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.
