What Pure Means

The kids had just finished up their lunch, and if I was smart, I would have kept to our regular schedule and settled them into their beds for an afternoon nap.  But the gorgeous weather outside was calling to me, tempting me to enjoy the sunshine on my face, even if only for a few minutes.

After quickly tying my hair into a ponytail, I unfolded the double stroller and buckled the two little ones into it, and helped the older ones fasten their bike helmets into place.  The sun and fresh air that day felt just as glorious as I had hoped it would!

We hadn’t even reached the end of the block, however, before the delightful moment ended.  The baby started crying, and when I stopped to pick him up, he vomited all over me.  Meanwhile, the ones on their bikes were getting a little bit too far ahead for comfort, and I yelled out a reminder to them to Stop at the corner! 

My fashionable neighbor arrived home at that exact moment, and I’m sorry to say that inwardly I cringed a little bit.  She climbed out of her Cheerios-free car and walked towards me, her heels click-clacking on the sidewalk, a dazzling smile on her face.  I felt instantly ugly. 

While I struggled to clean up and comfort the baby, and look frantically down the street towards the diminishing figures of my children on their bikes, she stood right next to me trying to engage in conversation.  In her hand was a leather Bible and a cute little flowered notebook. 

Apparently, she had just arrived home from a weekly ladies’ Bible study.  The one that she led.  At the church where her husband was a pastor.  Great.  Now I felt instantly ugly and inferior.  I am certain that as she was standing there looking at me, she was thinking to herself, This lady needs Jesus!

Because the children who are always with me have varying sizes, shapes, and skin tones, I am pretty much a walking advertisement for orphan care.   When I confirmed that yes, these little ones with me were indeed my foster children, she blurted, Oh, that’s wonderful that you do that!  My husband and I have talked about getting involved in foster care, but we wouldn’t want to give up our date nights.

What They Hear

Our son was about 2 years old at the time.  He was just finishing up with his bedtime snack, when a “grown up” movie started on the television.  Wanting to protect his young eyes and ears, I said, Hey Buddy, let’s go in the other room.  This is a Papa movie, and it might be a little bit scary.  His eyes got big as he looked up at me and asked, Do you mean it has spiders in it?

Spiders?!  That was the scariest thing he could imagine!  I loved the innocence of it!  And really, isn’t that what parents want to do – to preserve their children’s sweet innocence as long as they can?  To protect them from the harsh realities of life?  The world can be full of danger and disappointments and brokenness, but do they really need to know about all of that just yet?

When we welcome foster kids into our home, we are doing the exact opposite of protecting our own children’s innocence.  We are exposing them, from a very young age, and most likely before they are mature enough to process it all, to the grim facts.  To the darkest, most awful, most shocking ways that people live.  We are showing them, firsthand, how people hurt one another.  How poor choices can lead to such devastating consequences.  How families can fracture and leave broken children in their wake.

Before our children are old enough to understand the meanings, they hear ugly words like domestic violence and restraining order.  They hear about addictions and mental illness.  How can a child who has only known a loving, stable, safe home possibly understand what child abuse means?  Really?  Parents hurt their children?  On purpose?!

Don't Waste This

It is such a beautiful spring morning, but the weather is completely hidden by the dim lights inside the church.  The rows of chairs are filled with friends and family, so many well-wishers who are gathered to surround this family with support and solidarity during their time of unspeakable loss. 

When the father, a foster parent friend of mine, steps up to the microphone and describes the moment last week when he placed his baby daughter into the doctor’s arms for the last time, and then used the pen to sign her death certificate, and then realized that he would never get to hold her again, there is not one dry eye in the room.  Heartbreak beyond explanation.

He is transparent in his grief.  He speaks of sobbing in the night, crying out to God, Please don’t waste this!  Meaning, please don’t let my baby girl have died in vain.  Please use her death for a greater purpose.  Please give meaning to our devastation.

It’s not fair!  Why would such a terrible thing happen to such a nice family?  A family who has stepped into this hard calling of foster care and has committed their life to serving the most weak and vulnerable?  After all they have done and given and served and sacrificed, shouldn’t good people like them be somehow exempt from tragedies like this?  Shouldn’t God be protecting them from suffering like this?