Waiting

These hard plastic chairs in the hospital lobby were certainly not designed for comfort.  I sit here listening to a talk show host drone on the television that is mounted on the wall in the corner.  I watch the other patients coming and going and wonder idly what emergency would bring them to this place on a cold night like this.  I hold this little child on my lap, this child who is completely dependent on me to take care of his complex medical issues, and silently try to calculate how many hundreds or possibly thousands of hours I have spent just sitting.  Waiting.

Sometimes I imagine that I am a Warrior Mama, fighting for these children, protecting them, advocating for them at every opportunity.  And I am!  Quite often I am the one who speaks up for them, defending their best interests, pleading with the courts and social workers and whoever else will listen the importance of permanency.  Communicating how complex their needs, how delayed their development, how fragile their emotions.  Fiercely protecting them!

Sometimes I do need to Go.  To act and speak and do and move and fight.  But more often, if I’m honest with myself, this journey is mostly about doing exactly what I am doing at this very moment:  waiting.

From the very beginning it was waiting for the background check to clear and waiting for our home study to be completed.  Waiting for that call for our first placement, wondering in anticipation and nervousness and excitement who that child would be.

And once these children began entering our doors, the real waiting began.   Countless hours in lobbies, doctors’ offices, developmental agencies, hospital rooms, mental health departments, school meetings.  These children come with so many complex physical, emotional, and developmental needs, that it takes a large team of professionals to come alongside us and make sense of it all.  And each one requires appointments and consent forms and questionnaires and assessments.  Each one requires waiting.

If ever there was a journey that requires patience, sitting in hard plastic chairs watching the clock slowly tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, knowing there is nothing I can do to make the time go more quickly . . . this is it!

Each week there is the waiting for the children’s parents.  I drive across town to the social worker’s office, sometimes in the pouring rain, sometimes in the blazing sun.  All of our kids – whether this visit is for them or not, whether it is naptime or not, whether they are sick or not – get unbuckled, and we go together into the social services building, take the elevator up to the 4^th floor, and wait.  We wait for birthparents to show up for their visit, never knowing if they will make it this week or not.

And when birthparents do come, while they visit with their child, there is nothing else to do but wait.  First dad’s visit, and then mom’s visit.  Watching the hours crawl by, thinking of at least 25 other things I could be doing with my time:  mopping my floors, whipping up a nutritious dinner for my family, taking the kids to the park or the zoo or the science museum.  At the top of my list, of course, would be taking a nap!  Anything but just waiting, watching the hours crawl by, knowing that when this weekly visit is over, my foster child will scream in frustration and grief and devastation, wondering as he does every single time, why he cannot go home.

If ever there was a journey that requires endurance, waiting every single week during my foster child’s visits with his parents – the parents who are doing the bare minimum, with whom reunification is highly unlikely – knowing there is nothing I can do to change the situation . . . this is it!

I check the calendar often, mentally counting down the weeks until the next court hearing.  I know, in my heart, that God is in control.  That He has a plan for this child’s life and will accomplish that plan.  But it is oh, so tempting to become angry at a flawed system that fails to protect children.  To doubt, once again, that the judge will make the right decision.  To suspect that, despite this little life hanging in the balance, most likely the gavel will bang and the words will ring out, “to be continued.”  I know that the child is with me today and tomorrow, and most likely the day after that.  But meanwhile, in the back of my mind, I am always waiting for the next court hearing.  Wondering if there will be a change.  Dreading the good-bye that will happen if he is reunified with his family.  Bracing for the pain in my heart as it rips in two.  Waiting.

Every day there are countless opportunities to love and nurture, to let this child know how very much he is loved.  To remind him that he is safe and that all his needs are being met.  That I am so very thankful that he is a part of our family.  I want so much for him to grow.  To progress and to meet his milestones and to heal from the unimaginable hurt he has experienced.  I want so much for him to thrive.  As unrealistic as I know it is, I dream of seeing tangle results to all the hard work and hours and energy and love I have poured into him. 

But healing doesn’t always happen, at least not very quickly.  And so I wait.  I wait for him to learn to trust.  I wait for that breakthrough.  I wait for the great strides that prove this has all been worth it.  If ever there was a journey that requires faith, waiting months or even years for that miracle that may or may not ever come . . . this is it!

As I sit here in the hard plastic chair in the hospital waiting room, as I have waited so many times before, it is tempting to be discouraged.  To ask myself, What’s the point?  Couldn’t I be doing something more important with my time?  With my life?

And gently, ever so subtly, I am reminded, that I am not waiting in vain.  I am not waiting for an appointment or birthparents or a court hearing or healing.  In fact, I am not waiting for this child at all.  The truth is, I am waiting on the Lord.

Wait on the Lord; be of good courage,

and He shall strengthen thine heart.

Wait, I say, on the Lord!

(Psalm 27:14)

I am not waiting in vain.  While I am waiting - sitting, watching the clock, thinking of at least 25 other things I could be doing with my time – the Lord is using this time to grow my patience and endurance.  To strengthen my faith.  To teach me total dependence on Him and His perfect timing and His unchangeable plans.  Things that take time to grow.

My expectation is not that the clock or the calendar will move faster or that the judge will magically move the case forward, or even that this child will suddenly, miraculously heal.  My expectation is that through the waiting, in the silence and invisible middle of the night moments where no one sees . . . He is right here with me.  He sees.  He knows.

My soul, wait thou only upon God,

for my expectation is from Him.

(Psalm 40:1)

Sometimes He does call me to go.  To act and speak and do and move and fight.  But there are other times, times like these, when He calls me to wait.  To be still.  To silently, patiently believe for one more day.  To trust that the battle is His, and that He is the One who will fight for me.  Who will fight for this child.

Ye shall not need to fight in this battle.

Set yourselves, stand ye still,

and see the salvation of the Lord with you,

Fear not, nor be dismayed. . .

. . . for the Lord will be with you.

(2 Chronicles 20:17)

I do not always know what He is doing.  I do not always understand His plans or how He will possibly work this for good for anyone involved.

But this one thing I do know. . . .

For since the beginning of the world

men have not heard nor perceived by the ear,

neither hath the eye seen, O God, besides thee,

what He hath prepared for him that waiteth for Him.

(Isaiah 64:4)

I am not waiting in vain.  When my patience wears thin.  When my endurance runs out.  When my faith is weak and sputters almost to a stand-still.  When this all seems to be such a huge waste of time.  I look to Him and find my strength.  I trust His promises.  I believe that there is great reward for those who wait.

So, in this moment, as I sit here with this child on my lap, I wait.  I have done everything I know to do.  I have exhausted my limited resources.  There is nothing left to try.  Nowhere else to go.  And so, having done everything else I can do, I stand (Ephesians 6:13).  I choose to silently, patiently believe for one more day.

I look unto the Lord!

For the God of my salvation,

I will wait.
(Micah 7:7)