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.
