Fighting the Fear

“No, Mommy!  Please!  No!”  His desperate screams fill my ears and I have to turn my head away so that he won’t see the tears that threaten to leak out of the corners of my eyes.  So that he won’t know how much his helplessness and vulnerability break my heart.   Oh, how I long to rescue him from this pain!  To protect him from this terrifying situation that causes him this out-of-control panic.  Instead, I hold him even tighter, pinning his arms so that he can’t move.  He may believe at this moment that I am the worst parent in the world by subjecting him to this agony, but I know that this is what he needs in order to be healthy.

“Sh, it’s okay,” I keep whispering into his ear.  “I’m here, Sweetheart.  I’m right here.  Just squeeze my hand.  Sh.”  I continue to hold him securely while he continues his frantic cries.  He is unable to hear my words of comfort.  The roar of fear has caused his ears to be deaf to my voice.  He is so blinded by terror that my face, the room we’re in, everything becomes fuzzy and out of focus.

I pray silently, Please, God, let this be over soon!  The phlebotomist patiently attempts a third and then a fourth time to locate a good vein, to draw enough blood to fill 10 – yes 10! – vials to be sent to the lab for testing.  With each passing minute, with each painful stab of the needle, with each piercing scream, it gets increasingly difficult to watch.

I knew when our little foster baby had his organ transplant four years ago that it would mean life-long concerns about his health.¹  I knew when we adopted him two years ago that it would mean a life-long commitment to his care.  That it would mean sacrificing countless hours, summoning boundless energy, and experiencing immense inconvenience. 

What I didn’t know, what I never could have planned, was the indescribable love in my heart for this resilient child.  The unimaginable heartbreak of watching him endure repeated medical tests.  The fierce protectiveness that I feel for him every time we step foot into this place.

And I didn’t know how significantly the medical trauma of his early years would affect him.²   That it would cause him to have such ongoing fear.   That every time he has a medical procedure, even a minor one, he is re-traumatized, and the healing has to start all over again.

Normally, getting your blood drawn should not be such a traumatic event.  It shouldn’t be such a major ordeal every single time!  One would think that after being subjected to various medical procedures hundreds of times over the past six years, that he would get used to it.  What is he so afraid of? Why doesn’t he just remain calm and hold still?  He knows it’s going to be over in a few minutes.  Why isn’t he brave enough to fight this fear?

Finally, mercifully, the needle comes out, the band-aid goes on, and I reassure him once again that I am here, and that he is safe.  And he is safe . . . until next time.

The Path Home

THE PATH OF DEATH

Never in her life had she been so terrified.  So paralyzed by fear that even the simple task of breathing in and out seemed suddenly so difficult that it required her undivided attention.  Her ears barely registered the bird singing in the branch overhead or the cars speeding by on the busy street nearby.  The weeds in the cracks of the sidewalk went unnoticed.   All she could see was the little white building with a faded pink sign that included the words “woman” and “choice.”  She asked herself, How on earth did a good girl like me end up at a place like this?

The story wasn’t supposed to happen this way.  She had thought for sure that it was a romantic love story that would end in happily ever after.  Her beloved had given her true love’s kiss, and had assured her of his commitment.  He was going to carry her off into the sunset.  Into a future bright and full of promise.

But the promises had been shattered, right along with her heart.  Her true love was gone, leaving her with a houseful of small children to raise alone.  Adding another one to the mess simply was not an option. 

So here she was, walking towards the little white building with the faded pink sign, scarcely able to believe that it was really happening.  That her story was going to end in death – not only the death of the heartbeat growing inside her, but also the death of her innocence and naiveté.  The death of a dream.

The Relay Team

Through blurry eyes I pour coffee into my extra-large mug, watching the brown liquid fill to the top, hoping wearily that the caffeine it contains will do its job quickly this morning.  I did not sleep well last night – again.  My precious child sleeping in the room down the hall kept coughing at irregular intervals; his weakened lungs have been fighting germs for several weeks now, germs that refuse to give up and go away.  As much as I would love to cuddle with him on the couch today, nursing him back to health, I simply do not have the time for such luxuries. 

My other little guy, my foster child, has once again managed to fill my calendar today with appointments - appointments which will require the majority of my energy and attention.  I should tell myself to continue pressing on and not give up, knowing that I am being obedient to what the Lord has asked me to do.  But still, it is difficult not to get discouraged.  It is impossible not to be exhausted.

As I quickly check my e-mail inbox before the busy day begins, one particular notification suddenly catches my attention.  It practically jumps off the computer screen and into my lap:  75% off an island getaway.  On this cold January day, under the cloud of sleep-deprivation, with the kitchen clock ticking rapidly towards the incessant demands on my time today, a vacation in the sun sounds absolutely heavenly!

I do feel a momentary twinge of guilt that if I take this trip, it will mean that my husband will need to stay with the children, holding down the fort here at home.  However – true confessions here – we have been taking separate vacations for years.  He takes a few weeks every fall to go hunting with a buddy in the Northwest.  I take a child or two with me on various trips to visit extended family on the West Coast, or to see the sights in some faraway city.  We love to travel . . . just not together.

It is not because we do not love each other passionately.  We do!   It is not because we need to take a break from each other.  How I long to spend more time with him!  The one reason we cannot enjoy vacationing together, the one obstacle that keeps us apart is, sadly, a simple one:  we do not know one person who is able to care for our foster children while we are gone.

It's All About the Grace

Like a child having a tantrum, I slammed the front door on my way out of my house, the house that suddenly seemed two sizes too small.  I could not stand to be in there one more second.  The noise, the arguing, the clutter, the incessant demands that never allow me a moment of peace.  I knew when I became a foster mother that it would not be easy, but sometimes it just gets so overwhelming that I have to step outside and get away, even if only for a minute.

I stormed down the driveway towards the sidewalk of my little suburban neighborhood, tears streaming down my face, my thoughts raging, my silent prayers practically incoherent.  God, please do something!  I can’t do this any more!  You brought these children into my home, and I have trusted you to help me love them.  You have got to help me!

I hadn’t gone even ten steps, when I ran into my neighbor, who happened to be walking down the sidewalk at the same time.  Oh, great!  Is there nowhere that I can even cry in private?!  Of course on any other day, I would have been happy to see her.  I would have enjoyed a brief chat with her.  But not today.  I looked around in a panic, trying to find an escape route, but it was too late.  She had already spotted me.  She had already noticed my tears.

Good News!

To the 150 million orphaned children in the world who will face this holiday season without a family . . . this is for you.

Do not be afraid, the angel said.   If there is one thing that you need to hear first, it is this: Do not be afraid.  Although there are many circumstances in your life that are uncertain, and the unknown future is terrifying, you will not be able to understand the rest of the message until you let go of fear.  God knows that fear, that terrible enemy that sneaks in and tries to steal your soul, needs to be banished.  He knows that fear keeps your fists tightly clinched, unable to open your hands to receive His gift.  The most amazing gift that has ever been offered.

Not Me!

Do you ever feel like Moses sometimes?  There you are, minding your own business, living in the middle of Nowhere Desert, quietly herding sheep and raising a family.¹  Nothing spectacular ever really happens, and that’s just the way you like it.  There was a time when you thought you might enjoy living in bustling Egypt, with its grandiose building projects, bountiful crops, and a vigorously healthy population.² 

However, as you got older, you realized that the government is corrupt, the average person is way over-worked and under-paid, and the laws, instead of protecting children, actually decree that they should be murdered.³  No, thank you, you think.  That’s not me.  I prefer living an average, peaceful life in seclusion and anonymity.  I like routine.  Predictability.

And then, in one moment, on one ordinary day when you least expect it, everything changes.  You don’t exactly see a burning bush or hear an audible voice, but the message is just as clear.⁴  God is calling you, not to go and deliver his people from slavery, but to go and deliver a child from a hopeless, fatherless future.  He is asking you to be the one to rescue an orphan. 

Your first reaction, the automatic response is, Not me!  You are asking the wrong person, Lord!  I’m not brave enough!  I don’t have any special skills or experience or training.  I don’t have the right personality for it, and I know nothing about children who have been abused or neglected.  And You know I don’t handle stress very well.  I really and truly can’t do this.  Please, oh please, ask someone else to do it!⁵

Love Your Neighbor

Story based on “The Good Samaritan” found in Luke 10:25-37. 

Ponderings based on a journal entry by Marc Ulrich,

a man who is learning what it means to “love your neighbor.”

Once upon a time there was a child.  An innocent child who experienced from a terribly young age what it means to live in a harsh world full of sin and evil and broken people who hurt one another.  Her parents, the very ones who were supposed to love her and protect her, were unable to do so.  Instead of being fed and clothed and cleaned, she was naked and cold.  Hungry and soiled.  She wept tears of pain and loneliness, longing for someone to love her.  But instead of receiving soothing caresses when she cried, she was beaten.  “Shut up!,” they screamed into her terrified face.  And then they abandoned her, leaving her half dead.

A man passed by.  A nicely-dressed, well-educated man who loved the Lord and had dedicated his life to studying God’s Word and teaching others the truths of the gospel.  What perfect timing!  When the child saw him approaching, a small glimmer of hope sparked in her heart.  Hope that someone, finally, had come to rescue her. 

Chosen

How did I get here?  What happened to me?  My tiny body is slouched in a miniature wheelchair, and I have various tubes running in and out of my abdomen.  I am trying to hold my head upright and trying to make sense of my surroundings.  I am trapped in my own little world of severe disabilities.  And to make matters worse, I am trapped in the foster care system.  This is not the life I would have chosen.

The Heart of a Father

His life this past week has been a crazy whirlwind, and this evening he finds himself, once again, in a strange city on the other side of the country, far away from the family he loves.  It is a constant effort to find the right balance between taking care of his responsibilities at work, and taking care of his wife and children.  And since it is impossible to be in two places at once, the struggle remains.

He has an unexpected few hours of unscheduled time, so he decides to take a walk along the beach.  To take a few minutes to try to unwind after his long day of meetings, from the relentless pressure to produce more, more and always more.

As his feet sink into the warm sand, and he listens to the comforting sound of the waves whooshing in and out, back and forth, he takes a deep breath and feels his tight shoulders begin to relax.  His thoughts travel towards home, towards the one place his heart longs to be.  And in his rare moment of solitude he begins to reflect on the past week.  What a week it has been!

Invisible Orphans

Most likely it  is not any of the children at the birthday party.  She wasn’t invited.  How can a child learn how to make friends when she doesn’t stay in one place long enough?¹

It’s probably not the kid on the soccer team.  How can a child learn how to play a sport when he doesn’t have a dad who will kick a ball with him?  A mom who will drive him to practice every week?

But maybe it’s the young girl who sits next to your daughter at school.  The girl with the slumped shoulders who never makes eye contact.  The one who shuffles her feet a little bit when she walks, a result of growing up with shoes that never fit quite right.  Or the one who, when the teacher asks her to read out loud and she stumbles over the words, gets teased and laughed at by the other students.²

Perhaps it’s the little boy you see when you go to the store.  The boy who keeps touching everything within his reach, and who has a tantrum when he hears the word “no.”  Or the one who bats his eyelashes at everyone he meets, knowing that they will inevitably say, “Ah, he is so cute!”

It could be the kid on the swings at the park.  Or the one in the Sunday School class that you teach every week.  Or the one who visited Vacation Bible School last summer.   

They are all around you, and yet they remain invisible.  They are foster children in our own community – in our schools and neighborhoods and playgrounds - who are waiting to be adopted.  They are our country’s invisible orphans.

I Didn't Know

I didn’t know, until I first felt his little hand tucked securely into mine, how much love my heart could contain.  A passionate, fierce, intense love.  A love so acute that it was almost painful.  A love that nearly took my breath away.

I didn’t know, when the Lord saw my empty arms, when I begged him for a child, for an opportunity to be a mother, to imprint my life upon the life of another, that this was the child He had chosen for me.  This charming, magnetic child who attracted people’s notice wherever he went.  Who would walk into a room and instantly meet his next best friend.  Who would go outside early in the morning so that he could knock on the new neighbors’ door and ask, “Do you have any kids my age?”  This bright, curious boy who taught himself to read when he was four years old.  Who carefully drew up architectural plans for his LEGO blocks, and made sure that the plans were followed accurately.  Who chose as his topic for his essay: “The Difference Between Alchemy and Nuclear Fusion.”  (Sorry, buddy.  If you want my help with your homework, you’re going to have to pick a different topic.  Or go ask your father.)

In Search of Ordinary

When we see the look of sheer panic on the teacher’s face this Sunday morning, we almost laugh.  We stand in the doorway, bringing in our assortment of children, trying to wrangle their energy and herd them inside.  She reacts as if we are bringing wild animals into her tidy classroom instead of spruced-up, shiny-faced, Sunday-best little boys and girls.

We have a rainbow of children between us, my friend and I, all of them close in age, all of them different colors, some of them differently-abled, not one of them quiet.  We do make quite a spectacle when we are out, two white mamas with red and yellow, black and white little ones following close behind.  We wish people didn’t feel the need to stare.  Or look at us like we are from another planet.  We just want to be ordinary mamas with our ordinary families enjoying an ordinary Sunday at church.

Praying for a Miracle

Once again we find ourselves sitting in a waiting room, waiting for the results of yet another test.  The same television on the wall is showing the same talk-show host that we’ve seen a hundred times, and the same outdated magazines on the table in front of us do nothing to help the time pass more quickly.

I look tenderly at the little boy here with me – the one with the gorgeous eyelashes, the perfect complexion, and the angelic curls that always tempt me to run my fingers through them.  And I ache with compassion.  Poor little guy!  When will enough be enough?  How many more tests and probes and scopes and scans will he be required to endure?

Breaking Chains

It is appropriate, she supposes, that the metal table under her back is shockingly cold.  It mirrors the coldness running through her veins at the thought of what the doctor is about to do.   Everyone says that this is her choice, but really, what choice does she have?  Her one true love, the one she thought would be by her side forever, is long gone.  She has little education, few job skills, and no means of supporting herself, much less another person.  She can’t ask the members of her church for help; they would surely ostracize her if they knew, looking at her with raised eyebrows, scorn and judgment.

The straps around her feet feel as heavy as chains, shackling her to this table, enslaving her to this terrible moment.  The child inside her will never be an orphan; he will never even take a breath.

This desperate girl

and her unborn child

need to be rescued.

What if . . .?

We sit on the floor of the sunny, colorful little room, each of us holding a specially-formed child in our laps, introducing them, some for the very first time, to the beautiful sound of music.   Because these precious children are blind, they are especially enjoying the rhythms of the songs, the tactile sensations of the drums and shakers, and the physical movements of the motions.  Some spontaneously try dancing to the tempo – awkwardly and yet completely uninhibited.  Some, like my foster child sitting on my own lap, are hesitant and fearful, reluctant to participate in this unfamiliar environment.  And one little girl across the circle from us just smiles and rocks back and forth the entire time, her ears savoring every delicious beat.

I can’t help but notice the little girl sitting next to me, the one with the disfigured face, whose deformed hands can barely grasp the musical instruments, and whose head is wrapped in unsightly bandages – either from a recent surgery or from a misshapen head.  It’s hard not to stare.

Suddenly, my 15-year old daughter, who is attending the musical event with me, interrupts my thoughts.  Leaning over, she whispers into my ear, “Do you see that girl over there?”  She discreetly glances over to the same one I had just been noticing.  Uh oh, I hope she doesn’t say anything too loud or embarrassing, I think to myself.  To my utter astonishment, she continues with pure sincerity, “She is so adorable!”

Impossible

It was never supposed to happen.  From start to finish, every trail of your parents’ journey to reach you was stamped with a signpost marked “Impossible.”  The terrain was rocky and steep, filled with roadblocks, the view around each corner completely obstructed.

They did not qualify to adopt from the country where you were born.  Their finances were woefully inadequate, and they could never afford the adoption expenses.  Their spiritual leaders, the ones they respected and from whom they sought counsel, advised them against it.  She had serious health issues that prevented her from traveling.  And perhaps the most obvious Impossible sign:  another family had already begun the process to adopt you.

Common sense said no.  The list of reasons to quit just kept growing.  The obstacles seemed insurmountable.  Their efforts and prayer seemed futile.  And yet . . . they dared to hope. 

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?

I Could Never Do That!

“Wow, you’re a foster parent?!  I could never do that!”  How many times have I heard that comment?  As if what I do is something extraordinary.  As if I’m something other than who I am:  an average person, just trying to be faithful to what God has called me to do.  

If time would allow, here is how I would love to respond to that comment . . .

While it’s true that you may not be able open your home to a child in need, it is true those of us who are foster parents certainly can’t do it by ourselves.  You can support foster children and those who care for them by opening your heart, using your skills, and sharing your life.  Here are 25 ideas of things that you can do . . .

Making a Difference

Do you remember when you were young, that exciting season of life when you were just starting out, and the whole world was full of endless possibilities?  It was like holding a brand new travel book in your hands and being given carte blanche.  You could go anywhere you wanted to go.  Do anything.  Become anything.  You could devote your life to academia, a career, a family, full-time ministry . . . or all of the above.  And no matter which direction you decided to go, your goal was the same as almost everyone else on the planet: to leave your mark.  To impact people’s lives.  To make a difference.

So of all the options in the world, all of the good, noble roads you could have chosen, you decide to become a foster parent.  You’ve heard the stories of the underprivileged children in your very own town, children who are being abused and neglected and abandoned.  Children who need care and encouragement.  And so you think, Why not me?  You know that you have a lot of love to give, and you want to offer a child the hope of safety and the promise of protection.  Your foster care journey begins.

The Long Road of Healing

Don’t cry little one.  Take my hand.  Let us walk against the wind together.  Let me be the hand that guides you back to hope.  Back to love. – source unknown

Sometimes I forget.  I forget the years of his life that he spent alone.  Trapped in a crib that was less like a bed and more like a cage.  No matter how much he cried, there was no one to comfort him or hold him or rock him to sleep.  And sleep was rare for him, not only because of the constant pain caused by his medical condition, but because of the strangers who came in his room, coming in at all hours of the day and night.  Strangers who would do painful, excruciating things to his frail body.  He would scream and wail, begging them to stop, but they only restrained him more firmly, pinning down his arms and legs so that he could not escape their torment.  Sometimes I forget the horrible trauma that this child has experienced.

He may have no specific memories of those early years.  He would never be able to articulate now what happened to him, or describe why, even though it’s been several years, he continues to have frequent nightmares and unexplained anxiety.  Why he doesn’t want his Mama out of his sight for even a second.  Why hasn’t he gotten over it yet?  He has been rescued from that former life, and theoretically he should be living happily every in the safety and security of his loving family. 

Unfortunately, it’s not that simple.  His body remembers.  His cells have not forgotten.  His soul bears the invisible scars of being abandoned.  The excruciating physical pain.  The utter helplessness.

Is it any wonder that he is plagued by fear?  That unfamiliar situations cause him stress? That he is hyper-alert to his surroundings at all times and doesn’t tolerate surprises or unexpected changes to his routine?   Even being hugged too tightly or being pinned during a tickle fight causes terrified shrieking.  The uncertainty and insecurity, the hidden wounds that are still healing, have taken a terrible toll on his behavior.  The behavior that everyone can see.

Rescue Me

I love you, O Lord, my strength.  The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge.  He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.  
(Psalm 18:1-2)

- - - - - - - - - - -

“It’s here!” she hears from across the room.  “Come quick!  Let’s open it and see what’s inside!”  The postman has just delivered a small brown package, the one they have all been anticipating for the past few weeks.  The other adults in the room are willingly interrupted from their duties, and come over to get a peek at the contents of the package.  The older children nearby pause briefly from their activities, sensing the excitement in the air.  One little girl, who has been playing quietly, tries to see past the children who are crowding around, curious about this change in the daily routine.  She has no idea that with the arrival of that package, her life is about to be forever changed.

Great Expectations

The buzz of excitement in our home is so thick I can almost feel it!  A new little one will soon be joining our family, and we are all anxiously awaiting his arrival.  The older ones in the family are sorting through our large stockpile of clothing that we keep just in case - the assortment of sizes, seasons, and genders; and picking out the cutest ones they can find.  I am busy clearing space . . . in the dresser drawers for his belongings, in the kitchen cabinet for his bibs, bottles and baby food, and in my calendar for the many hours that I know his care will require.  His new papa is re-assembling the crib and re-installing the car seat – tasks he’s done so many times, he can practically do them in his sleep!  And the younger one keeps asking over and over again, “When is he coming?”  We are just like any other family who has a baby on the way . . . the arrival of a new foster child is a time of great expectation. 

A Tale of Two Mothers

Every time I hear the glass doors slide open, my eyes lift with a twinge of apprehension, wondering if it is her.   Because I had been warned that she would be here today, I have purposely arrived early for this appointment, so that I could check in at the front desk, fill out the necessary paperwork, and get settled in the waiting room before having to face her.

Inevitably, the doors slide open once again, and this time she storms in.   She takes one look at the child – her child - sitting on my lap, and scowls daggers at me before choosing a seat far enough away from me to ensure that we won’t feel the need for small talk.  I  mean, what could we possibly have to say to one another?  In spite of her strongest objections and denials of any wrongdoing, Child Protective Services has taken her child away from her and placed him in foster care.  In my home.  In a white woman’s home!  She is furious that I am caring for her child. Furious that someone somewhere considered me a more “fit” parent than her.  Even though she has never met me, in her mind I am the enemy.

While we are waiting for the child’s name to be called, I discreetly steal glances her way, trying to size her up and form an opinion.  I have been told that she can be confrontational and spiteful, so naturally I am wary.  She is smaller than I expected.  Short and extremely thin, with hands that fidget nervously.  Her tiny braids hang down her back and partially cover her face, a face that might be pretty if it wasn’t so clearly filled with anger.  I know the reasons why her child is in foster care.  I have heard about her faults as a mother.  I have little tolerance for parents who do not properly care for their children.  Why is she angry?  It’s her fault that her child is in foster care.  Even though I have never met her, in my mind she is the enemy.

Priceless Gifts

It’s the most wonderful time of the year!  The church’s all-purpose room is filled with tiny white lights, a beautifully-decorated tree complete with a lighted star on top, and an over-sized wreath hanging on the wall.  The chatter in the room almost drowns out the sounds of the Christmas carols playing.  The tables are all set for what promises to be a feast.  At first glance, it appears to be a festive holiday party.  A time for merry-making and laughter.  It could be a scene straight from Currier & Ives.

The ladies of the church have worked tirelessly to make this day special.  December is a crazy-busy time of year, and yet they made room in their crowded calendars to plan this special event.  Preparing the menu, decorating the room, setting up tables, and pressing the linens.  They have created a room that practically glows with all of the love and service that was poured into it.  They have provided, if only for a brief afternoon, a respite from life’s problems.  They created PEACE.

                                       

Look a little closer and it soon becomes apparent that some of the details of this holiday picture don’t seem quite right.  The children, the little ones looking all cute in their finest clothes, the older ones wearing everyday jeans and hoodies, are not laughing or playing.  They are just sitting there with the their hands in their laps, trying not to fidget, their eyes looking straight down at their laps.  Why are they not excited about this, the most magical of seasons?

His Story

Pausing for just a moment on the busy street corner, she thinks to herself, “How in the world did I get here?  When did my life take such a drastic turn?  This is not at all how I imagined things would turn out.”  It is a busy street corner in a bustling part of the city.  Most of the stores and businesses are preparing to close for the evening, and the sidewalk is crowded with people rushing past on their way home after a long day of work. 

There is really nothing out of the ordinary about the girl, nothing that would give people a reason to notice her.  Just an average teenager standing on the street corner.  Plain face, simple clothing, shoes somewhat worn and dirty.  Nothing unusual except, perhaps, the fact that she is very, very pregnant.

A year ago, if anyone had asked her what she envisioned for her future, her answer would have sounded just like many other teens her age:  get married some day, live a peaceful quiet life with a nice man, have children.  She had been raised in a fine, stable, very religious family, and had always been content and compliant, never giving her parents any trouble at all.

And yet here she stands, young and unmarried, about to have a baby in an unfamiliar city surrounded by no one she knows.  No family members, no doctor or hospital, not even a warm bed somewhere.  She actually has no idea where she will be spending the night. 

The Risk

The eyes in the photograph are dark and serious.  He doesn’t smile, doesn’t even pretend to be charming.  Instead, he looks directly into the camera, despondent and hopeless, as if to say, “I know I’m not cute, and there is not much left in me that anyone would love.  But sure, go ahead and take my picture if you must.”   Does he know that this picture will end up in a social worker’s file in a country half a world away?

They see his picture on their computer screen, and their hearts are filled with compassion.  That face!  They have never seen such a somber expression, especially in a child so young.  They long to take him into their arms and tell him, “You will be safe now.  No matter what has happened in your life, no matter what loss and grief and pain you have experienced, we will love you and help you heal.  You are home.”

But they can’t.  Or maybe won’t?  To adopt a child on the other side of the world is terribly expensive.  A sum of money that seems astronomical and impossible to envision.  It would require great sacrifice.  Delayed retirement.  Postponing the repairs to the roof and next year’s family reunion.  Extended time off work to travel to another country.  Is this really a sacrifice they are prepared to make?

Mama Duck

I’m a Mama Duck, I will admit it.  I live in a beautiful pond with lots of other ducks, and oh, how I had dreamed of having a fine row of perfect little ducklings following behind me.  Ducklings that look like me, swim like me, quack like me.

So there she was, a tiny, helpless, fragile little thing.  Motherless, alone and afraid.  I eagerly welcomed her under my wing, thrilled at the opportunity to love and nurture this precious creature.  She was the duckling I had dreamed of!

It wasn’t long, however, before I began to realize that this youngster who had been entrusted into my care was, well, different.  And in the pond where I live, different just won’t do.

An Unexpected Party

(A foster mother's version of "The Hobbit" by J.R.R. Tolkien)

There I was, an average, unremarkable woman, living in a little home in a quiet suburban neighborhood.   It was a quiet home that meant comfort and solitude.  The days were predictable.  Nights were filled with peaceful, uninterrupted slumber.  I certainly wasn’t looking for an adventure.  I happened to like my life the way it was, thank you very much.

I had come from a long line of middle class families, and people considered us very respectable, not only because most of us were hard-working, upstanding citizens, but because we had never had any adventures or did anything unexpected.  This is my story:  the story of how an average, unremarkable woman had an adventure, and found herself doing and saying things altogether unexpected.

Am I Bland?

“Man looks at the outward appearance,

but God looks at the heart”

(1 Samuel 16:7).

We’re passing through the department store, just the two of us.  The glass countertops sparkle under the bright lights, while the perfectly-coiffed ladies standing beside them offer us samples from their manicured hands.  Noticing my lack of interest in the huge array of expensive cosmetics, my companion, never one to be shy, asks bluntly, “Have you always been bland?”  Hmm.  Is there really a correct way to answer that question?

Have I always been bland?  Did I always rush through my mornings, showering quickly, slapping on face cream, running a quick brush through my hair, choosing my clothes based on comfort rather than style?

I’m sure that I was interested in my looks once upon a time.  When I was the only person I needed to worry about.  I distinctly remember staying up late at night to wait for my freshly painted nails to dry, flipping through magazines while trying to envision how the various hairstyles would look on me.  When I had time to flip through magazines.

Many years and 46 foster children later, those days of being preoccupied with  my appearance are long gone!  I have completely different priorities now.  So where did that young lady go?  When did I lose the interest in those vain pursuits?