To have world-changing influence, we must be willing to give something up in order to get something better.

We tend to think that we have the greatest influence on those who are the closest to us. And yet, the truth is that most of the people who I allow in my inner circle of friends are very much LIKE ME. They think like me, they talk like me, they agree with me (well, mostly). If influence has to do with MODIFYING an outcome, then what exactly is it that I think I can accomplish?

Instead, I think that influence is most effective when we are able to reach across the space between our comfortable circles and into spaces where people are NOT like us, where we do not have automatic credibility, where we have to earn respect and aren’t given it because of our credentials or title.

To have world-changing influence, I must be willing to put down my prestige. My power. My desire to always be the boss. The part if me that wants to get credit for every win but deflect the losses – to be recognized as the hero. Please don’t misunderstand -I leverage every resource I have on behalf of foster kids. If my degree or title gets me invited to the table, you can bet I’m taking advantage. If I can use my experiences to start a conversation, I am going for it.

Somewhere in the process, though, there comes a critical moment when I have to remember that life is not all about me. That changing the outcomes of foster kids matters more than being right. Matters more than winning the argument. Or making the news. Or getting the award.

To have world-changing influence, we must be willing to give something up in order to get something better. What do you need to give up?

In-flu-ence* – [IN-floo-uhns] – verb – To quietly affect the nature, development, or condition of a person or course of events in a way that operates without any direct or apparent effort, to MODIFY.

Do you think the world needs to be changed?  Not everyone does, or at least most people don’t live like it does.  Most of us seem to wander through life without much lasting impact on those around us.  Think about it – if you moved today, how long would it be before those left behind would replace you?  Before the presence you had in the community began to fade? 

If we can agree that the world of foster kids does, in fact, need to look different, then we can begin to have a conversation about just exactly how to do that.  Certainly a great deal of change comes as the result of influence.  So for the next few days, I want to pass along some lessons I have learned about how to have world-changing influence.

To have world-changing influence, we must be in proximity to whatever we want to change.

The Mississipi River is a powerful force of nature, but it has no influence whatsoever on the Pacific Ocean.**  If we are going to enact change, we must be right in the middle of the problem.  For me, that meant learning more about foster kids.  Spending time at the shelter.  Hanging out with case workers.  Sitting through court cases.  Listening to difficult stories. 

When we are in proximity to the thing we want to change, we can see clearly what the problems are.  But we can also see the dirt.  And the trash.  And the ugliness.  And if we stay in proximity long enough, we are guaranteed to get dirty too. 

Still, it is in quiet space close to the chaos of a broken world that we have the opportunity to modify the nature and condition of a human being. 

Are you willing to get dirty?

*Webster’s dictionary     **Erwin McManus

From kids in foster care…

No one could really understand what my life is like.  No one pays attention to what I do, or cares about how I feel.  No one looks me in the eye and say “I love you and care about you,” and even if they did, I wouldn’t believe them.  No one that I love has stayed around for very long.  I don’t feel safe because there are too many dangerous things in the world.  I hurt in ways that no one else understands.  When I needed you most, you left me and now I am broken in a million pieces.  Please help me put the pieces together, because I don’t know what to do.

Enough said.  What will you do to help?

“Pure, unstained religion…is to take care of orphans and widows when they suffer…”          James 1:27 (GWT)