“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.
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…
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
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.
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.
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?
Recently my daughter and I had a date night. I had a couple of ideas for the evening, but when we drove by a local bowling alley, the sign caught her attention, and our plans quickly changed. We grabbed shoes and got her the lightest ball they had, and soon we were ready to play the game. I am competitive by nature, and while I understand that it is inappropriate, I really wanted to a) get lots of strikes and spares, and b) not be beaten by a kid. So, I picked out just the right ball, bowled a warm-up frame or two, and figured out just exactly where I needed to aim to knock down the most pins.
Let the games begin!
Somewhere around the 5th frame, I remembered that this was supposed to be an opportunity to build relationship with my kiddo, and that I should not focus quite so much on getting the pins down and a little more on enjoying time with my daughter (embarrassing to say, but unfortunately true…). So I began to watch her a little more closely. She was a terribly inconsistent bowler. One ball would be right down the middle of the lane and knock down several pins, the next would be in the gutter. But the more I watched, the more fascinated I became with her reaction, no matter what the result.
Celebration. Exuberance. Excitement. Joy.
Gutter ball or strike. Didn’t matter if she knocked down one pin or all the pins. She was excited about every small achievement, every tiny improvement on her score. It was being in the game together that made her happy.
I spend a lot of time with parents whose children are in foster care. And I have lots of ideas about what they should be achieving and how they should be behaving. You need to get a certain kind of job. You need to have a better home. You need to get yourself mentally healthy. You need to be a better parent. You need to be more responsible. You need to visit your kids more reliably. You need to pass your drug screen all the time. And while those things may very well all be true, what is also true is that I don’t celebrate with them nearly enough. I complain about the visit missed and don’t celebrate the one made. I gripe if they don’t parent as well as I want them to. I write them off if they struggle with relapsing into their addictions. I judge them on every aspect of life, and I do not stop to celebrate what is accomplished. In the face of terrible odds – poverty, poor social supports, addiction, depression, hopelessness – we should be amazed that some moms and dads can manage to get out of bed in the morning. Perhaps I should learn to celebrate the fact that we are even in the game together.
And for those who are interested? 105-103 – mom wins:)
Have you ever been somewhere that you shouldn’t have been? Most of the time the outcome isn’t so hot, but this time was different. On this day, I wasn’t supposed to be at work, wasn’t supposed to be seeing patients. Didn’t even have my “doctor” clothes on. But there I was.
Her mom was concerned she might have a ringworm. I took a quick glance at the petite 4 year old’s forearm and confirmed that, quickly explaining to the mom how to treat it effectively. It should have been time to leave the room. But for whatever reason, I stayed. The mom looked older than me (at least in my mind 
), but it turned out she was a couple of years younger. She had 6 kids – the first was born when she was only a kid herself. They had been in foster care for several years, but were now back with her, and soon DHS would sign off on her as a mom.
At that point in the conversation, perhaps a normal person with manners and social grace would have just stopped – congratulated her and bowed out of the conversation. But I couldn’t help myself. I was compelled to know the whole story - to know HER. She had been on drugs – painkillers, then marijuana, and finally methamphetamine. The guys she hung out with were mean, but they supplied her drug habit. Eventually it caught up with her and the kids were picked up. She was devastated, but she was also addicted. For two more years she was unsuccessful in her struggle against it. Then she began to break free. Went through rehab – ALL the way through. Then a half-way house. Then outpatient counseling. Then she found a job. Then she got an apartment. Then she got her kids back.
What? How did that happen? The story doesn’t usually have a happy ending? What is your secret?
My parents believed in me. My friend believed in me. My counselor believed in me. My new boss believed in me.
When we begin to see people for who they were created to be, instead of who they are on the surface, it is easier to believe in them. And when WE believe in them, it is easier for them to begin to believe in themselves. I want to believe in people. In their potential. In the possibilities of their lives. In the awareness that a bad decision is not the same thing as a bad person. In the knowledge that we all make mistakes and none of us is perfect. In the hope that the future can be different than the past.
“You are an overcomer!” I said. Her eyes met mine, and she smiled. And on the day when I wasn’t supposed to be there, I was blessed enough to witness something miraculous – a family together again. Hope rising from ashes. Sure glad I went by the office.
“I’m not adoptable,” he stated flatly. “What?”, I replied, surprised by his comment. “I’m. Not. Adoptable.” He repeated it louder, as if perhaps he thought I was hard of hearing. He was sitting on my exam table, and I had just been looking in his ears and asking him about school and friends. Then the conversation turned to family and why he was in foster care. His parents had been involved with drugs for many years. His dad was now in prison, mom was nowhere to be found – he wondered if she might be dead. He had been in DHS custody since the age of 5 – he was now 15.
“I went to this adoption party, and I overheard some people say that I’m not adoptable because I am too old.” At that, tears welled up in his eyes and began to spill down his face. I grabbed him, held on to him. Not exactly what we are trained to do in medical school, but it was a reflex- I couldn’t help it. He took a few breaths and went on. “I met some people who wanted to adopt a son. They talked to me for a little while but then moved on to meet other children, and I overheard them saying that I was too old, that no one would want to adopt someone my age.” His eyes were dry now but sad. “All I used to want was to be adopted. I am a good kid – I am not the smartest, but I do OK in school. I know how to take care of myself. I don’t get in any trouble. I don’t understand why no one wants me.”
My mind was spinning, quickly assessing my own family situation. A toddler at home and another baby on the way, in a three bedroom house that was quickly becoming decorated in “toy.” Both my husband and I working full time, and me taking night classes in health administration on top of that. Did I want to add a 15 year old boy with 10 years of foster care and a lifetime of baggage to that?
No.
I told him that I thought he was perfectly adoptable, and that I was sure someone would come along who wanted him. It sounded lame even to me.
“Do YOU want me? Would YOU ever adopt me?”
I was frozen. Of course I wanted him to have a family, I just didn’t want the effort of being it. He could sense my struggle, and his face changed again, this time looking reserved and emotionless. “It’s OK,” he said. “My case worker says I need to spend the next couple of years learning how to take care of myself anyway.” Head down, I left the room and went on to the rest of my day, but I never forgot him. And I didn’t sleep for a week. And I felt like a fraud. And I have always wondered if he should have been MY son.
“If I speak in the tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or clanging cymbal.” – 1 Corinthians 13:1 (NIV)
