Four Years

I cannot believe it's been 4 year since Daniel and I became foster parents. I’m not the same
person I was when we started. My eyes have seen so much and they can never be blind to the pain in
this world ever again. I can’t believe how naive I once was. I walked around seeing only my needs in my life. My eyes were like an unfocused camera capturing everything around me except what needed to be focused on. What needed to be seen was a blur to me.

My heart has endured so much heaviness, bits and pieces broken away every time a child leaves my
arms. Though my heart may be full knowing that God’s plan was fulfilled and I served my purpose for
what was needed, the emptiness I feel as I reach out to hold a child that I love fiercely and instead only
receive silence and brokenness. There are times when I have to ask myself all the questions: Why do I
do this? Knowing there is pain. Knowing that my heart has broken 10 times already. Why do I keep doing this? Is it worth it?

Yes...

I’ll first give you 10 reasons why the heartache was worth it.

Because...

H and K endured so much pain in their young lives. We were a stepping stone that they needed to get to
their forever family. The family they should have always had.

S loved his mommy but she needed time to know how loved she was. She needed time to fight and
break the chains of her addiction, so that she and S would never have to be separated again.

R and J needed a safe place until they could reach their forever family. It was the first time I had ever
met someone who didn’t understand what safe felt like. We got the privilege of showing them.

S is autistic. He faced so many challenges, and at 6 years old he was one of the strongest people I had
ever met. I'm pretty sure he taught me more about strength and endurance than I could have ever taught
him. He broke down walls while people watched in disbelief and awe.

D stayed with us for a short time for respite so his family had time to travel and rest. Life is not meant to
be done alone. Support and care for others as if they were your own family.

J was with us for less than a week. It was the first time I learned that I can’t put faith into a broken
system; only into the God who can fix what's broken. I pray for this sweet boy every day, and hope that
the few days he stayed with us he felt some comfort.

L was a little guy with amazing physical strength and a love for PJ Masks. Our time with him ended
before we could see where his story took him. In our home he had a warm bed, seconds on meals, all
the snacks, and fun adventures in the snow.

IY didn’t stay as long as I wanted and wished for but I learned that sometimes hard choices have to be
made. I hope and pray that he never forgets our words of encouragement and that it will help him reach
his potential that we still see in him.

They are real people. Their stories matter. They will be our grandchildren’s teacher encouraging them in
school. They will be a lawyer and advocate fighting for a child's right. They will be the parents teaching
their children to love others no matter who they are or where they came from. They are the future. If we
want them to have bright futures, don’t we need to work to make sure they have a light when their
present is so dark?

Sometimes our purpose was to simply provide shelter and food. To make sure that the physical needs of
the child were being met. Sometimes, It was much more complicated and heart wrenching. It was
impossible to be emotionally detached. We became cheerleaders when our kids made leaps and bounds
in their development or when their parents reached a goal that they were terrified to accomplish. There
are no small victories in foster care. We became teachers encouraging them to try new things, even
when that yucky broccoli did sort of look like an alien. We climbed up mountains, bounded over rocks
and swam in water falls to show them that there is nothing you can’t accomplish with hard work and
determination and the destination is amazing to see.

We were problem solvers trying to uncover a solution when nine hundred and ninety nine things didn’t
work and praying the one thousandth would be the answer. Watching carefully so that we didn't
accidentally uncover a trauma that was unknown to us. Our skin had to become tough to hear the pain
that the kids suffered, while keeping out hearts tender and completely open to them at all times. This was the armour we wore as we advocated for their needs and fought their monsters - I never believed in
monsters until our children told us about theirs.

People around us meant well with their words and phrases as they depicted us as heroes and saviors.
When in reality we just sat around the breakfast table eating peanut butter toast and trying to think of
how to solve a problem with the skills we were taught. Sometimes we got big results and sometimes we
felt like we failed miserably. We got up, made more toast and tried again. The days that we held our
terrified sobbing children until they fell asleep because they just relived a trauma in their mind wasn’t
seen by anyone else. Nor was the break down I had after I laid their head on a pillow and walked out of
their room realizing the heaviness of what they shared with me. You didn’t hear the millions of “I hate
you” or “You’re not my real mommy” that I tried to shove to the side, telling myself that I couldn't t take it personally because it wasn't really about me. I struggled to always remind myself to see their perspective in everything even when that meant I needed to rearrange how I saw things.

So why am I telling you these blunt truths? Why in the world would you ever want to foster or continue to foster after hearing how messy foster care is? There are 5 words that I say to myself in the hardest
moments. “It matters to this one.” Some of you may know exactly where I’m going now and the rest of
you may think I’m nuts. The story is adapted from Loren C Eiseley’s work Star Thrower and it goes
something like this:

A young girl was walking along a beach upon which thousands of starfish had been washed up during a
terrible storm. When she came to each starfish, she would pick it up, and throw it back into the ocean.
People watched her with amusement.

She had been doing this for some time when a man approached her and said, “Little girl, why are you
doing this? Look at this beach! You can’t save all these starfish. You can’t begin to make a difference!”

The girl seemed crushed, suddenly deflated. But after a few moments, she bent down, picked up another starfish, and hurled it as far as she could into the ocean. Then she looked up at the man and replied,

“Well, I made a difference to that one!”

Being a foster parent is worth the sweat and tears. It’s worth the painfully broken heart pieces, the I don’t know moments(which sometimes feels more like months), and being frustrated when nothing seems to be happening no matter how hard you’re working. It’s worth the heaviness and emptiness that my heart feels at the same time even though that seems like a contradiction. It’s worth it because it matters. It made a difference in the lives of the 10 that came and left.

I’m not going to sugarcoat my life to make it always seem sweet to you in hopes that you start fostering. Don’t get me wrong, there are many joyful seasons that make our life so sweet. Those stories are usually the ones that you hear about, which is why in this blog post I wanted to focus on the hardships of fostering. In foster care, joy and sorrow hold hands and are constantly present together. Giving yourself excuses is the easy way out. Go ahead, tell yourself that you would get too attached, you would never let go, you can’t say goodbye, and only special people become foster parents, but remember: while you sit comfortable and confident on your decision to keep your heart safe, there are children who don’t get to choose. If you knew them, held them, and soothed their fears and cries, would you be able to refocus back into the blur? Or would you step out on faith knowing that it matters?