One week ago today Ms. Bella had the last of her third round of treatment. She is so brave, and I could not be more proud of her. The joy while leaving that hospital on Tuesday was so thick you could taste it (and we did. via an ice cream treat. that’s the same as joy, isn’t it?).
We’re not done yet. Now she goes on maintenance for the next year and a half. But on maintenance we only have to go to the hospital once a month (!!) and most of her treatment is home administered. It adds to our ridiculous collection of medication under our sink, but I am so excited that she won’t have to be pricked and prodded for every round of treatment now.
Her body has responded very well to treatment so far. Since she came to us her counts (which basically tell you how well her body can fight off infection) have only risen, and for several weeks have been at the same level as someone without her disease. Amazing. God is good. (Thank you for your prayers.)
And did you catch it? In that picture up there?
Hair. And those eyelashes? I’ve never seen such eyelashes before.
She is a perfectly beautiful little girl without it. From the inside out. And if you know her for more than five minutes, you don’t even notice anymore.
But it means more than beauty. It means health. growth. improvement.
When she’s in the tub and I reach down to wash it (because it’s long enough to wash now!) it’s like seeing God’s rainbow in the sky. A promise. Things are getting better. She is getting better.
Every blessing you pour out I’ll turn back to praise.
As a foster parent, I always try my very hardest to support our kids going home and to help the family and kids work toward reunification. That is, after all, the goal of foster care – to keep kids safe while simultaneously making it safe for them to be home.
Of course, there have been times when I did not want children to go home. Those times were only in circumstances where I genuinely felt fearful for the safety of the children. Outside of safety issues, kids should be with their parents. Period. I’m even willing to host a hearty debate on that.
All this to say, I have never wanted a child to go home like I want Bella to go home. To read that sounds like I don’t love her. I do. But her Dad loves her more – and it shows.
Every time I talk to him (virtually every night) he is excited to tell us about progress in the case plan and the things he is working on. He has been nothing but appropriate on the phone to us as foster parents and to Bella.
He has even thanked us for caring for her during this time. (If you foster, you know how over the top crazy that is.) Which isn’t something that I, in any way, expect from bio parents – but it does show his understanding of the situation.
Everything inside of me prays she goes home.
Everything inside of me hurts for her Daddy every time we say goodbye.
Please pray for him. And for her. And that they get to be together.
I’ve been hesitant to post much about my thoughts and experiences thus far about going to Tanzania. Mostly because there has just been so much going through my mind and heart that it is hard to sit down and put any of it into much of a discernable post. But, while part of my motivation to blog is to have memories to look back on, I also don’t want to blog in vain – so a lot of my motivation is in hopes God would use it to be helpful or encouraging, or even a warning of what not to do! That’s been my motivation blogging through our fostering experience, and it’s my motivation now. Looking at blogging through fostering, I think it’s been the most helpful or encouraging when I’ve been completely honest. So I’ll try.
And God will use it if he wants. And if not, well, that’s His prerogative.
Brian is leaving in just ten days to go to Arusha, Tanzania. Possibly the place we will call home in just a few months. Maybe not home. Not right away. Home is here, and we will be there, and for quite some time after we arrive, we would just be travelers.
My feelings about it continue to fluctuate between excitement, nervousness, and full blown fear.
The excitement and passion is from God.
The fear is from my flesh.
But Lord, what about my children? There are so many risks there, so many diseases that I don’t know. So many unknowns. Lord, this love you’ve given me for them, it’s unrelenting. Even for this one in my belly that I’ve never met. It is a savage, intense, raw love. I just need to know that I can protect them. What if, what if, what if. How do I let go of this? I know you won’t take us anywhere that is not best for us, and for your glory, but, BUT…
I hear it in my heart – what I’m really saying. What I’m really saying is that I need control.
But there is a quiet whisper back, ‘Maggie, are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside of my care.Even the very hairs of their heads are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; they are worth much more to me than many sparrows. I love them more than you can understand, with a love much more fierce than your own. Remember, they are my daughters too.
You can trust me.
You have placed your trust in other things. You have placed your trust in yourself. You have placed your trust in your insurance card. You have placed your trust in Brian’s job. These securities are only an illusion. They are all from my hand.
I am their protector. I am their provider. I am their shelter, health, and breath.
And I love them even more than you do.
And, I am God.
You can trust me.
He has been consistent to calm my fears and to remind me that what the world may see as crazy, He sees as obedience.
The reasons we would go are pretty well summarized in this book and also in this one. (Both very good.)
Also here:
I guess lastly, to finish up this completely indiscernible post (I warned you.) I just want to say that I really, sincerely hope that nothing I post about Tanzania (or about fostering in the past) comes off sounding self righteous. If anything, I want to post to show that God uses people who are otherwise useless. People who do “radical” things for Christ are not to be held up. If any of this has taught me anything it is just more about how incapable I am without Him.
I am scared.
I am untrusting.
I am cold.
I am selfish.
And anything good is His work.
Just wanted to put that out there.
Have you ever been bombarded by a billion (or five or ten) different places or people all speaking to you of the same need? Or there is something on your heart that you just cannot dismiss that keeps being affirmed by random occurrences? It seems to happen to us a lot.
I liken it to God putting a piece of sand in the middle of my heart. Which does not sound comfortable at all. Which is why I liken this feeling to it. God puts it there and lets it bother me for a while, and the longer it’s there, the more it bothers me. And eventually, when I feel like saying, “Ok, God, enough with the sand already. What’s your point??” then he reaches in an pulls out the pearl he has for us that’s been baking.
Except generally these pearls are not the ooh and ahh kind. Usually they are the challenging, get off your rear, make you uncomfortable, “Really God? You want me to do THAT?” kind of pearls.
Like when God told us we needed to foster. When we finally picked up on what he was preparing us for, we were uncomfortable and scared, and we, along with most people we told, thought we were insane.
All this to say, there is a piece of sand that has all but rubbed my heart raw.
I’m not sure what He is preparing us for, but I know that in His typical fashion (which always is much better than my own) it will probably be hard. He’s given me a few hints, but nothing conclusive. But we’ll see.
Will it include fostering? I don’t know, but I hope so. Will it make us uncomfortable? You can be sure. Will it grow us in the end? Undoubtedly.
I do know I have a refreshed longing to do whatever it is that He has for us. And I pray that He always uses us in ways that we cannot take the credit for.
In one of my classes in college we did an exercise on the people of Nacirema. Of course, what I’m going to tell you, that they didn’t tell us until the very end, is that Nacirema is American spelled backward. In the exercise they discussed all of these “strange” practices that the Nacirema routinely practiced (for instance rubbing their teeth with horsehair attached to a stick in an effort of vanity and cleanliness) – and by the end of the essay we were all thinking how backward and strange these people seemed.
But I’ve been thinking a lot about these Nacireman’s lately – and all I can think is – if I am to be an American, I want to be a completely backward one.
Knowing I will probably get a lot of backlash for this statement… I think that in some ways, it is very difficult to truly be a follower of Christ in America. Not due to persecution or lack of freedom, and certainly not due to lack of churches. No, we don’t lack any of the things that make it easy to be a Christian. But that is just the issue.
Living in (most parts) of America, it is just so easy. Easy to be comfortable. Easy to avoid challenge or true difficulty. Easy to be completely and utterly ignorant.
Ignorant to this. Ignorant to this. Ignorant to this. (that’s right. Right here in good ole Nacirema.) Ignorant to this. Ignorant to the people we pass on the corner with signs. Ignorant to the woman in our church who is full of pain. Ignorant to the hurt and the need and what most of the world experiences as reality.
But we live in America.
So we will read these stories, and we will cry, and we will feel so sorry.
And then we will get distracted by the next update to our house, how to make our Halloween decorations look really great, how much we can budget for our next vacation, the fact that I’m not sure I have a pair of shoes to go with this outfit, birthday parties, our children, our children, our children, and helping to decide what kind of lighting and sound effects we should use in church on Sunday to make people want to come back.
And I hate it. I hate that it is so easy to do. I hate that Jesus watches me be ignorant every day and then every night I tell Him how I love Him.
And all I can think is Lord, please don’t let me be ignorant. Please. Please don’t let me allow myself to be ignorant.
I’m not sure if Jesus is more heartbroken over all of the change we could be making that we aren’t, or if it hurts him even more to see us trying to find our joy and purpose in all of these things that the world tells us are so great.
Jesus calls us to a radical life. Lives that no one would live if they didn’t personally know the creator of the universe. Lives that demand an explanation. What if everyone in your church did something radical, something way outside their comfort zone to serve God. What would that look like? Even just one church living that way?
If I am to be an American, I want to be a completely backward one. I want to live in such a way that I cannot take credit – that it can only be God who is worthy.
Because some day I will meet Jesus. And the last thing that I want to do is stand in front of Him and tell him that I didn’t listen to the burden because I was just too busy getting a good start on my family, that I was going to do it once I got to retirement, that we just weren’t sure, or that even though I read it in that book He gave me, that the world said it was crazy – so I decided to sit it out.
Most of you probably weren’t reading this blog back when we had our girls.
It is difficult for me to explain how precious these children are to my heart.
If you have children, it is like trying to explain that fierceness in your heart that accompanies a thought of them being hurt. The protectiveness that you can only feel for someone who is connected to you in your soul.
That is my love for these girls and their two siblings. God has made them a part of me.
We’ve have had the joy and the blessing of getting to stay in contact with them even though they have now been adopted by their aunt and uncle. We have had the four of them over for weekends, taken them on trips, and gotten to know their (large) family. We even got to go to Cassandra’s 8th birthday party, and although we were the only people there who spoke fluent English, we felt a part of the family.
Early this week we tried to call them to see if the kids could come over this weekend, and to see if their family would like to come to Sylvia’s birthday party. Their phone was disconnected (which has happened several times before). We wanted to make sure that we made arrangements for this weekend in time, so we drove up to their house to stop by and talk.
And they are gone.
None of their neighbors know where they went. We were given a tip on a possible street and we drove up and down it several time and could not find them. I’d imagine that their neighbors would know if they had been deported. And regardless of your feelings on deportation (as in, please do not share.) I pray that they have not been.
We don’t know what happened. We don’t know why them moved so suddenly. It feels impossible for me not to worry. We are still looking, hoping to get lucky.
With tears streaming down my cheeks I am asking you to please pray for them. Pray that they are safe and that the family is taken care of. Pray that the move was a good thing.
The time period after children leave our home to the time new children come to join us always feels like a bit of a crossroad. For just a few days, or a couple of weeks, we are not foster parents, and it’s during these times that it seems to occur to us that this is a choice - as opposed to when we have children placed with us and it just is, it is just our life. But it is during these times that I sometimes come to the realization that I could wake up tomorrow and decide not to do this anymore. I doubt anyone would question us, it’s not a decision I think we’d have to defend – that would just be it.
Except for that part about fostering being what God has asked us to do.
You know.
Minor details.
But it is during these transitions that I tend to reevaluate. Is this still what we should be doing? Is this what is best for our family? Can we continue to do this? Would life be easier if we didn’t? (duh.)
When in all reality, there is only one question I should be asking.
I just recently listened to this sermon by Francis Chan (love listening to him – incredible wisdom.) where he is discussing a major crossroads in his life. He talks about how he is only ever about 80% sure of any decision he makes – culminating from lots of thinking and praying (which he calls ‘prinking’, “I just prink, and prink, and prink.” Ha!). At some point in there, you start feeling more peace one way or the other. This is how he came to the conclusion to resign as the pastor at his church to leave and do inner city ministry.
He talks about how several people have come to him and lamented about how they wish they could do that. They wish they could do something that radical for God, but they just can’t. It’s not feasible, it’s not responsible, it’s not possible. His response? Of course you can, and of course it is.
He goes on to share one of his favorite verses in the bible: James 5:17. Elijah was a man, just like us. Elijah, who through prayer caused draught and then rain. Elijah, whose cry to God brought the life back to a young boy. He’s just like us.
If Elijah could do these things, then I am certain that with God we can continue to foster, that it will be best, that it will be fruitful. I am certain that the only question I should be asking is,
Last night was a very rough night. (How many blog posts could I start with that sentence? Ha!) But really, probably one of the top five worst nights since the boys came to us – almost three months ago – how is that possible? We were having a wonderful evening, and had just gotten home from practicing their baseball skills at the park. It was like a buzzer sounded in our house signaling the boys to completely lose it.
One minute we were having lots of fun, and the next minute there was yelling, there was name calling, there were toys being thrown from one end of the house to the other, there were doors slamming, there was screaming, and there was more disrespect than any one person should endure in one evening.
And really, I would do it all over again. Because afterward,
Jae talked to me. Like really talked.
He told me how he’s feeling really stressed. He told me that he just gets mad so quickly, and he doesn’t know how to change it. He told me the things he’s worried about. He told me that he’s upset because his birthday next week will be the first one without his mom. He expressed to me that he doesn’t think that it is ok for him to cry. He told me how much he misses his mom – how he misses watching t.v. with her, and helping her with the dishes. He told me how much he misses his other two siblings. He said sometimes it just feels like he explodes. He told me the things that he’s sad about should their case go to adoption. He told me how he’s been praying that he will go home. He cried.
I listened. I tried to empathize. I cried. I prayed. I comforted.
It felt so good to actually get to talk to Jae. Not to his anger, or to the wall he has put up between himself and the world, but actually to him. We talked about how it feels better to get to talk to someone about all the feelings instead of keeping them inside.
I know that this is not the end of his anger – but it is a beginning. I can’t help but feel like this is progress, that maybe some very small part of him is beginning to trust me. There will be lots more hard days, but I pray that with every hard day there is a rainbow like last night – a promise of redemption.
Everything in me knows that last night was a result of prayers for his little heart. Thank you so much for the e-mails letting me know that so many of you are praying for them. It is making a difference.
Today there is a court hearing for the case. It is likely that today, this afternoon, Mom will be ruled inappropriate for placement, their goal will be changed to adoption, a very strong anchor will be cut from these boys’ lives. My heart is so broken today – I hurt for these boys deep in my heart. Please pray for them.
Today is likely the worst day of their lives.
Pray for their hearts. Pray for Brian and I to have wisdom, empathy, and love strong enough to help them through. I know their hearts will break, but please pray that they are mendable. Pray that they’ll know our love, that they’ll know God’s love, and that it can be a shelter and a comfort to them.
It don't have a job Don't pay your bills Won't buy you a home In Beverly Hills Won't fix your life In five easy steps Ain't the law of the land Or the government But it's all you need..
Love, will, hold us together Make us a shelter to weather the storm And I'll, be, my brothers keeper So the whole world will know That we're not alone It's waiting for you Knockin' at your door. In the moment of truth When your heart hits the floor. When you're on your knees then...
Love, will, hold us together Make us a shelter to weather the storm And I'll, be, my brothers keeper So the whole world will know That we're not alone.
The boys came home from camp today. Responses were varied:
Zee: (Very Excited) It was so much fun!!! {Insert list of all the fun things they did}
Jae: We didn't do anything fun the whole week. (Typical)
I'm praying with everything in me that Jae's heart can begin to heal. We are going to play the next couple of weeks by ear and see how things go. I so hope that we can work through all this.
Their caseworker was going to cancel the visit again this week. She called me late on Wednesday to tell me that the person who takes the boys to the visit was out of town and that they couldn't find someone else. This leads me to believe that she didn't contact the company that does the transportation until late Wednesday either - so, really? Is it any suprise that they couldn't replace the driver with a whopping two days notice?
Court is next week, and I think there is a chance that this week would be their last visit with mom. Possibly ever? And it's cancelled? For the THIRD week in a row? Ugh.
Luckily I'm married to the best man ever and he is, as we speak, driving the boys two and a half hours to their visit. He's fabulous.
Last night was rough. The boys are missing their mother. They don’t know how to deal with it.
They were having a lot of trouble listening and being civil with each other (i.e. not biting each other.). Both had been in and out of ‘cool down time’. As we were sitting down for dinner Jae was cooling off in his room for spewing his 587th smart aleck remark of the evening at Brian and I. Things all came to a head when Zee accidentally poured half a bottle of BBQ sauce on his burger. He just lost it. BBQ sauce was obviously not the culprit of this emotional outcry.
We talked about him missing his mom. I talked to him about what his favorite things are about her, what they did for fun, what his favorite memory is. I’ve found talking through these things – being able to share – generally has helped the kids we’ve had cope with their heartache. We talked about when they played volleyball and how he liked it when his mom let him help clean the house. (I’d be thrilled to let him work through that with my vacuum cleaner.) We talked about how they went camping, and how he just misses being with her.
I went up to their room and talked to Jae about his attitude. I asked him if he thought he might be having a rough day because he is missing his mom. He said no – he seems to have more of a wall up, he doesn’t want to discuss his mom, missing her, or even Zee missing her.
I left to go to book club. (Praise God! I needed some time out.) But these outbursts continued for Brian for the rest of the evening right into bedtime.
I got in the car and immediately Coldplay came through the speakers:
It’s just so hard. I want to fix it. I want to mend their broken hearts. I want to have the answers. I want to make it better.
I want my love to be enough. I want my love to fix it.
But it won’t.
It can’t.
It never will be enough.
And that makes it so hard.
I just feel so much like I am at the very frontlines of what they are going through with my hands tied. I can’t make it better. As foster parents you get all of the hurt, right there, in your face. And all you can do is stick it out with these kids and hope they learn something of love while they are with you.
So I guess that’s what we’ll do. I guess that’s my answer. We’ll stick it out with these boys through whatever this throws at us. We’ll love them, and tell them about it everyday. We’ll teach them about God’s love and how they are so precious to His heart. And we’ll pray.
…taking placements via the intake department. We haven’t had to go through the intake department since our girls came to stay with us – all of our other placements have come to us through our Resource Family Worker which involves much less drama.
The intake department consists of a rotation of workers who make phone calls for any children in care in need of a placement. That means that they play the middle man between you (foster parent) and the children’s caseworker. That means that any time there is a question, conflict, or you hold your mouth the wrong way when discussing the placement, they have to get in contact with the caseworker (could take days. literally.) and then find the time to get back to you. Long story short, it makes all this take a lot of time, a lot of waiting, and in the end everything is as clear as the air in L.A.
SO, no news as of yet really. Just waiting for the intake department to get a hold of the caseworker, who has to get a hold of her supervisor, who has to call the adoption worker.
Ahhh, bureaucracy.
Things I am slightly nervous about:
How to divide my time between five kids under the age of 10. This will take some practice. I just hope I get good at it sooner than later.
Hair Care. I am moderately sure that the kids are African American (Yes, that’s how informative the intake department is when they call). I’m giving myself a crash course on hair care. Any tips would be greatly appreciated.
Laundry. If I don’t suffocate in it, and I don’t lose Sylvie in it, I’ll count myself ahead of the game. Maybe we’ll make it a house rule that everyone gets dressed out of the laundry basket. A game maybe. Who can find their clothes in the massive pile the fastest?!?
Mostly, I’m nervous about my selfishness. Ugh, I hate it. I’m nervous that I will want to be selfish with my time. I’m nervous that I will want to be selfish with my time with Sylvie. I’m nervous that I will want to be selfish with my time in the bathroom. (Did I mention we only have one bathroom?) This one could use some heavy duty prayer – if you could add it to your list of prayer requests for the week, I would really appreciate it.
I want to have to rely on Him to get me through this life He has given me. I want the peace of knowing that there is nothing I can do to make it work – it’s all Him, and that’s where he gets the glory.
We got a call for a placement this afternoon.
And call me crazy. Call me foolish. But we said yes.
The intake worker called and very hesitantly asked me if I would be interested in hearing about a sibling group that needs a home. Of course. They were calling from out of county – they had already exhausted any chance of placing them in a foster home in their home county. They only have until Friday to find a place for them to go – or it’s likely that they would end up in a homeless shelter for kids.
Four kids. Ages 2, 4, 6, and 8. Three boys and one girl. By Friday we’ll probably be a family of 7. There are things I’m nervous about. You know, the kinds of things you’re nervous about when you’re about to add four kids to your family simultaneously. But I think most of my reservation comes from people acting like we have lost our ever-loving minds when we have told them.
But I’m going to let that go. I won’t accept that. God has brought us here, and we’re going to follow in the path he’s given us. Dependent on Him. Cause I’m not going to pretend that I think I know what it’s like to have 5 kids. But He knows what it’s like for me to have 5 kids, and that’s where he’s put us.
So here we go, foolishly dependent on the maker of the universe.
“For the foolishness of God is wiser than man’s wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than man’s strength.”
Well....we were supposed to be having a little boy come to stay with us starting Wednesday. He was coming as a respite placement* for ten days. We've done respite for him before - and he is quite a challenge - but he is also so sweet. He is four years old and is not verbal, not potty trained, is a little on the physical side, and is extremely picky about food (which proves to be difficult because of his lack of verbal skills - which is none.). Last time he was at our home he finger-painted our carpet with yellow paint - which was entirely my fault, but due to his artistry, we'll just call him Picasso. Picasso had a court hearing yesterday and they sent him back home with his parents. This is a good thing. (This becomes the mantra you whisper to yourself as a foster parent - to remind yourself that going home is good, even if not ideal.) If you could just keep him in your prayers though, I'd love you for it. His situation was pretty severe when he came into state custody, and in severe cases it always makes you a little nervous about their homecoming (or homegoing?). There's just so much risk. Which is different than danger (more on that in another post) but is still a little tie-your-stomach-in-knots nerve wracking.
So, if you could keep little Picasso in your prayers, that would be great. I'll whisper a little prayer for him every time I walk across our yellow carpet.
*For any of you not versed in the lingo of Social Services - a respite placement is a temporary placement where you take care of a foster child who actually lives long-term in another foster home. It's kind of like extended babysitting for another foster family. In this case - they were going on a vacation that, due to his developmental delays, he couldn't participate in. So, we would have watched him for the ten days as a respite placement. Does that make sense?
