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!

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?  

Who He Was Created to Be

After waiting for a few minutes in the waiting room, we hear our name being called and follow the click-clack of the woman’s heels down the hall towards her office.  She motions for us to take a seat on the other side of her desk, offering us coffee.  Commenting on the weather.  Asking if we were able to find a spot in the parking deck across the street without too much trouble.  She is obviously trying to be polite and make us feel comfortable, but I am impatient and ready to get down to business.  We are here for answers, not small talk.

Finally, she sits behind her desk and hands us a thick stack of papers, neatly bound together with a large binder clip.  It my first hint that this meeting is not going to be quick.  Or that the news inside these documents is not going to be good.  I had been secretly hoping that she would give us a single sheet of paper, one that said something simple like, Your child’s test scores all came back in the “normal” range, and you have absolutely nothing to worry about.  Have a nice day!  But of course my secret hopes were entirely unrealistic.  We wouldn’t have requested these evaluations in the first place unless we had suspected that something was seriously wrong.  The thick stack of papers is a professional’s report, confirming and articulating in technical terminology what we already know to be true.

She starts talking about the report, explaining some of the details and diagnoses.  You know how, when Charlie Brown’s teacher talks, all you can hear is Wah wah, wah wah, wah wah wah instead of the actual words?  That is exactly what this feel like.  I can hear this woman’s voice, and I know she is saying actual words, but I am unable to understand any of it through the fog of shock.  How can these words be describing our child?

Seeing our child’s weaknesses and struggles right here in black and white, complete with specific codes from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5), is sobering and heart-breaking.  What parents want to read a document that officially declares that their child is deficient? What parents want to admit that their child is fundamentally flawed? Abnormal?  Broken?

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!

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?

Small Stones

It is just sitting here, this plain glass jar in my bathroom.  The jar is clear and simple, and inside the jar are smooth colored stones, all shiny and perfect.  The centuries that these stones spent tossed in the relentless waves and sand of the Atlantic Ocean have perfectly smoothed away all the rough edges, leaving them sleek and glossy, almost as if an unseen hand has deliberately polished them.  Oh, how I love these serene and beautiful stones that have been sitting here on my porcelain counter for so many years.

Sitting here for so many years, that is, until my two-year old daughter stands beside me.  It takes one curious little hand just one moment to reach for the jar, and in one horrifying crash, the floor is covered with small stones and shattered glass.  Utterly wrecked.  Beyond repair.

In an instant, before I even know what is happening, I am screaming at my daughter, What did you do?  Look what you did?  Look at this mess?  Why do you have to touch my stuff?  Why do you have to break everything?  Do you understand how furious I am right now?  The blistering words spew out of my mouth like an active volcano, sizzling and scorching the innocent little one in front of me, melting her into a puddle of tears.

Whoa!  What just happened?  I am shocked and alarmed at my sudden outburst.  Where did this outrage come from?  What made me lose control like this?  Why would such a minor incident cause me to respond with such a vicious tirade?

Loving Her

I am just sitting down to feed the baby, her eyes getting heavier with each sway of the rocking chair, when the phone interrupts my peaceful moment with it’s shrill ring.  A phone call in our home usually means something important is about to happen . . . a new placement, an update on our children’s case, a new or rescheduled appointment, someone who needs something from me.  Whoever it is will just have to wait, I think to myself.  That’s why we have voice mail.  I’ll listen to the message in a few minutes, after this sweet thing is asleep.

I must admit that this is one of my favorite times of the day, a brief respite of quiet and calm, when loving her is the only thing on my mind.  Oh, how precious she is to me!  She has this habit of looking at me with her deep brown eyes, as if she is looking into my heart, begging me to love her.  Everything about her is miraculous and beautiful and breathtaking.  She frequently touches my mouth, as if to say, I don’t just want to hear your words; I want to feel them.  She snuggles up to my neck in that sweet place that children know how to find, and there is nothing else I would rather be doing.  Nowhere else I would rather be.  I feel like the luckiest person in the world; every day I get to experience the joy, the sheer pleasure, of loving her.

Empty Arms

“I loved you like there was no tomorrow.

And then one day there wasn’t.”  - unknown

The image, the haunting, nagging image, is forever etched in my mind.  The image of the white county-issue car, the social worker in the driver’s seat, the top of the baby seat just visible through the back window, heading down my driveway, the brake lights getting smaller with each turn of the wheels.  One of my most beloved treasures, the little one I adore to the very center of my marrow, is leaving.

I know that it is only for the day, for a little while.  I know that she will return later this afternoon, and I will once again hug her close and squeeze her chubby thighs and tickle her round tummy that jiggles when she laughs.  But for the next few hours there is a hollowness in my heart, a void that only she is able to fill.  For the next few hours, in a dark foreshadowing of what may indeed become real when the judge bangs the gavel for the last time, my arms are empty.

The image, the haunting, nagging image, is forever etched in my mind.  The image of the clear hospital bassinet, the wires snaking into it from the machines against the wall, the top of my baby’s head just visible underneath the blankets.  I am walking away from my beloved treasure, the little one I adore to the very center of my marrow, unsure of when I will see my baby again.

I know that it is only temporary, for a little while.  I know that I will see my child next week, or maybe the week after that, and will once again kiss her round cheeks and feel those tiny fingers wrapped tightly around mine.  But for the next few days, or maybe weeks, there is a hollowness in my heart, a void that only this baby is able to fill.  For now, with a frightening foreboding of what the future might hold, my arms are empty.

It's OK to Grieve

. . . And you live happily ever after.  The end.

The last piece of paper has been given the last stamp of approval, and at last the painful wait is over.  The child you have been dreaming of and praying for all these months is finally home!  Friends are celebrating this glorious and unforgettable event with you.  You are surrounded with shouts of “Congratulations!” and well wishes.  There are welcome-home parties and showers of gifts and friends bringing meals and your extended family coming to visit.  It is a joyous time indeed!

This is the one thing you have longed for more than anything.  This is what you have been preparing for and planning for.  Your dream has finally come true!  Your family finally feels complete.

Where, then, is the happily ever after?  How is it possible for you to feel so sad and overwhelmed?  Where do these tears keep coming from?  These inexplicable emotions add guilt and shame to the confusing mix. 

Of course you cannot possibly say a word to anyone about this.  Who would understand why you are so downcast about a child that should make you so happy?  Who would understand why you would cry when your prayers have finally been answered?  Who would understand your overwhelming emotions when you barely understand them yourself?