The crazy house relocated two months ago. To be perfectly honest, I have had an incredibly difficult time with the transition to this place that should feel familiar to me. I do my best to daily list all the wonderful things about this new place that I call home, but doesn't quite feel that way.
The top three items on this list are as follows:
Proximity to family and lifelong friends.
New (instant), neighborhood friends for the Crazies.
All. The. Lakes. (God bless you, Michigan)
These always make the list. I love these things even when it feels like my home is actually somewhere else.
Today I was reminded of another thing that should land on this daily list:
Foster care.
Foster care moved to a back burner in my home life for a little while because we had the privilege of adopting our crazies. And now we're trying to get settled before we get our license here. But foster care is taking a new place in my life in this season, and occupying some of my professional time.
Today I organized an event for families involved in foster care, as a part of my new job. I spent a few hours with people who are eyeball-deep in other people's messy lives. Kids, foster parents, relative caregivers, bio parents. They had fun spending time together and I got to sit there and witness it and take pictures. It was easily one of my favorite moments in this new place.
Then, this evening, I had a text conversation with a fellow foster-mama-friend about all the feels of letting go of a child who has lived as a part of your family, in your home. It's worth celebrating when a child returns to their first home, or goes to their forever home. It's also heart-wrenching to say goodbye to a child you gave your everything to for a time. A child who called you mom, whether you encouraged him to or not. A child who played alongside your other children like a brother. A child who grew up a little in your home. It's such a strange mix of emotions.
I love being a foster parent. I love walking alongside those involved in foster care. Not because those things are easy or fun all the time, but because it is good work. It is the work of reconciliation and redemption. It is the work of the Gospel. And now I get to spend my working hours being a part of foster care too.
And for that, I love this new place.
Showing posts with label venting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label venting. Show all posts
Sunday, August 07, 2016
Wednesday, June 03, 2015
Résumé, Please
What if when you were pregnant your doctor handed you a résumé for your unborn child containing all of the difficulties, bad behaviors, and poor decisions your child would make in the future?
Your Precious Unborn Child
Due Date: March 2017
Infancy Highlights:
-Will wake up every two hours screaming bloody murder
-Very colicky
-Won't sleep through the night for at least a year
Toddlerhood Highlights:
-Will throw fits and pull hair often
-Scream bloody murder often
-Color with permanent marker on the wall
Elementary Highlights:
-Will bite a kid in Kindergarten
-Won't pay attention in school, very disruptive in class
-Swear at his 3rd grade teacher on a dare and get suspended
-Will be diagnosed with ADHD
Middle/High School Highlights:
-Will have an insufferable attitude
-Pick constant fights
-Be disrespectful
-Slam doors constantly
-Crash the car you bought him
After reading all those things would you then say "Uh, actually, this child is not the right fit for my family." You probably wouldn't, because you know that all those things would be worth it because you already love your child and know the positives outweigh the negatives.
But that is exactly how foster care works.
Caseworkers give foster families this type of résumé for foster kids who need homes and then hope someone wants to take a chance on the kid anyway. I get it. We need to be prepared for what we will come up against. But so often, these kids become defined by their résumé, and then that's all they are.
Think about it, do you want your résumé to be all you are to a potential employee? Sure, your résumé communicates valuable information about who you are and what you've done. But it is not all you are and does not describe all you can do. Don't you always want an interview – to be more than a list of facts and actions?
This is foster care. "Applying" to get a position in someone's home, in their family. Except that the kids don't even get to write their résumés. They don't get to say the good stuff, the important stuff, the things they are proud of. It's more often a résumé of failure being delivered to foster parents (imagine sending that into a potential employer). As a result, a lot of times, people are hesitant to take them in because all they know is a list of negative facts and behaviors.
But you and I are more than our résumés, and so are these kids. They need the opportunity to show themselves and others that they are more than their experiences or bad choices – that these things don't define them. They need someone to take a chance on them and work at training them for life, because most of them have never had that. This is what we need to offer these kids, as foster parents, mentors, friends, and extended family. We need to let them be more than their résumés.
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
5 Things...
I'm over at Adoption.com today writing about 5 things I wish you understood about foster care. Check it out!
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
That time Jen Hatmaker made me cry in public
I don't consider myself to be an overly emotional person. Crying is like throwing up to me. Super painful and mortifying. If you have seen me cry, there is a good chance you caught me on an off day and engaged me in a conversation about foster care...or attended my wedding (tears of joy are a little different, I guess).
Anyway, I've been (slowly) reading 7 by Jen Hatmaker – it's changing my life. Seriously, stop reading this right now and go buy the ebook, then come back and finish this...
Good. So, I went on trip recently and took the book with me. I was reading the chapter on Spending during my flight when Jen Hatmaker and her hilarious, raw, and cutting words made me break down and cry in the window seat over the wing on flight 4087 to Kansas City.
In the final reflection of her month of reduced spending, Jen writes about how she had come to realize that her consumption had become so entwined with her connecting with others. In the beginning of the month of reduced spending she saw her friends less because she wasn't grabbing coffee or lunch out with them like she normally would. Later in the month, though, she started inviting people over and connecting with them without spending money. And then I cried.
Here's what she said:
There is something so nourishing about sharing your living space with people where they see your junk mail pile and pee wee football schedule on the fridge and pile of shoes by the front door. Opening your home says, "You are welcome into my real life." This square footage is where we laugh and hold family meetings and make homemade corn dogs and work through meltdowns. Here is the railing our kids pulled out of the wall. This is the toilet paper we prefer. These are the pictures we frame, the books we're reading, the projects we're undertaking – the raw material of our family. It's unsanitized and truthful. We invite you into this intimate place, saturated with our family character.
Maybe that doesn't seem tear-worthy to you, but it struck a nerve with me.
I spend a lot of time fighting for my family. Protecting them, advocating for them. My children have experienced so much pain, and live with a lot of trauma baggage. They have some behavioral issues and social delays. Special needs and anxieties. I do whatever I can to help ease the burden and facilitate healing. At home, at school, in the community, with the foster care system. It's a lot and I wouldn't have it any other way, because they deserve it. But, the truth is it takes a lot of energy and there's a lot people don't see and may not understand. At the end of the day all my energy is spent and I don't have what it takes to open up my home and expose the "raw material" of our family. So I don't.
I have built a wall around my home and invited very few people in. I love this place, our home. It's a beautiful mess, covered in love and Legos. It's sacred. And I don't want you to walk on this sacred ground, but I need you here. So I'm working on it.
Anyway, I've been (slowly) reading 7 by Jen Hatmaker – it's changing my life. Seriously, stop reading this right now and go buy the ebook, then come back and finish this...
Good. So, I went on trip recently and took the book with me. I was reading the chapter on Spending during my flight when Jen Hatmaker and her hilarious, raw, and cutting words made me break down and cry in the window seat over the wing on flight 4087 to Kansas City.
In the final reflection of her month of reduced spending, Jen writes about how she had come to realize that her consumption had become so entwined with her connecting with others. In the beginning of the month of reduced spending she saw her friends less because she wasn't grabbing coffee or lunch out with them like she normally would. Later in the month, though, she started inviting people over and connecting with them without spending money. And then I cried.
Here's what she said:
There is something so nourishing about sharing your living space with people where they see your junk mail pile and pee wee football schedule on the fridge and pile of shoes by the front door. Opening your home says, "You are welcome into my real life." This square footage is where we laugh and hold family meetings and make homemade corn dogs and work through meltdowns. Here is the railing our kids pulled out of the wall. This is the toilet paper we prefer. These are the pictures we frame, the books we're reading, the projects we're undertaking – the raw material of our family. It's unsanitized and truthful. We invite you into this intimate place, saturated with our family character.
Maybe that doesn't seem tear-worthy to you, but it struck a nerve with me.
I spend a lot of time fighting for my family. Protecting them, advocating for them. My children have experienced so much pain, and live with a lot of trauma baggage. They have some behavioral issues and social delays. Special needs and anxieties. I do whatever I can to help ease the burden and facilitate healing. At home, at school, in the community, with the foster care system. It's a lot and I wouldn't have it any other way, because they deserve it. But, the truth is it takes a lot of energy and there's a lot people don't see and may not understand. At the end of the day all my energy is spent and I don't have what it takes to open up my home and expose the "raw material" of our family. So I don't.
I have built a wall around my home and invited very few people in. I love this place, our home. It's a beautiful mess, covered in love and Legos. It's sacred. And I don't want you to walk on this sacred ground, but I need you here. So I'm working on it.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Privacy in Foster Care
Let me tell you something about privacy in foster care. It doesn't exist.
No, really.
Our life is an open book. Literally. There is a file at our agency that chronicles our lives. Among other things, it includes five page papers about each of our family's history, feelings toward our family before age 12 and after, about how Andy and I met, and names, ages, and current cities of all of our immediate family members (FYI family, they know how to find you).
Numerous people are in and out of our house every week checking things out. Caseworkers, licensing workers, therapists, teachers, court advocates, and more.
Tonight our caseworker was at our house waiting for some people we've never met to come to our house so our boys could see their sister for a few hours. During our conversation she brought up this very subject and asked us if we felt strange that our entire lives were on display and that people were in and out of our home all the time. I answered with something like "it's just part of foster care" or something like that, and we went on to talk about other things.
And then I found out how not private my life truly is. As an answer to some question, we were telling our caseworker that we will likely have more kids one way or another in the future. She seemed so confused. So I told her we weren't sure if we would adopt more or maybe have biological kids, but we'd likely have more kids at some point. She was shocked. "Wait, you can have kids?!" Oh dear. "We all just assumed you couldn't have kids. We've all talked about it and just thought oh they can't have kids. No way! Shut up!" Wait, 'we all'?! Awkward.
So, my loins are apparently a subject of public discussion in our agency office (and now I just made it awkward for you, you're welcome). If that isn't the epitome of lack of privacy, I just don't really know what is.
Here's what I want you to take away from this:
First, it's exhausting to share so much of our lives with a ton of virtual strangers. For two introverted people, it's work to give constant reports of how things are going so it can be documented in our open-book life. So, if you're feeling like we don't share enough with you, it's not because we are trying to keep our life a secret (although, some details about the boys' history we legally cannot share), it's just that we spend so much time telling and re-telling the details to foster care personnel, that the thought of rehashing it again is just too much sometimes.
Second, we considered a lot of factors before we decided to foster/adopt, but fertility was not one of them. I understand that many people are led to foster care after dealing with infertility. I'm sorry for the struggles those families experience, and I'm happy they decide to become forever families to kids who need them. But that's not our story. We decided to build our family through foster care first. I can't tell you if we'll ever decide to have biological children, and it doesn't matter to us. These children are ours, just as any other children who come into our family will be, in whatever way they come to us.
So there you have it. Just continuing the pattern of keeping our life as public record.
No, really.
Our life is an open book. Literally. There is a file at our agency that chronicles our lives. Among other things, it includes five page papers about each of our family's history, feelings toward our family before age 12 and after, about how Andy and I met, and names, ages, and current cities of all of our immediate family members (FYI family, they know how to find you).
Numerous people are in and out of our house every week checking things out. Caseworkers, licensing workers, therapists, teachers, court advocates, and more.
Tonight our caseworker was at our house waiting for some people we've never met to come to our house so our boys could see their sister for a few hours. During our conversation she brought up this very subject and asked us if we felt strange that our entire lives were on display and that people were in and out of our home all the time. I answered with something like "it's just part of foster care" or something like that, and we went on to talk about other things.
And then I found out how not private my life truly is. As an answer to some question, we were telling our caseworker that we will likely have more kids one way or another in the future. She seemed so confused. So I told her we weren't sure if we would adopt more or maybe have biological kids, but we'd likely have more kids at some point. She was shocked. "Wait, you can have kids?!" Oh dear. "We all just assumed you couldn't have kids. We've all talked about it and just thought oh they can't have kids. No way! Shut up!" Wait, 'we all'?! Awkward.
So, my loins are apparently a subject of public discussion in our agency office (and now I just made it awkward for you, you're welcome). If that isn't the epitome of lack of privacy, I just don't really know what is.
Here's what I want you to take away from this:
First, it's exhausting to share so much of our lives with a ton of virtual strangers. For two introverted people, it's work to give constant reports of how things are going so it can be documented in our open-book life. So, if you're feeling like we don't share enough with you, it's not because we are trying to keep our life a secret (although, some details about the boys' history we legally cannot share), it's just that we spend so much time telling and re-telling the details to foster care personnel, that the thought of rehashing it again is just too much sometimes.
Second, we considered a lot of factors before we decided to foster/adopt, but fertility was not one of them. I understand that many people are led to foster care after dealing with infertility. I'm sorry for the struggles those families experience, and I'm happy they decide to become forever families to kids who need them. But that's not our story. We decided to build our family through foster care first. I can't tell you if we'll ever decide to have biological children, and it doesn't matter to us. These children are ours, just as any other children who come into our family will be, in whatever way they come to us.
So there you have it. Just continuing the pattern of keeping our life as public record.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
It's in my blood.
I post a lot of foster-care related things through my social media channels. I talk about foster care a lot. I write about it a lot. I read about it daily. I love hearing about other people's foster/adoption journeys. Much of my life is consumed by it, and here's why:
Foster care is in my blood. It's coursing through my veins.
It's hard sometimes; Feels impossible. And I'm a hot mess like 98% of the time. But I will never stop loving foster care and adoption. I want to do everything I can to support and care for others who journey down this road, and encourage those who may be considering it.
There's so much pain in it, but so much possibility for redemption, for everyone involved. I love deeper, feel stronger, advocate louder, hug tighter, apologize quicker, cry harder than I have ever done in my life. And I wouldn't change it.
If someone would have told me everything -- all the happiness and hell -- we would experience before we started, I would do it all over again. Twice. Because my children need a voice and they need a safe place. And so do the 400,000 other children in foster care, grieving a loss so deep and dealing with trauma so heartbreaking it's too big for them to handle.
So, sorry I'm not sorry about all the foster care related posts, conversations, articles. It's what my family is made of; it's who we are. It's in my blood.
Foster care is in my blood. It's coursing through my veins.
It's hard sometimes; Feels impossible. And I'm a hot mess like 98% of the time. But I will never stop loving foster care and adoption. I want to do everything I can to support and care for others who journey down this road, and encourage those who may be considering it.
There's so much pain in it, but so much possibility for redemption, for everyone involved. I love deeper, feel stronger, advocate louder, hug tighter, apologize quicker, cry harder than I have ever done in my life. And I wouldn't change it.
If someone would have told me everything -- all the happiness and hell -- we would experience before we started, I would do it all over again. Twice. Because my children need a voice and they need a safe place. And so do the 400,000 other children in foster care, grieving a loss so deep and dealing with trauma so heartbreaking it's too big for them to handle.
So, sorry I'm not sorry about all the foster care related posts, conversations, articles. It's what my family is made of; it's who we are. It's in my blood.
Wednesday, November 06, 2013
Emotional Container
Parenting is exhausting. So. Very. Exhausting.
I'm pretty sure no parent is going to argue with me on that. There are many exhausting things about being a parent.
Never-ending dishes from 5 people.
Toys. Oh, so many toys. Everywhere.
Constant refereeing.
The mountain of laundry that comes from having 3 little boys...the majority of whom wet the bed, nightly.
The ceaseless effort that goes into trying to raise them to be somewhat well-functioning beings.
Never sleeping in. Ever. Ever.
Yes, all of these things (and many many more) are what makes parenting exhausting many days.
But then there are those days. Days where "exhausting" doesn't even being to describe the day we've had, or how spent I feel. No, some days leave me far more than exhausted, they leave me weary.
Yesterday was just such a day. We've had many days like this. Sometimes it's because several of the many (many) appointments we have to schedule regularly happen to fall within the same 48 hours, and then, just for fun, all the boys decide to lose their minds. Other times, it may be because one of the boys is working through something difficult that we can't see, which sends him into a frenzy over the purple-ness of the berries in his cereal, which somehow today are much more purple than the every other day (yes, this actually happened). Sometimes it's a school thing, sometimes it's a trauma thing, sometimes it's a birth mom thing, sometimes it's a brother thing.
Well yesterday it was like an everything thing. It started at school -- complete defiance. All day long. Then it escalated at home into the mother of all tantrums (several hours of screaming, stomping, kicking, crying, insults, drawing on the walls, etc).
Lucky for us (and not so lucky for the babysitter), we had to go to a foster care training last night, after the worst of the tantrum was over, but before we had a chance to talk him through it. It was perfect timing in fact, because the training we are currently taking is to help better understand and respond to children who have experienced trauma.
This class is gold. There are so many helpful insights. But one thing in particular stuck out to me last night. One of the trainers, who is a former case worker as well as a seasoned foster and adoptive mom, said that foster and adoptive parents of children who have experienced trauma need to be emotional containers for their children. This means providing a safe environment where the children can feel and express the entire range of complicated emotions that comes with repeated trauma.
Often, my children respond in ways that don't seem to make any sense in a situation, or seem like gross overreactions, at best. But, then I remind myself of the things we know they've experienced, and I cannot begin to relate to what is going on in their minds because of the fact that they view the world through trauma-tainted glasses.
Being an emotional container is wearying. It's the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. But, if I do not allow my children to feel whatever they feel about what has been done to them (while teaching them appropriate alternatives to expressing those emotions), I am only solidifying in their minds the messages that their trauma has piled up in them -- you're worthless, no one loves you, you are not important.
I refuse to speak one more negative message into the lives of my precious children. So, we battle on through the hardest days. We brace ourselves, as emotional containers, for the onslaught of emotional vomit that has come as a result of years and years of trauma. And at the end of the day, we are weary. But I also know where I can find Rest for my soul and where I can find strength to do it all again tomorrow.
“Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.” Matthew 11:28-30
I'm pretty sure no parent is going to argue with me on that. There are many exhausting things about being a parent.
Never-ending dishes from 5 people.
Toys. Oh, so many toys. Everywhere.
Constant refereeing.
The mountain of laundry that comes from having 3 little boys...the majority of whom wet the bed, nightly.
The ceaseless effort that goes into trying to raise them to be somewhat well-functioning beings.
Never sleeping in. Ever. Ever.
Yes, all of these things (and many many more) are what makes parenting exhausting many days.
But then there are those days. Days where "exhausting" doesn't even being to describe the day we've had, or how spent I feel. No, some days leave me far more than exhausted, they leave me weary.
Yesterday was just such a day. We've had many days like this. Sometimes it's because several of the many (many) appointments we have to schedule regularly happen to fall within the same 48 hours, and then, just for fun, all the boys decide to lose their minds. Other times, it may be because one of the boys is working through something difficult that we can't see, which sends him into a frenzy over the purple-ness of the berries in his cereal, which somehow today are much more purple than the every other day (yes, this actually happened). Sometimes it's a school thing, sometimes it's a trauma thing, sometimes it's a birth mom thing, sometimes it's a brother thing.
Well yesterday it was like an everything thing. It started at school -- complete defiance. All day long. Then it escalated at home into the mother of all tantrums (several hours of screaming, stomping, kicking, crying, insults, drawing on the walls, etc).
Lucky for us (and not so lucky for the babysitter), we had to go to a foster care training last night, after the worst of the tantrum was over, but before we had a chance to talk him through it. It was perfect timing in fact, because the training we are currently taking is to help better understand and respond to children who have experienced trauma.
This class is gold. There are so many helpful insights. But one thing in particular stuck out to me last night. One of the trainers, who is a former case worker as well as a seasoned foster and adoptive mom, said that foster and adoptive parents of children who have experienced trauma need to be emotional containers for their children. This means providing a safe environment where the children can feel and express the entire range of complicated emotions that comes with repeated trauma.
Often, my children respond in ways that don't seem to make any sense in a situation, or seem like gross overreactions, at best. But, then I remind myself of the things we know they've experienced, and I cannot begin to relate to what is going on in their minds because of the fact that they view the world through trauma-tainted glasses.
Being an emotional container is wearying. It's the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. But, if I do not allow my children to feel whatever they feel about what has been done to them (while teaching them appropriate alternatives to expressing those emotions), I am only solidifying in their minds the messages that their trauma has piled up in them -- you're worthless, no one loves you, you are not important.
I refuse to speak one more negative message into the lives of my precious children. So, we battle on through the hardest days. We brace ourselves, as emotional containers, for the onslaught of emotional vomit that has come as a result of years and years of trauma. And at the end of the day, we are weary. But I also know where I can find Rest for my soul and where I can find strength to do it all again tomorrow.
“Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.” Matthew 11:28-30
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Our New Normal
The boys have been with us for almost a month. In that time, they have moved to a different town and a new house, and then another new house (with us), embraced a new mom and dad, been introduced to new extended family members, learned new rules, slept in new beds, gone to a new church, started at a new school, met new teachers, seen a new dentist, gone to a new daycare (before school), made some new friends, and much more.
It will be a while before their little lives settle down enough to become the new normal for them, but we are doing all we can to get there and support them through this transition.
Our life changed a little too...correction, everything is different now. We are adjusting to our new normal as well. Our new normal is crazy and awesome and horrifying and exhausting. There are several things that have changed in our lives that make up our new normal, for example:
-Two little crazies call us "mom" and "dad"
-We are constantly tired. Constantly.
-One of us says the phrase "Don't even look at each other" at least once a day.
-We celebrate successes with stickers (sorry if that slips into the rest of my life, i.e. Congrats on your new baby! Here's a sticker!)
-If I'm home, there's a good chance I have a kitchen timer on my person.
-"Did you pee IN the toilet?" is a question I ask just about daily.
There are also several things I didn't realize I would experience when I became a mother like:
-The indescribable joy I feel when my youngest child belly laughs...seriously, happiest. sound. ever.
-The fierce love I feel toward my oldest child during a meltdown
-The intense heartbreak I feel when my children are beyond frustrated that they don't understand their homework
-The overwhelming pride I feel when my children say they do something "just like MY DAD!" (referring to Andy)
Our new life is absolutely insane. And our brains are constantly overloaded. And our hearts are constantly overwhelmed. And we feel like we're making 10,000 mistakes a day. And figuring out how to be good parents to our two little crazies is the hardest thing we've ever done in our whole lives. But we love these children more than life, so bring it on.
It will be a while before their little lives settle down enough to become the new normal for them, but we are doing all we can to get there and support them through this transition.
Our life changed a little too...correction, everything is different now. We are adjusting to our new normal as well. Our new normal is crazy and awesome and horrifying and exhausting. There are several things that have changed in our lives that make up our new normal, for example:
-Two little crazies call us "mom" and "dad"
-We are constantly tired. Constantly.
-One of us says the phrase "Don't even look at each other" at least once a day.
-We celebrate successes with stickers (sorry if that slips into the rest of my life, i.e. Congrats on your new baby! Here's a sticker!)
-If I'm home, there's a good chance I have a kitchen timer on my person.
-"Did you pee IN the toilet?" is a question I ask just about daily.
There are also several things I didn't realize I would experience when I became a mother like:
-The indescribable joy I feel when my youngest child belly laughs...seriously, happiest. sound. ever.
-The fierce love I feel toward my oldest child during a meltdown
-The intense heartbreak I feel when my children are beyond frustrated that they don't understand their homework
-The overwhelming pride I feel when my children say they do something "just like MY DAD!" (referring to Andy)
Our new life is absolutely insane. And our brains are constantly overloaded. And our hearts are constantly overwhelmed. And we feel like we're making 10,000 mistakes a day. And figuring out how to be good parents to our two little crazies is the hardest thing we've ever done in our whole lives. But we love these children more than life, so bring it on.
Thanks for your continued prayer and support for our family!
Tuesday, February 05, 2013
How I Really Feel...
Sometimes when I think about all the waiting we've done and all the uncertainty we are still facing, I get frustrated and impatient. We are very excited to be foster parents, and on the one hand, I can't wait to finally get a call about some kids that I can welcome into my home and love. It's all I think about. But on the other hand, I don't ever want to get that call. And it's not because I'm scared I don't have what it takes (although, sometimes I am...). It's because in order for me to get that call, a family has to experience tragedy.
The writer of Ecclesiastes says, "For everything there is a season...a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance..."
What the writer of Ecclesiastes doesn't say is that sometimes those seasons actually happen in the same moment. The upcoming season of our life will be the season for all of these things, often simultaneously.
When children enter our home, it will mean that they will have just experienced trauma on top of heartbreak. Children are placed in foster care because some form of abuse or neglect was taking place in their home. First, they experience that heartbreak, and then are removed from their home and everything that is familiar. Trauma. Regardless of whether or not their situation was bad, it was their situation. Their home. Their family. Their heartbreak.
That is why I will weep and mourn. Because the original plan was not for children to have broken relationships with their parents. The original plan was not separation. We know this because this mirrors our own relationship with God. Sin and separation were not in the original plan. But, God also made a plan for restoration. And that is why I rejoice and dance. That is why I am a foster parent, to help restore. Why wouldn't I want to be a part of the restoration of a family, or the healing of a child?
So, in the months to come, I expect to grieve and I hope to celebrate. These things will happen hand-in-hand, in bittersweet moments. My heart will both break and rejoice as I welcome children into my home when they have just been ripped from theirs. I will beam with pride and be overcome with sorrow when children experience small successes in my care, but away from their parents. I will weep and dance if, and when, I experience the reunification of my foster children to their birth families. And, perhaps, one day my heart will overflow with joy but be stricken with grief on the day we become a forever family for children who could never return to their first family.
This is what we are opening our home and hearts to as foster parents. The command in Romans to "Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep" never seemed so complicated. Sometimes I feel like this will be too much for me to handle, but if God is in the business of restoration, I had better be there too.
The writer of Ecclesiastes says, "For everything there is a season...a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance..."
What the writer of Ecclesiastes doesn't say is that sometimes those seasons actually happen in the same moment. The upcoming season of our life will be the season for all of these things, often simultaneously.
When children enter our home, it will mean that they will have just experienced trauma on top of heartbreak. Children are placed in foster care because some form of abuse or neglect was taking place in their home. First, they experience that heartbreak, and then are removed from their home and everything that is familiar. Trauma. Regardless of whether or not their situation was bad, it was their situation. Their home. Their family. Their heartbreak.
That is why I will weep and mourn. Because the original plan was not for children to have broken relationships with their parents. The original plan was not separation. We know this because this mirrors our own relationship with God. Sin and separation were not in the original plan. But, God also made a plan for restoration. And that is why I rejoice and dance. That is why I am a foster parent, to help restore. Why wouldn't I want to be a part of the restoration of a family, or the healing of a child?
So, in the months to come, I expect to grieve and I hope to celebrate. These things will happen hand-in-hand, in bittersweet moments. My heart will both break and rejoice as I welcome children into my home when they have just been ripped from theirs. I will beam with pride and be overcome with sorrow when children experience small successes in my care, but away from their parents. I will weep and dance if, and when, I experience the reunification of my foster children to their birth families. And, perhaps, one day my heart will overflow with joy but be stricken with grief on the day we become a forever family for children who could never return to their first family.
This is what we are opening our home and hearts to as foster parents. The command in Romans to "Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep" never seemed so complicated. Sometimes I feel like this will be too much for me to handle, but if God is in the business of restoration, I had better be there too.
Thanks for your prayers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)