At 16, she clearly had more street smarts than I do at 38.  On the surface, she was really kind of a mess to look at.  Her skin bore the evidence of darker days, as numerous superficial scars covered her wrists and thighs.  She had hoped that causing pain on the outside would alleviate the pain on the inside, but it did nothing of the kind.  She also sported a couple of not-very-well-done tattoos, and several piercings that I could easily see.  She grinned a little and mentioned that there were others, but I left that subject alone.  

I just had to know more about her, and she was kind enough to humor me with her story.  Her parents were drug addicts, high on whatever they could buy or steal most of her life.  At age 7, she was living with them in a tent by a lake, and it was at that age that she would sneak leftover cigarettes when her folks were passed out.  By 10 she was an alcoholic, and by 13 had used nearly every street drug known.  At some point she could no longer self-medicate her reality, and she began to think about ending her life.  The thought of death was somehow much more peaceful than the thought of continuing to live.  By anyone’s standards, her life was a mass of shattered pieces. 

Then she met this boy.  A really good boy.  Who told her she was smart.  And funny.  And beautiful.  And who believed in her.

One by one, with patience and care, he began to glue her life back together.  Piece by shattered piece.  Until she was off drugs.  And alcohol free.  And in a GED program.  And thinking about the future, and marriage, and being a mom someday.  “My life is a mosaic,” she told me.  “There are still a lot of pieces, but now they fit together to make a picture.”

Not just a picture.  A beautiful work of art.  A masterpiece. 

There are lots of broken and shattered people living in our neighborhoods, in our communities.  Works of art that are unrecognizable until someone takes the time and effort to glue the pieces together.  Are you willing to play a part in creating something beautiful?

I love hope.  Love people who are hopeful.  Love stories that have a happy ending.  I want the guy to get the girl.  The dog to find its owner.  The foster kid to return home.  The orphan to get a family.  And for all of them to live happily ever after.

When I really think about how hope operates – how it changes lives – one thing becomes apparent. 

Hope requires action.

Action causes a perfectly comfortable family to open their door to foster kids.  Action moves a couple from hoping for a child to adopting a child.  Action moves a person to tutor or mentor or write the check or organize the party or the event, so that foster kids can have a shot at a better future than past.  Hope requires action. 

If you are in the mood for some action and live in the Oklahoma City area, take a look at www.fluxokc.wordpress.com or follow @fluxokc on twitter.  You can be part of celebrating the graduation of a foster kid.  If you are outside of OKC, call your local DHS/DCFS office and see if they need help throwing a party for their graduates.  Only 3 out of 5 foster kids make it through high school – we should make a big deal out of it! 

The nurse’s note on the chart told me that the boy was here for wheezing.  He had recently been hospitalized because he had been in a house fire, and this was a checkup to make sure he was doing better.  I did the normal “doctor” stuff.  Asked a few questions about his breathing.  Listened to his lungs.  Reviewed his medications.  He seemed tense, as if he was waiting for me to do something more.  Something worse.  I fumbled to find some reassuring words, but my ineffectiveness was obvious.  Finally I mumbled something to his grandmother about checking out with my attending physician and backed out of the room.

I told her the medical story, but was surprised when my attending asked what had caused the fire.  I had been curious myself but was uncomfortable asking – afraid to overstep my self-imposed professional limits.  She smiled slightly, and I realized that I was about to get a lesson in human relationships.  Within a few moments the whole story was out.  The boy had been playing with a lighter and had accidentally set the fire.  He had escaped with some minor injuries, but his mom and sister were not so lucky – both had died.  He was now in foster care, placed with the maternal grandmother.  It was a terrible story, and yet somehow there was grace in the telling of it.

Grace can be defined in several different ways. 

Elegance.  Beauty.  Favor.  Mercy.

I saw all of those demonstrated in the conversations I witnessed that day, as my attending engaged a hurting family and created a space for them to share.  As a grandmother extended mercy and forgiveness to a grandson.  As physical healing ended and emotional healing began.

When people understand that you care about them, that you are truly interested in who they are and where they come from and what they are going through, then the interaction flows in a rhythm that is easy and beautiful.  Difficult questions become easier to ask, and difficult stories become safer to tell.  In that kind of relationship, there is unbelievable grace.  And life is better for it.  But we must be willing to care.  Are you ready and willing?

“Walk with me and work with me – watch how I do it.  Learn the unforced rhythms of grace.”     Matt. 11:29, MSG

“Would you recognize him?”, she asked.  I stared intently at the boy.  There was something something about him that seemed vaguely familiar, but certainly didn’t stand out to me.  It had been a half dozen years since I’d seen him, and he was a baby then.  My mind wandered back to a hospital room, where I had discussed his likely future outcome with his new foster mom.  The brain injury he had suffered at the hands of his mom’s boyfriend was one of the worse I’d seen.  I was certain he would die, and when he didn’t, I secretly wondered if it wouldn’t have been a better outcome than the life he was now beginning. 

She had listened to my medical opinion, and then announced that I didn’t know what I was talking about and that he would not only walk, he would do much more.  I didn’t press the issue.  We could work that out over time. 

“Would you?”, she asked again.  “No, I don’t think so”.  The school-age boy was sitting on a bench in my office playing his handheld video game.  “You told me he wouldn’t walk, but he does a lot more than that.  He is in school, and he draws pictures and is learning how to read.”  For a half hour she went on to share details of their life together since she had become his foster mom.  She was so proud of him.  She believed in him.  And it had made all the difference. 

The truth is, I don’t know why some kids with a brain injury lie silent, fed by tubes their entire lives, while others walk and talk and run.  But I do know this – hope is a powerful thing.  It can change the outcome of a disease or of a life.  And another thing I know?  It is contagious.  I left that room feeling more of it than my heart could even begin to hold. 

Sometimes it is nice to be wrong.

I pulled a muscle in my back a few days ago. Wish I could say I was doing something exciting, but the truth is, I was just getting out of the car. That’s all. I spent much of the weekend taking handfuls of ibuprofen and trying to find a comfortable position, all the while dealing with the nagging, gnawing pain that was physically and mentally exhausting. While it was present most of the time, occasionally it would let up and for just a second I would forget about the injury. For a very short time. And then when I moved, the pain would come back, worse than ever.

She was 17, and counting the days until her birthday so she could be “out on her own”. She was going to move in with a friend, she told me, and try to get a job, although she had only completed the 9th grade so far, and thought that being employed at a fast food restaurant was her best option. She answered my questions in a somewhat robotic, monotonous voice, and she seemed almost able to predict what the question was before I had asked it. Until I asked about family. Then the robot vanished. Her voice shook, and her eyes filled with pain.

Lots of it.

First in foster care at age 2. Back and forth between the system and home until she was school-age. Parents rights terminated. In several foster homes. Then adopted. Until it got hard. Then back into foster care. Now, almost on her own. But with no hope, no future, no life. Just pain. Chronic, long-standing pain.

Ibuprofen won’t fix that. Only one thing will. Love. Massive, overwhelming, unconditional love. And she hasn’t found that yet.

pro-tec-tor – (noun)  a person that protects; a guardian or defender*

The October sky was blue but there was certainly a chill in the air.  His small frame covered with a thin long-sleeve shirt didn’t offer much of a barrier against the breeze.  He sat on the steps of his home, trying to figure out what to do.  At 6 he was the caretaker of his 3 and 2 year old siblings.  He got them up in the mornings and fixed them breakfast – had an old burn stripe on his finger from touching the hot coils of the toaster.  He knew how to make macaroni and cheese, and to microwave soup and fix sandwiches.  He made sure their noses were wiped, and changed his little sister’s diapers the best he could.  And he tucked them into bed at night.  All the while his mom spent most of the day either passed out on the couch or away from the house, looking for her next fix. 

Most of the time he didn’t mind helping – he knew his mom had a lot she was struggling with, and he wanted to make it as easy on her as he could.  He loved her very much, and as he shivered against the wind, his mind wandered back to days when she read him stories and gave him big hugs.  When it seemed like she loved him.  He hadn’t gotten that kind of attention for at least a couple of years.  And his siblings never had, except from him.  That thought snapped him back to the reality of the porch.  He tried the door again, but it was still locked.  His mom had woken up in a bad mood and was screaming and throwing things at his little brother.  When he intervened, his mom had dragged him out on the porch and locked the door. 

He began to walk down the street, slowly at first, but then with increasing confidence, toward the fire station a block away.  “Can you help me  sir?  My sister and brother are in danger, and it’s my job to protect them – can you help me?  We need a better life than this.  There has to be something better than this.”

Courage is found in many different places.  Sometimes it is even packaged in the small body of a 6 year old.  What about you?  Will you be courageous?

When I was growing up, safety was the last thing on my mind.  We didn’t lock our house, left our car running when we made a quick trip into the store, and walked everywhere without our parents.  Not only was my community safe, my home was safe.  There were no locks on bedroom doors, no worries about what might happen when my dad came home, or what my mom might be doing in the next room. 

That is not true for every child.

She was 10 when I met her.  She still possessed a child’s frame, with barely any evidence that she had begun the journey to womanhood.  She looked fearful as she entered the exam room, and that fear increased in magnitude when I shut the door.  I quickly explained that nothing would hurt, there wouldn’t be any shots – assuming that like most kids, her concern was about seeing a doctor.  But the look on her face didn’t soften.  I touched her arm, hoping to reassure her.  She recoiled as if I had punched her.  I saw her glance quickly at the male medical student who was with me, and I began to understand her concern.  He and I had reviewed her basic info – the police report stated that she had been sexually abused by a male family member for a couple of years.  She had finally told her best friend at school, who told the teacher, and now here she was. 

Safe.

At least from our point of view.  But safety is not just a location, not just about being in a place where you aren’t harmed.  It is a state of mind.  It is being in a mental place where a door closing doesn’t cause your heart to race.  It is being able to experience healthy, normal human touch without withdrawing.  It is being able to sleep without wondering when your night is going to be interrupted. 

Safety is more than separation from danger.  It is finding a place where you are loved, accepted, and cherished.  Where body, soul and spirit can thrive.  THAT is the kind of safety we must seek to provide.  After all, isn’t it what WE desire?  We shouldn’t settle for anything less for these kids.

My mom was visiting for Easter, and she pointed out that there were some details I left out of my recent discussion of the number of children in foster care.  In particular, the fact that there are 8,400 kids in the Oklahoma foster system, but that nationally there are between 450,000 and 500,000 foster kids.  In Los Angeles county alone there are 25,000 children in custody. 

25,000

I grew up in a town that had an alleged population of 1300, although I always suspected that whoever counted was including everyone’s dog.  To a small town girl like me, 8400 is a lot.  25,000 is difficult to imagine.  And a half million completely blows my mind.  Thinking about it can paralyze me, if I let it. 

There is this old saying I have heard – “How do you eat an elephant?  One bite at a time.”  I hate that saying.  Bite size pieces may be appropriate for eating an elephant steak, but they are unacceptable for changing the lives of thousands of foster children.  Instead, we need to figure out how to eat the whole darn thing in a bite or two.

“The Tipping Point” is a great book on social change written by Malcolm Gladwell.  Malcolm describes in great detail why change is more often like an epidemic than the steady, slow process we sometimes imagine.  He argues that with the right people, the right environment, and the right message we can change the world.  

Quickly. 

I’m up for that.  Stay tuned – more to come…

Numbers are an important part of our everyday lives.  We use them to help us connect to others on our cell phones, to tell us which seat to sit in on a plane, and to help us find the correct highway.  In the world of foster kids, one important number is the number of kids in custody.  Thankfully, that number has been declining, from 12,000 a couple of years ago to just over 8,400 today.  There are lots of ideas about why the number is declining, and certainly lots of excitement.  And there should be.

That said, do not think for one moment that the work with these kids and their families is done, that DHS no longer needs the community to step up.  I would argue the exact opposite.

There aren’t any fewer families who struggle. 

Life is difficult.  Parenting is hard if there are two of you and you aren’t worried about putting gas in the car or your next meal on the table.  What if you are a single parent?  What if it costs you more for a week of daycare than you earn in a week of work?  What if a good day is one where the electricity and the water are both on at your house? 

Look around you.  On your block.  At your kids’ school.  Or the grocery store, or at church.  There are hurting people everywhere.  People who need to eat, need a ride, need a babysitter. 

Or perhaps they need the most important thing of all – a friend.

Want to end child abuse?  That’s how.  You don’t have to be a rocket scientist.  Just a servant.