Little Man is not his trauma. He is not his pain and he is not his anger. Little Man is a vast, vast ocean of feeling and right now I’m the beach where he crashes.
What could be easier than using the skills and information we share with others? We would be like professional parents.
As foster parents we need to be reminded the story isn’t over. When the past trauma and attachment issues appear to be winning – the story isn’t over. When the days are long and no one is around – the story isn’t over. When all seems destined for failure – the story isn’t over. In fact, Easter reminds us that God can write a new story, one we could have never imagined.
Foster care isn’t easy, but like I said before, it isn’t meant to be. I accepted the challenge of opening my home and found one of the greatest rewards I never thought possible. My kids are amazing and I love them just as much as if they had come from my own body. I don’t think I saved those kids, I think they saved me.
Adoption was coming soon and in the midst of all the preparations, our then soon-to-be-adopted children were asked by their case manager what they wanted on their adoption day cake. Our biological daughter, who had been on this journey the entire time, desperately wanted to be asked as well.
When my husband and I started our foster care journey, we originally wanted older children of a similar race. We didn’t have any kids of our own and we were excited, but equally terrified of becoming parents. As the days ticked down for us to receive placement we changed our minds several times, going back and forth about what would be best for us. The day that I received the call for placement our worker seemed frazzled. She was worried about a sibling pair that was going to be taken from a home in a few hours with no place to go.
Nearly eight months ago I signed the papers that said the five small children living in my home were officially mine forever. And after eight months, sometimes I forget that they are mine.
We know the way you freely give up your rooms, your toys, your parents and your home. We watch you graciously sit at the dinner table each night, fully realizing that the “least of these” is sitting next to you.
For years I had worked 40-plus hour work weeks and in an instant that changed. Not only was it an adjustment for the kids, it was hard on me as well.
I had prayed every day for God to send me a child, but I could no longer focus on my own sorrow when there were 8,000 children begging God every day to send them a mother.