I Miss the Hell Out of Her

 

The #1 reply to being a foster parent is the fear of being able to "give them back". I get it, it's a scary concept. How are you supposed to pour yourself into these kiddos and at the drop of a hat just stop? Well, I'm going through this now and would like to give you an inside look. Here it is:

I miss the hell out of her. She has been in my dreams every. single. night. Most nights, I wake Paul up because my dreams are tricking me into thinking we've left her somewhere. I adore the family members that she's with, and without a doubt, it's where she is supposed to be, but it's not here. I went through hell and back with that little lady and then all of the sudden it was just over. I can't just turn it off. I committed to loving her like my own and I do. But she's not my own. She is someone else's little girl. It hurts. A lot.

But here's the thing. When Paul and I were going through our training, Paul said something that has stuck with me for the last few years. When asked why he was choosing to become a foster parent, he said, "I'll take the heat so they don't have to be in the fire." And, you know, that's it. I can manage being overwhelmed, exhausted, and heartbroken. They can't. These kids have had to simply survive. I will gladly take some of their load, whether for 5 days or two years, so they can know what it feels like to be loved and protected. That is worth every ounce of hurt I feel.

So, next time the idea of foster parenting comes up, before you talk about your fear of not being able to "give them back", take a moment to consider that you are being offered the gift of standing in the gap, sheltering them from the storm, and showing them an unconditional love and protection that they may have never felt. You will have the honor of escorting them in their darkest hour so they can finally learn that dark doesn't mean scary.

As much as I miss my little lady, I stand with great pride at what my, now hurting, heart provided for her. This, I know and believe.

I Can Do Hard Things

 "I need you to tell me that I can do hard things. I keep telling her that she can, I need someone to tell me that I can, too."

These were the words I cried to my mom on Tuesday morning as I drove back to the hospital. I had slept for 2 hours that night after spending 12 hours in the emergency room holding the frail body of a little one who had been severely neglected. We had only met 72 hours earlier and somehow she was supposed to trust me to walk her through one of the lowest moments of her little life. The responsibility was overwhelming. The stakes high. I had never seen this stuff anywhere but on TV, yet there I sat, rocking my sweet girl back and forth, trying to calm both of our nervous systems for what was to come. Then, it was time, one Reece's Piece at a time, we made it through each test, picture, x-ray, and lab. It was awful. I will never forget it. I pray that she does. But she did it. Bravely, she did really hard things.

Over the next two days, with the support her first foster mom and God send, Miss

Tricia

, I met with every doctor, therapist, dietitian, investigator, and social worker on her floor. I listened, I argued, and I advocated for my girl. She had been silenced and needed her voice back. This girl, my girl, was going to get the best. She would know that she was safe, protected, and loved. We blew a million bubbles, made hundreds of playdoh figures, ate too many french fries, and negotiated every temperature, blood pressure, and oxygen level. One minute at a time, one reece piece at a time, we made it through the days. We finally went home. We did it. Together, we did really hard things.

Today, I woke up to her joyful giggle as she played with the kids. She was safe. She was happy. When her tiny, frail body slowly came down the stairs, she sweetly yet proudly said, "Good Morning, Mom! I love you! I like being home." Not quite yet, baby girl. I have to do a really hard thing.

This afternoon, I packed up her things and brought her to her final destination. Family that will love, care, and protect her. I gave them every detail, every tip, and every phone number. I gave her a kiss, told her that I loved her, and that I was so proud of her. I said goodbye. Hiding my tears with my sunglasses, I smiled, waved, and drove away. As confidently as I could, I did a really hard thing.

Now, the hard things are done and it is time to rest. Unfortunately, another will come and there will be more mountains to conquer. But that's okay, I'm ready, I know I can do hard things...

"Compassion asks us to go where it hurts, to enter into the places of pain, to share in brokenness, fear, confusion, and anguish. Compassion challenges us to cry out with those in misery, to mourn with those who are lonely, to weep with those in tears. Compassion requires us to be weak with the weak, vulnerable with the vulnerable, and powerless with the powerless. Compassion means full immersion in the condition of being human." -HENRI NOUWEN