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 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.