Tendrils: A Foster Care Transition

Some of the them work their way more deeply into your heart than others.

Which means that when they leave, it hurts that much more. It is an extraction. 

Tendrils have entangled and pulling them apart is work. In botany, a tendril is a specialized stem or leaf shaped like a long thread that a plant uses for support and attachment, generally by twining around suitable hosts. These hosts are found by touch.

In foster care, it is much the same. By twining around suitable hosts. Used for support and attachment. Very often found by touch.

And then they need to move on, to be transplanted in new soil, and the tendrils have to be removed from the hosts. Some of them release gently. But some of them don't. They're stubborn; they hang on. Some of them rip off and remain. Still connected to the host. Dangling.

Baby C, there are so many tendrils.

We met you in the hospital, where you had spent the first two months of your life. Such a little chubbers. Cheeks for days. Fluffy brown hair. Bright, happy eyes. Your nurses had long since fallen in love with you, and we very quickly followed suit.

We watched you grow through all the "year one" stages. From a bottle, to baby food, to solids. From random movements of your arms and legs, to rolling yourself over, to crawling, to toddling around like a pro. Your first smile. Your first belly laughs. The first time you started mimicking our voices. The words you were learning: "What?!" "Ball." "Gabe!"

You wanted to be so fierce, with that little growl. (You were not fierce.) Sometimes you would sit at the table and just ... yell. No reason. Just yell. You would often grab a single piece of food from your tray, throw it carelessly onto the floor, and then grab another piece and eat it. Again, why?

You were learning to throw the ball, but every time you tried to throw it, it ended up somewhere behind you, which really cracked us up. One of your best moves was your "double take" look, looking away and quickly turning back with a gleam in your eye and a little smile on your mouth.

Speaking of smiles, you smile with your entire face. It is the most amazing smile ever in the history of smiles. When people would see you smile, it just makes them happy, and we smile with you. Don't lose that, C. That quality will come in handy.

You cried when you were sleepy or when you needed changing. And that was pretty much it. I mean, you got a little crabby after dinner but we took care of that by stripping you down to you diaper, which tended to keep you happy until bedtime.

And when we would rock you to sleep, you had a habit of reaching up your little hand and touching our faces, your curious fingers exploring mouth, chin, cheeks.

Tendrils. Twining for support and attachment. 

Around whose heart though? Who is the trellis here?

And now, you are gone. We were careful with you; we tried to be gentle with your fragility during the process. Tried to protect the roots, the leaves, the tiny tendrils. We think the family you are with now (your family, after all) will be good soil in which you are going to take root and grow into ...

Into what? 

We might be lucky enough to see. To be a part of your life in a new way and watch you keep growing and learning and becoming. To see how you will blossom. Maybe. It's just that whether that happens or not is not really up to us. So maybe. 

All we know for sure is that we did our best. We loved you as best we knew how. We still do. And you are loved by so many people, C. So, so very many people. What a lucky kid you are, to have so many people who love you so much!

A foster family's job is to help a kid learn how to attach. And having learned that skill, they will then be able to attach more easily to the people in their forever family when they transition. 

In other words, once they've figured out how to grow tendrils, to touch another with tender dependence, to find a suitable host to twine around for support, taking root in new soil will be much easier for them. 

It's just that some of them work their way further into your heart than others do. And Baby C, you were in deep. 

I love you Lito. I think you are neat-o.

Oh, inconvenient heart. So quickly filled. So easily broken.

Every One Is 'Gabriela'

Regardless of the circumstances of their specific cases, what has unified all twenty of our foster kids has been the trauma of being removed from their parent or parents.

Kids are taken into foster care for two reasons, and only two – abuse or neglect. That means the adult in charge of caring for them has either treated them as if they are worthless or treated them as if they did not exist. One hears the stories and thinks, “How horrific! Who would do such a thing? What awful people!”

Yet each and every one of our kids has loved their “awful people,” in spite of the horrific things that have happened. That love is experienced as grief when the child is taken away, and that grief is traumatic.

One of our kids (I’ll call her “Gabriela”) was taken into care when police raided the home in which she was living. It was a drug raid, and large amounts of cocaine were seized in the raid. As Gabriela’s case progressed, it was discovered that her mother was from Mexico, and living in the United States without proper documentation. Mom was struggling to get by, looking for a better life for the two of them, and had been taken advantage of by coyotes who promised big and failed to deliver, as is typical. Moving in to the drug house was an act of desperation, a matter of survival. And bad timing.

For a week straight, Gabriela cried herself to sleep every night at our house, repeating a word over and over again as she did. We did not recognize the word, partly because she was crying which made it hard to understand, partly because she was three years old, but mostly because it was a word we had never heard before. It turned out to be a sort of pet name for her mom.

She cried herself to sleep every night crying for her mama.

Stories of children being taken from their parents have been in the news lately, first at the U.S./Mexico border and more recently as a result of I.C.E. raids in Mississippi. These stories have hit my family in a particular way. Every one of the kids whose faces we see on the news, whose voices we hear crying for their parents, whose stories have awakened indignation and ire among so many, every one of them is Gabriela.

Gabriela was reunited with her mom, which is great. And then we lost track of her, which is not uncommon. And so we don’t know where she lives or who she’s with or how she is or pretty much anything about her. She’s a teenager now, which is hard to fathom. In our minds she is still three, still chattering away in a mix of Spanish, English, and toddler, still wagging her finger at us when we tell her it’s time for bed, still crying herself to sleep and calling for her mama.

You may try to come at me with “but they broke the law” and the “it’s the parents’ fault for bringing their kids here in the first place” and the other myopic platitudes that do nothing but make you feel better about yourself. But please, don’t. I have zero patience for it.

Here is the truth: Each and every one of those kids on the news loves their parents, no matter what. And each and every one whose parents were taken away was traumatized by that experience. And that ought to be the priority; that’s what we should be talking about.

Because I just cannot bear the thought of a single child, much less a dozen, much less … however many … crying themselves to sleep at night, calling out for their mamas.

Depleted

We took a year off from foster care when our daughter was a senior in high school, and always said we would do the same for our son. We want to be present for the senior year, attend all of the performances and go visit colleges, and just basically be here. Fully here.

We told the case worker back in the late Spring that was our intention, and she was on board. The court schedule delayed the transition a little while, since we didn’t want to move them before a long-term decision was made about their placement plan. But other than that delay of a few weeks, we have known all along that this transition was coming.

And yet …

Knowing that a foster placement is leaving is one thing; grieving the transition is quite another.

It is especially difficult this time, it seems. These two have worn us down. We are depleted. The energy it has consumed to care for these two boys for these nine months has left us very little with which to focus on anything else. At least, not very well.

The level of chaos and disruption that their past trauma has brought into our home is hard to describe. And their past trauma follows them everywhere, bringing the chaos and the disruption along the way. It’s a particularly nasty kind of frustrating; just when we start to think there are signs of progress, like they might be “figuring it out,” things shatter, and come crashing down.

Their subconscious sabotage of all things functional is maddening. Like we are living an alternate reality. And it’s exhausting.

We are depleted.

So this one doesn’t feel at all like a foster parent “win” for us. Twelve years and twenty kids, and we have enough experience to have seen pretty much everything, and there have most definitely been “wins.” But right now, not so much. Words like defeat, failure, surrender … these seem more fitting.

The boys’ behavior is so erratic, so chaotic, that it is impossible to predict what will happen now. There may be a “honeymoon” for the new foster family, during which things seem to be on track. And I hope and pray that it stays that way and they find a forever family there.

And it is just as likely that the one will disappear into the deep sorrow that defines his identity and the other will lash out from the uncontrollable rage that lurks in his heart, and it will all come crashing down. Again.

This morning I knelt down and looked into the three year old’s eyes. I said, “We are gonna have a good day today, right?”

His sweet and sincere “Yes Daddy” will linger in my memory.

Then we did three deep breaths, like we do every morning, and he went into the room to greet his teachers.

And now it’s not even that I don’t know what to feel, it’s more like I just … don’t. Like the emotions are so conflicted that they’re cancelling each other out. And we’re just left void. Blank.

Depleted.

He Has Seen Monsters

At breakfast this morning our three year old foster son and I had a conversation in which I attempted to convince him that monsters are not real. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he did not believe me, and considering his life experiences, how could I expect him to?

He knows there are monsters; he has seen them.

We don’t know all the details of what our two boys went through prior to being taken into care. We probably never will. But we do know some things.

We know that the four year old flinches almost every time I walk by him, even if I am not approaching him directly.

We know that the three year old’s temper tantrums come out of nowhere and are uncontrollable; last week in the middle of one he said, “I can’t hold it!”

We know that they have somehow learned words and phrases that we never taught them, that they never heard in our home, and they repeat them at times designed to create mass reaction.

We know that they are happiest when we are angry. Angry adults are “normal” in their world.

So even without knowing the details, we know enough. We’ve been parents for twenty years, foster parents for twelve, so we’ve been at this for a while. We know enough.

Yes, there are monsters, and our boys have seen them.

“There can be no keener revelation of a society’s soul than how it treats its children.” That’s how Nelson Mandela began his remarks at the launch of the Nelson Mandela Children’s Fund in May of 1995.

He continued, “We come from a past in which the lives of our children were assaulted and devastated in countless ways. It would be no exaggeration to speak of a national abuse of a generation by a society which it should have been able to trust.”

I fear that we are living in such a time in our nation. In my work I have seen children being “assaulted and devastated in countless ways,” and my spirit is burdened with a call to heal the brokenness I see within and among so, so many. To let them know that they matter, they have inherent sacred worth, just for being who they are, a beloved child of God.

Fred Rogers wrote, “One of the universal fears of childhood is the fear of not having value in the eyes of the people whom we admire so much.” The overwhelming majority of child abuse is perpetrated by people that kids admire, that they love, that they trust. And neglect by definition happens when a grown-up who is expected to be caring for a child, doesn’t.

If we as individuals, as families, as churches, as communities, as a nation, as a global village … if we do not take into consideration the long-term consequences of our words and actions on the children around us, we are failing. Children will listen.

Because our three year old believes that monsters are real, and I really can’t say he’s wrong.

"The Pick Up" - Thoughts on Removing Kids from Parents

I drove up to the house that New Year’s Day morning, not knowing what to expect. I had been given the address by the caseworker, and was told they would be waiting for me. It had all been arranged. But still, this was the first time I had done anything like this, and I don’t mind saying, I was scared.

We had gotten the call the day before: two boys, ages five and two, dad was unable to care for them any more because of his developmental disability. Could we take them?

Yes. We have room, we’ll be more than happy to take them.

There were no workers available to get them. Could we do the pick up?

Wait. “Do the pick up?” You mean go over and remove them from their dad’s home? Us? Sure, we had plenty of experience receiving kids into our home who had been removed, but no one had ever asked us to be the actual ones to go and get them.

Yes please, if you could. It would be very helpful.

So we said we would. We’re foster parents; it’s what we do. We take care of kids who need taken care of for a little while. This was a part of the deal. So we said we would.

I drove up to the house, pulled into the driveway, and turned off the engine. I saw a face at the front window, small, pale, eyes wide. With a flick, it vanished, and the curtain swayed shut.

I got out of the van and zipped up my coat against the cold before I walked to the porch. The door opened as I approached. A woman, about 30 years old, eyes red from crying, trying bravely to smile. “Hello,” she said.

“Hello. I’m Andy.”

“Come on in,” she replied.

There was a pile of boxes, suitcases, and backpacks just inside the door. “Here’s their stuff,” she said.

From the back of the house, I heard a child’s voice. “No!”

A man walked into the room, carrying a boy. He didn’t look at me. The boy was struggling in his arms, pushing against his dad’s chest, trying to get down. The man had him in that firm yet gentle grip that one only learns from plenty of experience with wiggly boys.

Another, smaller boy trailed behind.

“Let’s get your stuff, boys,” he said.

The woman started picking up bags, I grabbed a couple of suitcases, and we went outside. The man held on to the squirming boy, and followed. The little one was a shadow.

We put our load of luggage in the back, and then the woman said to the man, “Why don’t you go ahead and put the boys in the car?” This was a really good idea, and I opened the side doors for him. He began to buckle the boys into the car seats while we went back into the house to get the rest of the stuff.

When we got back out to the van, he had calmed the bigger boy down enough to buckle him in, and he was working on the little one, who was quite a bit easier to manage. When he had him secured, he walked back around to the other side of the van.

I watched as he put his hand gently on the boy’s small head, bent over close, and rested his forehead against his son’s. I did not hear what he said; his voice was low and it wasn’t my place to invade that moment. When he stood up, his son again offered a weak, confused, “No!” and began a litany, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” that was spoken slowly, through the tears that were streaming down his face.

When he heard his big brother start up, the two year old joined him, but with less intensity, more like he was sad that his brother was sad than the bitter grief of being separated from his home. He knew, yet he didn’t know.

The man closed the van door and walked quickly back into the house, head down, never once meeting my eyes.

I looked at the woman, who had fresh tears overflowing her eyes. I tried to smile, and said, “I promise you we will take good care of them.” I closed the two year old’s door.

She just nodded at me, unable to say anything.

So I got into the van, started the engine, and drove home.

They cried the entire trip.

Granted, just because I have physically removed children from their parent does not make me an expert on immigration policy. But in light of our work as foster parents, the stories coming from our nation’s southern border are particularly disturbing.

Families seeking refuge in our country are, by many accounts, being forcibly separated from one another and the children are being placed in the care of the state. A high-ranking member of the current administration has referred to this policy as “a tough deterrent.” Another said that if parents don’t want their children taken away, they shouldn’t bring them along.

I find that the arguments in favor of the policy are not even slightly compelling, and in fact are abhorrent to me. To argue that a parent has violated a law and therefore anything that happens to them or to their family is justified is not only a profound oversimplification of the situation, it is flat-out evil. Official U.S. immigration policy now feels like the kind of thing the “bad guy” would do in a movie, and not a very good movie at that.

And yet …  how can I think this when I myself have been the “bad guy?” I am a part of a system that removes children from their homes when it is deemed necessary. In fact, I have been the one doing the actual separating! Can I with clean conscience say that what’s happening is wrong unless it’s happening within the system I’m a part of? What is the distinction?

Whatever is happening at the policy level, real people have been given the task of taking real kids from real parents. Whatever is said at a press conference in front of an audience, a person goes up to another person and takes their child away from them. Whatever may be true at the “macro” level in terms of law or economics or politics, someone has to “do the pick up.”

And it is awful. It hurts. Trust me, I know.

For me, the most important questions to ask have to do with the children. Are they safe? Do they have food, clothing, and shelter? Are they being cared for? Is someone there with them, telling them not to be afraid? Do they know that they matter to someone? Do they realize they are somebody who is worth something?

And is everything being done, with as much urgency as possible, to get them back home again?

"Dear Provider"

“Dear Provider:

This letter is being sent as notice that the department, as a result of a reduction in appropriations for foster care, adoption, and legal guardianship maintenance services, will be reducing your maintenance amount equal to one-and-a-half percent (1.5%) effective July 1, 2017.

…

Sincerely,

Procurement Unit

Division of Finance and Administrative Services”

We got two letters from the Missouri Department of Social Services this past week. The one quoted above refers to our adoption subsidy contract with the state.

The second applies to our contract with the state to provide Professional Foster Care, Emergency Foster Care, and Foster Respite Care. The good news in that letter was that our contract had been renewed another year. (Huzzah.) But the second paragraph noted that “the amount appropriated for maintenance services will be decreased by one-and-a-half percent (1.5%).”

Every foster and adoptive family in the state of Missouri got similar letters last week. “Dear Provider: ... ” Our society has deteriorated (regressed?) to the point at which fiscal conservatism has become an accepted reason to make it harder for abused and neglected children to find safe and loving homes. This is life now. Or as John Oliver put it, “This is something, as long as we live in a world where something means anything, and I'm not sure we do anymore.”

This from the State of Missouri, which already had one of the lowest foster care compensation levels in the nation. And by the way, no we are not “doing it for the money.” And by the way, yes we will actually feel this reduction, and have to adjust our household budget as a result.

But rather than demonize Governor Greitens (and if I let my anger govern my reaction, I could, believe me!), I’ll just say that I wish he would have been honest. I understand he’s trying to balance the budget, but it would have been nice for him to be honest about it.

Last month, he said this:  “Our state has 13,000 children in the foster care system. They are, both in law and spirit, Missouri's children. Our kids. We recognize the potential of kids in foster care. We honor hard-working foster parents. And we've got a lot of work to do in Missouri to fight for, work with, and build a better system for our foster families.” Click here. 

I’d like to highlight one particular sentence: “We honor hard-working foster parents.”

Okay, I’m gonna just stop you there, Guv. You cannot have it both ways. You cannot stage an adorable photo op with (what we assume is) a group of foster kids, talk about how you will “fight for” us and “work with” us to take care of foster kids, and then MERE WEEKS LATER send us generic letters ("Dear Provider:") informing us that you are cutting our compensation. Because that’s pretty much the opposite.

The governor has not in fact honored us, and so I am expecting him to issue a public apology for his previous statement. I don’t know the process for an official government retraction, but he needs to do it.

So Governor, here’s a suggestion: “Dear Provider: In order to balance our State budget, we are going to need to cut pay to foster and adoptive families across the state. I realize this does not honor their hard work, and in fact many providers will see this as an insult. However, I think that a balanced budget is more important than fairly compensating them.”

Just be honest with us. Please.

"So That's a 'Yes?'" or, "How to Push a Foster Dad's Button Without Really Trying"

The “car rider line” at school is not my favorite place to be. Just in general. So I was already kind of grumpy as I picked up the fifth grader at the end of the day.

Then, after the fifth grader was loaded, a teacher leaned into the front passenger window. She stood there, elbows planted on the door, preventing me from moving on, dozens of cars behind me, dozens of kids waiting to be picked up witnessing the exchange, several other teachers watching closely.

She proceeded to describe the fifth grader’s behavior in her class. She’s the art teacher, which is only relevant because she lacks any day-to-day interaction with our fifth grader. That is to say, she doesn’t know him. Now, what he did was not okay, but pretty typical behavior for him. I listened to her, and then at the end of the story she said, “…and I’d like you to talk to him about it.”

“Thank you,” I replied. I thought that would end it, so that we could go home and I could parent the fifth grader appropriately, in the way that would work best for him.

But no, that didn’t end it.

She said, “So, that’s a ‘yes?’”

Now, I have never met this person, she’s obviously never met me, so I was able to utilize a fairly successful filter on what I actually wanted to say to her. Something along the lines of “I’ve parented eighteen children, ma’am. I know what I’m doing. Get your elbows off of my car so we can be on our way. And by the way, mind your own business.” [*Filtered.]

“So, that’s a ‘yes?’”

And what I actually said was, “You need to know that this isn’t helping.”

“What?”

“This isn’t helping,” I repeated.

“What isn’t helping?” she asked.

“This conversation. Shaming him in front of me, in front of the other teachers, in front of his peers. This is going to make it worse.”

“I’m not shaming him. I’m saying you have to talk about it with him. His behavior was unacceptable.”

I may have sighed. “Please, just try to learn the full story here. Talk to the principal please. Get the full story.”

“So are you going to talk about it with him?” Persistence is not always a virtue.

I said, “Please just trust me. You are making things worse. You need to get the full story.”

Whether it was my words or the impatient glares of the dozens of parents in the cars behind us, I don’t know. But she took her elbows off the car and said, “Oh, I will get the full story.”

“Thank you. I think that will help,” I said and drove away.

The fifth grader in the back seat is our foster son. Let’s call him “David.” 12 years old. Been with us all school year and in less than two weeks is transitioning back home again.

And so because of this impending transition David is currently in the process of sabotaging every positive relationship he has formed over the past year. He is doing this so that when he gets back home again he will be able to talk about how much he hated it, how bad things were, how everyone treated him so poorly. This will in turn allow his home life to appear happy and healthy. (And of course we hope it truly will be.)

So he is sabotaging his relationships … with me, my wife Erin, our son Gabe, every teacher (including Art Teacher), the principal (who has been his biggest fan all year long – she is awesome), people at church, the kid next door that he loves to play with, and on and on. The only relationship he hasn't attempted to dismantle, as far as I can tell, is with our neighbor Rob, who lets him play basketball in his driveway.

He is infecting these relationships with bad feelings. Probably not on purpose, but at a subconscious level, in a way that would provide all kinds of fascinating material for a psychology student’s term paper. Of course we are on to him; we can see exactly what is going on and so we are trying to respond accordingly, with patience and affirmation.

But Art Teacher is clueless. Because she doesn’t know him, doesn’t know his story, doesn’t know what’s going on in his life. I am not upset with Art Teacher for telling us about David’s behavior, you understand. (She should have emailed us.) I am upset because I tried to deal with it in the way that would be most helpful, and she, out of her ignorance, would not allow that to happen.

See, when David is caught doing something inappropriate and you confront him about it, he doubles down on it. He does it more. That is especially true when you confront him about it in front of other people. And it is even worse when the other people are his peers.

He postures and puffs up and acts very “macho,” says ridiculous things like, “Well I’m gonna tell everyone that Santa isn’t real” and “Nobody really likes Michael Jackson.” And yes, that is actually hilarious, but as for addressing the actual behavior in question, it isn’t effective.

And see, I know that about him. And I know what he is going through, how the anxiety and fear about moving back home is subconsciously motivating his destructive attitudes and behaviors. Even knowing that, even knowing him … it’s hard. It hurts. It’s frustrating. It feels like failure.

And so I guess one of the reasons Art Teacher pushed a button in me yesterday is that she just knew that simply “talking with him” about it was going to fix it, and therefore I heard her “So that’s a ‘yes?’” as an indictment of our failure to help David negotiate this difficult season.

When we got home, I asked David about what Art Teacher had said. He postured, puffed up, got defensive, and explained himself to me. And so it goes.

But it was just him and me, so it was manageable. It ended with me telling him, “You are not in charge of how other people act. You are only in charge of yourself, your own choices.”

And he mumbled “I don’t care” and went to play basketball at Rob’s.

And so it goes.

At least he was getting some exercise.

Refugees Among Us

Okay, let’s talk about refugees.

A refugee is one who is seeking refuge. Their home is not safe anymore, and in desperation, they are running for their lives. Most have been forced out, they are powerless, all control over their lives resides in the hands of others.

There are literally millions of them around the world.

From a security perspective, there is an ongoing public debate about whether or not to accept them into any given country. It is a question of resources, of public safety, of basic sanitation. These are legitimate questions.

From a Christian perspective, there is really no debate. There ought to be no question. Followers of Jesus will say “Yes” to every refugee, everywhere, at any time. The only questions would be the logistical ones pertaining to how, not the philosophical ones pertaining to if.

But with that said, how might an individual follower of Jesus say “Yes” to a refugee in the world? Tweet about it? Share a pithy meme on the Facebook? Write a nice articulate “statement” and put it on a website somewhere?

I’ll tell you how. I guarantee you there are dozens of refugees in YOUR town right now. If not hundreds. People who are seeking refuge. Forced out of a home that is no longer safe, if it ever was. All control over their lives taken violently away. They are desperate, powerless, scared.

They are children in the foster care system, and they need you. No, their pictures are not spread all over your newsfeed. They do not make headlines. But are they not refugees, as much as the ones fleeing the violence in Syria?

Foster kids only become foster kids if they’ve been hurt - abused or neglected. The home that they know and love is not safe for them. They are removed by strangers, taken to a place they’ve never seen before, every decision made by people they don’t know, people that they do not trust. They have no home, no foundation, all is chaos.

Do you really want to help a refugee? Do you actually want to do something that will make a real and noticeable dent in the world’s suffering? Do you really? In “Fiddler on the Roof,” a revolutionary young man named Perchik asks, “Why do you curse them? What good will your cursing do? You curse and chatter but you do nothing. You’ll all chatter your way into the grave.”

The point is - DO something. Enough chatter. There is no try. Do.

Now I confess, honestly and openly, that foster care is our particular calling. My family has opened our home to sixteen refugees over the years, and we’ve given one of those sixteen a forever home. I’m passionate about foster care, and very, very biased on this issue. I’ll own that.

And furthermore, of course the refugees from the middle east should be welcomed, sheltered, fed, given refuge. The same goes for any refugee anywhere in the world. It clearly is not an either / or proposition. I have very little patience for the “no refugees until all American homeless people are cared for” position. That’s a false dichotomy, hardly worth refuting.

My point is just this. If you actually want to help a refugee, you can. Become a licensed foster parent. Open up your home to a child who needs refuge. Do it now. Use the anger you feel about “this refugee situation” as motivation to do something courageous and noble and (dare I say it) … Christlike.

Do you want to talk about refugees? Do you really? Do you want to help one? Do you want to meet one? Because there’s a list. In every town in every county in every state in this great nation - hundreds of kids. They are no less refugees than the thousands of people whose images are currently scrolling on the news. 

And they're not going anywhere.

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Click this for information.

(Foster families, thank you for everything you do. Respite providers, thank you. Case workers, therapists, lawyers, judges, and all the rest who devote your lives to foster kids, thank you. Agencies whose mission is helping foster kids, people who give support to those agencies, thank you. It doesn’t take a village; it takes a world. You are the world for some of the most vulnerable refugees among us. God bless you all.)

Baby D, You Are Beautiful

Hey Baby D, I’ve got some stuff to tell you. You’re going back home tomorrow and so before you go I just want to make sure that you know some stuff. I might not get a chance to tell you this later on, so I’m going to tell you now, okay?

First of all, I love you very much. So does Mommy Erin and Cori and Wes and G-man. We love you so, so much. We think you are absolutely beautiful, in every sense! We’ve loved you ever since you were two days old, the day that we first met you and you came to stay with us for a little while. Now you are six months old, and we love you more than ever! And remember, we will love you for your whole life, no matter what.

And also, your Mommy and Daddy love you very much. They always have, and they always will. They had some really important stuff they needed to take care of before you could go to live with them, and now they’ve taken care of all that stuff and they are ready for you! Isn’t that great! They’ve seen you every single week of your life, and every visit they’ve loved you more.

Wow! You have so many people who love you. What a lucky boy you are!

Hey D, people are going to tell you that you look just like your Mommy. The first time I met her, I told her so. It’s true - you are your Mommy’s little boy, through and through. She’s kind of quiet and shy, but I get the feeling that she’s really strong, too. And beautiful, just like you! I know that she’s going to do her very best for you, and that you will learn a whole lot from her. She’s going to take care of you all the time now, so you be really nice to her, okay? Help her out.

Try not to spit up on her as much as you spit up on us. You are a very spitty baby. We tried and tried to figure out how to make you not spit up so much, but you were having none of it. At seemingly random times, and most often when there was no bib or burp rag available, and frequently all over a brand new shirt or pair of pants. It’s almost as if you planned your spit-ups for the most (least?) opportune moments. Not your most beautiful moments, perhaps.

You’re a strong little turkey, that’s for sure. You can hold your own weight on your legs; if you could figure out the balance thing you’d be standing on your own! You’re just about able to sit up by yourself, but we keep pillows behind you to catch you when you fall over. And hey, you can roll over now, every now and then, but it kind of makes you mad when you end up on your tummy and then you don’t know where to go from there.

Then there’s your hair, which tends to stick straight up. Look, I’m really sorry about that. At first, Mommy Erin thought it was cute so after your baths she made sure she dried it all sticking up crazy like that. And now even when we try to brush it down it just goes “boing” up in the air all over the place. I must confess though, it actually pretty cute. Beautiful, in fact. And it perfectly matches your personality. So maybe I’m not quite as sorry as I said before.

One thing that I hope never changes, Baby D, is your smile. When you smile your mouth opens so wide it looks like you are going to start singing! Your eyes twinkle and you’ve got this wonderful dimple in your cheek and your whole body sort of shakes and flails out of control. Feet, hands, head - you smile with your whole entire body, and it makes everyone who sees it really, really happy. It may be your most beautiful thing!

Sometimes I like to put my nose on your cheek, right by your ear. Then I wuffle my face back and forth and gently nibble on your neck. This never fails to crack you up. I try not to do it too often, and give you plenty of breaks. But you have to realize, it’s all for the sake of seeing you smile. I’m going to miss that smile.

Smile at your Mommy and Daddy a lot, okay? It will make them really happy, too.

Listen, I know that it is going to be kind of confusing right at the start. You’re going to wonder where we are and not have any idea even how to ask the question. That might make you kind of nervous or anxious at first, while you’re still getting used to living with your Mommy and Daddy all the time.

I think you’ll especially wonder where G-man is. And he’ll wonder the same thing about you. You’ve shared a room for the last six months, after all. That’s your whole entire life, and one quarter of his! He’s your best buddy.

G loves you so much, and even though you can’t say it yet, it is obvious that you love him. You two boys play with each other all the time, on the living room floor, on our bed, in your room. He calls you “Koka,” and he tries to give you your binky when you don’t really want it, and the throws toys at you sometimes, and he likes to pat your head which often knocks you over, and he lies down beside you on the floor and looks at your face and laughs, which then makes you laugh and that makes him laugh even more. You adore him. Quite often just as we are calling out to G to tell him he’s being too rough with you, that’s just when you laugh with delight. Oh well.

The G-man is going to miss you, Baby D.

But here’s something. Your Mommy says that she wants us to come and visit you sometimes, and maybe you can come visit us, too. We will try to stay in touch with her, so she can call us whenever she wants to.

Yeah, I know. It’s not going to be the same. But that’s how it goes, isn’t it? Here’s something I really want you to know: Things change. That’s what happens when you live; people grow, people change, people learn, people move, people leave. We can never keep things just like they are; that’s not really living, is it? Whatever happens, we’ll still love you, though. That’s a promise.

Sometimes people tell us that they could never be foster parents because they’d love the kids too much to let them go. What they don’t understand is that the number one reason that we’re “letting you go” is exactly because we love you so much. Loving another person means that you want what is best for them, even if it makes you kind of sad. Even if it breaks your heart, in fact.

And so we’re not really “letting you go.” We’re sending you home, to live with your Mommy and Daddy, because that’s where you need to be. We will always, always, always be here for you if you need us. And we love you forever, no matter what.

You are beautiful.

To Z and G, From Daddy Andy

I went to look at the ducks without you guys this morning.


It’s raining. I don’t see any. You would have gotten bored really fast, anyway.

We used to come here every two weeks on Monday mornings, to spend some time together before I would take you to school. To be honest with you, it was more about keeping you buckled in than actually looking at ducks, but I’m pretty sure you never realized that. Maybe you did, though, you are very smart.

One time when we were here, during the time you were potty training, Z, you suddenly had to go potty. I drove the car over to the building, parked, went around and got baby G out, went around again and got you out (see, I couldn’t have gotten you out before getting G out because you would have made a run for it), then holding G in one arm and your hand in the other, we somehow made it into the bathroom. I helped you get all situated, using my one free hand and trying not to drop your brother with the other. Then … you didn’t go.

I see a bird. It’s not a duck, but it’s walking in the water right next to the shore. See it? It would have held your attention for a few seconds. Maybe.

Then you would have shouted at it to get it to fly away.

Or maybe reached over to take G’s sock off. Or hit him, even.

G loves you, Z. He loves you as purely as any person has ever loved another. We can see it in his face when he looks at you. You need him, to connect with, to attach, to love. He needs you, too. He’s your baby brother, and most of the time baby brothers get taken care of by their big sisters. But he needs to be protected from his sometimes.

It’s not your fault. It’s just that your love is out of whack. Your attachments don’t connect like other people’s. You will be gentle and sweet one second, tenderly stroking G’s head and cooing “It’s okay” to him, and the very next second something makes you push him over, or poke him in the eye, or dig your fingers into his head, or hit him.

You did that to us a lot, too. And it was really, really hard for us when you did.

One time you showed your worker your pretty picture you had colored at school. When she told you how pretty it was and what a good job you did, you tore it up.

It’s raining pretty hard now. I wonder if sitting and listening to the rain, watching it splash in the lake, if that would hold your attention for a few more tenuous moments.

We called you Pinball sometimes, Z, because you bounced from naughty thing to naughty thing so quickly. Grab the cell phone - touch the TV - run with the juice - back to the cell phone again. You were very frustrating. You made us very angry a lot of the time. Because we loved you, you see. We didn’t want to be angry, and we’re pretty sure you didn’t want to make us angry, it’s just that you couldn’t really figure out how not to. And we could never figure out how to make it so that you didn’t always try to. We did our best, but I guess we kind of failed you on that one.

We called you Pinball, also because you could barely stand up sometimes. Your balance, or your legs, your hips maybe - nobody could really figure out what was going on with that, even the big shots at Children’s Mercy. So you had casts for a while to try to bend your legs into shape, then braces. We called them your “boots” and they had Disney princesses on them, so you would think they were fun. You didn’t. You really liked to take them off and be barefoot.

Actually, you really liked to take all your clothes off and put different ones on - flannel pajamas in the backyard on an 80 degree day was not uncommon. Or a nightgown for a shirt and leggings for pants, with a fleece sweater over the top for good measure.

“Daddy may I fwing me on de fwing,” you said. When I gave you a “thumbs up,” you would put your pointer finger up and it made me smile.

Z, you lived with us for 21 months. And we loved you for every single moment of that time. We loved you anyway.

Our longest one.

Our hardest one.

Our wild one.

Not you G. You lived with us your whole life, all 11 months of it. As rough as your sister was, that’s how sweet you were. You were even sweet there in the NICU where you spent the first few days of your life. We came to see you there, we held you, we rocked you, we sang to you. We loved you from the very start. You were a giant compared to the other babies there!

We were scared of having a newborn baby again, a little bit. But you made it so easy. You slept, you ate, you pooped, you slept again. Easy.

Once you learned how to smile, G, it’s like you never stopped. You smiled with your whole body - your face beamed, your eyes danced, your head shook, your hands waved. Every time you smiled, everyone with you smiled too.

You loved to shake your head back and forth, mouth open, saying “ahh” in a silly voice, and get people to laugh at you. You even liked doing this for the other babies in your daycare class. Class clown already. And you can clap, too, which was also fun because everybody said “YEA” whenever you did it.

Sometimes Z would come up to you and get up in your face and say, “It’s bl-bl-bl time!” (I don’t know how to spell the sound she was making, flicking her tongue in and out of her mouth.) You don’t know the term “unconditional love” yet, but you know exactly what it means, because it’s how you love your sister. When she was in the room, your eyes tracked her every move.

You had a bunch of expressions, G. And the one that completely killed us was your “saddest face ever” expression. It was the lower lip out, mouth curled down, eyes filling with tears expression that just absolutely melted us down into blubbering lumps. It was like what an artist would draw to create a caricature of a sad baby face. You owned it!

And listen - you learned stuff at you own pace, G. You are not on anyone else’s timeframe, and don’t ever think you have to be. You were going to sit up when you were ready to, and not any sooner than that. We would prop you up on your hands and knees and rock you back and forth to try to teach you about how to crawl, and you would collapse in a heap.

But you did it. You figured it out. And now you are a crawler.

And you will, too. You will figure it out. It will be by your own time frame and in your own way, but you’ll figure it all out.

Hey, there’s a goose. It’s just swimming by, right there. See it? That’s right, the goose says, “haw haw.”

It’s weird without you guys. It’s quieter. I hate it. I love it. It’s weird.

We really miss being so angry at you, Z.

We really miss you wiping your snotty drool all over our clothes, G.

That’s right. It’s wonderful. It’s awful.

It’s love.

Your Daddy S gave me a hug when I dropped you off. He told me thank you for taking such good care of you. Your Mommy C did too, and she said that she wants us to stay in touch, so that we can still be a part of your lives somehow. That would be nice.

The rain stopped. Still no ducks. It’s time to go.

Thoughts on Devastation

Devastation.

I have heard this word more often in the last two days than I usually would in two months. In every case it is being used to describe the town of Joplin, Missouri, just over an hour west of here. Lots of big numbers: EF5 - 200 mph - 6 mile path - 750 injured - 8,000 buildings - 123 lives.

The pictures posted online reveal a chaotic landscape of jagged rubble. Cars tossed haphazardly, trees stripped of branches, skeletal silhouettes that used to be buildings, mounds of trash that were once people’s homes. Utter devastation.

The outpouring of help has been so enormous that people are now being told to actually stay away from Joplin at this time. Too many of us well-intentioned but untrained volunteers would get in the way of the people who really need to be there right now.

But the first impulse for many is to help, somehow, some way. There are people who need … who are hurting … people who have been devastated. We want to help them, now! We want to make the hurt go away, meet the need, un-devastate the devastation.

It seems there is a powerful human need to fill voids. We are inclined toward creation, and so when we see devastation our inherent reaction is to create, construct, and build. That’s what’s happening now, on a widespread scale. We are feeling a collective urge to un-devastate the lives of our neighbors in Joplin, to create again what has been un-made, to fill the void the tornado left behind.

It is in this impulse that I believe we witness most fully the power of God at work. The image of God becomes incarnate in this creative urge, in people working together to build community, extending ourselves into the lives of one another and truly loving our neighbors as ourselves.

Devastation.

A week before the tornado, a baby was born in Springfield. He spent the first week of his life in the NICU because his mom has diabetes, he was born a month early, and his blood sugar was all out of whack. Also during that week it was decided (by people he doesn’t know in an office somewhere else) that he was not going to be able to come home with his mom and dad. And since his half-sister happens to be our foster daughter already, we said that he could come home with us for a while. So he can be with his sister, you know.

Because there is this powerful impulse in us that tends to want to fill voids, to make the hurt go away, to un-devastate devastation. And it doesn’t matter if it is a town of 50,000 or one newborn baby in the NICU, at the heart of it devastation always looks like a chaotic landscape of jagged rubble.

We talked about it together. We always do. Our son said, “How would you feel if you were just born and you weren’t with anyone in your family?” And with that, there was no more conversation. So he can be with his sister. And with a family who will take good care of him, feed him well, help him grow, and extend our lives into his so that we might truly love him with all that it means to love another person.

And maybe that will fill at least a part of the void into which he was born, make a little bit of the hurt go away, and at least begin to un-devastate the devastation.

Adoption Story

I’m pretty sure that last Thursday morning ranks in the top five Thursday mornings of my life. Come to think of it, it was one of the top five experiences of my life, period, Thursday morning or otherwise!

Erin, Cori, Wesley, and I made our way through the snowy streets of Springfield to the Juvenile Justice Center, where we walked through the metal detector and into a crowd of friends. Mark and Vickie were there with their parents and their three boys, Sam, Cody, and Ethan.

Of course, we’ve known Cody and Ethan longer than we’ve known the rest of the bunch; they came to live with us two years ago, having been taken into state care one morning and arriving at our house that same afternoon. We provided foster care for them for 13 months, and during that time we loved them and fed them and taught them to walk and use their words and we changed their diapers and read them books and … well, you get the picture.

Until the following March, when they were placed with Mark and Vickie Fischer, who became their foster parents as a “legal risk” placement, meaning that there was the possibility for adoption at some point, should their case head in that direction. We were so happy to help with that transition, as Cody and Ethan first met, then got to know, then started to love their new family.

Since then, we have been the foster family for four other kids, including three brothers who are now reunited with their mom (we went to a birthday party at their house just last week!), and the little girl here now, who has been with us since August. And since then, we have stayed in touch with Mark and Vickie who have kept us posted on all the things Cody and Ethan have been up to. From all accounts, life in the Fischer home has been quite an adventure these last ten months or so!

And the adventure started a brand new chapter on Thursday. We were there to witness the adoption of Cody and Ethan! It was amazing. It was emotional. It was unreal.

I had been there before, a few times, to attend hearings in the boys’ case. I had sat in the same room in front of the same judge earlier in the case, alongside the boys’ birth mother, before we knew anything about Mark and Vickie or even what exactly was going to be happening with the boys at all. Needless to say, the atmosphere Thursday was just about as different from those other hearings as it possibly could have been.

The small room was full with family, case workers, and court officials. The boys’ first case worker Michelle, who had become a supervisor and no longer worked directly with the boys, came just to be a part of the day. There seemed to be a buzz in the room, a kind of anticipatory joy that was contagious. Everyone felt it.

After the judge opened up the proceedings, there was a list of legalese questions that Mark and Vickie had to answer, and some official sounding things that the judge had to say. I confess I was kind of distracted because Ethan got restless and started wandering, so I got out my phone and started showing him pictures to keep him from mischief .

But then the judge said something that yanked my attention back to the proceedings. He was making his declaration, that the boys would be the children of Mark and Vickie Fischer, as if they were their naturally born children. That’s pretty amazing in and of itself. But he continued.

I’m not sure exactly what he said, but I remember hearing, “…and his name is to be legally changed to Cody Aaron Fischer…” and a few moments later “…and his name is to be legally changed to Ethan Andrew Fischer…”

Even then it didn’t fully sink in what had happened, until Vickie and Mark turned around and looked at Erin and me. Then their parents turned, then the case workers and others in the room. There were tears in their eyes and smiles on their faces, and we realized what they had done.

Mark and Vickie had changed the middle names of the boys to Aaron and Andrew. I’m pretty sure it’s not a coincidence that our names are Erin and Andrew, too.

To say it is an honor is not even close to sufficient. It makes us cry every single time we think about it, much less tell anyone. It is just so … I can’t think of any combination of words that would finish that sentence appropriately. We are very, very happy. We have a richer understanding of what it means to be “blessed” than we did before.

Thursday we were completely unable to say anything to Mark and Vickie about it. I don’t mean that we didn’t have the opportunity; we went to lunch with them afterwards at Chuck E. Cheese, for goodness sake! (Which by the way, was probably the highlight of the day for Cody and Ethan!) No, I mean that we were literally unable to speak of it. Every time we tried, words would not come.

As she hugged me in the hall after the proceeding, Vickie was just able to whisper, “What do you think of the names?” in the midst of her tears. In the midst of my own, “It’s wonderful” just seemed laughably inadequate. I hope that our embrace and our tears were more eloquent than we ourselves were.

There aren’t a lot of rewards for foster families. That’s not why we do it, anyway. It is hard, often heartbreaking, and frequently disturbing. So when something happens like what happened Thursday morning, we really savor it! Cody and Ethan have a forever family where they will know love for the rest of their lives, and we are a part of that. Wow!

The thirteen months they were with us will be a tiny fraction of their lives, in the end. And yet it feels good to know that those thirteen months made a real difference. But it feels even better to know that Cody Aaron Fischer and Ethan Andrew Fisher are going to grow up with a family who will love them and take care of them and help them become the amazing and beautiful people they are going to become.

Hello, Little Girl

We set up the crib this week. Covered all of the outlets, got down the high chair again, dusted off the stroller. We have exchanged all the nice books on the living room table for board books, and found all of the lids for the sippy cups.

There were three voice mails waiting for us when we got back from vacation, three case workers asking us about placing five kids who needed a foster home. Before we could follow up on any of those, we got two more calls in quick succession the next morning.

Anyone reading this still not have an idea as to the desperate need for more foster families?

We said yes to a seventeen-month-old little girl who is as easy going as she is energetic. She’s toddling into every corner of the house, exploring everything, and reaching her arms out to everyone she meets, asking to be picked up, which is impossible to resist, of course. She has already been in foster care for two months, having lived in two homes in that time. She eats any food we put down in front of her, goes right to sleep when we put her in the crib, and sleeps all night long.

Funny how even though we have only known this little person for two days, we somehow seem to love her already. So much of this feels so familiar, riding a bike –ish; after all she is number 14 on the list of foster kids we have cared for. And yet at the same time it feels brand new, scary and uncertain; after all she is a singular person we barely know and have a lot to learn about.

We set up the crib this week, the same old, familiar crib with a brand new, wonderful kid sleeping in it. I can’t wait until our church family meets her and starts loving on her! And as usual, we’ll provide a safe space, healthy food, and all the love we can muster, for as long as we need to.

"What's a Emeny?"

One preschool chapel, I was telling the story of the Good Samaritan. When I got to the part about the Samaritan seeing the guy in the ditch, I explained that Samaritans were enemies of people from Jerusalem. One adorable little girl raised her hand with a question. “What’s a emeny?” she asked, just as sweet as you could ever be.

How beautiful is it to not know what the definition of “enemy” is? I mean, she didn’t even know how to pronounce the word, since she had never used it in her entire life! I didn’t know whether or not I should define it for her, like I was crushing a new rose bud just beginning to open. As nearly as I can remember it, I went with something like, “They weren’t really friends” or “They didn’t know each other,” something along those lines.

What if the guy who asked Jesus “And who is my neighbor?” in Luke 10 had asked instead “Who is my enemy?” After all, one of the things he asks his followers to do is “love your enemies.” What about a follow-up parable, Jesus? “And who is my enemy?” What kind of parable would he have told?

People have a propensity toward love, I believe. I see it in kids. They are so, so much more ready to love than us grown-ups are. For example, foster kids come to our home having been horribly neglected or abused by their parents, and yet by some unfathomable mystery, the kids still seem to love them. Kids love their parents, no matter how crappy the parents may be. Kinda sucks sometimes, but there it is.

As we age, something seems to kind of grind the love right out of us. Over time, we are systematically and carefully taught who, exactly, our enemies are. The result is a slew of artificial enemies, people who aren’t really our enemies but we think they are because we have been taught as much. I wish Jesus had said to us, “Love the people you think are your enemies because you have been taught as much, but they’re really not they’re actually your neighbors so saying ‘love your enemies’ is in point of fact just the same as saying ‘love your neighbor’.” But Jesus wasn’t that wordy.

Of course, what I am NOT saying is that we should be naïvely trusting of every single person we meet. That could be dangerous. Teaching kids about “enemies” can be a safety thing. But I also notice a confusing double standard parents routinely teach kids. We warn kids about “stranger danger” but at the same time insist that they “be polite” when someone talks to them. That’s got to be a bit bewildering, don’t you think? When equal parts “Don’t talk to strangers” and “Can you say hi?” come out of our mouths, we are sending mixed messages, at best.

The truth is, a stranger is not automatically an enemy, and an acquaintance (even a family member), is not automatically a friend. 80% of child maltreatment perpetrators are parents, another 6.5% are other relatives, another 4.4% are unmarried partners of parents, according to the US Department of Health and Human Services. For many kids, when your parents warn you not to talk to strangers, it’s because they don’t want to get arrested.

We have fostered kids who never should have had the experiences in their lives that they had, kids whose eyes look a lot older than the rest of them. Their propensity to love is out of whack because of the tendency toward violence that their lives have been, BUT it is STILL THERE. Sometimes the mixture of love and hurt is just too much, and it overflows in terrible, heart breaking ways.

They know exactly what an enemy is, and you had better believe they love them.

A Note to Our Foster Kids

Dear Boys,

Two more days.

For more than a year you have been with us. You have trusted us with your care. You have let us feed you and bathe you and put you to bed. You have been our kids for 13 months, and it has been so wonderful. Let me tell you some things:

You do not like vegetables, but will consent to sample a carrot if we insist. Sometimes. We know this because there were times in the past year-plus-a-month that we had to practically force you to eat anything at all, but now you do so well. And we are so proud of you when you do.

You like to read a couple of stories, sing a couple of songs (“Twinkle, Twinkle” and “I See the Moon” are particular favorites), and then say a prayer (the one that starts “Now I lay me down to sleep…”) every night before bed. We know this because we have done just that every single night for more than thirteen months now.

After breakfast, you simply must dance. And you absolutely must listen to “I Want You Back” by the Jackson 5 when you do. If neither of these things happen, you often burst into tears until it does. We know this because we are so sick and tired of “I Want You Back” by the Jackson 5 that we’ll probably never “want it back” ever again.

You have taught us so much about what it means to trust, especially when you fall asleep in the back of the car as we drive through a rainy night. We have felt the great weight of responsibility for you, and have done our very best to meet it. They all say, “Oh, they have come so far in the past year; it’s amazing!” And they are right, you know. You have changed … a lot.

You knew how to say one word between you when you came to us – “Stop.” And now you know all the letters and can count to ten and use such wonderful words to tell us things. When we watch you run, we remember you way back when, just crawling, and are absolutely amazed.

One other thing: I want to tell you that your birth mommy loves you very much. That is honest. We know this because we have talked with her about you a lot during this last year. She was just having a really hard time taking care of you. So remember that. She loves you a lot.

And so – now, in just two days, you are moving to your forever family. Now you will trust them with all those things you trust us with now. I hope that in learning to trust us, you learned that trust is a good thing and it will be easier for you to invest it in your forever mommy and daddy. They are so nice and good and loving, and you are going to love it there.

You have made us laugh and made us cry and made us so angry. It’s time for you to make someone else laugh and cry and angry, now. In just two more days.

There will be different carrots to eat around a different table, but I’m pretty sure they’re going to make you eat them, too. There will be different story books and new songs and prayers to learn, but I’m confident that there will be reading and singing and praying there. There will more than likely be dancing, but I’m not sure about the Jackson 5. You might have to learn how to cope without that one, little guys.

We’re not gone, remember. Your forever mommy and daddy have told us that we’re going to be able to keep track of you, stay in touch with you, see pictures of you as you grow up, and send you presents on your birthday and stuff like that. That’s so great! I personally cannot wait to see what you’ll be like as teenagers – ha! What a hoot!

And so we’re going to say bye-bye, and it’s going to be a real one, for a long time, and way different than we’ve ever said bye-bye before. (Which, by the way, you still say sometimes when you mean to say “hi,” but keep working on it and you’ll get it – we know you will.) This is going to be a pretty big bye-bye this time.

We’ll probably be crying, so don’t freak out. They are such good tears! We are so happy for how far you have come and for how bright your future is. You are going to learn and grow and sing and dance and run and play and cry and laugh and bonk you head and skin your knee and go to school and fly a kite and throw a baseball and maybe ride a horse someday and …

… in two more days.

A Foster Family's Big Week: Wrap-Up

Last week couldn’t have gone much better in terms of our foster care transition. On Friday our boys met their forever family and had a great time having lunch, playing Legos, goofing around, and reading books in the afternoon.

I think it got started out on a good foot when our 4-year-old was calling out “Hi!” to his new brother, calling him by name, leaning out the front door as their car pulled up.

My favorite moment was when all four parents said “No” at the same time to our three year old when he was putting a small Lego in his mouth! The parent ratio doubled, and needless to say he got the message. (Actually, he’s a kid who might benefit from having four parents on him at once!)

What an amazing week it was. Seven days ago we had no idea who these strangers were, and now we count them as practically family. I know that our boys are going to really flourish in their new home. It creates a sense of peace for us, knowing that.

Court on Thursday was kind of intense for me, as I sat and observed the proceedings. The judge in the case was so kind and said at one point that “these kinds of cases are the hardest cases I deal with.” We have come to know the boys birth mother this year, and have strong empathy with her. It is not ethical for me to write about the particulars of this case, of course. Suffice it to say that we feel a lot of strong emotion for her.

On a more clinical level, watching the process happen has been an incredible learning opportunity for me. The judge, case worker, juvenile officer, guardian ad litem, and attorneys involved with the case seemed to all be working together as a team to achieve the best outcome for the boys. I always had the idea that the boys’ well-being was first and foremost in everyone’s minds, and that was good to see.

So that’s where we are now. This weekend, the plan is for the boys to go for a two-night visit. The next weekend, a three-nighter! Then we’ll see how everything is working out, and take it from there. Thank you so much for keeping us in your prayers, and please continue to do so. The loving support of friends and family is so important, and deeply appreciated.

A Foster Family's Big Week, Part 2

Our foster boys are one step closer to their forever family, and we're feeling pretty happy! The grief we will inevitably feel as they leave our home will be so much easier to bear knowing that the family they are going to is so wonderful.

We spoke with three families Tuesday afternoon, and the family the boys are going to seems like such a great match for them. We are still kind of reflecting on the process we experienced (for the first time) on Tuesday. It was quite fascinating, on one level. We were truly an important part of a team consisting of case worker, juvenile officer, and guardian ad litem, all of whom sort of put our heads together to make this decision – which was unanimous, by the way.

In the whole interview / decision process, we really felt like our input was valued and respected. The magnitude of the decision we were making really didn’t hit me until later – the incredible responsibility of deciding where, how, and with whom these two little boys are going to grow up, live their lives, celebrate their victories and cry over their defeats, make their holiday traditions, and basically be shaped into the people they will become in life. Huge.

Because of the status of the case, a lot is still confidential. But I can say that we have already begun a transition process; last night Erin shared the new family’s “life book” with our 4 year old. We practiced saying his new brother’s name, and saw some pictures of his new pets, which are going to be very exciting! Our 2 year old is kind of just along for the ride at this point. We’re not sure exactly how much of what is happening is making an impression on him. We’ll see.

On Friday, we will take the boys to meet their new family for the very first time. We’ll probably get to spend several hours and have lunch together. It’s going to be quite a day! There’s no telling what might happen, and we are kind of nervous about it, to tell you the truth. But I’m sure that everything is going to be fine, and if we’re nervous, imagine how their new mom and dad feel right about now.

In upcoming weeks, a lot is going to change for our two little guys. Please keep them in your prayers, as well as us. As excited as we are for them and for their new family, this is a time of grief for us – Cori and Wes especially. We have given a year of our selves to these two boys, and it will hurt to see them go.

However, having said that, one of the most exciting things is that it seems like their new family is okay with wanting to stay in touch, and we want to, too. So we’ll get to see them grow up, albeit from a distance. The most important thing is for them to bond with their new family and figure out who Mommy and Daddy are now, so we don’t want to get in the way of that happening.

So that’s pretty good! It is very heavy still, very emotional. But there is a peace that we feel in the midst of it all, and that’s good. We still have court tomorrow, with the emotion that goes along with that. But with this foster-focused week halfway over, we’re feeling pretty happy.

A Foster Family's Big Week

This is going to be a foster-care-focused week for the Bryan family. Tomorrow we have a “Staffing” and Thursday we go to court for a hearing on our boys’ case. We don’t really know what is going to happen nor how fast, but we know that there is a change coming soon.

Being a foster family is the hardest thing we have ever done. Being a foster family is the most rewarding thing we have ever done. Paradox, schmaradox – it’s called discipleship. If it was easier, would it be as rewarding? If it was less rewarding, would we still do it? Neither question is worth much.

When you can, you try to make a difference, even if it is hard to do.

We’re not doing it for laughs.

We have said goodbye to a lot of kids in the past four years, and every single one of them was like tearing off a piece of our selves. We have said hello to a lot of kids in the past four years, and every single one of them has called us “Mommy” and “Daddy.”

Will any of them remember us?

The thing that keeps getting me is the poopy diapers. I have changed more kids’ poopy diapers, more often, than any reasonable person should. (Full disclosure: Erin has changed exponentially more than I.) Kneeling on the bathroom floor, changing a foster kid’s poopy diaper while he screams and kicks my hands away … let’s just say that sometimes when I think “I don’t have to take this shit,” I mean it literally.

Wouldn’t it be awful if we fell in love with every single child that came through our home on their way to somewhere else? Wouldn’t it be awful if we didn’t? Oh, yes, we love them all, even still. We love them as we knew them; they never age for us. They are snapshots in our wallets, slices of our life. They are wispy memories of long car rides and playground afternoons and bedtime lullabies.

I see the moon, the moon sees me, the moon sees the one I want to see.

Some people say, “I would just love them too much to let them go.” As if us letting them go somehow demonstrates how much we do not love them. No, we let them go BECAUSE we love them; foster care isn’t about us, it’s about the kids. What’s best for the kids – only and all for the kids.

There will be something significant happening this week. Not many people in the world will notice. We will. If it’s best that they are with us, they will be. If it’s best that they go somewhere else, they will go. We know going in, every time, that they will not be with us forever. Their forever family is somebody else.

We’re just the foster family. And this is going to be a big week.

Foster Care Christmas

Last night my family went to see Santa Claus. The six of us piled into the mini-van and headed out for the offices of Missouri Baptist Children's Home, where the jolly old elf waited. MBCH is the agency through which we are licensed as a foster family, and coincidentally is also the agency that is handling our foster boys' case.

It was quite a party! Santa and Mrs. Claus were indeed there, and each kid got a gift. (Our own kids, too! Plus, there was a gift for foster parents - a Casting Crowns CD!) There were pictures with the boys, and snacks, punch, and music. Our kids had a great time.

The entire staff of MBCH was there, dressed in festive costumes, happy, laughing, playing with all the kids. And there were a BUNCH of kids there, with their foster families. It was wild and chaotic, just like a Christmas party should be.

In the midst of the wildness, there was a moment that I found myself standing off to the side with a cup of punch and a cookie, watching the people. Watching the children. Every one of them has a story, you know, and most of the stories are not happy. Every one of those kids was away from home, taken into foster care because of some catastophic reason.

How many had been abused? Which ones had been neglected? Were there kids who had come from drug houses? Which little one had been born addicted to meth? Whose parents may have been just unable to function at a high enough level to care for children?

There was no way to know the answers to the questions that arose unbidden in my mind. And then I realized that, for tonight at least, there was no need to answer them.

Last night, with smiles and music and laughter and Santa and all those people loving all those children, it was enough to just let it be Christmas.




btw - If you are interested in becoming a foster family, or know of someone who is, please contact me and I will make sure you get connected to the right people.