“There are no concerns.”

I stared at the paper, but the words didn’t change.  “There are no concerns.”  There it was, my handwriting in black ink on the medical chart.  In medical language, it means that the patient isn’t sick.  They don’t feel bad.  There is nothing wrong.  Normally that is a good thing.  But this time, as I sat filling out yet another medical form for yet another child entering the emergency foster shelter, I found myself overtaken with emotion.

                                               Anger.  Disgust.  Frustration.  Sadness.  Worry. 

I wrote that there were no concerns.  But that isn’t true.  I have concerns.  I have lots of concerns.  Concerns about these children.  About what they will think about and what they will feel when the lights go out at night and the shelter is quiet.  About where they will live next, and whether the family who takes them in will treat them as their own or merely as transients.  About whether their social worker will get to know them as human beings or just by a case number.  About when they will see their family again, and whether that reunion will be filled with joy or anger or fear. 

We should be concerned.  And may that concern fuel our actions.  May it compel us to get out of our comfortable lives where most of our concern is for ourselves, and to be concerned for someone else for a change.

I stopped watching the weather forecast a month ago.  That is when the weatherman said the dreaded words:

heat dome

In Oklahoma, we know what that means.  It means that a high pressure system is sitting right on top of us.  It means that the atmosphere has a lid right over our heads, a lid that allows the sun’s rays to find their way in but never out.  It means that you can fry an egg on the sidewalk, or cook dinner on your car hood if you wanted to. 

Heat.  Pressure.

His shoulders slumped slightly, as if he carried the world on them.  Quiet at first, but when I asked about his younger siblings, he spoke up, telling humorous stories about his attempts to keep them somewhat out of trouble.  The conversation shifted to his dad, and the quiet returned.  Alcoholic, violent, angry.  When dad was awake, the kids hid.  In their rooms, the garage, under the porch.  One day a neighbor saw the kids playing and brought them some lemonade.  A conversation started.  Over time, they felt safe.  Then one night, when they needed a hiding place, they ran to the neighbor’s house.  There are new challenges now, but no hiding.  No drunken rage.

Some kids feel heat and pressure every single day.  It doesn’t go away when the seasons change.  But it can be relieved when we are willing to be a refuge, a safe place for those around us who need it.

Will you be a refuge?

Recently I was asked to speak about the health needs of foster kids at a conference. As part of the preparation, the conference planners asked me to send them a bio, a paragraph about who I am, that they could use to introduce me. I quickly jotted down the standard stuff – pediatrician, faculty at a medical school, medical director for foster care, mom – and sent it off. But over the last few days, I have been haunted by some questions:

“Who am I? What is the first thing I want someone to be told about me? If what I am about could be summed up in a word or phrase, like an epitaph on a tombstone, what would it be?”

I love my job. And I love my role as a wife and a mom (well, at least when the kids are behaving…). And I can’t even begin to explain how much I love working with foster kids. But the truth is, that all of those answers are incomplete. They are a little hollow. Today, though, I found the right words, the right phrase.

I am an investor. An investor in people. An investor in the possibility that tomorrow can look different than today, that under the right circumstances a person’s life course can be altered in a positive way. An investor in the idea that a few people can change the world, and that maybe I can help push those few people along.

Investing is costly. It takes my energy, my money, my time, my reputation. It is also risky. Sometimes things don’t go the way I want them to. Sometimes people aren’t willing to be invested in. Sometimes they don’t seem to believe in themselves as much as I believe in them. But when we choose to invest in people, the dividend that is paid is priceless, more precious than anything else in the world.

      So if I was writing my bio, or designing my tombstone, I think I would want it to simply read:

Deb Shropshire, Investor in Humanity

What would you want your tombstone to read?

It was a balmy 95 degrees on the San Antonio river walk. As the boat drifted along its half-hour sightseeing voyage, I took in the sights, smells, and sounds of a city that was founded a century before the American Revolution. The captain was commenting on points of interest, and then he said something that caught my ear. He said, “Here in San Antonio we don’t like to get rid of things that are old. We prefer to rehabilitate them and make them into something that is new.”

The rest of the tour was lost on me, as my mind’s focus shifted to foster kids. I thought of a girl I met once. At 16, she was used to taking care of herself. From the few stories she shared, I knew that life had been chaos, and I suspected that what she spoke barely scratched the surface of what childhood was actually like for her. Her family tree included generations of substance abuse and domestic violence. I asked how she coped, and she laughed a little. “I used to smoke 2 packs of cigarettes a day – started when I was 7. By 10 I was drinking alcohol every day, and by 12 I was on meth. But all that is in the past now – been clean for a year.”

My usual poker face must have failed me, because she laughed again. “How?” is all I could muster. She went on to tell me how most people just saw her as yet another chapter in the old story of a broken family – a kid with no hope and no future. But then she met a teacher who was different. Who paid extra attention to her. Offered to help her after school so she could catch up with her peers. Believed in her. Told her how she could be different from her family history, how she could be somebody new.

I leaned back in my chair, unsure what to even say. The truth is that sometimes I see teens in foster care who I don’t believe are fixable. Who I don’t spend much time with because the yield seems so low, so unlikely to be worth anything of value. Who I don’t love as much as I should because I don’t think it will matter. And yet the truth is, we are not in this field to throw out kids, to deem them as old and useless, but rather to REdeem them, to give them opportunities to be made new and useful.

I need new eyes today – ones that can see what is possible.

I thought I just needed a break – a vacation.  Thought I was tired.  Seemed like every day, every kids’ story was more painful than the one before. 

“Pain is good.  It helps you know you are alive“.  What?  Who thought that was a great idea?

So I took a vacation.  Ate good food.  Visited friends.  Rested.  Played. 

Then I came back to the world where foster kids live.  Where there is no such thing as a break.  Where kids haven’t ever seen the beach or the mountains.  Where there is no opportunity to hang out and act silly with your friends and family.  Where rest is elusive, and hope even more so.  And suddenly there it was again – pain. 

I don’t think pain helps me feel alive.  Rather, I think it helps me realize what I am alive to do.  I did need the break, not to escape from the pain, but to learn how to better embrace it.

What are you alive to do? 

“Before I shaped you in the womb, I knew all about you. Before you saw the light of day, I had holy plans for you”                                                                                     Jeremiah 1:5 (MSG)

Hope is an amazing thing.  It shines a light on dark times.  Helps us see a future that is better than the past.  Gives us a reason to wake up in the morning.  But it can also be exhausting.  In fact, I would argue that the the opposite of hope is not hopeless.  The opposite of hope is fatigue. 

Tired.  Out of gas.  Empty. 

Hope and fatigue are mortal enemies.  Anyone who works around foster kids knows this, but if you’re like me, taking a break doesn’t seem like a good idea.  

After all, how will the world survive if I’m not in the middle of running it?  But perhaps that is for another conversation.

And yet the truth is, rest is not just a good idea.  It’s an absolute necessity.  We must intentionally take time to rest, to regenerate, to dream, to create, to heal from the day in and day out beating of living for others, and most of all, to hope again.

Are you tired?  Bitter?  Losing hope?  Take some time to rest, to enjoy life and people and doing nothing that is stressful.  You need it.  And so do the people you are helping.

“Can I ask you a question, doc?”  Something about the tone of her voice made me stop writing and look up.  “We have a granddaughter on the way, and the ultrasound shows some kind of heart defect.  Can you tell me more about it?  Is she going to be OK?”  The answer I had for her wasn’t good.  One of the worst kinds of heart defects.  Could go very badly, very quickly. 

Time passed, and the baby came.  She was blue, and sick.  Months in the intensive care unit.  Multiple surgeries.  Nights that she shouldn’t have survived, at least according to medical wisdom. 

Yet she did.  For first steps and birthday parties and the terrible two’s (and three’s).

She is an amazing kid, coming from an amazing family of people who have dedicated their lives to serving abused and neglected kids.  But there are still challenges ahead.  More surgery.  More time in the ICU.  She needs your help.  Because today, hope has a name.  And her name is Haven.

www.hopeforhaven.com

A few months ago I met this lady. She had everything going for her. Great family. Nice house. Lots of control over her day. But she had this little voice in the back of her head telling her to get involved with foster kids. It had been there for a long time, and every once in a while she would explore her options. Attend a class. Sign up for more information. That sort of thing.

Then everything changed.

She heard about a kid who didn’t have anywhere else to go. Who desperately needed a family. She mentioned it to her husband, who didn’t hesistate. She made the phone call, and the next thing you know, their family grew.

To a casual observer, she may come across as reckless. After all, getting involved with this kid will take time away from her family. Will cost her some money and some tears. Will mess up her schedule. But the truth is, she isn’t reckless at all. She is simply wrecked. She can’t stand the idea of a kid who has no mom. Can’t imagine a teen who has no home. Can’t tolerate knowing about foster kids without doing something about it. Her heart is wrecked.

Or, perhaps you could say she is wreckless.

I wonder if Webster will add that one to the dictionary…

So this weekend I got in the mood to make cinnamon rolls.  The kind my mom used to make.  The kind you have to actually mix up and roll out.  I’ve never made them before, but it didn’t look that hard.  Saturday was the day.  I dug out the recipe.  Made sure I had the ingredients.  Invited friends for breakfast.  Got up early and started cooking.

Huh.  They aren’t nearly as good as I remember.

They looked like my mom’s.  Tasted like them too.  But the truth is, I’ve had better.  Much better.  When I was kid, they were the only cinnamon rolls I knew.  But by my age, I have experienced a lot more cooking styles.  More recipes and ingredients.  And now I know there is something better.

Many kids in foster care came from homes where parenting wasn’t done very well.  By most any standards.  Supervision is an issue when your mom is depressed or on drugs.  Role modeling is an issue when your dad is absent.  Or violent.  In many homes, simply surviving another day is the best a child can hope for. 

Huh.  Why don’t foster kids grow up and do better with their own kids?  Seems like they would have learned a thing or two.

They did.  They learned exactly what they were taught.  Which is why we have to teach a new thing.  A better way of parenting, of living.  A better way to relate to others.  Providing a model for new ways to live is one of the most important gifts we can give a foster kid. 

Will you be a role model? 

She sat quietly, blinking away tears, as she read again the mother’s day poem.  Next to her lay a stack of construction paper cards and colorful trinkets made by her kids to honor the day.  But this gift - it was different.  It was straight from the heart of her daughter. 

Her mind drifted back four years to the day the girl came to live in their home.  They had interacted at the occasional family gathering, but this was a whole new kind of relationship.  The nearly 13 year-old brought very few physical possessions, but the emotional baggage that tagged along could have filled up the house. 

Abuse.  Brokenness.  Anger.  Sadness.  Distrust.  Rage. 

There had been many good days, that was sure.  But many struggles as well.  Often the relationship between the two was like being beaten by the wind and rain of a hurricane.  Yet somehow they struggled together against the storm – held on to each other. 

Survived.  Cared.  Healed.  Redeemed.  Loved. 

The storm isn’t over, but on Mother’s Day, they were able to rest for a little while.  As words from a chosen daughter filled the heart of an adoptive mom.

You

You pulled me

Out of the

Dark

You saved me

From could’ve

Beens

You’ve been

Here with me

Through

Good and bad

Thick and thin

And

Haven’t given up

You’re strong

When I’m weak

You’re peaceful

When I’m out of

Control

You’re my mom

My role-model

And my hero

I love you and

I wanna be

Just like you!

I love you mom