Bleed

It’s an ordinary evening in every way.  I am standing in front of the stove cooking dinner for my family when my phone chimes, alerting me of an incoming message.  I glance at the screen, assuming for a second that it is most likely my husband, letting me know that he is on his way home from work.  But when I read the words on my screen, even before my mind fully processes them, my heart, always leading out in front, stops for a beat or two.   I have been expecting this news for a few days now, but here it is in black and white, a simple text that will forever alter the course of my foster son’s life.   It is confirmation that he will be leaving.

I turn off the stove – because even in my shock, I am perpetually responsible – lower myself to the floor in a near-fetal position, and bawl my eyes out.  This year-long season of pouring out and loving and serving and becoming exhausted and sacrificing everything for this child’s well-being.  This season is over.  

This is not how I wanted it to end.  I wanted to be the rescuer.  To remove him from his brokenness and be a part of his healing process.  I had hoped that there would be a happily ever after.  I had prayed, countless times, begging God over and over again to please, please do a miracle.  A miracle that never came.

I should have expected this, really.  I mean, I should have known that foster care is nothing like the fairy tales of dreams come true.  It’s not like I stumble upon filthy street urchins on the side of the road, bring them into my home, clean them up a bit, and stand back amazed at the transformation.

I do not rescue these children out of their brokenness at all.  In fact, the exact opposite happens; they bring their brokenness with them into our home.  Into our family room and around our kitchen table.  Strapped into car seats and tucked into our guest beds.  Their wounds and their pain and their trauma become ours, just as much a part of our family’s fabric as the children themselves.

I shouldn’t be surprised, then at what happens when they come.

When I embrace the broken, chances are, I will bleed.

Always, always, I bleed love.  Of course I bleed love.  That’s why I became a foster parent in the first place.  The love of God has been so lavished on me (1 John 3:1) that it overflows my heart.  I love, because He first loved me (1 John 4:19).  Even when the love I pour out is not reciprocated.  Even when these kids are stuck in the past, unwilling to accept their place in our family.  Even when they refuse to receive my affection or tenderness.  Even then I love, expecting nothing in return (Luke 6:35).

I wish I could say that love is the only thing that bleeds, but sadly, that is not entirely true.  I find that when I am cut, I also bleed anger.  I become furious at the situations, at all the circumstances and people that have so deeply hurt these young children, leaving them with ugly, permanent scars that may never heal.

I bleed anger at a foster system that seems to care more about protecting birth parents’ rights than protecting wounded children.  At the decisions that keep vulnerable children stuck in limbo, instead of providing them with the permanency they so desperately need.

Even more than that, I bleed anger at the enemy who so often seems to be winning.  These children, with their violent rages and lack of attachment, the ones who are lashing out with clenched fists at everything and everyone around them, they are not my enemy.  Oh, no.  There is a thief, an evil force whose goal is to steal, kill and destroy (John 10:10).  He has already stolen their innocence and killed their joy.  He is working hard to destroy their families and destroy their hope for the future.  I refuse to let him win.

I keep saying yes, I keep embracing the broken, I keep allowing myself to get hurt, because this is so much more than a nice story.  So much more than a quaint fairy tale where the heroine swoops in to rescue orphaned children.  Oh no.  This is a battle.  These children need so much more than to be rescued from bad circumstances and unfit parents. They need to be rescued from the enemy! These children need to know Jesus.  He came so that they may have life, and have it abundantly!  How can I not share Jesus with them?

Yes, I might get wounded in the process.  I may have ugly, permanent scars myself.  Warriors usually do.  But every scar, every heartache, will have been worth it if even one of these children can be plucked from the enemy’s hand.  If even one of them finds the hope and healing, the abundant life that God has promised for them.

The battle is fierce.  The task, so oftentimes, seems overwhelming.  The victories are few and far between.  There are many nights when I sob into my pillow, saying, God I cannot do this, not even for one more day!  I give everything, everything to these children, and it’s still not enough!  I bleed inadequacy in the face of this impossible task.

Whatever is bottled up inside can only be kept bottled up for so long.  When I am cut, whatever has been bottled up, will come spilling out.  And chances are, what comes spilling out are all my insecurities.  I want so much to do a good job.  To love well and be nurturing and ever-so patient during the incessant tantrums that erupt in our home.  To be full of faith and optimism and hope.  But oftentimes, I pray, begging God to please, please help me to love this child in front of me.  Or ask, are you sure you called the right person?  Despite my very best efforts, this task is way too big for me.

And as my flaws and imperfections come pouring out all over the place, God uses those moments to remind me that His grace is sufficient for me, and His power is made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9).  He reminds me that He is the Hero.  The Rescuer.  The One alone who is able to reach a child’s heart.  I have to believe that He will.  That He will use all the hurt in this child’s life to create something beautiful (Isaiah 61:3).  That somehow, in spite of my weaknesses and failures, His unchangeable purpose (Hebrews 6:17) will not be defeated.

This season with this young child is over.  And once again, there will not be a happily ever after.  But just because this season did not end the way I had hoped and prayed that it would, does not mean I will quit altogether. 

I dry my tears and return to the task of preparing dinner for my family.  Chances are, I will cry many times over the next few days as I pack up his belongings, sort through his paperwork, make sure that his lifebook is current.  I will process this grief privately, trying to make sense of a situation that makes no sense.  I will bleed anger, feelings of inadequacy, and love that has never been reciprocated.  Chances are, I will never know why the miracle never came.

And chances are, it won’t be very long at all before the phone will ring again.  Another wounded child, another tragic situation, another opportunity to pour out and love and serve and become exhausted and sacrifice everything for another child’s well-being.

As long as I am able, as long as God keeps calling me to this task, I will keep saying yes.  I will most gladly spend and be spent for their souls (2 Corinthians 12:15).” And as I do, chances are, I will get hurt again. 

After all, when I embrace the broken, chances are, I will bleed.