Love is . . .

Today was a strange day. While I attended a luncheon benefiting foster children and trying to raise awareness of the extreme lack of homes in our area, Andrew's mom was in court trying to speed up his return home.

Oddly enough, I sat at a table with a woman who had her children removed from her home years ago, and through that experience, she got sober and eventually got them back. Then, three foster families were spotlighted during the luncheon. One of the mothers spoke briefly about how she and her husband were working with the biological mother of one of their foster sons, and how the mother was working her program and taking college classes, etc.

Now, this is fantastic. I am really happy for these families and how great they are doing; actually making progress, using the system's help to become stable, loving homes for their children. Yay. Really.

But, I've been fostering for over fifteen years. My experience is that this is a rare phenomenon. In fact, I can't think of a single parent of any of my children over the years that did comply with the department's requirements, any that worked at it and cared enough to try to get their children back.

I freely admit that I am jaded and pre-disposed to doubt the bio-parents and their willingness to change in order to keep their children. So, here I am listening to these two people representing families of origin while Andrew's future is being decided.

I won't go into the details of his case. This isn't the place for it. The truth is that he is her child, and not mine. No matter how I feel about him, no matter how my other kids feel, he belongs to her, and if she can get it together and be his mommy, that is the way it should be.

We have the next four weeks to transition him. It's now my job to help him succeed, and give it the best chance possible. That is how I have to love him now.

Andrew is a four-year-old foster child who's been in my home since early November. He came in crisis, after living in seven different homes. His mom came back last year and began the process of getting her sons back. I'll keep everyone posted as appropriate, and definitely appreciate all prayers.

Not So Hot Today...

I'm having a not-so-hot day.

It's one of those days when I'm feeling the weight of my responsibilities and, I guess, allowing the enemy's arrows into my heart.

It's one of those days when I try to reach out to a few people, and get shot down... When the best "advice" I get is that I knew what I was getting into when I adopted these kids; basically, it's the same "advice" my mom got from my Grandmother decades ago when she was having trouble in her marriage: you made your bed, now you have to lie in it. That was when dad was having multiple affairs, and my mom wanted to leave him and come home to Grandma.

Wow. Incredible empathy and tender-heartedness. Can't we allow the people we say we love to have bad days, and let them hurt? Can't we be a place where it's okay to be hurting?

Charlie Peacock wrote a song based on Job called Now is The Time For Tears. It said, in part, "Stay with me, don't try to fix me, friend. That's how you'll comfort me."

Today, I need some comfort. The kind that comes from a person and has two ears, two arms, and a big heart.

See what I mean? I'm letting the enemy beat me up. The fact that I'm alone in this gig -- both the parenting thing and the world in general -- is a super-tough place for me. Sometimes it's much harder than others. I've been doing it for over eighteen years and sometimes it wears me down.

My family members are few and scattered. I've got a brother somewhere in California, and my mother is in Colorado. That's about it.

I had some really fun news yesterday, but found myself with no one to call. No one to share the fun with. Well, that's not true. I tried to share it with a few people, but no one really cared. No one grasped how special it was to me, personally.

That's what started this little spiral down.

Today, I'd like a drink.

And a man.

And a trip to Mexico or something.

Ouch.