Since "Precious" left 3 and a half weeks ago, we've had one more placement come and go (newborns are HARD, y'all!!), and have adjusted back to a child-free life. It wasn't easy, in fact it's been downright hard some days. I will admit, there have been temper-tantrums that probably made my husband feel like there was a child in the house. I felt like I lost the one thing I was really good at. I felt like I lost the social circles and opportunities that come with having a little on your hip. I miss her, but I also just miss being a mom. And I miss my own littles more for it. But we're trying to make the most out of time without kids, and I'm grateful to find that, by God's grace, I'm doing a decent job of it, because I haven't always.
A few months after the first miscarriage, my best friend asked if I wanted to come up to Chicago and go to Six Flags Great America with her because she had free tickets for an upcoming weekend. It just so happened that it was "Confederate Memorial Day" down here in the deep south (yeah, I never knew that was a thing either) and I had a long weekend, so I was able to go! I told a small group I was part of about this trip, to which one of the women responded "it's nice to be able to just go and do that since you don't have kids."
Ouch.
She didn't know. It wasn't her fault, but that sentence cut deep because I was already afraid that I was dishonoring my child by going and doing something I wouldn't have been able to if he or she was still alive. I lived with this mindset for a long time, and I made myself miserable because of it. I was no good to anyone because of it, and I didn't honor God because I wanted to blame someone else for how miserable I was. So, I blamed him, though I would never have admitted it at the time.
I've since learned that the Lord gives joy and blessing even in the hardest of circumstances. We are not wrong to enjoy those things which we would not otherwise have been allowed. He also allows us to use our circumstances to love others and love him in ways we wouldn't have been able to in other circumstances.
In the last few weeks without kids, we've: babysat other fosters, and gone on a spontaneous camping trip, and stayed up late, and slept through the night (praise the Lord...), and spent an entire Sunday afternoon playing a board game, and attended a foster-care training/support group, and had friends over, and had 5 adults sleep in our two bedroom/one bathroom apartment one night, and made goals for ourselves to get healthier and more self-disciplined, and re-organized our entire apartment, and I've been more focused at work, and we've missed our foster-love, and we've missed our babies, and we've seen again that the Lord is good, and that sorrow and joy can mingle. That they don't cancel each other out, but make each other more wholesome in a way. We've fully understood what we've lost, and yet the good things are even sweeter when they are a balm to the soul.
In all of this, I'm reminded that the greatest tragedy in history was also my greatest good; when our very creator suffered and agonized and died, we were granted freedom and access to him that we never had before. I've been excused from condemnation for my sin and clothed in righteousness because an innocent man, the Son of God, was condemned to die on my behalf. "Did e'er such love and sorrow meet, or thorns compose so rich a crown?" God redeems a broken world. He redeemed his own betrayal, humiliation and death for his glory and our good. He redeems our lives that have been mangled by our sin and by the effects of sin on the physical world; he gives beauty and joy in the midst of loss and confusion and he gives mercy and grace and healthy conviction in the midst of temper-tantrums and bad attitudes and pity parties. He is patient, he is kind, and he is good.
Saturday, July 27, 2019
Friday, July 5, 2019
Sovereignty and the "Should have Been"
We're visiting Matt's family this week. We thought we'd have foster love with us, but it's okay that we don't. She never should have been ours in the first place. What's hard is having had a child in our home, how easy it is now to imagine what it would be like with our own kids. When I close my eyes as I sit on the deck, I can see the kiddie pool and the sprinkler with my blonde haired, blue eyed 23 month old Brighton laughing with auntie Sarah, playing with daddy, snuggling with grandma, being teased by grandpa and saying "mommy look!" as I rest my drink on my growing baby belly and chat about our plans for Brighton's second birthday party later this month or next. I can smell the sunscreen, hear the water, feel the sticky fingers covered in melted popsicle....
But none of that is real. None of that is the lord's plan. However beautiful it might have been, his plan is even better, even if it's harder; even if I don't see it right now. At the same time, our family is not together, and that's a result of the sin in this world and the fallen nature of even our own bodies. I rest in God's sovereignty while I mourn our babies and the life that could have been; that even in some ways should have been.
The hollowness of losing children may fade into the background most days, but there are times their absence is still felt as strongly as their presence would have been; when I feel like if I listened hard enough, I could almost hear my toddler laughing and playing in the backyard. And my heart longs for the day we can all be together. But today, I must choose to live in reality, and not get lost in the could have been. To believe in God's goodness, and not in my own wisdom, and to remember that the best beautiful sunny day with family still pales in comparison with my children's reality: the presence of their heavenly father, and their savior and co-heir and brother, Jesus Christ. He cares for us, he cares for them, and he will set all things right. Praise the Lord.
But none of that is real. None of that is the lord's plan. However beautiful it might have been, his plan is even better, even if it's harder; even if I don't see it right now. At the same time, our family is not together, and that's a result of the sin in this world and the fallen nature of even our own bodies. I rest in God's sovereignty while I mourn our babies and the life that could have been; that even in some ways should have been.
The hollowness of losing children may fade into the background most days, but there are times their absence is still felt as strongly as their presence would have been; when I feel like if I listened hard enough, I could almost hear my toddler laughing and playing in the backyard. And my heart longs for the day we can all be together. But today, I must choose to live in reality, and not get lost in the could have been. To believe in God's goodness, and not in my own wisdom, and to remember that the best beautiful sunny day with family still pales in comparison with my children's reality: the presence of their heavenly father, and their savior and co-heir and brother, Jesus Christ. He cares for us, he cares for them, and he will set all things right. Praise the Lord.
Monday, July 1, 2019
Signing up for Goodbye
We didn't sign up to foster because we don't have our own kids (though we love having a full home).
We didn't sign up to foster to make ourselves happy (though we find great pleasure in it).
We didn't sign up to foster as a way to adopt (though if a child needed a forever home, we'd say yes).
We did sign up up to foster to love and care for children who need someone to show them love and care until their own people are able to again. We signed up to say goodbye.
And now I'm sitting here in the post-goodbye. Putting off packing up the toys and clothes and bottles that didn't go with her, and remembering that when we signed up for the giggles and snuggles, we signed up for the heartache.
It's not natural for parenthood to come and go. It's not natural for kids to have to live away from their families. Nothing about foster care is "right." It exists because of brokenness, and that brokenness brings uniquely hard things and heartaches.
It means forming deep attachments even when you know it can all be over tomorrow. For the past two and half months we loved fiercely and fully without holding back, knowing we would say goodbye, but not letting that keep us from giving her every bit of love we could.
It means uncertainty. We've known from day two that goodbye was the plan. We've known for a week and half that it was coming soon. But it came quick and out of the blue today, one day before we were set to leave on vacation. Within 4 hours of the first call today, we'd said our goodbyes to our first longer-term foster love. She was gone as quickly as she'd come.
It means being thankful for things others take for granted. We are grateful that we can be 100% confident that she is loved and cared for; something that isn't always the case in fostering, but is true for most parents.
It means remembering that our children are not our own. Whether they are biological, foster or adopted, they are never ours. They belong first and foremost to God, whom we trust to love them and care for them even more than we do. And, in the case of fostering, it means remembering that even though we may be parents to these little ones today, we aren't their only parents, and we aren't their true parents and we aren't their only family. They belong to someone else, we're just filling in.
It means that "not fair" only applies to kids, not foster parents. Today was fast and hard, but it was fair. No one in this system is obligated to take our feelings into account. The only thing that matters is the child and their family, and that's fair. We waived our right to "not fair" when we signed up. What's not fair is to keep a child from their people longer than is necessary.
It means remembering that just because we signed up doesn't mean it's easy. There is appropriate grief to be found, but it must not overshadow what is right for the child. Yes, it was hard. But we've done what we set out to do, and we handed off a happy, healthy child to her people; we've loved hard, and we've hurt hard, and she's better off for it. Please, let it be hard for us, but please know that it's fair, and that hard is good. We signed up for this, and we wouldn't have it any other way.
With only one guaranteed year left here, we haven't decided if we'll continue to foster now or wait until we've settled in wherever Matt finds a job. But doubtless, there will be more children in need of a loving home for any amount of time, and we look forward to welcoming the next one, making them safe and loved and happy and healthy, and saying goodbye again and again and again. Because someone's got to do it, and I'm happy for it to be me, even in the goodbyes.
We didn't sign up to foster to make ourselves happy (though we find great pleasure in it).
We didn't sign up to foster as a way to adopt (though if a child needed a forever home, we'd say yes).
We did sign up up to foster to love and care for children who need someone to show them love and care until their own people are able to again. We signed up to say goodbye.
And now I'm sitting here in the post-goodbye. Putting off packing up the toys and clothes and bottles that didn't go with her, and remembering that when we signed up for the giggles and snuggles, we signed up for the heartache.
It's not natural for parenthood to come and go. It's not natural for kids to have to live away from their families. Nothing about foster care is "right." It exists because of brokenness, and that brokenness brings uniquely hard things and heartaches.
It means forming deep attachments even when you know it can all be over tomorrow. For the past two and half months we loved fiercely and fully without holding back, knowing we would say goodbye, but not letting that keep us from giving her every bit of love we could.
It means uncertainty. We've known from day two that goodbye was the plan. We've known for a week and half that it was coming soon. But it came quick and out of the blue today, one day before we were set to leave on vacation. Within 4 hours of the first call today, we'd said our goodbyes to our first longer-term foster love. She was gone as quickly as she'd come.
It means being thankful for things others take for granted. We are grateful that we can be 100% confident that she is loved and cared for; something that isn't always the case in fostering, but is true for most parents.
It means remembering that our children are not our own. Whether they are biological, foster or adopted, they are never ours. They belong first and foremost to God, whom we trust to love them and care for them even more than we do. And, in the case of fostering, it means remembering that even though we may be parents to these little ones today, we aren't their only parents, and we aren't their true parents and we aren't their only family. They belong to someone else, we're just filling in.
It means that "not fair" only applies to kids, not foster parents. Today was fast and hard, but it was fair. No one in this system is obligated to take our feelings into account. The only thing that matters is the child and their family, and that's fair. We waived our right to "not fair" when we signed up. What's not fair is to keep a child from their people longer than is necessary.
It means remembering that just because we signed up doesn't mean it's easy. There is appropriate grief to be found, but it must not overshadow what is right for the child. Yes, it was hard. But we've done what we set out to do, and we handed off a happy, healthy child to her people; we've loved hard, and we've hurt hard, and she's better off for it. Please, let it be hard for us, but please know that it's fair, and that hard is good. We signed up for this, and we wouldn't have it any other way.
With only one guaranteed year left here, we haven't decided if we'll continue to foster now or wait until we've settled in wherever Matt finds a job. But doubtless, there will be more children in need of a loving home for any amount of time, and we look forward to welcoming the next one, making them safe and loved and happy and healthy, and saying goodbye again and again and again. Because someone's got to do it, and I'm happy for it to be me, even in the goodbyes.
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