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?

What Kind of Story is That?

The day I had been dreading is finally here.  The day that no mother should ever have to experience.  They day I say goodbye to this precious child I hold in my arms.  He is the temporary treasure that the Lord had entrusted to me to love and protect and nurture a year and half ago.  I knew he would not be with me forever.  I knew that  my role, this chapter in his life, would some day be over.  But knowing it does not make it any easier.  The heart does not always listen to the facts; it opens wide and gives itself away, knowing the whole time that doing so will cause it to some day break.  But it courageously extends its arms anyway, undeterred by the inevitable.

The sign on the door says, “Welcome Home!” which makes a little piece inside of me cringe.  “Home.”  They can call it a home.  They can pretend it’s a home.  But can it really be a home if no family lives there?  Of course the staff are all professionals, skilled and thoroughly equipped to meet his every need.  Nurses, a nutritionist, a physical therapist and a case manager.  Someone to take him to all of his doctors’ appointments and someone else to give him a bath and wash his beautiful curly hair.  I am so thankful that there are places like this for children like him.  Places where he will be able to grow and thrive and reach his fullest potential.

But still, it grieves me that he will now have a rotating cast of professionals caring for him.  That he will no longer have a mother.  Has that sweet face received its last kiss?  Will anyone ever hold him in their arms and rock him to sleep?  Will he ever know what the words “I love you” mean?

Is this what the story is all about?  Where it all ends?  What about the happy ending?  Stories are supposed to leaving you feeling good when they end.  They are supposed to have meaning.  They are supposed to include love and family and home.  What kind of story is this one, anyway?

This One Child

“Hey, guys, it’s time to get in the car.  We need to run some errands, and I really need to stop by the market to pick up some ingredients for dinner tonight.  Sweetie, can you grab the diaper bag while I get my purse, my list, and this little guy?”

“Has anyone seen my keys?  I thought they were on the kitchen counter.”

“No, Honey, I don’t know where your shoes are.  Where did you last see them?”

“Hurry up and use the bathroom before we leave; we don’t want any accidents on the way.  I know you don’t need to go, but please try anyway.”

“No, we don’t have time to ‘just stop by’ the mall to go shopping.  Let’s just get our errands done, so that we can get back home in time for the little ones’ naps.  Please, just get in the car!”

The chaos that accompanies leaving the house always makes me wonder if it’s worth it.  How badly do we really need milk?  Or diapers?  I mentally review the check-list.  We need gas for the car.  And then I need to return the books to the library and cash a check at the bank.  The last stop will be the market, where hopefully I can find some inspiration for meals for the next few days.  I’m so thankful to be out of the house, albeit ever so briefly, on this beautiful summer day.  My reverie is interrupted, when less than two miles from home, on a beautiful winding tree-lined road, I hear it.  That unmistakable choking sound coming from the car seat behind me.  And then I smell it.  That unmistakable stench of formula gone sour from sitting in a little tummy too long. 

And all the other kids in the car smell it too.  “Ew!  Gross!  Quick, roll down the windows!  Mo-o-om, he’s car sick again!”  Gee, thank you so much for that helpful information.  As if I didn’t already know.

“Can you reach the wipes?  In the diaper bag?  Right there, on the floor?  What do you mean we don’t have the diaper bag?  Really?  I thought I asked you to grab the diaper bag!”   Obviously our errands will need to wait for another time.

When we get back home, I’m not even sure where to start.  I need to give him a bath and take out all the cornrows that I had just spent two hours putting in his hair that very morning.  I need to rinse out his clothes and put them on the “sanitary” cycle in the washing machine.  I need to disassemble the car seat and hose it down.  But first I need to get the preschooler occupied with something else so that he doesn’t “help.”

And then the phone rings and I hear my husband’s voice, his innocent voice on the other end of the line:  “Hi, Honey, I’m on my way home.  What are we having for dinner tonight?” Ha!  Does he seriously want me to answer that question?