Thursday, September 18, 2014

remembering ferguson in over-the-rhine

(photo: Twitter user @The_Blackness48)

Saturday night, Wendell and I walked through Over-the-Rhine, a traditionally rough, recently trendy neighborhood in Cincinnati. We put in our reservations at the fancy tapas restaurant owned by nationally recognized chef. We went through the over-pried locally manufactured goods store, lingered over the handmade wallets, and then we decided to take a walk down the crowded street while we waited. Any building that wasn’t already remodeled was under construction. Fancy lofts, expensive condos – Get in now while it’s cheaper…except cheaper means hundreds of dollars more a month than what these apartments used to cost. We passed modern fashion, pricey handbags, bouffant men’s hairstyles and all sipping cocktails on high stools.

Until two blocks down. There, the color changed. Literally.

The street was no longer glitzy, the people no longer white. A man lay in the middle of the sidewalk, a two-year-old nearly pedaled his big-wheel right into the street before his seven-year-old brother stopped him. The chairs were plastic, the drinks came in cans. I don’t think I have ever walked down a street with greater contrast than this one neighborhood. I love urban renewal as much as anyone, but my experience in the big cities close to us is that it too often looks like gentrification instead of true community transformation. This is part of the problem with race relations in our country.

I haven’t talked a lot about Ferguson with those around me. My feelings are mostly too raw. My heart is broken by this nation we live in. I’ve wanted to say things. So many things. I just don’t have the world experience to say them from my own personal authority, and after awhile, it becomes weary just quoting the knowledge I’ve attained from others.

I think I’ve mentioned before, briefly, the profound experience I had when reading The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander last year. I don’t often find myself convicted by ills committed by society at large or by our government as if they were my own sins, but the research and educational path I took while reading that book wrecked me in a way I didn’t expect. Things I thought were true all of my life were challenged deeply. The enormity of the task I have to rear a brown-skinned girl in a world where white privilege remains mostly unacknowledged and unchanged has brought me to my knees in humility. The unwitting complicity in these broken systems brought an unanticipated measure of guilt and repentance.

There were many who wrote about Ferguson in ways that I could never begin to put to the paper. There are others who are living this in ways that I probably never will. Their words bear far more weight than mine, so their words are the ones I’ll share here. I know most will think this is a story whose time has passed. I just can’t stop thinking about it, and I hope that none of us stop thinking about it. May we leave this world, this nation, our communities a little better than when we got here, and may I be part of that legacy.

 

If I could ask just one thing of you on this issue, please read some (or all) of these links. It might take you a week or two or even three to read all of them, but please. Please do not let this time in your life go by without investigating this issue in our nation, in our churches, in our own lives:

Why We're Still Unwilling to Admit to Systemic Racism in America - Benjamin Corey
“I believe that part of the task for Jesus followers in this time, in this place, and within this culture, is to usher in a season of reconciliation for our country. It will be hard work, it will make you unpopular, and it will involve some costly choices. While I believe that there are thousands ready to live like Jesus lived and to carry on his message of empathy, inclusion, and reconciliation, we must first face the following fact:
We cannot begin addressing this problem until we’re willing to admit this problem exists.
May we, the people of Jesus, live in reality– even if it is a difficult reality that invites us to sacrificial change.”

America is Not For Black People - The Concourse
”To ascribe this entirely to contempt for black men is to miss an essential variable, though—a very real, American fear of them. They—we—are inexplicably seen as a millions-strong army of potential killers, capable and cold enough that any single one could be a threat to a trained police officer in a bulletproof vest. There are reasons why white gun's rights activists can walk into a Chipotle restaurant with assault rifles and be seen as gauche nuisances while unarmed black men are killed for reaching for their wallets or cell phones, or carrying children's toys. Guns aren't for black people, either.”

Ferguson and the Quest for Racial Justice - Russell Moore
”Ferguson reminds us that American society has a long way to go in healing old hatreds. Our churches are not outposts of American society. Our churches are to be colonies of the kingdom of God. Let’s not just announce what unity and reconciliation ought to look like. Let’s also show it.”

Racial Profiling, Thugology, and the Church - Efrem Smith
I was just in Oakland this past week and too many churches were closed, with signs stating that they are only open for Wednesday Bible Study and Sunday Morning Worship. This is unacceptable. The issues facing our cities calls for collaborative church strategies that put Christians on the streets until systems change and crime reduces significantly. Commuter Churches must become Community Churches again. The Church can indeed address both racial profiling and thug-ology.

Two Americas: Ferguson, Missouri Versus the Bundy Ranch, Nevada - The Daily Banter
You need to click through to see this article – it’s more a visual piece than something from which I can pull an effective quote.

Racial Bias, Police Brutality, and the Dangerous Act of Being Black - Kristen Howerton
Rather than a quote from this article, just go and look through all of the research Kristen links to in this article. It needs no commentary.

Would Black Transracially Adopted Males Rather Be White Right Now? - Angela Tucker
”Are white adoptive parents more inclined to reminisce, reflect and eulogize Robin Williams than they are to educate, advocate and act upon these current systemic tragedies that directly impact their family?”

This Is What We Mean When We Say It's About Race - Medium.com
”So when we say that this or any other issue is about race, part of what we’re asking is for you to go beyond the scope of your own experiences when choosing whether or not to validate another person’s perspective, because your experiences may not shed enough light on the problem. Just as fish don’t understand the concept of water until they’re out of it, white people don’t usually understand white privilege until they’re forced to confront its effects, usually by people of color who are sick of getting the short end of the privilege equation.”

A White Cop, A Black Kid, and A Crime - Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary
”As people of privilege (*ahem* you know who you are), we have a responsibility to ask WHY, and then listen intently to the answer. Our neighbors in Ferguson have been standing in the street with their hands in the air, because they're trying to tell us something about the balance of power and racial inequity in the U.S! Are we willing to hear them? Because maybe it's time to shut up and listen. Or maybe it's time to get up and act; to meet our friends in the street, clasp their hands, share in their tears, echo their outrage, and stand by their side until, statistically, a long and healthy future is equally as likely for every child.”

Black Bodies White Souls - Austin Channing Brown
”I am convinced that the soul of the white church has yet to be ashamed. It is not ashamed of slavery- it only dismisses it. It is not ashamed of Jim Crow- it only claims credit for ending it. It is not ashamed of incarceration rates- it only excuses it. It is not ashamed of ghettos- it pretends to have nothing to do with them. It is not ashamed of segregation- only silently benefits from it. There is no shame for who America has been. I believe that until there is collective shame for who white America has been to people of color, white America will not choose to be something else. If it is fine with who it is, it will continue to do what's always done.”

Thursday, September 4, 2014

if grace is an ocean

O14A0456For the past month, I’ve been arguing with God. As if I know best. I’ve been telling Him all the things that I need, that I want – telling Him what I do and don’t want to do, what I do and don’t want to be. I’ve told Him over and over how flawed I am, listed out all the ways I’ve been screwing this whole thing up. Lest you think that the God I speak to isn’t real – well, I can’t disprove your experience, but you can’t disprove mine either, and I’ve been experiencing God in a whole new way this month.

 

God often speaks to me through His Word. Sometimes in ways I don’t want to hear. Maybe it’s because I’m a writer myself. Maybe it’s because reading has always been my favorite subject. Maybe it’s because there is nothing in this world that makes my heart cry glory like a well-put phrase or a well-chosen word. God speaks in all kinds of ways to all kinds of people – through others, through the Holy Spirit in our own souls, through circumstances, through signs or miracles or what have you, but as for me, it’s always been the Word where God does the hardest work in my life.

The study that a friend and I have been doing on Hosea could not have come at a better time than right now. I’ve read Hosea 85 gazillion times due to my teenage infatuation with Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers, but it has never ever struck me like it has this particular time.

…so when I read Hosea 2:14 about God speaking tenderly to us in the desert, I am reminded that no matter my faults, no matter my sins, God does not treat me as I may deserve. He shows mercy. He showers grace. He speaks tenderly.

..when I read Hosea 2:23 where God says, “and I will say to Not My People, ‘You are my people’”, I am reminded that God has made me part of a People. Not an individual. I’m part of a group. I can’t do this all on my own. I can’t even process all the things on my own. I need my people. When I’m faithful to talk to my people, you know what? They are faithful to tell me hard truths and ask me difficult questions and help me figure my life out.

…when I read Hosea 4-6 about Israel’s sins and unrepentance, I can see that mirrored in my own life. My unfaithfulness to the One who always shows Himself faithful. My clinging to worthless idols instead of clinging to One who can truly give me what I need. My arguing and crying and whining about the things He’s asked me to do instead of just being obedient. All of that ugliness is just washed away in the waves of His mercy. It sinks in the depths of His grace.

 

God continues speaking even when I’m not expecting it. I was caught off guard when I found Him speaking rather sternly to me, even in the middle of a book I’ve read before, in the middle of a story that I thought didn’t apply to me:

“Perhaps this applies to you, too, good reader. God may be leading you away without a clear final destination yet….There is a horrid beauty in following God slightly blind. The victory later is sweeter, the prize more valuable than breath. Obviously, we are Americans; we like a plan, we like assurances. But the ways of faith exist so far outside of our tidy boundaries, it is a wonder we can ever receive its mysteries at all. As it was, we could only hold loosely to something we didn’t even understand, and that put us in a position of faith and terrible humility. We can wreck the spirit of a mission by prematurely focusing on the strategy. When the “how” eclipses the “why” too soon, we create a positional shift to defend and execute rather than listen and receive…”
Jen Hatmaker from Interrupted, revised and expanded

 

Umm. Listen and receive? I want a plan, thanks. Following God into the great unknown is so much more glamorous sounding than the panic that I find settling down in my life to stay for awhile. I don’t want to hold loosely. I want cling tightly. I want all the things to be in order and figured out and progressing along a certain trajectory. Even if that trajectory calls me to do really, really hard things, painful things, things that require more of me than I thought I could give – frankly, I still only want to do it if it’s the trajectory that I plan for. This unknown stuff? Shove it.

 

I’m in the middle of these hard, yet somehow still tender, truths, in the throes of wrestling with the One I love in spite of it all. Perhaps it’s time to lay down my arguments and my defenses. The minute I think I’m ready, I find myself taking up arms yet again. At odds with the One who calls me, yet steadily, if somewhat reluctantly, moving towards Him. Every time I think I have this whole ‘follow where He leads’ thing figured out, God calls me deeper still. Every time I think I’ve sacrificed enough, He calls me to lay down one more thing. Every time I think I’m can rest on my laurels and take some time off, He gently, yet firmly, prods me onward – reminding me yet again that this isn’t all about me. Further. So even though tonight, quite honestly, finds me fighting against the waves, I know if I let go, I can sink in the ocean of grace.

Now, to match my head with my heart. Press on.

 

“Let us know; let us press on to know the Lord;
his going out is sure as the dawn,
he will come to us as the showers,
as the spring rains that water the earth.”
Hosea 6:3

 

 

[image: death to the stock photo]

Thursday, August 28, 2014

a tale of two rooms

Last week, while the husband was taking the eldest deep-sea fishing for his 13th birthday, on a whim, I decided to re-do our bedroom.

securedownload (1)For four consecutive mornings, I woke up in this room. With the perfect gray-green color on the walls, newly painted furniture that now actually matches, a gallery wall, a floor that’s picked up, and no crib in the room. It’s peaceful, and I woke up happy each day. There’s something that feels so grown up about it. I know that seems silly to say since I’ve been a grown up for quite a little while now, but I’ve also shared my room with various babies for the bulk of the past several years. There was something about waking up in my grown-up room that made me feel ready for the day. Like my entire life was set right. Like I was the one in charge here, after all. securedownloadIt was a lot, frankly, for one bedroom to live up to.

Then there was Tuesday morning, when I woke up in another room entirely. One that, yet again, had a crib in it.

Monday night, during our bedtime routine, I was giving one of the daughters the medicine she takes for sleeping. Sometime in between me giving it to her and trying to get her up to bed, the baby grabbed the bottle, somehow the lid came off, and she ate 5 or so of the pills. Within ten minutes we had searched the area for the pills, called poison control, and gotten on our way to the ER since poison control told me I needed to get her ‘checked out’. Once we got into the ER, the story was completely different. We were taken back immediately to a trauma room, and swarmed like it was a for-real emergency. Stomach pumped, antidotes given, xrays, blood, vomit, catheters…it was a tiny bit surprising for me given that the medicine she took was prescribed for a child, and poison control didn’t even say to call the squad. Due to the nature of this particular med, we were then admitted to PICU for monitoring for 24 hours. When dawn broke on the hospital room that next morning, little baby was traumatized from the ER shenanigans and still clearly under the influence from the medication overdose. Mama was exhausted, guilt-ridden from the event since it happened when I was RIGHT THERE! (how does this occur? I still can’t even tell you.), and fearful over investigation and reprisals since she’s not yet ours. We woke up at the mercy of the doctors and social workers who held our fate and our release in their hands. So much for my peaceful, grown-up, in control mornings.

After my dose of humility brought by the attending doctor interview, I got another with the hospital social worker. I was relieved when she assured me they had no concerns, that it was clearly accidental, that they would pass that along to the agency, but I knew we’d still have the agency to deal with. We’ve never had anything happen that was our fault during placements, so I had more than a little trepidation of what it all would mean. Sweet M’s caseworker told me not to worry – yeah right.

As much as my new room gives me some kind of illusion that I have it all together, at least in that small square footage, the truth is far different. I only have to look at the pictures of those two rooms I woke up in this week to see it. I screw up. Accidents happen. Just a second can change my life forever, and there’s nothing I can do after the fact to rectify it. There’s no punishment that equals the amount of harshness that mamas can pour on themselves when it comes to their children. This mistake was redeemed by quick medical intervention, but too many times we can’t fix our mistakes so quickly. Yet, as I was reading in Hosea today, there is no mistake for which God won’t grant mercy. Even in the wilderness, he drew the people who betrayed Him over and over back to Himself. He speaks tenderly to us in the face of our worst failures. (Hosea 2:14)

Maybe I can use that and speak some tenderness to myself as well? I’ve been pretty harsh with myself over the past couple days. Deservedly so. But maybe the time has come for me to be a little tender too. If God can speak tenderly to the people that forsook Him again and again and again, perhaps I can muster a little compassion for myself. Perhaps I can sit in mercy and grace. So today, when I do the interview with the county regarding this whole incident, when I get the verdict on the consequences, when I rehash this whole story for the umpteenth time, my instinct is to berate myself again.  This time I’m going to try to let go of that. I’m going to try to treat myself with just a little grace.

 

 

Do you need some tenderness in your life this week too? Let’s lay down our shame and lift up our faces together.

Monday, August 25, 2014

sweet hope

large__5342575851After a week of school, I feel as though we can breathe again. The house had descended into the depths of chaos in the weeks prior to school starting. There was so much yelling and fighting and crying and mess. And that was just me…

It’s always kind of crazy right before any big transition in our house. The children sense something big is coming, even the ones who don’t understand what it is. Behavior disintegrates. Emotions flare. Tension is high. Add to that one child who had entered the depths of fear-based acting out because of previous trauma, and we were just living on the edge here for a while.

Last year was emotionally traumatic for our kindergartener. His first year of school was not his favorite, by a long shot. He ended the year hating school, disliking his teacher, and feeling so much shame that it took us some weeks to recover. As school began to approach this year, we watched him just fall apart here at home. Finally we sat down, had a big talk complete with tears, and decided that we had to take action before the school year started. We went into last year hoping for the best and reluctant to put any labels on him unless necessary. Unfortunately, not only did we wait too long to step in and when we did, we did so with too much trepidation. His teacher did not seem invested in his success, and I think he fairly quickly got a reputation with her. He developed quite a little chip on his shoulder and assumed the worst from everyone.

This year we didn’t want a repeat of last year, so I spent the summer in prayer for whomever would be teaching his class. Once we found out the name, I emailed and asked if we could meet with her privately before open house. Open houses are busy and loud, and it’s difficult to get appropriate time with any teacher. She readily agreed! I went armed with an introductory letter and a toolkit about educating kids with trauma (found here). HIs teacher was gracious and engaged. She built relationship with him immediately, and above all else, she doesn’t use the simple green-yellow-red card system. She still has a discipline system with colors (which is still not my favorite), but at least you don’t start ‘good’ and then turn ‘bad’. You start the same every day, but then you can move up or down – acknowledgement and praise for good choices, consequences for bad ones. Not only that, but if you happen to move down past just the warning, she then sits with each child individually and helps them to fill out a paper about the choice they made and what a different choice might be that they could use in the future to respond to that situation. EXACTLY the kind of thing our son needs – help with his decision-making. He doesn’t have enough executive function in his brain yet to fully realize how his choices might affect something beyond the moment, so any reinforcement in this area will help his brain develop those connections better. Add to that a teacher that he feels relationship with, and he is set up well for this school year.

He has come home happy from school all week. Something we saw very few days last year. The other day at dinner, when we were telling the highs and lows of our day, the best part of his day was…school! That literally never happened last year. Not one single time was school his favorite part of the day. I have wept with relief and gratitude more than once over the past week. I pray it continues. We’re living on hope around here, and it sure is sweet.

Thursday, August 7, 2014

while I wasn’t writing…

…I was reading. Thus this highly curated edition of links I’ve been saving up to share with you. Since I had probably twenty things saved, and they were from the entire year, I decided to edit my picks significantly. The best of the best, this is. After this, I’m caught up, and it’ll only be fresh picks from now on.

On foster care and adoption:

Are They Orphans - This High Calling

“So, you're not her real mama?

I swallowed because I was not in a mood to defend.

But Sis was quick to answer, I have two mamas. Both love me.

The lady turned to me, Are you going to adopt her?

Again, quicker than a whip, Sis jumped in, I don't need to be adopted. I have a mama who loves me and is working really hard to get me back.

The nail gal didn't ask another question.”

 

10 Things You Need to Know About Adopting from Foster Care

“That being said, there is no such thing as messed up kids; there are just kids that come from messed up places. And that’s where we come in—their adoptive families, friends, communities, schools, churches, neighborhoods. We come in and we love them and we care for them and we do everything we can to make this part of their lives as amazing as we can. We show them their worth, help them learn to trust, and provide the stability that serves as a foundation for healing.

Love works, but not by itself.”

 

On church:

In which I think community is worth intention :: or why I still "go to" church - Sarah Bessey

“In a fractured and mobile and hyper customized and individualized globalized world, intentional community – plain old church – feels like a radical act of faith and sometimes like a spiritual discipline. We  show up at a rented school and drink a cup of tea with the people of God and remember together, who we are, why we live this life, and figure out all over again how to be disciples of The Way, because we are people of hope.”

The Coming Class Crisis: Why the Church Should Invest in Early Childhood Education - Alan Noble

“Children in the lower classes are receiving less and less of the crucial opportunities needed to grow, learn, and mature compared to their upper class counterparts….

One of Putnam’s most interesting findings is that children from working class families no longer tend to be involved with churches. This wasn’t always the case. In the recent past, Putnam claims, “There were no class differences in religious observance in America, but now attending church among the [working class] in America has collapsed,” where as for upper-middle class it has “not changed much.”

Putnam sees this as a serious problem, because without the involvement of churches, many of these kids will not receive the attention and opportunities that are important for social mobility. Putnam claims that churches (along with every other major social institution) have failed working class children, creating a generation that is alienated, untrusting, and unskilled. The church has abandoned the poor, he says, and the results are tragic.”

 

And finally, the stuff that just wrecks me:

Photos: Father Of Santa Barbara Killer Meets Victim's Dad

Sometimes, not much needs to be said. That's the case with a series of photos released today that show an early June meeting between the father of the Santa Barbara killer and the dad of one of his 20-year-old victims…."I've been told that the shooter's father has said he wanted to devote his life to making sure that doesn't happen again. I share that with him," Martinez said. "He's a father. I'm a father. He loved his son. I love my son. His son died. My son died."

Put on that Swimsuit - The Mom Creative

“Because at the end of the day, it is not about me.

It is about my kids….

Today, I hope to encourage you to push your insecurities aside. Put on that bathing suit. Run through the sprinkler. Jump in the pool. Splash.

Have fun.

Your child will remember those moments and your freedom – not how you looked in your swimming suit.”

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

where we call it out by name

large_6711852My father-in-law sat on my couch during their week-long stay at our home and pulled my youngest son onto his lap. He held him, and then he proceeded to my absolute astonishment to name all of the positive character qualities that he is seeing develop in our seven-year-old young man. Gentlemanly. Kind. Polite. Well-behaved. He told him how proud he was of him and how much he loved him. He explained the qualities for our 1st grader who didn’t yet understand all the vocabulary. He told him that he wouldn’t just call anybody these names, that he saved naming these qualities for people he respected and loved.

Ever have one of those moments where you feel like Moses at the burning bush? Moses is in the desert, and God sends an angel to speak to him through this bush that looks like it’s on fire but still doesn’t burn up. God, from within the fire-bush, tells Moses to take off his shoes because the place where he’s standing, that place where God has come to speak directly with him, is holy ground. That’s how I felt on this otherwise ordinary July evening in my messy living room with its dirty carpet. I wanted to take off my shoes and throw my hands in the air. Holy ground.

My father-in-law had no idea what he was doing, I’m certain – thus my astonishment. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken to him about our goals for our son, about his emotional needs. My dad says it best when he said that for this particular child, the primary question of his life is “Do I matter?” We spend a large part of our days trying to figure out how to build this truth into his little life, and then, without warning or prompting, someone sits in our home and tells him the very thing he needs most to hear.

In the Bible, whenever God wants to make a point or commemorate something important, He will often change a name. There is such power in naming something. When he called Abram to leave his homeland and follow Him to an unknown place where He would then build Abram’s family to be a mighty nation, God’s chosen people, He changed His name to Abraham. When He called Jacob to continue that line, he renamed him Israel. The pattern continues throughout the Story of scripture. In Revelation, we are told that when God’s kingdom is established finally and forever, we will all receive new names. The pattern echoes with places as well as people. Hagar names the place where God came to meet her. Jacob names the place where He saw God in a vision. If you want to give something lasting value, if you want it to mean something, you give it a name.

We do this for our children. We give them names that are meaningful to us. Whether it’s a family name or a new name, people tend to put a significant amount of thought into naming their children. It becomes especially powerful for the children that we adopt into our family. We don’t just give them a name, we change their name. Their identity is not exactly the same anymore. They identify with a new family, become grafted into a new history.

This re-naming process, it’s become a life-script for our family.
We mostly call it redemption.

Everyone else has called you bad: we call you good.
They’ve said you’re weak: we call you courageous.
Others might call you stupid: we point to your intelligence.
They might call you mean: we call out the kindness.
You’ve been rejected: we delight in you.
They call you an orphan: we call you family.
They might say ordinary: we say you are a masterpiece.
Everyone else in your life has said you’re worthless: we call you worthy.

You know, I need this just as much as my children. I need to name things. I need to call them out in specific ways at specific times lest I lose my focus on what matters, on what’s true. It’s how we change the script. This story that seems like it should turn out bad? It’s going to work out for good. We name it so. Even during the very worst of the summer months when we feel like we’re taking more steps back than we are forward, we get these moments. These holy moments when God uses the most precious of men to speak to the most precious of boys. God is in the business of redemption. I just get to be a part of it. He’s the one doing the rescuing, and I am newly reminded of His capability to do just that.

 

 

photo credit: emdot via photopin cc

Sunday, August 3, 2014

our day in court

I haven’t written a huge amount about our case with Sweet M, mostly because there hasn’t been much to say. From the moment we picked her tiny little self up at the hospital until today, we’ve had maybe five parental visits, a gazillion medical appointments, and virtually nothing else. There’ve been a few case reviews at court, none of which we attended since they don’t tend to be worth the time. There weren’t any team meetings. No CASA worker or GAL until the past month. No other services. There just hasn’t been a need.

Not all of her story is mine to share just yet (and some of it never will be mine to tell), but what I can share is about our past month. The month where we finally got an arraignment date and subsequent trial date for the state to obtain permanent custody.

large_137091735I am still ambivalent about that positive spin our county tries to put on the ugly truth of what actually occurs at those trials. The ugliness of being called into a courtroom where witness after witness takes the stand and reviews in vivid detail all of the failings of the birth parents. Every mistake they made. Every abusive and neglectful thing they did. Every moral failing. Personal details about sex lives and drug use and relationships and finances. Their whole lives get recorded on those official court documents. After all the sordid details are repeated for all to hear, after the judge asks even further questions, then the state rests their case. They call it asking for ‘permanent custody’, but what it really is is the stripping away of any parental rights from the birth parents. They have no legal claim any longer to the children they conceived, birthed, loved, and cared for. Lots of areas use different terminology – ‘termination of parental rights’ is one common one, and I think I prefer that term by far.

It is not positive. It is ugly. I’ve been in two different permanent custody trials, and they both mark two of the worst days of my life. It is the very worst thing to hear these children’s parents drug through the mud. Maybe it’s necessary. Maybe it’s even deserved. But it is also extremely painful. While most of the cases we’ve been a part of have been messy, I have always had the utmost respect for how our county treats the children’s families. They go out of their way to provide dignity and respect to people who often don’t deserve it and who definitely do not receive it in any other area of their lives. Unfortunately, this end-of-case trial is not where dignity and respect are not of importance. The facts take precedence, and the truth usually doesn’t lend itself towards dignity.

We sat in the courtroom this past month for only about 20 minutes. That’s all the time it took in this particular case for the judge to rule. Usually, our judge will hear a case and then issue a written decision after review a few weeks later. Not for Sweet M. He listened to the caseworker’s testimony. He listened to my testimony. He listened to the recommendations from the GAL (who has never met this baby, by the way) and from the agency, and then he granted the state’s motion for permanent custody right there from the bench after 20 minutes. 20 minutes for him to make our Sweet M a legal orphan. Those kids that you read about in foster care? The 140,000 that are waiting for permanent families? Our Sweet M joined their midst this past month, and my heart was broken.

This is not the end of her story just yet. She is not family-less in reality: she is loved and adored by everyone who lives in this house. It’s just that foster care has some rules, so within the next few weeks, we’ll be applying to adopt her. Hopefully they’ll choose us. Then we’ll receive an adoption worker, and after all the paperwork is done, a finalization date. Hopefully.

In the meantime, we mourn the loss of her mother. Of her father. Of her siblings. Of her birth identity. We care for the orphan in our midst and count each and every joy along the way. The grace of each moment with this sweet baby is worth every bit of pain. If she is to be ours someday, we will answer for how we spent these days. We will answer for how we treated her story and her family. Conducting ourselves with integrity is one of the most important gifts we can give her. So while we must speak the truth, we must also grieve the loss. She’ll grieve too someday, and I want her to know then, even as I have always, that she is not alone. We weep with her. We mourn with her. We love with her. It’s what parents do. Even the temporary kind.

 

 

photo credit: vaXzine via photopin cc