This life

We’d heard stories about taking in children who have just been apprehended.

Filthy clothes.

Dramatic (and traumatic!) drop offs with cops involved.

Nothing to their name but the clothes on their back.

But I remember the first time we accepted a placement where a child had just been removed from his or her parents. I wasn’t sure what to expect when we were told we’d have two children dropped off at our house within the next hour who had just been apprehended earlier that day.

I sure didn’t expect a precious little girl, who smiled freely, giggled intensely, and said “Pees” and “Ten Q” in the appropriate situations. I didn’t expect to find a diaper bag full of wipes, diapers, a spare outfit, PJs, a stuffed animal, and a favourite bedtime book. I didn’t expect to find handwritten lists instructing me on formula preparation and bottle sterilization.

My heart broke in a different way that time around. I felt like I had been punched in the gut as I imagined this mother packing up her children’s belongings, without having the faintest idea of where they would sleep that night. I can imagine the zombie-like feeling of going through the motions and the checklist, ensuring that my kiddos had everything they’d need to be okay, but not really letting the reality of the situation settle in on me until I cried myself to sleep in an empty home that night.

Can’t forget her favourite stuffed animal.

His bottles must be sterilized.

She’ll feel so confused without her bedtime routine; she should have her favourite book.

Each kiddo that comes into our care quickly ignites a burning flame of compassion and protectiveness in our hearts. We love them intensely and our hearts break for them and for their loss and their complete upheaval. That is to be expected. But as I unpacked their bags, I was caught off guard by how deeply my heart ached for this mama. We didn’t know her story nor the reasons behind the apprehension except for the common catchphrases that almost feel like space fillers in the way typical people use “um.”

Neglect. Domestic violence. Mental health. Parent capacity.

As the hours turned into days, and the days turned into a week, we kept asking the question, “What happened, mama? What went wrong?”

This sweetie was two-and-a-half going on five and we were constantly amazed by her enormous vocabulary and perceptive cognitive skills. She astounded us with sentences like, “Could you please open the door for me?” and “I don’t actually want to go to bed.” Her spunky personality was a glow flitting about the house, always looking for the next game. I often forgot I was speaking to a toddler and not a pre-schooler. How in the world did she end up with us... in foster care?

While we loved her and her baby brother, I prayed that this placement would be quick-- that family would step up soon. We knew we could do anything for a short time, but I also knew this wasn’t a sustainable situation for us. The word “chaos” had a whole new meaning, as we moved two toddlers into a room, and two babies into the other. We had daily diaper loads, red jello stains on the carpet, and sippy cups littered about. We stepped on toys, tripped over baby swings, and fell into bed each night wondering if there was enough sleep in the world to get us through the next day. My daily uniform was sweat pants, dirty shirts, and a messy bun.

Logistically, I wanted to lock ourselves in the house and only leave when Lucas was around after I figured out that it took 25 minutes to get four children (two of whom can’t even crawl) bundled up for winter and buckled into our mini van for school drop offs. Our elementary-aged kiddo became the “Baby Entertainer” as he sat nestled between four car seats: he jiggled, sang, popped pacifiers back in, and played Peek-a-boo like it was his true calling. I pulled every string I had to avoid school drop offs and pick ups, because really, I’d rather just keep him home all day than to go through the 60-minute bundle up, pack up, strap in, strap out, carry out, and strip down routine four times through.

I cannot even begin to count the number of times I’d be trying to soothe a colicky baby, while looking over to see Lucas doing diaper gymnastics with wiggly bodies. So many times our eyes would meet and one of us would say, “This is our life.”

And, today, nearly a decade later, I look around and see the evidence of our life: the calendar scattered with therapy appointments, the communication boards, and weighted blankets, and half a dozen pairs of shoes scattered at every entry way. I feel the weight of raising kiddos whose needs often feel greater than my capacity. But I look over and I see Lucas snuggling, diaper changing, wrestling, wiping noses, quartering grapes, listening to kiddos read out loud and I exhale, “This is our life.”

And what other life would I rather be living?

Give us all the smelly diapers, gassy babies, tantruming toddlers, and whiny nine-year olds who need a home where they can feel safe and loved exactly how they are. Give us the homeless teenager and the one whose adoption dissolved. Give us the long list of professionals and the therapies needed. Give us the arbitrary definitions, the dysfunctional families, the infuriating systems, and messy relationships. Give us the broken and lonely hearts, the hurting and angry ones.

Give us the children who need Jesus, and by his grace, let us spend this life in hopes of reaching just one of them.

May he give us the strength to live this life.