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.

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?

From kids in foster care…

No one could really understand what my life is like.  No one pays attention to what I do, or cares about how I feel.  No one looks me in the eye and say “I love you and care about you,” and even if they did, I wouldn’t believe them.  No one that I love has stayed around for very long.  I don’t feel safe because there are too many dangerous things in the world.  I hurt in ways that no one else understands.  When I needed you most, you left me and now I am broken in a million pieces.  Please help me put the pieces together, because I don’t know what to do.

Enough said.  What will you do to help?

“Pure, unstained religion…is to take care of orphans and widows when they suffer…”          James 1:27 (GWT)

When I was a kid, one of our family Christmas break traditions was working on a jigsaw puzzle.  We would always get a new one with some beautiful landscape or cool collage, and we would start putting it together on the kitchen table.  Anyone who wanted could take a turn at finding just the right location for each piece, until the puzzle was completed. 

That all sounds like a nice family project, but the truth is that I stink at jigsaw puzzles.  I can get the border together, and maybe figure out some small patches with bright colors or unique objects, but by and large, the middle of the puzzle escapes me.  I get frustrated.  And I start jamming together pieces that don’t always fit.  Thank goodness for my mom, her geometry skills, and her patience.  She could see the shapes better that I did, and could figure out how to connect them.  And when she was done we all got to share in the glory of a finished piece, one that we had done together.

A dozen years ago I saw a picture in my mind of what a world without child abuse would look like.  Since that time, I have been working my tail off to put the puzzle together and see that again.  I found gaps in the system – needs that weren’t being met, and I met them in the best way I knew how.  Health care.  School supplies.  Training. Hope.  But the truth is, the border is barely together, and there is no way anyone can tell what the puzzle looks like yet. 

And yet the pieces are coming together.  Many people who hear my stories about foster kids want to know where to plug in, how to help.  I have some basic answers, but the truth is that I am not very good at the details of connecting people.  It is the middle of the puzzle for me.  I have desperately needed to find those with different eyes, with different skills, who could complement my story-telling and connect people to needs. 

The Spero Project may just be one of those.  Spero’s prime objective is to connect – to bring together groups and individuals with a heart to change the world in some specific way, and to put them together so that the puzzle is complete.  One of those projects is Spero:Legacy - connecting  those who are interested foster kids as well as adoption.  Tuesday evening Spero is hosting a meeting to discuss foster/adoption and to help individuals and groups who can see the struggle of foster kids, but don’t know what to do about it.  Spero can help – you will leave the meeting with specific “next steps” for how YOU can impact the world of foster kids and change lives.  You are a piece of the puzzle – it can’t be completed without you.

Avenue Class for Foster Care/Adoption – Tuesday, February 23, at 7:00.  Location – 4646 N. Santa Fe, OKC, at the Spero:Resource center.

If you can’t attend, check out the website and contact them:  www.thesperoproject.com

I hate moving. When I was a kid, my family moved every year or two, and it always made me sick. Hugging the toilet sick. The whole time the U-Haul was being loaded.

I didn’t really get any pleasure out of seeing my new bedroom or exploring a new neighborhood. Mostly I spent the first few days worrying. Wondering if anyone knew where I was. Would I be able to get on the right bus at school? And off at the right stop? I didn’t even know my address – how would the bus driver? Would my grandparents be able to find us for my birthday party? And how would Santa know where we were? 

Those nerves could be largely settled by one simple thing – getting mail.  Not mail for my parents, mail for ME.  Mail meant that someone knew where I was.  Mail meant I wasn’t lost.  Mail meant I was thought of.  And, if I was lucky and the mail was from my grandparents, it usually included stuff – stickers, toys, activity books, crayons – you get the picture. 

Foster kids move a lot too – an average of 4 times in 20 months, and of kids who age out of foster care, 1/3 of them moved more than 8 times while they were in custody.  Each move means a new house, new neighborhood, new school.  Each move means you lose stuff that matters to you – stuff like pictures and drawings and stories you have written and favorite CD’s.  Each move means new rules – new bedtimes, new chores, new ways to fold towels and make your bed. 

And, they wonder if anyone knows where they are. 

I wonder how much difference a piece of mail would make to a foster kid.  A birthday card, a random note, a care package.  How much does it matter to you to not feel “lost”, but rather “found”?

Beginning next week, my office will be sending birthday cards to the foster kids who see me for health care.  What can you do?  Look for opportunity.  Teachers, coaches, kids pastors/church workers - take special notice of the foster kids who cross your path and send them a word of encouragement for no particular reason.  Foster parents – teach foster kids your address and phone number.   

“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)

(the following story is from a recent conversation with a foster mom) 

Recently my (foster) kids and I were having breakfast.  One of the boys was messing around, as he normally does, and bumped his hand on the table.  He began to cry, and when I asked where it hurt, he lifted his hand.  I kissed his fingers and he said “no, right here.”  I had only missed his hurt spot by a tiny bit, but he knew it and wanted me to kiss his hurt again.  He has been with me a long time, and I wonder when he goes back home if his mom will understand what it means when he says “no, right here.”  Will she know that he has a favorite bedtime story?  And that he wants two hugs, not just one before he will fall asleep.  Will she know that he likes goldfish crackers for his afternoon snack?

I am beginning to realize just how much there is about him that I should try to share with his biologic parents.  All the ways that I help him get through the day.  My biggest fear is this – will I forget something as small as the little kisses that heal his hurts?

If you are a foster parent, what can you do? Take pics, scrapbook, fill out a Life Book with your foster child’s likes and daily habits, talk to the biologic family at visits – be willing to learn a little about their traditions/habits and incorporate some of them, as well as share yours.

As a pediatrician working around foster kids all day, my million dollar question is this – How can I end child abuse?  How?  How can I work myself out of a job because there are simply no more kids coming to the shelter?  How can I close down my clinic because there are no more children in foster homes?  How can I create a world where the Department of Human Services can actually serve humans, instead of being shoved into the role of investigators and enforcers?

I think the answer lies in the successes of those who have survived it.  Those adults whose life story is a laundry list of childhood adversity, and yet who have somehow come through the fire to find  hope, freedom, grace, and perspective on what matters in life.  Those adults who grow up to get an education, a job, and a family, and don’t mistreat their own kids.  So what is the secret to their success?  Here’s what they tell us…

I had healthy adult relationships.

I had good counseling/mental health care provided at the time I truly needed it.

I had a mentor.

What else.  Nothing else.  Surely there is something else.  No, that’s it.  Come on – what about placement stability, case worker continuity, not changing schools or docs or counselors.  Those things helped me learn how to form relationships, get mentally healthy, and find a mentor.  Oh.

If I am willing to buy in, to drink the kool-aid and believe what survivors say, then what does my role in all this look like?  Perhaps like this.  Always being genuine and at my best around foster kids.  Opening my home on the holidays to young adults who have challenging childhoods and don’t have a family of their own to hang with.  Being willing to invest time in those whom no one has given the time of day to.  Taking a risk on hiring a new employee whose life experience may far outweigh their work experience.  Not being afraid to address someone’s depression or anxiety and point them in the direction of mental health assistance. 

That’s the million dollar answer.  Only it doesn’t cost a million dollars.  It costs me everything – costs me my life.  Is it worth it?  Every single day. 

What’s your life worth?

(this is the 3rd part of a discussion on the impact of Adverse Childhood Experiences – if you haven’t looked at the first two posts, I recommend starting there)

She was beautiful – petite with shoulder-length auburn hair, blue eyes and a quick smile.  She sat across the desk from me as we discussed work first, then family, and finally life in general.  She was interviewing for a job, but I forgot about that quickly, as I found myself much more interested in her story than in her qualifications.  Childhood was not kind to her – she was one of three kids born to young parents who struggled with poverty and substance abuse.  Her first contact with foster care was at age 3, but after a couple of years she was allowed to reunite with her parents.  Soon they moved to another state – it was easier for her parents than dealing with the close monitoring of child welfare. 

Within another year or two, she was back in foster care, and this time she would never leave.  She saw her parents from time to time – they were never quite “bad” enough to lose their rights to her, but never quite “good” enough to get her back, whatever that means.  It didn’t make a lot of sense to her – she only knew that she missed them.  Twenty-one foster homes later, she graduated from high school, went to college, got married, and was now interviewing for a job.

What?  How did that happen?  Why isn’t she depressed?  Sick?  On drugs?  Who convinced her to go to college?  How did she become part of a normal, loving relationship?

That is the million dollar question.  And tomorrow, I will give you a million dollar answer.  One that you can be a part of.