I know you. You began with such big hopes and a dash of hesitation. You knew the risks and had heard the stories. You waded through the advice from friends and strangers; and read all the books and all the blogs. You added words like attachment theory, trauma-informed parenting, reunification. You also found yourself using new acronyms like TDM (team decision making meeting), RAD (reactive attachment disorder) , and CASA (court appointed special advocate).
I saw you. You held the whirling-wild-eyed two year old outside the courtroom. We talked about his case plan and how you supported reunification, but also how you were incredibly overwhelmed. It had already been a scary few months filled with trauma rages and big diagnoses. He was HARD and there were days that you wept in the closet from exhaustion and the inability to fix what felt so broken. Already the little one you were fostering was carrying a string of letters like FTT (failure to thrive), ADHD (attention deficit hyperactive disorder), and FAE (fetal alcohol effects). New letters to add to a little life. Yet, despite these things, I watched as he slowed in the hallway, popped a thumb in his mouth and curled onto your lap and fell asleep. I saw you as you poured your very heart into this little one. The only protection in a big system of adults, laws and procedures.
I thought of you, as you spent your days doing redirection and time-ins. The nights that you walked the floors soothing the little one of nightmares that were very real. I thought about how you helped pick up the pieces after visits with his bio parents and he was returned a sobbing and shaking mess. You support reunification, but the back and forth trauma of weekly visits was taking it’s toll. I saw the struggle as you made all the appointments and continued to care for the rest of your family. The rocky first months where you questioned your choice to foster and stumbled in your parenting many times each day.
I saw you again, months later. The parents were no longer a part of the case plan and this hurt your heart. You grieved your little ones loss because you understand on a deep level that the best place for him is his parents. But you also understand that addiction has destroyed their choice to parent safely. The visits had stopped and there began to be a calm, a consistency to your days. He called you mom from across the playground. “Look Mom, look what I can do!”, and you smiled and clapped. His whole face wreathed in grins, as he darted across the monkey bars. As his sturdy three year-old legs rocketed him confidently across the sand to the swings, I remark, “He’s a different child”.
I sat by you. It’s preschool graduation and he is decked out in a tiny suit and tie. You and your husband beam from the audience as he crosses the stage with the tiny cardboard hat and tassel. You snap photo after photo. Severance is the case plan you tell me and you are hoping to adopt him. He’s been with you for 18 months and I smile as he runs to your husband and is swooped up and tossed in the air. “I’m so proud of you”, booms foster dad as he holds your foster son high.
One year later, I saw you…without him. He went to an aunt in Florida, you say. It happened so fast. You were called to pack his things and you stood weeping as you watched him drive away in the back of a caseworkers car. There would be no transition, because Florida is far away. Instead, he would leave as he came. Sudden, and confused, and hurting. In that moment you would step back into your closet and shut the door to weep. And a piece of you would die, and that piece would be called the foster parent.
I see you because I am you. I have wept in the closet, in the car and in the shower. I have sat in the dark spaces with my foster children and held them during the rages and the pain. I have died a little inside as the car pulled away and the child who called me mom left forever. I want you to know that you can rise again. That the piece of your heart that shattered, it only dies if you stop. That death is only permanent when you lay down and don’t get up. So get up foster mom, today is a day that you will live. You will live to welcome one more little.
There’s death in foster care, but there’s also life. And this flicker of life found on the dark closet floor, will help you rise to answer that call once more. Because God is faithful even in death. Maybe we are meant to die a little today, so that we may live tomorrow.
