Little One has come and gone again from our home since I’ve written last.
Amidst a whirlwind of frantic phone calls, sick social workers, misplaced information and procedural demands, I held a miracle.
It did my heart good to hold him, even though I knew it was most likely only for a short time.
I know you’ll think I’m crazy, but I swear he smiled twice when I started to sing about His love.
Twice. People, I’m telling you he did this on two separate occasions.
In any case, while we were out and about this weekend, I ran into an acquaintance.
So, you’re fostering again?
Do you like it?
In retrospect, this seems like kind of a strange question to ask.
In the moment, the answer came so quickly that it took me aback.
No. I heard myself say. No, I don’t.
I don’t like any of the reasons that children come into foster care.
I don’t like that it’s the little people who are caught in the crossfire.
I don’t like knowing nothing.
I don’t like wondering whether I should buy more formula, more diapers.
I don’t like waiting hours, days for a return phone call when I am expected to respond to requests immediately.
I don’t like feeling like somebody’s job. A case. A resource.
I don’t like having to drop everything to comply with absurd demands. I teach kindergarten, for goodness’ sake. I cannot just tell the five year old to watch themselves for an hour.
I don’t like wondering if all will be well after we say goodbye.
I don’t like having my heart torn out and stomped on. Again. And again.
I (really, really, really) don’t like that my daughter cried herself to sleep last night because of the choices that I am making for our family.
I don’t like any of it. Truthfully, it sucks.
When I get the call asking if Little One can come stay for a few days, the answer comes so quickly, so confidently. Without hesitation, without reservation.
Yes. Yes, of course.
This is why I do it, friends.
I do it for this one.
I do it for the miracles.