Will You Adopt Her?

Will you adopt her?  It was a question that they had never considered.  A question they never saw coming.  A question that shocked them to the core, challenging everything they believed!

After months, maybe even years, of prayer and discussion and research, they finally made the monumental, life-changing decision to open their home to foster children.  They just knew that God had called them to provide temporary safety and shelter to a child in need. Their hearts were full of love and compassion for the children they had not yet met– children they knew the Lord would soon bring into their lives. 

They expected difficulties, of course.  When children’s typical development is interrupted by abuse or neglect or trauma, when their world has been utterly shaken by being removed from the only parent they have ever known, of course there will be challenges to overcome.  Of course it will be an enormous adjustment for everyone involved.

And they went into it, fully expecting to get their hearts broken.  They suspected that once they had fallen in love with a dear child for whom they had cared and provided and nurtured, it would feel like torture to watch that child leave, knowing that they would most likely never see him or her again in this lifetime.

The Test

This is a test.  Well, more of a pop-quiz, really, since you did not have time to prepare.  And even if you had known ahead of time, there really are no books that you could have reviewed.  No CliffsNotes to scan or study groups to attend or websites to research. 

So just jump right in and do the best you can.   Read the scenario carefully, and choose the best answer for each question.  When you are ready, or even if you aren’t, you may begin.

Imagine that your seven-year old son has been diagnosed with a life-threatening or terminal illness.  He has suffered from this condition since he was a baby, but somehow you thought he would have improved by now.  You assumed that with the appropriate medical treatment, and with the sheer power of your parental love, he would overcome his disease and thrive.  He would live happily ever after.

And yet in spite of the finest, most advanced medical technologies and the latest pharmaceuticals available, he continues to struggle.  He doesn’t improve.  He perpetually doesn’t feel well, is in almost constant pain.  You aren’t quite sure if this is from the illness itself or from the side effects of his ever-increasing stockpile of medication that he is required to take.  Side effects like insomnia, fatigue, irritability, insatiable hunger, unpredictable outbursts of rage, extreme mood swings.

It’s one thing to care for a medically-fragile baby; quite another thing altogether to parent/discipline/raise a child with chronic ongoing needs.

How do you find the balance between responsible, prudent parent and compassionate, merciful care-giver?  Between strict rules and occasional grace? 

How do you parent a child who suffers?

Love Works

I’m seven, he offers, before the question is even asked. He looks the receptionist right in the eye and instantly attracts her full attention.

His personality can only be described as BIG!  He walks into a church or a building or a doctor’s office or a store or a friend’s house or the neighborhood playground, and the atmosphere instantly becomes alive.  Children and adults alike can’t help but be drawn to his bright smile, his expansive nature, and his quick wit.  The word “shy” is simply not a part of his vocabulary. 

His charisma is partly a God-given gift, an instinctual interest in people and the ability to engage them.   And it is partly the result of his early childhood experiences, when he learned that “survival of the fittest” means being the most charming kid in the room in order to get the attention and care that he needs.  Regardless of how he acquired this congenial temperament, it is impossible not to adore him within minutes of meeting him.  Every person he meets, he believes, has the potential to become his next best friend.

When the End . . . is Not the End

I never could understand why foster children move through so many different foster homes.  Why foster parents don’t just try harder.  Why they don’t stay committed to the child they welcomed into their home.  Why they call the social worker and ask him or her to find another placement.  I always wondered what makes them admit that the story is over.  

Until it happened to me.

It all starts, innocently enough, with a flight reservation.  My husband’s job requires that he frequently travel, often times to faraway places like China and The Netherlands and Brazil.  So this time, when he is invited to speak at a conference in Dublin, a city in the enchanting country of Ireland, I jump at the opportunity to tag along.

Because of the difficulty in finding respite care for our foster children and the detailed planning that requires many hours of my time, I don’t often travel with my husband on his trips – either business trips or vacations.  In fact, it’s been more than three years since we traveled together, usually resorting to our familiar role as a Relay Team.  So now, I am filled with anticipation at the prospect of sitting on the same airplane, staying in the same hotel room, and exploring the same beautiful country together with the man I love!

I had (sort of) forgotten how stressful the preparations are, but I am quickly reminded that getting a foster child ready to be placed in another home, even for a week, is not as easy as it sounds.  Documenting his daily routine and medical care requirements.  Copying his insurance card and custody letters.  Listing all of the legal and medical contacts in case of emergency.  Making sure all of his medications are refilled so they don’t run out while we are away.  And trying to fit these added tasks in between therapy appointments, visits with his mother, and the normal frantic busyness of a household full of young children who require constant attention.

But first, I will need to find a suitable foster home where he might stay while we are gone.  Therein lies the biggest hurdle of all.  I ask every licensed foster parent I know, hoping and praying that he will be able to stay with someone familiar.  He has already experienced such turmoil and upheaval in his short life, that I want to spare him the unnecessary anxiety of staying with strangers. 

However, despite my most diligent attempts, not one foster parent I know is able to care for him, even temporarily.  Some families do not have a parent who can stay home with him, and because of his medical needs, he cannot go to daycare. One family is currently caring for other foster children and do not have any more space.  Another is in the process of moving to a new home.  One is having health problems, one has a lapse in their relicensing, one will be out of town that same week, and one doesn’t feel comfortable caring for a child with special needs.  I do get a glimmer of hope when a friend graciously agrees to care for him, but she is licensed with a different agency, and the lack of communication and collaboration between my agency, her agency, and my foster child’s county makes this option all but impossible.

Maybe I should just give up on my travel plans.  Cancel the plane reservations and just forget about the whole thing.  It would mean losing a considerable amount of money that I had paid for my non-refundable ticket, but that would be a small sacrifice compared to these constant roadblocks and continual frustrations!

Making Wishes

The voice on the phone is bright and cheerful, exactly what I need today.  “I have some great news for you,” she declares.

I could use some great news right about now.  My son has been struggling with complicated health issues for a long, long time, and every time the phone rings, it seems to bring more bad news.  The recent lab work doesn’t look good.  No improvement in the numbers.  The new medication doesn’t seem to be working.  The medical team is deciding what steps to take. 

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, wishes came true.  Miracles happened.  Prayers were answered in the most amazing ways.  A precious baby boy lay in a hospital room, alone, fighting for his life, and against impossible odds, in spite of the doctors’ decision to “make him as comfortable as possible until the end,” he made it!  He was given a chance to thrive!

But here’s the thing about caring for a child with fragile health:  not all wishes come true.  Not all stories end with “happily ever after.”  Sometimes prayers are answered, not with miracles, but with silence.  The medical complications are not easily resolved, there are no specific “praises” that can be e-mailed to the church prayer chain.  He was born with significant health issues, and seven years later, guess what?  He still has significant health issues.  Seven years later we are still praying.  Still waiting for him to be healed. 

Say the Word

“A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart

and will sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words.”

My friend has come for a brief visit this crisp winter morning, although “visit” is a relative term and doesn’t accurately describe our interaction.  It’s hard to have an uninterrupted conversation when there are little ones running around, each one needing something that can’t be postponed.  While my friend sits alone at my kitchen table (in my preoccupation, I may have forgotten to offer a cup of coffee or a glass of water), I change a diaper, refill a sippy cup, start a g-tube feeding, catch the toddler just before he falls backwards off the couch, stop the older one from grabbing his favorite toy away from the baby (and then remind him again of why he needs to keep his toys in his room), clean up spilled Cheerios off the floor, and turn off the feeding pump when the alarm indicates that it is finished. 

The entire time, my friend is sitting there, slightly amused, watching the non-stop chaos that defines the majority of my waking hours.  I try to make light of the situation and say, half-jokingly, the phrase I say many times every day, as if I’m starring in my own video that might be posted online somewhere:  #thisismylife.

To which my friend responds, with barely a hesitation:  It’s the life you chose.

That is the end of the conversation right there.  How can I possibly reply?  It is the life I chose.  When I agreed to care for these foster children, some who have since been adopted into our family, what else did I expect?  A life of spa days and bonbons?

Even so, the comment stings.  I feel like a turtle, safely protected inside my beautifully painted shell, fearful that anyone might see the weak, vulnerable, ugly reptile hiding inside.   In a moment of courage, in hopes of making a connection, I hesitantly stick my head out to assess my surroundings.  To test the waters.  Nope.  It’s not safe.  The grace and compassion I had hoped to find is met, instead, with criticism and judgment.  And so I retreat back into the safety of my shell.  #fakesmile #everythingisfine  I do not say one word.

I received the message loud and clear:  #youchosethislife and #youhavenorighttocomplain and #maybeyoushouldquit. 

Hero

“You always know the right thing to do.

The hard part is doing it.”

- General Norman Schwarzkopf

You regularly wear a black t-shirt that boldly proclaims, “I’ve done things that make me lose sleep at night, so that you can sleep at night.”  It’s true:  While you were deployed, you saw and experienced horrors that most civilians cannot imagine, and now you proudly wear the t-shirt – and the tattoos - to prove it.  You were a soldier, willing to sacrifice your life and fight courageously for what you believe in.  For the citizens who live in freedom, who are able to sleep at night, you are a hero!

But then, when you returned home after your tour of duty, scarred and forever changed, you faced the worst possible scenario imaginable.  A horror far worse than war.  Harsher, even, than combat.  In one tragic, unthinkable moment, tragedy struck, and your child was left fighting for his life.  It was almost more than you could possibly bear!  After hours of uncertainty, he survived his near-fatal injuries, and his life was miraculously spared.  Your nightmares, unfortunately, continue to haunt.

And now, finally, your child is coming home! It is the day you’ve been waiting for and praying about for six long months.  In your excitement, however, be aware that this will be your most critical battle yet.  That the lives and the future of your children are at stake.   You are the one they will need.  The one who will be responsible for their safety and protection and security.  The one who will lead them and set an example for them.  Now, more than ever before, it is vital that you be all you can be. 

You now have an assignment that is classified priority.  You must be willing to sacrifice your life and fight courageously, not for your country this time, but for those you love most.  You have new mission going forward, one of utmost importance:  Operation Enduring Family.

Family Picture

The fact that we are taking our family’s Christmas picture two days after Christmas and sending out a letter in mid-January is evidence of the insanity that sometimes defines our family.  Always running late, frequently missing important deadlines, doing the best we can to keep up with the daily demands of each individual that lives under our roof.

After corralling everyone onto the front porch, rearranging a mis-buttoned shirt here, straightening some flyaway hair there, and adjusting the settings on the camera, we are finally ready.  Smile, everyone!  The picture, after all of the fuss, actually turns out pretty nice.  The image is exactly what we hope to portray:  a beautiful, “perfect” family.  Loving, kind, affectionate, calm, peaceful.  Joy on every face.

The picture does not, however, depict the whole story.  The story of what our family is really like behind the lens:  constant messes, frequent drama, occasional yelling, people running here and there, sibling rivalry erupting at the most inopportune times, tantrums from the little ones (and sometimes the big ones too!), the perpetual struggle for patience, the inevitable exhaustion. 

The picture also doesn’t reveal the whole story in all of its beauty.  The remarkable truth that underlying all of the noise and chaos, there is a sense of design and purpose.  We see glimpses of compassion, hope, sacrifice, friendship, and true, unconditional love.  There is the expanding and maturing and the building of inner character that happen in sudden, unexpected ways, so imperceptible in their growth that, if we are not purposefully looking for them, we may miss them altogether.

Believe

Life is good.  Simple and straightforward and, for the most part anyway, somewhat predictable.

And then there is that one moment when everything changes.  That decisive moment when God asks you to believe in the impossible.  To believe that miracles can happen.  And in that moment, with terrified heart, and with trembling voice you utter the phrase that will reshape the course of the rest of your life:  Yes, you say, I believe.

You know it will be hard, of course.  It’s just that, you don’t know how hard it will be.  How incredibly isolating.  Friends and family members, your favorite people whom you trust and beside whom you live life . . . surely they will share your passion.  Surely they will be thrilled to participate in this grand adventure with you. 

The Gift

He had been anticipating this special day for weeks, counting down the hours that had crept painfully slow. There were more presents under the tree than he could even count, and, oh, the thrill . . . many of them had his name on the tags!  And now Christmas Day was here at last!  He could barely contain his excitement!

He opened the first one, ripping into the paper, the bow flying off.  It was a . . . a book?  Well, that wasn’t exactly what he was expecting, but Ok, he thought.  A book is good.  I like to read.  And still, there were many more gifts to open.  One by one, he opened the packages.  A skateboard.  A basketball.  A chess set.  And with each present that he opened, his shoulders stooped just a little bit more, and each “thank you” became less and less enthusiastic.  When the last gift had been opened, he looked around in utter disbelief, threw himself onto the floor in a heap, and wailed, “But I wanted an X-Box!”

Poor kid.  He didn’t get the one gift he had hoped for.  The one he had been envisioning.  And all of the other gifts, by comparison, were inferior.  It wasn’t that he was ungrateful.  He just couldn’t help but feel disappointed and heart-broken.  Let down.  His dreams for the perfect gift had been dashed.

I get it.  I’m just like my foster son on that Christmas morning long ago.  My dreams were so big and my expectations were so high.  I had prayed and hoped and anticipated the gift that the Lord was going to give me.  I just knew that what He gave me would exceed my wildest expectations.¹

He gave me a gift, alright.  But it wasn’t the one I was expecting.

Preaching to the Choir

It was such a lovely evening, really.  The gorgeous wreath on the door greeted me as I walked up the well-swept path, and the glow from the windows invited me to come inside.  Delicate coffee cups stood at attention next to the folded linen napkins, waiting for the scrumptious chocolate dessert that would soon be served.  The woman seated next to me admired the hand-crocheted doilies underneath the fresh-cut flower centerpiece.  The conversation around the table was muted and polite, nice young ladies making small talk with each other. 

I had thought that this was going to be a wonderful, relaxing evening, one I had looked forward to for weeks.  It had been such a long, long time - years probably, since I had been able to find a babysitter, get away from the responsibilities at home, and make arrangements to attend a ladies Bible study.

I hadn't been there too long, however, before I began to feel 

embarrassed and awkward, realizing that I didn’t really have much in common with these nice young ladies.  I think most foster and adoptive mothers might feel the same way:  How can we be nice, after all, when most days we are warriors, fighting a battle for a child’s health or wholeness or future? ¹  Honestly,  we don't want someone to invite us to a Bible study.  What we really want is someone to come mop our floors or run errands or hold our foster babies while we take a nap.  We feel so isolated sometimes, that we long for someone else to understand what it’s like to love the most vulnerable members of our community. ²

Grief

At one time I may have imagined that love at first sight was a preposterous idea, a result of the wishful thinking of hopeless romantics.  But now that it has happened to me, I no longer doubt its possibility.  She made a believer out of me.

From the moment I first met that girl, our spirits connected.  It was almost like magic, the way she reached down deeply into my heart, tapping into emotions I didn’t realize I was capable of.  A powerful sadness for her lost childhood and stolen innocence.  A fierce desire to protect her.   A pervasive sense that we belong together.  She gave me the courage to say yes to something I had never thought possible: giving my heart to a teenage foster child.  She taught me how to dream.  

Dream

We are just finishing up the busy morning of errands, loading the back of the car with all of the items we had purchased.  “Why don’t you take the cart back to the store entrance,” I suggest, “while I get the little ones buckled in.” 

A few minutes later I pull the car around to the front of the store where she stands waiting, and as she settles into the seat beside me, she pretends to be getting into a taxi.   “If you would be so kind,” she says in a fake British accent, “please take me to the corner of 5^th and High Street.”

I laugh at her sense of humor, and then ask, “Have you been to London?”  I cringe inwardly for being so insensitive.  What a stupid question to ask!  Of course she has never been to London!  What foster child has ever been to London?

“No,” she responds with a sigh, her shoulders drooping slightly.  “I haven’t been anywhere.  I’ve never even been on an airplane.”  I am humbled, reminded yet again of her painful childhood, a childhood that was spent, not traveling the world, but just trying to survive.

In an effort to lighten her spirit, I ask, “So if you could travel, where would you want to go?”

“Paris”, she answered instantly, the light in her eyes returning.  “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris!”

“Paris is beautiful,” I agree.  “I do hope you get to go there some day.  If they offer French classes at your school, you should take them.”

“No, I probably won’t,” she mumbles.  “I probably won’t ever get to travel anyway.  I probably won’t do anything.”

Alarmed at this attitude of defeat from someone so young, I ask, “What do you mean?  You have your whole life before you.  You can do anything you want.  You can be anything you want!”

She stares at me as if I am speaking a foreign language.  As if she has never heard such nonsense before.  “Not really,” she says.  “I’ll probably just end up like my mother.”

My heart breaks for her.  Where are the people who were supposed to encourage her to follow her dreams?  Why hasn’t she been told that the world is full of opportunities and possibilities for young ladies like her?

Say Yes

Would you be willing to care for a teenager for a little while? 

If someone had asked me that question a few months ago, I would have said, No way!  The sweet, little innocent babies?  Of course!  The medically fragile ones or the ones with special needs?  I will consider it, depending on the season of our life and what is happening in our family.  The older ones?  Sorry, I’m just not comfortable with having a troubled teen in my home.

That would have been my response a few months ago.  This, however, is today.  You just never know when an ordinary day and a simple prayer can open your heart.  When a chance encounter will form an unlikely bond.  When God will give you the opportunity, and then the courage, to say yes.

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.

The Storm

The violent storm crashed through our home, causing it to be barely recognizable.  Overturned chairs, black dirt from an upended plant, a shattered lamp, and ugly dents in the wall were left in its aftermath.  I simply stood in the middle of the room staring at the chaos, powerless to move, unable to process what had just happened. 

This was not the first time such a wild tempest had destroyed our otherwise peaceful home, but oh, dear God, please let it be the last!  I love this little girl with all of my heart, but I truly don’t know how much more I can take! 

With increasing frequency over the past year or so, her usual sweet, sunny disposition would unexpectedly turn dark and sinister with very little warning.  I rarely saw it coming.  We would be in the parking lot after a pleasant shopping trip, and suddenly she would be shrieking and flailing, refusing to get into the car.  Or we would be the front yard of a friend’s house, when her enthusiasm for a play date would abruptly morph into wailing and thrashing, refusing to get out of the car.

Even our family vacation to a magical kingdom, which should have been a dream come true, ended in disaster. About 10 minutes after entering the gate, the storm hit.  A fierce, raging storm that unleashed its fury indiscriminately onto everyone and everything in its path.  As I dragged a screaming, kicking, biting, flailing, hyperventilating child through the crowds of “perfect” families, I could feel their scornful accusing stares and could imagine their question:  What kind of mother would let her child act like that?  I could almost hear their exhales of relief as they must have been thinking, I’m glad that’s not MY child!  Never in my life had I felt such shame.

And never in my life had I felt so helpless.  How is it possible for a smart, competent, college-educated adult to be completely incapable of controlling a child’s tantrums?  How could her erratic, hysterical behavior continue to be such a mystery to me?

Go

We’ve all heard the terrifying statistics:  In our world today, there are an estimated 150 million orphaned children.  These children face more than just loneliness.  They face a future without hope.  They face increased risk of disease, trafficking, malnutrition, and death.

In fact, right now, at this moment, in the 3 seconds that it took us to read those statistics, 3 children have died.  That means that three children are now facing an eternity separated from God, because there was no one to tell them about Jesus.  No one to tell them the good news of salvation and forgiveness at the cross.  No one to show them the love of God.

It’s time for us to wake up!  It’s time for us to take our responsibility seriously to “Go into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature.”  (Mark 16:15)  While we are sitting comfortably in our pews listening to nice sermons, while we are hosting nice brunches with the ladies in our church, while we are attending our nice Bible studies and printing our nice brochures and listening to our nice songs, we are completely neglecting God’s purpose for His followers:  to take the good news to the people, including the children, who are lost and dying without Him.

What are we waiting for?  He didn’t say, Go after you are happily married.  Go when your children are grown.  Go when your career is established and when you have your house paid off and when your retirement package is secure.  He doesn’t even say, Go when you have more free time or when you feel better equipped or when you feel more qualified.  He simply says, Go.  It’s a command we have ignored for far too long.

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.

Learning to Trust

She hears the front door squeak open, and she tenses, involuntarily bracing herself for . . . she is not quite sure what.  Whenever he comes home, everything changes.

When she is alone, she can almost relax, almost imagine a life full of peace and serenity and calm.  In the quiet moments, she can remember a time when there was silly laughter and deep joy and infinite hope for the future.  But those days are behind them now, and her home is, instead, filled with frequent strife and familiar bickering.  There is a tension that lives here now, a tension that she can almost feel.

She never knows which one will walk through the front door at the end of the day:  Happy Him or Angry Him.  The him who smiles and asks about her day, or the him who snarls and immediately starts belittling and criticizing her flaws.  The him who wants to chat and engage, or the him who is sullen, angry and withdrawn.

The minute he walks in, the part of her brain that senses danger is activated, and every muscle, every sense is instantly on high-alert.  Are those light-hearted footsteps she hears striding down the hall, meaning that he is ready to interact with her?   Or can she hear a hostile purpose in those shoes, meaning that someone somewhere in his day may have upset him somehow, and now he is ready to take out his frustration on her?  Or perhaps, could it be that she hears a slight shuffle, the defeated trudge that will send him and his dark mood straight to his room, barely even noticing her?

He rounds the corner to where she is standing, and one look at the expression on his face tells her everything she needs to know.  It’s Happy Him.  At least for the moment.  She exhales the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding, and allows herself a smile in his direction.  He grins and greets her with, “Hey, Mom! I’m starving!  What can I eat?”  Her son is home.

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?

No Longer an Orphan

“I waited patiently for the Lord;

He turned to me and heard 

my cry.” 

– Psalm 40:1

We see their sweet faces when we open our e-mail, or when we visit the website of waiting children, or when someone posts their pictures on social media.  They are the children who, after spending much of their childhood in the unpredictable, unstable foster care system, are looking for permanency, a family of their own.¹  They are the children in orphanages on the other side of the world who have never known what it means to have parents, who pray every night for a family who will love them.²  Or perhaps most tragic of all, they are the children who were adopted, who thought that they were going to live happily ever after, but who are now in need of a new adoptive home.³

We see their pictures, their eyes filled, understandably, with deep sadness, or, inexplicably, with steadfast hope.  Those eyes fill our tender hearts with deep compassion, and we can’t help but respond. . .

“Aww!  She is so cute!”

“Look at those beautiful curls!”

“I just love that face!”

“I would bring them all home if I could.”

We cry at the injustice of it all, the unfairness that some children want for nothing, while others have nothing they want.  It’s almost as if we can hear their cries, their pleas to be rescued from their plight – their lonely, precarious, frightening circumstances.

Let the Little Children Come

But Jesus called the children to Him and said,

“Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.

-       Luke 18:16

I almost didn’t come to church today.  If you had even an inkling of how difficult it is to get children with special needs out the door in the morning, you would understand my hesitancy to come.  However, my soul’s hunger for spiritual food, along with my thirst for fellowship and encouragement, or at least a little adult conversation, compels me to pull it together.  Timing the g-tube feeding so that it finishes before we need to leave.  Drawing up all the right doses of medication.  Getting spaghetti-like arms and legs into a dress shirt and pants, praying the whole time that he doesn’t choose this moment to vomit (pretty much a daily occurrence).  Making sure all of the emergency supplies and medical equipment are packed.  (Never again will I complain about packing “just” a diaper bag!)  Folding up the wheelchair and loading it into the car, making sure there are enough seats for the rest of the family.   Getting the other kids and myself dressed and fed.  By the time we are ready to leave, I have already worked up a sweat and feel like I have put in a full days’ work.

He Knew You

From the very second you were created, in that moment when they came together in the darkness in the place where they thought no one would see them, when they were madly in love with one another – from that very first moment of your life when you were just the size of a poppy seed, He knew you.

He knew you when they found out that you were growing inside that most secret place, when you were just the size of an apple seed.  He knew how they would react when they found out.  It may have been an unplanned surprising shock to them, but it was never a surprise to Him.  Even then He was the One who was writing your story.  His timing, His Hand forming your heart and stomach and intricate digestive system, crafted every detail with perfect precision.

When you were about the size of a green olive, He was sculpting your facial features, shaping those tiny ears and that little nose that are uniquely yours.  Your heartbeat was strong enough to be heard on the doctor’s machines. 

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?