Losing Her Mother

We are enjoying ourselves, my young daughter and me, soaking in the sunshine, breathing in the fresh air, and savoring this rare opportunity for just the two of us to be together.  I turn my back for just a second to grab something just out of reach, and when I turn around again, she is not there.  I turn every way, thinking surely she is just a few steps away, but I do not see her anywhere.  I start calling her name, not caring if other people are staring, and try not to panic.

After a few unsuccessful moments of being unable to find her, I locate a security guard to help me.  I describe her as best as I can:  4-years old, long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, pink sparkly dress (did it have a unicorn or a rainbow on it? I suddenly can’t remember!), flip-flops on her little feet.  He goes one way, speaking into his walkie-talkie with his colleagues, and I go the other way, calling her name, more loudly now, looking frantically in every space, around every corner, under every surface.

Ten fear-filled minutes later, I finally spot her, huddled into a heap, sobbing into her arms, crying Mommy!  I want my Mommy!  over and over again.  This young child has just endured, for ten fear-filled minutes, her worst nightmare: losing her mother.  I run to her and scoop her into my arms, where she continues weeping into my shoulder, her tears staining my shirt.  It takes a long time to console her, to assure her, Mommy’s here now.  I love you so much!  You are safe!

Whatever It Takes

My husband and I have been asking ourselves, what would mean for us to give the first and best of our time, of our talent, and of our treasure.  

For more than 20 years, we had an unspoken motto:  We were fully committed to doing whatever it takes to care for any foster child in our home. We sacrificed hundreds, maybe thousands of hours of free time, hobbies, friendships, date nights, even family vacations for one child.   And then for the next child, and then for the one after that.  This is what it meant for us to give the first and best of our time.

Caring for these children was our passion, the joy of our heart.  It was such an honor to care for the sickest, the weakest, the most broken and frail, and then to experience the thrill of watching them grow and thrive.  Of course, having a child who was frequently in the hospital, or who was connected to life-saving equipment at home, or who struggled with unpredictable and destructive behaviors meant that we were unable to serve in church ministries or teach Sunday School classes or lead Bible studies.  But it did mean that we were doing what God had called us and uniquely gifted us to do.  This is what it meant for us to give the first and best of our talent.

Earlier this year, when I was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer, our motto suddenly, by necessity, switch directions.  Now instead of doing whatever it takes to care for a foster child, we became committed to doing whatever it takes for me to fight cancer.  For me to find healing and wholeness.

Reluctant Warrior

There are many roles I have chosen for myself.  Roles I love.  I am a Christ-follower, a wife, a long-time foster and adoptive mother, a friend, a sister, a daughter, a homeschool teacher, a neighbor, a sign-language interpreter and a blogger.  But now, for the past few months, I have had another role thrown at me: a warrior.  Being a warrior is not a role I would have chosen for myself.  I did not voluntarily sign up for this.  I am unskilled, ill-equipped, and insecure at times, but a reluctant warrior nonetheless.

When I first heard the words cancer, rare, aggressive, incurable, stage 4, I naturally felt deep fear.  Terrified at the unknown future.  How long do I have left to live?  And how long will I still feel like me?  How long will I feel well and be able to take care of myself and take care of the two youngest children that God has brought into our family through adoption?  What will the symptoms be like as they worsen and progress?  What will it feel like when I am no longer able to speak or to swallow or to breathe on my own?  What if the pain becomes excruciating?  How will I bear it?

Suddenly, it felt like this little village that is my body was being attacked, under siege by a powerful enemy, and even if I could somehow defend myself from its progression, it would only be a matter of time before this evil conqueror would eventually prevail.

Sitting in the oncologist’s office that day, I felt weak and helpless, utterly at the mercy of the cold, clinical medical technology and what it would do to me.  I felt like a victim.  No choice, no voice, no power over the limited treatment options I was being offered, nor the dreadful side effects – both temporary and permanent – that would be left in their wake.  I felt a deep emptiness inside, knowing that my season of advocating for orphaned and vulnerable children, of caring for them and loving them in my home, was over.  Now, instead of foster mom, adoptive mom, speaker, advocate, mentor – roles I was passionate about - I was forced to become “cancer patient.”  And with every bone in my body, I hated it, grieving the loss of all that I had lost.

For several weeks after receiving my diagnosis, my heart was filled with fear and dread.  Uncertainty about which direction to take.  My husband and I spent countless hours researching and discussing options, praying for wisdom, weeping in grief and worry, seeking counsel.  For weeks I lost sleep, was unable to think of anything else, and was almost completely paralyzed with anxiety.  Not only did I have a physical enemy that was attacking my bodily health, but I had a mental enemy, every bit as detrimental, that was attacking my emotional health.  I couldn’t go on like this.

Teaching Him

Please, God.  Please don’t make me do this!  Surely there is some other way.  Surely there is a solution I haven’t thought of yet.  You know me!  You know I am weak and exhausted and ill-equipped for this path.  You know I have cancer, for heaven’s sake!  God, you know I can’t do this!

And yet, despite my tear-filled tantrum, despite my reminding God of all the things He already knows, this is precisely what He is asking me to do.  He is asking me to teach my son.  At home.  We tried sending him to school where he might be able to receive the special education that he needs.  But that was not the answer.  We tried hiring a private teacher at home where his fragile health will be protected.  But that was not the answer either.  

No, I know in the depths of my heart that there is no other option for his education.  For this season, anyway, God is calling me to this task.  He is calling me to rely on, not the experts or the professionals or the “multitudes.” There is certainly a time and a place and season for those resources. But for this season, He wants me to rely on the Holy One of Israel.  He wants me to seek help from Him as I walk this path.  (Isaiah 31:1)

And the path, for me, is daunting. Since the day I met him nearly ten years ago, I have poured myself wholeheartedly into protecting him and keeping him healthy.  I have researched his complicated physical conditions and have found the very best specialists who can help him to thrive.  And it has been such a tremendous joy to see him thrive!  Every day, his vibrant personality and zeal for life simply amazes me! The fact that he is alive simply amazes me!

But his learning difficulties? His neuro-developmental disabilities? Those are way beyond me.  They defy my ability to understand.  How can I possibly teach him to read, much less to comprehend and apply what he is reading?  How can I help him memorize math facts when numbers make no sense to him? But even more frightening than the academics is the life-skills that are so essential for him to learn.  How can I possibly teach him everything he needs to know to live a productive and independent life some day?  The very thought of it overwhelms and almost paralyzes me.

When Your Bucket List Overflows

It’s cancer.  Malignant. Stage 4.  Angry and aggressive.  Rare.  Incurable.

The oncologist is speaking, and she is saying words that surely I must have heard before.  But never have I realized what ugly, vile words they are.  These words?  Describing me?  Unbelievable!

The oncologist goes on, almost apologetically, explaining that medical science doesn’t know what could have caused this terrible disease, especially since I do not have any of the usual risk factors. I am young-ish, not overweight, non-smoker, no family history.  Not even any genetic mutations or elevated tumor markers.  Well, medical science may not have clinical evidence to prove it, but secretly, I suspect the real cause.  In fact, I have suspected it for years.

I mean, the human body can only endure so much anxiety and trauma and grief and heartache, before something has got to give. Honestly, during our 20+ years of caring for some of our community’s most broken and most fragile and most needy children in our home, I have given my finite body an Olympic-worthy workout. I have demanded of my little adrenal glands, day after day, year after year that they keep producing an almost constant stream of adrenaline and cortisol, those hormones that the body needs during times of extreme stress.  How can that not eventually have an adverse effect?

Those thousands of nights when I should have been sleeping, that vital time when the body’s cells restore and rejuvenate, but instead I was keeping vigil at a child’s bedside, wondering if he or she would survive until morning.  The thousands of nights when I cried into my pillow, wondered if I  would survive until morning.  Managing countless moments of destructive behaviors, calming violent outbursts and tantrums, trying desperately to understand the hidden fears and hurts behind the rage.  Grabbing a quick granola bar or skipping meals altogether on my way out the door to yet another appointment or meeting or visit or court hearing.  The frequent worry and desperate prayers for a child’s uncertain and precarious future.  The dozens and dozens of times that I was overcome by grief, weeping for days when a flawed court system suddenly decided that a precious child who had been a part of my heart and a beloved member of our family for months or years, would not be able to stay, and I knew that life would never again be the same.

How could many years of, quite literally, laying down my life (John 15:13) for the least of these (Matthew 25:45) not eventually have an impact?  How could a lifetime of “being poured out as a drink offering” (2 Timothy 4:6) not eventually take its toll?  

That Time We Said No

This is the new foster placement coordinator 

(I don’t think we have met yet).  I see from our 

records that you have space available in your 

home, and I was wondering if you might be 

interested in taking a new foster placement.

We would be willing to consider it, sure!

Can you give me some more details?

There is a 3-year old little boy who is in the

hospital and ready to be discharged soon.

Oh, wow!  Do you know why he is in the 

hospital? Does he have a lot of medical 

needs?  Will he need special care?

I just got the paperwork from the investigator, 

so I am unfamiliar with the case.  Let’s see . . .

It looks like he has a feeding tube and he has 

a trach.  And possibly some endocrine issues.  

He is being taken into protective custody due 

to medical neglect.

Oh, no!  That poor child!  My heart goes out 

to him.  However, we have had several 

children with trachs over the years, and they 

are SO hard!  They need full-time, 24-hour 

care, and we just cannot commit to that.  We 

are going to have to say no. I’m so sorry!

Ok, well, let me see if I can get some more

information and then get back with you.

That’s fine if you want to find out more 

information, but we are unable to take a child 

with a trach.  We really need to say no.

Thank you for your honesty.  I understand 

that this would be a big commitment.  Let me 

put you in touch with his medical team at the 

hospital.  They may be able to give you more 

details about his care, and answer any 

questions you may have.

Ok, sure.  It never hurts to get more 

information and ask some questions, right?

.

The Silent Ones

We are a community of mothers who love our children powerfully and passionately. Who want and dream and envision only the best for them and their future.  And together, when we see first-hand how difficult this job of parenting can sometimes be, we stick together.  We are a tribe of warrior mamas who defend each other in the fiercest battles.  Sisters who support one another with practical resources during the most difficult seasons.  Kindred spirits who refuse to let another one fall.  We encourage one another, as often as necessary, to keep pressing on. 

Some of us have children with chronic or life-threatening health issues. The ones whose children are facing such a terrifying medical diagnosis, that we know, intuitively, that there is no way we can do this by ourselves.  And when we openly ask our community of mothers for help, the response is almost always immediate and powerful.  Neighbors bring meals.  Church leaders and family members gather to pray.  Friends wear the special t-shirt that symbolizes their esprit de corps . . . their camaraderie.  Mothers who are further along in the journey, those of us who have traveled this way before, share our experiences and hard-earned wisdom, extending a hand up to those of us who are just starting out.  We are reminded in so many ways that we are not alone.

Some of us call ourselves the lucky ones, the mamas of children with genetic disorders or developmental delays or heart defects. The ones who have the incomparable privilege of watching God’s plan unfold in unexpected and miraculous ways. (1)

Some of us have intentionally chosen the hard and rocky path.  We have stepped into the brokenness of foster care and adoption, opening our arms and our homes to welcome children who have been traumatized, neglected, abused, forgotten. Children with immense emotional and behavioral challenges that wreak havoc in our families.  

At the beginning, we were excited about where this journey would take us, knowing that we, too, were the lucky ones.  We just knew that we would have the incomparable privilege of watching God’s plan unfold in unexpected and miraculous ways. But now, years later, our blog posts have become fewer and fewer.  Our posts and pictures on social media are pretty much non-existent.  Once upon a time we were the most vocal, the most passionate, the biggest advocates for orphaned and vulnerable children!  But now?  Now we have become the silent ones.

Time for a Change

Over time, 

isolated systems of the entire universe 

will always gravitate towards entropy, 

or gradual decline into disorder. 

– 2^ndLaw of Thermodynamics

It’s that time of year again . . . the time when I look around and wonder how my home could have possibly gravitated towards such disorder.  The messes in every corner of every room, the piles of things that I don’t know what to do with, the items I do need but can’t seem to find anywhere. I decide, here and now, that one of the priorities in the New Year will be to de-clutter. To bring some sort of order to this chaos.  It is definitely time for a change!  

The entropy, the decline into clutter, did not happen overnight, which means that it will not be tackled overnight either. This kind of decluttering project cannot be completed in a day.  Or even a week.  It will take time.  There may be seasons when it gets overwhelming, the task before me much too big. But little by little, bit by bit, I will rejoice in the moments of progress.  I will focus, unwavering and resolute on my goal of peace and order and, dare I say, joy in my physical spaces.  

This is even more true for my mental spaces.  I wonder how my mind could have possibly gravitated towards such disorder.  The regrets and grief of yesterday’s failures, the anxiety of all of tomorrow’s unknowns, the ideas and dreams that I do want to focus on but my mind won’t rest long enough.  I decide, here and now, that one of the priorities in the New Year will be to de-clutter my mind. To bring some sort of order to the chaotic thoughts.  It is definitely time for a change!

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?

Our Rescue

The outburst at school is completely unexpected, and catches his teacher by surprise.  In the whole time that he has been in her class, she has never seen him act this way before.  She knows a little about his story – about his rocky start in life, about his birth mother who was incapable of caring for him, about some of the trauma and uncertainty and upheaval that he has experienced during his childhood, about his multiple disruptions and moves during his journey through the foster care system.

Still, it’s been more than a year that he has been with his current foster family, a family who is loving and involved and who want the very best for him, and he seems to have settled in nicely there.  Where could all these sudden strong emotions be coming from?

A brief conversation with his foster mother clears up the mystery.  Yes, he fits in well with their family.  Yes, they love him passionately.  But they recently found out that everything will soon be changing.  His birth parents’ rights are going to be terminated in court, and he will be free for adoption.   While this is what he ultimately needs – unconditional love and permanency and stability -  this also means yet another move from his current foster family to an unknown adoptive family somewhere.  This will mean yet another painful, difficult, frightening transition.

He had been brave when they first started talking about it, asking questions and trying to imagine what the future might look like for him.  But he realizes that the permanent loss of his biological parents means that any hope he might have been holding out for reunification is now over.   That door is forever closed. 

And now the loss of his foster family too?  The loss of his friends and church and school and neighbors, everything that is familiar?  The fear and grief eventually came bubbling to the surface at the most inopportune time – in the middle of class! – and thus, the emotional outburst.  Everyone understands but, although they are sympathetic, there is nothing they can do to change this boy’s situation.

This child needs a family.   A family who will gently, patiently help him deal with his grief and loss.  A family who will love him as their own son, who will embrace his disability and provide him with opportunities to excel.  And now that he will soon be entering adolescence, he needs a family with a father who will walk alongside him as he navigates the tumultuous years into young adulthood.

For most of us, when we hear his story, there is a little stirring in our hearts, a spark of compassion for this boy.

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.

Unexpected Gift

Sometimes, when you least expect it, the extraordinary happens.  You open your hands wide to receive the gift, and find that it is more amazing, more remarkable than you could ever have imagined.  You find that you are holding something beautiful, a priceless treasure wholly undeserved.

I know, because it happened to me.

I watch this little one running down my driveway, full steam ahead, hair streaming behind her like long brown ribbons.  Her strong legs pumping with energy and enthusiasm, her back strong with confidence.  And my heart overflows with love for her.   With gratitude for this immeasurable gift.  Moments like this almost take my breath away.  I look at her, amazed, and can hardly believe that this beautiful child is mine.

Three years ago, I had no idea that when I answered the phone one winter afternoon, that my life, and the lives of our entire family, would forever be changed.  I said yes to the woman on the other end of the line, asking if I would please come to the hospital as soon as possible, because there was a baby, a precious newborn there in the plastic bassinette, waiting for a family.

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.

Walking in the Rain

The first hint of worry about the impending storm surfaced in my heart, but I ignored it, convinced that I could weather it just fine.  After all, I was confident and capable.  It would take more than a little rain cloud to quench my faith.

The rain began, innocently enough, with tiny droplets of water, only a light mist of disappointments.  Not all that concerning.  But then the rain began in earnest, quickly drenching me completely.  A foster child so traumatized and damaged, that my very best efforts were utterly unable to help him heal.  A dreaded medical diagnosis that taught me what it means to truly fear.  A grown child who has chosen a different path, leaving me shocked and devastated, sobbing into my pillow at night, wondering what went wrong.   It wasn’t long before the light sprinkles became a steady downpour, a deluge of wind and driving rain, and I could no longer pretend that my faith was strong.

God, if You are even listening at all, why have You led me to this dark and lonely place?  My faith is so weak!  And if I’m deeply honest, I’m pretty sure I might be losing my faith altogether.  You promise that You will work all things together for good, but how can this, this downpour, be for my good?   I have cried out to You again and again to please help me be strong, and yet day after day, year after year, You remain silent.

This journey has indeed tested my faith almost to the breaking point.  I have been discouraged so many times, disappointed in myself that the trials of this journey have proven – to me and to everyone who knows me - that my faith is not very strong at all!

But what option do I have?  Give up?  Hide?  Do nothing?  Let the darkness win?  If I did that, what would I say?  Sorry, I can’t serve you today; it’s raining.  Sorry, I can see that you are drowning, but I can’t help you into the lifeboat; I’m too discouraged.  Of course not!  I think of King David who described his "downcast" soul and the tears that soaked his pillow.  Clearly he walked in the rain, and yet God called him - and equipped him - to rule an entire nation!

But how?  How can I keep loving the children the Lord has brought into our family?  How can I keep ministering to the least of these?  How can I keep serving and giving and doing?  How can I keep walking in the rain?  

Poster Child

One day you sit back and take a good look at your life, and you are overcome with gratitude.  You suddenly realize that everything is almost picture-perfect.   Your home is orderly and organized, the clutter under control.  Your children are well-behaved and happy, not perfect of course, but generally manageable.  You are happy.  You have a predictable routine, wonderful friends, enjoyable hobbies, big dreams.  You are the poster child for a comfortable, cozy life.

And so you ask yourself, innocently enough, why not?  Why not share this beautiful life with a child in need?  There are so many forgotten children who do not have a family to call their own, why not share yours?  After all, you reason, you have a lot of love in your heart.  Wouldn’t it be amazing to be able to make a difference in someone else’s life?  To give someone else an opportunity to thrive?  To give someone else hope for the future?

It is not an easy decision.  You know, in the corners of your heart, that it will be difficult.  Life-changing, even.  Of course there will be an adjustment period.  Some getting used to.  But, you tell yourself, you are a fairly intelligent, competent, confident person.  How hard could it really be? 

And secretly you think, maybe you can become the poster child for this brave new thing.  If you can do it, maybe other people - your friends, others in your church, your contacts on social media – maybe they will follow your example and be inspired to do it too!

A Different Story

Because she is unable to adequately care for the needs of her child, the little one has been taken into protective custody, and placed in the safety of my home.  That makes her the villain and me the hero.  She’s the bad mother and I’m the good one.  Right?

How did we get here, exactly?  Her story is so different from mine!

Even before I took my first breath, my story was relatively smooth and straightforward.  While she was born into a fractured and flawed family that sort of limped along, each one managing the best way they knew how, my parents were committed to staying married and raising their children together.  They taught me the meaning of “family,” setting for me an example of faithfulness, love, patience, and enduring hope.  They taught me about healthy relationships and the importance of making responsible decisions. 

Connect: How Professionals Can Promote Stability

I just want to quit!!   Even if those exact words have never escaped our lips, many foster parents have certainly thought them!  And even if we haven’t thought about giving up our foster license altogether, we have certainly thought about giving up on a certain foster child in our home.

Of course we know that children need the love and nurture of our families.  Their health and development and very future depends on the stability of their placement with us.  We’ve read the statistics and seen the study results, confirming that moving children multiple times throughout their foster care journey can have serious long-term impact on their future success. (1)

We hate disruptions. (2)  It’s tragic when children are uprooted.  Forced to transition to new communities.  Adapt to new schools.  They lose touch with relatives, and tragically, are separated from siblings.  They learn that it’s normal to say goodbye.

But what can we do when we want to quit?  When our endurance is depleted and we don’t feel like we can take another step?

Or more specifically, the question might be asked, what can Child Welfare Professionals do? (3)  This is the question asked at countless staff meetings and during federally-funded research projects and through state-wide initiatives. You have devoted your careers to serving these children, and it’s heartbreaking when their placements are disrupted again and again and again.  How can you improve placement security for these precious foster children you serve?  How can you turn multiple disruptions into long-term stability?

Before You Say Yes

Here it is!  The Call you have been waiting for!  Months and months ago, you finally made the courageous decision to open your home to a foster child, and now the plans are becoming a reality.  You attended the required training classes, completed the dozens of documents, answered all the questionnaires, proven that you do not have a criminal background, and have shown that your home is safe.  You are ready to say yes!

The “yes” part is easy.  And exciting!  And, oh so tempting after all the preparations and dreaming of what it will be like to care for a child who needs you.

However . . before you are too quick to agree to open your doors and your heart to this one who will undoubtedly change your life in ways you cannot imagine, here are some questions you might want to consider asking . . .