I couldn’t see.

Sometime in the night I knocked my glasses off my bedside table and couldn’t find them, so when I got up this morning, no glasses.  No glasses, no vision.  No vision, and suddenly the thing I was trying to accomplish, getting dressed, became dangerous, with lots of collateral damage.  Broken things.  Bruises.

The foster system is sometimes like a blind person lurching around in the dark.  We know what is supposed to be accomplished. 

Safety.  Permanency.  Family.  Opportunity.  Life.

But in the crisis of each day, sometimes we can’t see where we are going.  There is always another form to be completed, another report that is due, another legislator to meet, another complaint to calm, another news reporter to answer.  There is always another urgent referral, another court docket, another foster kid needing a new place to live.

Sometimes it is hard to see.  And there is collateral damage.  Broken families.  Bruised kids.  Damaged community relations.  Hurting case workers. 

We must find our glasses.  Or we will fall and break our necks.

Where there is no vision, the people perish.  Proverbs 29:18 (KJV)

I tend to think of capacity in physical terms.  The ability of my washing machine to hold one more towel.  The ability of my refrigerator door to hold one more “work of art”.  The ability of my bladder to survive one more meeting…well, you get the idea. 

But capacity can also be applied to other things – relationships, emotions, knowledge.  I learned something about myself recently.  I learned that I have more capacity than I ever thought.  More capacity to receive assistance and encouragement from others.  More capacity to ask tough questions and listen to the answers.  More capacity to focus on what is most important.  More capacity to be hurt, but also to heal.  More capacity to trust.

This awareness is changing the way I conduct myself.  I am more likely to spend extra time with a foster kid – hoping for an opportunity to connect, understand, and encourage, even if their story keeps me awake at night.  I am more likely to query foster parents on why they open their homes and their hearts to the children of a stranger.  I am more likely to allow others to see my own dreams and discouragement, in the hope that they too will find the story of foster kids irresistable.   

But in the world of electricity, capacity has a different meaning. 

Maximum possible output. 

I don’t know what my maximum possible output is.  What I do know is that there are still kids in foster care.  And until there aren’t, I will keep pushing, keep stretching, keep putting out more.  More vision, more hope, more stories, more opportunity, more resources.

What would the world look like if we were all willing to increase our capacity to receive – to relate and to understand each other, and at the same time increased our capacity to pour out – to reach out beyond ourselves and influence others?

She was 15, the eldest of four siblings.  Life had not been kind – her parents had died unexpectedly when she was 12, and after living with a couple of  different relatives, her aunt had reluctantly taken them in.  The basics were provided – food, shelter, education – but there wasn’t much emotional connection, so at such a young age she took on the responsibility of “mothering” her younger siblings. 

I remember the first day I met her – she had just arrived at the shelter and was very upbeat and smiling.  Seemed strange.  When I inquired why she was there, her eyes got more serious.  Her aunt had gone on a trip and left them alone.  She had tried very hard to get her brothers and sister up in the morning, fed, dressed and off to school, then had met them in the afternoon, prepared supper, helped with homework and tucked them in bed.  But they were beginning to run out of food in the house.  She was worried, and asked their neighbor for help – the neighbor provided them some food, but also contacted the authorities and the kids were picked up. 

She was OK with being at the shelter – OK with not having to stress about providing for her siblings.  She was hopeful about the future – she wanted to be a pediatrician and hammered me with lots of questions about college, med school, and what it was like to work with sick children.  It was impossible not to fall in love with her spunk and her hopefulness. 

She came frequently to the clinic while I was there – at first just to hang out and talk, which we both seemed to enjoy.  Then with some minor complaints – an occasional headache or stomachache.  Then more serious ones.  Weight loss.  Sleeplessness. Depression.  Her siblings left the shelter, one by one, each to a relative. 

But no one wanted her.  And her soul died.  Her hope died.  Right in front of me.

We cry when the body dies.  But who cries when the soul dies?  Who cries for foster kids?  Who cries for her?

I have – it happened to me when I sat in a juvenile courtroom where a judge was reviewing the status of foster kids and their families. Were the parents repairing their lives to the point that their children could return home? Case after case, family after family. Then, the one – the one that made me sick. A whole group of adults assembled around the judge’s bench – lawyers for the state, the child, the parent. The parents themselves. The case worker. The judge asked a simple question – “where are the kids and how are they doing?”

Silence.

 He asked again. Shuffling of papers, then silence again. No one knew. Who was supposed to advocate for the child? That day I didn’t just watch, I noticed. I stared. I got physically sick. And I got heart sick.

What makes you heart sick?