I cannot count the number of times someone has called me strong since we became licensed foster parents. It’s been said by friends, family, near-strangers. They say that we are strong, that they could not do what we do. May was Foster Care Awareness month and in previous years, I have done my best to follow a prompt a day on social media and write a little about my experiences to raise awareness. This year, the one-word prompt I seem to be living, whether I want to or not is grief. And unfortunately, it’s not just confined to May.
At the end of this month, Sweet One, the child we have loved on, prayed over and watched grow will return home to his mom. Before foster care, I’m not sure I ever experienced any joy growing out of grief. Loss came before more loss. Disappointment or shame was more likely to follow grief than joy. Pain seemed never ending. When our first little man went home with his mom, with tears still fresh on our faces, my husband turned to me and said “I want to see that happen one hundred more times.” And now, over 3 years later, we have the pleasure, blessing, fortune of being able to sit on the front lines while it happens again. Another family fought for and restored in ways that my family never was.
I somehow missed the memo growing up, about joy. Frustration was pent up, packaged into resentment for me to unpack a decade or more later. Anger, never expressed, was tidied up and swept under a rug. Sadness was okay, for a time. Happiness was more about what it looked like on the outside than what I was feeling on the inside. And now, boxes and boxes of memories and feelings have been unpacked, feelings running down my cheeks every chance they get. Feelings are persistent, it turns out. Each day that I turn them away and say, “not right now”, they just sit back quietly and counter, “We’ll wait.” And then, in a quiet moment, I close my eyes and it’s like they’re all sitting there waiting. For 30 seconds after I drop him off for a visit, for a minute or two while saying bedtime prayers. Little pockets of my day where I just can’t push them away anymore. The silence in the house that I know is coming with his overnight visit. Strength may be a word you have for me, but it’s not something I feel.
Before, when people have said “I could never do what you do” I’ve replied that none of us have control over what happens to our kids. Not in the big picture. We can control what we feed them, when their bedtimes are or where they go to school. But none of that really guarantees their future. I have had friends who have miscarried, lost newborns, been confronted with an accident or disease and seen for themselves how unpredictable life is. And now, as I weep over this loss that I am feeling sending Sweet One home, it feels so deep in my bones and yet I struggle not to compare it to the loss that is happening everywhere else. I think, I should be stronger. I remind myself, this is the best case scenario- that he would get to go home to his mom. So why does it feel so hard? How can joy and pain exist in the same story? In the same breath?
This feels so hard; I contemplate daily whether or not I can continue opening my heart to more children when I know it will end up hurting so much. I don’t think I’m strong enough to do this over and over again. But then I’m reminded at the very beginning of our journey, when we agreed that fear wasn’t a good enough reason to stay quiet, to stay comfortable. In the past 3 years, we have grown more, both individually and collectively, than I realized was possible. The passion I have for advocacy is more alive now than it was even when I was in my social work program in college. I am more committed to “walking the walk” because I have seen amazing things along the way. In so many ways, life seems like it is about the big things- the big advocacy and the big justice and the big voice I want to have. And frankly it’s intimidating and feels like I’m not capable of doing all that much. But maybe it’s not really as much about the big things as it feels like it is. Maybe it’s really about being the safe person to kiss bumps and scrapes, even if we share that duty with other parents. Maybe it’s about the 3 year old stomping around with his packed bag, quietly chanting “mama house. Mama house” because he knows it’s time to visit. Or his mom sending us home with some crazy good homemade sauce for when we make dinner. And about all the little moments that got us here. I don’t really have any answers. But I know that no matter how sad it seems to be looking at this chapter coming to an end, I’m glad we’re here.
Run of the Mill(ers) 