Grief

They're gone. 

Gone. 

Has it been a week? Really? It doesn't feel real. I have kept myself extraordinarily busy this week. And for the most part I just feel numb. 

I've talked with a couple of people about grief. And had the chance to think about how I've processed in the past. I can't process "gone" just yet. That is a mountain I might lose myself under. 

But denial is hard to maintain. I find myself noticing the small differences. And I can hold on to each one for a moment. Like a pebble you cup in your hand. Feel it; let it go. I can process this mountain one pebble at a time. 

After months of battling endless laundry, all the dirty clothes fit at the bottom of one basket. The linen closet is full. There's so many towels. 

The car is very quiet. I've been used to two conversations going on at the same time. All the time. The kids were talkers. I can get away from the house, but then I'm sitting in the car. And it's too quiet. 

When I see an airplane, I no longer have to point it out. 

I got the cold, clammy sweats standing in the middle of Target's kids clothes when I realized that I was just there out of habit, not need. 

The hardest moment this week was when I was in the car, almost home. The street before mine runs parallel to the train tracks. I had just turned on when the bells started clanging and the railroad crossing arms came down. I slowed down and waited for the train to catch up. I drove beside it until I had to turn onto my street--the whistle blowing, the wheels screeching. Tyrez would have loved it. 

Uncertainty

In this journey toward adoption, very little is certain. One day we have a victory: the foster care review board recommends termination of parent rights, parole is denied, siblings are reunited. The next feels like defeat: visitations at prison, cancelled court dates, a relative requesting a home study.

I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I know that God loves me more than I can fathom. I know that He has ordered my steps. I want these children to be with me forever. But even if we just have today, it will be a blessing. God has heard the cries of my heart for these children. He knows the path that is set before me. I live in uncertainty. It has strengthened my faith and shown me how little faith I have.

What sustains me? Today's sermon was about how the Gospel sustains us. I want to live in anxiety when the bad news comes. The enemy would have me lose my focus and be incapacitated by worry. My pastor and my parents remind me to go back to the Word.

Psalm 116 has always comforted me. I turn to it over and over again. "He has inclined his ear to me." "You, Lord, have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, and my feet from stumbling."

A friend recommended the devotional Jesus Calling by Sarah Young. If you are living in a period of uncertainty and need encouragement, I would recommend it to you. From today's reading: "I am with you and for you. You face nothing alone--nothing! When you feel anxious, know that you are focusing on the visible world and leaving me out of the picture....I will get you safely through this day and all your days. Each day is a precious gift from My Father. How ridiculous to grasp for future gifts when today's is set before you."

Placement

They told me to come pick you up from the DSS offices at 10am on Monday. I had a whole weekend to prepare. They said that you had plenty of clothes and toys.

I bought more hangers. And diapers. Sippy cups. Boy clothes. Big Legos. Dinosaurs.

I reorganized the room. I washed clothes. I called daycare. I called friends. I cleaned the house again. That's probably the last time it was truly clean.

On Monday morning I met you. At the back of the DSS offices your previous foster parent introduced us, and we shuffled your belongings from the truck to the car. She said, "Remember me telling you about Miss Katie? You're gonna go live with her now." You were running around and around her. She gave hugs and kisses and passed you to me.

"Hey, buddy." I signed one sheet of paper, then buckled you in and took you to my house. Your eyes were dark and blank.

Your clothes were stained--grass, marker, paint. I put you in new clothes. I showed you your room. You played with the toys. You tried to talk to me--I tried to understand. You talked through your teeth without opening your mouth very much. When you want something, you call me "Lady."

"Hey, Lady." "Here, Lady."

The questions start. "Where Mama?" "This mine?" "Where Beanie Bubba?" We've been home a couple of hours, but I decide I need my mama. She's dying to meet you.

At Noni's you wander around looking at everything. Someone from church brings toys and clothes. "This mine?" Mama takes a picture. In it, I'm smiling at you, but you are just hanging on my hip with blank eyes. Inside I'm terrified.

I don't know how to love you. And I don't know if you can love me.

My Story Begins...

Just over a year ago, I was a single women living alone in a 3 bedroom house. One bedroom was a rarely used office. One bedroom was loosely prepared for the arrival of a child. My licensing worker told me that a toddler would be the easiest first placement. So I bought tiny pairs of underpants and toddler appropriate toys.
I had spent over 7 months trying to get certified as a foster parent. The home study had been written, but I never heard if my certification was approved. In the months of waiting, I had questioned over and over again whether I was crazy or not. Every step and hurdle along the way made me think it was God's way of showing me I was making a mistake. If someone found out I was trying to get certified, they would say, "Oh! That's great! I could never do that."
I imagined all the ways I would help a toddler deal with being separated from his/her parents. What they should call me. I eventually settled on "Aunt Katie." I shopped for tiny socks. I shampooed carpet. I waited. And waited.
When the call finally came, it was not at all what I expected. First, I didn't even know I was certified. Secondly, the social worker told me the child had been in foster care for over a year already. He was aggressive. They were separating him from his brother. He needs to be the only child for a while, she said.
So I called my mom.

"What do you think?"

"Yes. Tell her yes. Call her back and tell her yes."