captivate (verb) – to attract and hold the attention or interest of, to imprison or enslave
“My wife and I would like to know what it takes to become foster parents.” I was silent, surprised by the question. As I wondered what had pushed him to take that step, his voice came across the phone again. “That kid really got to me.”
She was 18 months old, with big brown eyes and short curly hair. Lots of other kids would have been afraid of strangers, and she was afraid of me, but not of my student. She reached toward him and he instinctively picked her up, looking a little uncertain at first, but then more confident as she tucked her head between his neck and shoulder. Neither spoke, and their embrace only lasted a few moments, but it was enough to captivate him. To prompt him to leave his comfort zone. To make a call, and ask how to become a foster parent.
What would it take for you to be captivated? What would move you away from the familiar and toward the tiny arms of a little girl?
He was a three-and-a-half feet tall bundle of emotion. In a few short years, he had unfortunately witnessed much more bad than good, a fact that became painfully clear to his foster parents as he ran screaming through the house. As they struggled to settle his fears, their silent prayers were filled with doubt. What could they do? They weren’t equipped to handle a kid like this. Finally the screaming stopped and there was silence, except for the sound of the sobs of a little broken heart. The man fell to his knees.
“We will never hurt you.”
At the simple words, the sobs stopped. Time seemed to stand still as child and adult locked eyes. Then the most unexpected thing – a sloppy, wet, little boy kiss planted firmly on his foster dad’s cheek. He ran off to play, leaving his caregivers stunned, realizing that heaven met earth for just a moment that day.
“Heaven meets earth like a sloppy, wet kiss
And my heart turns violently inside of my chest
I don’t have time to maintain these regrets
When I think about the way that He loves us.”
How He Loves – lyrics by John Mark McMillan
He was a big man, with a full beard and broad shoulders and calloused hands that looked like they knew a good day’s work. He didn’t say much, just listened to my questions and nodded as his wife supplied the answers. “We think he was born on time, and he seems pretty healthy, but we don’t know much else. We heard that his mom was very young, and that she wasn’t in a very good position to take care of him.” This baby was lucky, moving from the hospital straight to their home. I knew that a half dozen other newborns were laying in the foster shelter as we spoke, waiting for a place to go.
He edged closer to the table, watching my every move as I examined the infant, as if he was concerned I might miss something or be too rough. Only when the boy was wrapped snug in a blanket and back in the safety of his wife’s arms did he relax a little. “How long have you been foster parents?” I asked. “Four years,” he answered. “Seven kids. I miss them all. I wonder what they will grow up to be. If somehow I was able to have an impact on them. Never knew I could love someone else’s child like that.”
It is a special thing to be a dad. But it is a divine calling to be the dad of someone else’s child. A holy opportunity. Are you up for it?
…an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because He will save people from their sins” … when Joseph woke up, he did what the angel of the Lord had commanded him. Matthew 1:20-24 (NIV)
It had been two years since our first encounter, when she came to foster care as a victim of years of sexual abuse by a close family member. My mind flashed back to that day, to that kid. To the anger, fear, and depression, the desire to leave this world far behind, with no hope at all that the next would be any better. Flashed back to the fresh carving on her stomach.
“Worthless”
The sound of a baby crying in the next room snapped my attention back to the present. To the confident, half-smiling young lady sitting on my exam table. “I remember you from when I was here before,” she said. She was so different. I was speechless, didn’t know what to say or how to even ask what the difference was, so I stalled. Listened to her heartbeat, looked in her ears, that sort of thing. Finally, the words came.
“How are you doing? Or maybe the real question I want answered is how are you doing so well?”
She smiled even wider, and told me about the family that had taken care of her after she left the shelter. How they had treated her like one of their own kids. Had taught her about family and trust and relationships and value. Her answer to my question?
“I have been with someone who loves me.” 
Simple. Powerful. Life-changing.
Will someone say that about you or me? That being in OUR presence meant that they were with someone who loved them? I hope so. With all my heart, I hope so.
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?
So I have this friend. Actually we have only been friends for a few months. But it turns out that we have something unusual in common. We both love foster kids, but that isn’t the uncommon part. What sets my friend apart is that she loves the birth parent of her foster kids. In case you blew past that, let me say it again.
She loves the birth parent of her foster kids.
She believes that she is called to do that – to create opportunities for a mom that has never had anything. To offer relationship that doesn’t have strings attached. Her husband believes it too. And her friends are starting to. In fact, she is rounding up a whole army of people who are willing to go deep with her.
To get dirty. To work hard. To hurt. To get frustrated. To pray. To encourage. To support. To hope. And most of all? To love.
It’s really what we should be about.
For in Christ, neither our most conscientious religion nor disregard of religion amounts to anything. What matters is something far more interior: faith expressed in love. Galatians 5:6 (MSG)
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.