A Cautionary Tale: Watch Your Words

Let me tell you a story about a little girl. We'll call her "Annie."

Annie was a precocious child. Some said she marched to the beat of her own drummer. Her sense of humor was quite developed for such a young child, and she had a knack for sarcasm that sometimes bordered on inappropriate for her age. She enjoyed playing with friends, but sought out the company of adults more than other kids did. She enjoyed listening to them talk, and even tried to add to the conversation most of the time. At first, Annie considered herself to be a normal kid. Then her self perception started changing, slowly but surely. 

As far back as she can remember, Annie's mom had said the same things to her... "Don't be so annoying." "Annie, don't be obnoxious." "Don't wear out your welcome." "You're being overbearing, you need to tone it down."

Eventually, the words that Annie came to use to describe herself were annoying, obnoxious, and overbearing. Those words came to define her. She always worried about how people were perceiving her. She was always hyper-sensitive to any sort of sign, whether verbal or nonverbal, that she was irritating someone. 

By fourth grade, Annie was struggling with depression. She was incredibly good at hiding this, however. She learned early on that being "sad" wasn't really an option for her, so she learned how to fake a smile with her eyes. The eyes were the dead giveaway for a smile... If you could fake that, then you had it made. So she did. But Annie cried a lot, too. At night, when sleep wouldn't come because all of her failures of the day swirled around in her head, she would cry quietly as she prayed desperately for God to change who she was so that she wasn't so annoying, such a disappointment.

This secret world continued through her middle and high school years. There were two different Annies. The public Annie and the private one. The public Annie smiled and pretended that everything was great. Every now and then, she dropped her armor, only to pick it right back up again while brushing off any concern that the breech may have caused. And the private Annie? Well, she continued to berate herself for being so immature, so annoying, so obnoxious, so overbearing. She struggled to be truly present in her friendships because she was self monitoring so obsessively. 

Now Annie found herself in college. Away from all of those who knew her... A perfect opportunity to reinvent herself. She was determined that she would become a new person. One that people would actually like to be around. This was her chance, but she blew it. She showed her real self, she spoke too loudly, stayed too long, said something annoying, drove people away. Thankfully, she did have a group of friends who stuck by her side, that still do, but that didn't ward off the depression. It began growing and consuming her with a vengeance. Finally, in her junior year, she was brave enough to get some help.

As treatment for her depression began, Annie started seeing little changes in herself. She wasn't so paranoid that people hated her, she didn't think that every laugh was making fun of her, she no longer felt like there was a spotlight shining down on her that aimed to show her every imperfection. The depression no longer controlled her every moment, and she was able to relax and enjoy life a little bit.

But the broken record still played in her head... "Don't be so annoying." "Annie, don't be obnoxious." "Don't wear out your welcome." "You're being overbearing, you need to tone it down."

You see, from her earliest moments in life, someone Annie trusted and loved told her that she was broken. Annie knows that her mom loves her, wants what's best for her, and that she was merely doing what she thought was best in trying to mold and shape Annie into a "good person." But the damage was done. The constant reminders had become how Annie defined herself. How she still defines herself. 

Annie still struggles with her self image. She still worries about how annoying and obnoxious she is. She still pushes people away for fear of being too overbearing and that that would eventually lead to rejection. She continues to hold people at arm's length so that when they decide they don't really like being around her, the hurt won't be quite as intense because she's protected her heart. But the real damage is that Annie is living in semi-isolation, keeping herself from being in true fellowship with others. She longs to have that fellowship, the intimate friendships that she sees others enjoying, but it has been such a "no-no" for so long for her, that she's not even really sure she knows how to form them or keep them. She has essentially become an island. 

Moms and dads, teachers, mentors, counselors, adults in general... 

Let me just remind you of how incredibly important your words are. They will either be life giving, or life breaking. They will either affirm the preciousness of a child, or they will begin shaping them into something broken. What you say to a child now sticks with them for life. 

I encourage you to dig deep into yourself and find the words that your parents gave to you. I encourage you to listen to what you are saying to the children in your life. 

And please, I beg of you, don't set your child up to be an Annie. It's a long, hard road to walk.

Joy Is...

Dearest Baby Belle,

Can I be honest with you? There are many times I feel like a "real mommy;" like when I'm holding you, when I kiss you, when my heart squeezes in panic because I know you're sick...

But there are also many times in which I don't feel real; like when your birth parents are mentioned, when I get asked how long I'll have you, when I kiss you knowing that I'm kissing a baby that will never be mine.

I'm one day away from a retreat, a time of refreshing and soul searching. I'll get to see a lot of other foster mommies there, and I know that they'll see my heart, my fear, my real self... I treasure that. 

And then there will be a lot of adoptive mommies there, too. As much as I love them, I have to admit that I don't get quite as excited about seeing them. You see, I'm jealous of what they have. Jealous of their permanency, their ability to travel out of state with their little ones without getting permission from 55 different people, of their promise of forever with their babies. I'm jealous that they don't have to worry about someone taking their babies away, that they don't have to sit in the family court waiting room every six months... I'm jealous of their forever. 

Maybe one day it'll be my turn for forever. It'll be my turn to sign the papers and rejoice over the little one who has joined my forever family. But for now, I'll take the little joys that you give me.

The joy of seeing you smile when I open the car door and look at you in your car seat.

The joy of knowing you're okay, and that your illness that had me shaking in my boots was just a close call... Nothing more.

The joy of watching your eyes search the room for me when you hear my voice.

The joy of knowing that my arms, above all others, can quiet and calm you when you're upset.

The joy of seeing you explore facial expressions, your hands, and the things close to you.

The joy of seeing you keep an entire bottle down for the first time, or at any time. 

The joy that I get every time you grab my finger with your tiny little hands.

The joy of seeing you smile sweetly in your sleep.

The joy of picking out bows for each of your outfits.

The joy of snuggling you to sleep.

The joy of seeing how brave you are in the face of adversity.

The joy of you.  

You are a joy, baby girl. You will hear that every single day that you are with me. And I pray that you will hear that every single day after you're gone. You are a joy, not because of anything you offer, but because of who you are. You are amazingly crafted by a most loving Father, and every little part of yourself shouts praises to your Creator. 

Thank you for being yourself and for bringing me so much joy. 

I love you for always,

Mama Erin

Guest Blogger: Rachel Ashcraft

Almost a year and a half ago, I dropped Big Sis and Little Sis off at daycare knowing that they would be picked up by the Ashcrafts that afternoon. My brother and sister-in-law were getting married and the Ashcrafts were keeping the girls for the weekend. That was not the only time they kept them... Every few weeks the girls got to go spend time with Mr. Aaron and Mrs. Rachel while I went to meetings at church. They LOVED them... And the feeling was mutual. It was the Ashcrafts that set my mind at ease last summer when we didn't know if the kids would be able to be reunited with family and we knew they needed a home where all three of them could be together. These people hold a special place in my heart. Not just because they're fellow foster parents, but because they invested time and love into my girls. I know that they had a huge impact on the girls' lives and I love them for that. 

Rachel posted something today about their current placement that just spoke to my heart. I thought I would share the beauty of it with you... Happy reading.

Blessings,

Erin

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Written by Rachel Ashcraft. August 18, 2014. 

365 days with big sis and little bro. A year ago this Thursday (Aug 21, 2013), Aaron picked these sweet souls up and brought them to our home. This past year has been filled with joy, tears, exhaustion, laughter, disappointment, hope. I don’t know the end of the story. I only know that today, and for today, we continue to share life. I never knew what it meant to crawl through a day, wondering if my sanity would last through until tomorrow. I never really knew what it meant to pray just for today because that’s really all I can handle thinking about right now. See, I’m a planner. Everything has an end goal and an action plan to get there. Planning is laughable in foster care. Foster care is filled with unknowns and lots of people telling you to fix the problems that you had nothing to do with causing and that are impossible for anyone but Jesus to fix. Jesus has kind of wrecked my world this year, and I love him all the more for it. We are just beggars that have found the fathers table, and there’s nothing to do but lead other beggars to the table. Honestly, sometimes foster care is really bad for my health and I begin to doubt the whole thing – then I remember that the cross wasn’t good for Jesus’s health either. There are moments in the week that feel like death, but that’s when Jesus seems to meet us and remind us that he actually knows what sacrificial death is. I’m humbled. Again.

The kids have taught me so much this past year. 

--- I’ve learned that God is passionate about these kids. I’ve seen the peace that only Jesus can bring. When a child is crushed by something that’s happened and I hold them and tell them of a time that Jesus experienced that feeling. I see a little face light up to know that Jesus understands even when no one else does. A little voice asks, why don’t more people love me? And, the little one snuggles in to hear that Jesus also wonders why more people don’t love him.

--- I’ve learned that I desperately need support from others. We.Cannot.Do.This.Alone. I’ve found that I have some really amazing people in my life. My mom, “Grandmother from Huntsville” who endlessly supports and loves on these kids. My sister Melissa, who helps me with behavior plans and school meetings. My sister Brooke, who can check out a little heart that’s just heartbroken when there’s no convincing the little one that they don’t have a heart disease. The ways my parents and sisters support us, overwhelms me. My sister in law Kristin, who sends the kids letters. Our church family, who intentionally loves on the kids AND their birth family. Cheryl who brought me dinner once a week (even though she had a newborn) when they moved in and lets me drop the kids off without warning when Grandmom is in the hospital. Casey and Seth who have intentionally loved on the kids and shown them that they have worth. Laura and Melanie who let me cry uncle when the week has been overwhelming and I can’t get everything done for children’s class. Our social worker, who prays for us and the kids, advocates for the kids, and tries to help us find moments of rest. For everyone that prays for these little ones and God to work in their lives. To those mentioned above and others that have supported the kids in ways I can’t even share because it discloses too much of their story. You know who you are, thank you.

---I’ve learned to put aside fear of judgment to walk with these kids and meet them where they are. A daughter that’s significantly older than my marriage - a son who routinely throws tantrums in public. I’m best friends with the school principal. Our intentions and purpose in this walk are often misunderstood. Whatever. Ain’t nobody got time for other people’s opinions.

--- I’ve learned that my husband rocks. He is so patient and loving with these kids. All the children that have come through our home have soaked up all the moments they can get with him. There’s nothing like a loving and patient father to point a little one to THE loving and patient father.

The Neverending Story

Everyone grieves differently. I believe that I grieve even more differently than others...

Most who are grieving are doing so because of one certain event, one certain season of their lives. The death of a loved one, a severe illness, a tragedy that reaches out and grips them and takes over their lives suddenly and completely. Their grief may lead them to seek comfort from others. Being surrounded by family and friends may be of comfort to them. They may even want to talk about their grief... Remember the person that they love so dearly, lament over the health crisis that is invading their lives in such a horrible way.

It seems that no matter what one does in their grief, how they react, there is one consistent part of the process... It is the desire of those that love them so help them find comfort and peace in their time of need. 

As each of my eight placements have left, I have grieved in their absence. Some of these children I have had for five months, some for two days, some for almost a year. But each of them has helped shape me into who I am today. Each of them was loved, IS loved. And each of them was (is) grieved. 

As each child leaves, as I'm left with an empty home and empty arms, my grief compounds. Every loss is a reminder of what once was. Not just with that child, but with all of them. Every time one leaves, it's like I go backwards and feel the pain of every departure before them. The weight of this can be overwhelming, unbearable, terrifying. 

In my two+ years of fostering, I have found that, for me, NOT talking about it helps. I don't want to share stories, to sit and regale memories of the "good ol' days." I don't want to answer questions. I don't want to hear the cliché responses that people seem to think will help. I just want to, in the midst of my heart shattering and lying in shards at my feet, pretend like I'm totally and completely normal, for once...

Yes, my façade may break every now and then. I may cry in front of you. I ask you for a hug... And nothing more. Just play my game. Humor me. Pretend with me that my life is completely normal.

For you see, this is the only way I can keep moving forward. I cannot continue to foster these children if I get bogged down in the muck and mire of self pity. I cannot accept another placement if I'm nursing festered wounds. If I am constantly looking to the day when I will lose a child, I will not have the courage it takes to accept and love them to begin with. 

I know that "studies show" that people who don't deal with their grief aren't able to heal completely. I know that the "experts say" to talk about it... Get it out so you can eventually move into the "acceptance" stage of grief.  To that end, I say this... Maybe one day I will. Maybe one day I'll be able to take the time to go through each stage of grief and deal with everything. Maybe one day...

But until then, there are too many children who need homes. Too many children who are being removed from their families because of abuse and neglect. Too many children who are more broken and battered than my heart will ever be. So for them, I will push the grief aside and wait for the phone call that will bring me my next little one to love on.

Anatomy of Grief

I have had some really great moments this summer. But the fact of the matter is that every single one of those moments has been overshadowed by dark, deep grief. 

I haven't written much in the last two months. I've wanted to. Even composed a few drafts that never got posted. I constantly composed excerpts in my head while I sat in the darkness. But most of them never saw the light of day. Most of them I can't even remember now. What I can remember is that they were a desperate attempt to do what I love, to write, without having to actually deal with the emotions that were sitting in my heart, just waiting to leap out of me at the first opportunity they saw. You see, writing is how I process. As verbal as I am, as much as I love to talk and sing, as much as I love to share... Writing is where I can actually figure out what it is that I'm feeling. Until the words come out onto paper (or a screen), they're just a jumbled up mess in my head. 

So today, my friends, I will deal with what has been waiting to spill out of me since June 18... The day everything changed...

A sweet friend at school asked me a question this morning... 

"Do you feel like your attachment to Squeaker is different than what you had with Eyelashes?"

Pretty answer: no. Of course not. I give everything I can to all of my placements and I love both of these boys just the same. 

That pretty answer is a lie.

So now I give you the truth of it... The real answer, the ugly answer: yes. It is incredibly hard for me to feel the same way about this little one as I did about Eyelashes. Is it fair to Squeaker? No. Do I feel guilty every single day? Yes. Incredibly. 

The weeks after Eyelashes left were bad. I never knew that life could get that dark, that pain could slice so deeply. The night he left I searched manically around my house for something that smelled like him. I needed him. I needed to hold him one last time, to feel his skin against mine, to breathe in his scent as he snuggled up next to me. I physically needed him, but he was gone. After searching to no avail, for everything had either been packed up and sent with him or had been just recently washed, I resorted to crying in the fetal position on the floor of his bedroom while clutching the blanket he had last slept with and cursing the freshness of the smell of detergent.

The truth of the matter is that I felt robbed. I wasn't sure of what, but I just knew that God had short changed me somehow. Is this really it? Is this all I get?? Am I to spend my life pouring everything I am into child after child just to have them ripped out of my arms in the end? Even now, just saying the words causes my heart to constrict. For I am still nursing this wound... I haven't figured out the answer yet. 

This unresolved issue became clear to me this morning at work.

Our new principal asked us to write down words that we thought of when we thought about the following things: Family, students, teachers, leaders.

I wasn't expecting what happened next... 

Revolving door

These were the only two words I could possibly muster to write under "family."

Really? Is that where I am? Is that how I view my life, my ministry? A revolving door? No permanency, no forever, just season after season of pouring into a child that is not mine, that will never be mine?

The pain of losing them is almost unbearable. 

The pain of my unfulfilled dreams is just as unbearable. 

I never questioned my desire to have a family... A forever family. It was set into the bedrock of my heart so solidly that I never doubted that it would happen. But it hasn't. And truthfully, I don't know that it will. The jagged edge of that longing, that unfulfilled desire, has me staring down a path that I know I shouldn't follow. A path filled with bitterness and broken dreams. Of wondering what it is that I've done wrong. Of jealousy as I watch my friends raise their little ducklings without worry of when the court will pluck them out of their nest. Of longing to have someone to walk down this road with me, to understand this calling. 

I never imagined the fall out that would take place after his departure. I never realized how deep of a cut the grief would be, of the open wound that it would leave exposed. Others had left before him. I thought I was prepared. 

I was not prepared. 

Every moment of every day, I still love him. I still long for him. I mourn the loss of his smiles greeting me in the morning, of his hugs and kisses. I grieve over the loss of a child that was never meant to be mine, but whom I loved all the same. There is no bandaid that covers this. Every smile is clouded by sadness. Every mention of his name is like a cut to my heart. 

I typically come to a tidy little conclusion when I write. I identify my source of angst, and begin to see what God is teaching me... How He is changing me to be more like Him.

Right now, I have no answers. 

All I have now are the very untidy questions that continue to plague me... Is this it? Is my heart destined to be forever loving and then forced to let them go? 

I. Don't. Know. But I wish I did. 

A Moment of Tragedy

I am not usually one to hop on the bandwagon of pointing fingers when it comes to the guilt/innocence of someone who has been accused of a crime. Publicly, that is. 

The case of Justin Ross Harris, however, is inciting me to say something. Over the past few days, I have seen posts about this go from, "What a terrible accident," to now, "Crucify the SOB."

I don't know anything about Mr. Harris. I don't know what is in his heart. I do know, though, that every year, children accidentally get left in cars with tragic consequences. These consequences devastate families and change peoples' lives forever. I can guarantee you that probably 99.9% of the people who make this mistake grieve for the rest of their lives at that one moment of lapse in their memory. I'm sure they live in the world of what-ifs and if-onlys. 

Are there people out there who intentionally hurt their children? Yes. I live in the world of foster care and children who are abused and broken by those who are supposed to care for them. The majority of these incidents, however, are not preplanned and carried out methodically. They are emotional events. Bursts of anger, moments of frustration, the inability to deal with everyday stressors and the lack of alternative coping skills. No, these things are not right nor defendable. But please ponder the jump in culpability that is being made here. IF this man is guilty of leaving his child in this car on purpose, that is a level of evil that we don't even normally see in a world where we see evil things done to children all the time. 

I ask that you remember that in the US, we are presumed innocent until proven guilty. Please quit crucifying a man who has already had his life altered irreparably by his own mistake. Instead, start praying for him and his family as they deal with this loss. And pray that he gets a fair trial, which could now be impossible since the media has already started spinning the story with a guilty verdict.

This blog post that I found has some great insight on why we need to just step back and stop throwing stones.

http://www.the-cul-de-sac.org/2014/06/26/to-the-christians-crucifying-justin-ross-harris-with-their-comments/

Saying Goodbye

I've already gotten his clothes out, ready to pack. His books have been packed for a few days. All I have left are his toys and a few odds and ends scattered around the house to gather and stuff in a box. Instead of doing this, though, I am sitting in my chair in the den waiting on the edge of my seat for enough time to pass so I can go get him out of his crib without waking him up from his nap. I need to hold him one last time. I need to smell him, rub his soft skin, kiss his forehead... I need to soak up what I can because in an hour or two, all I will have left are the memories from the last 11 months. I will never again hold him as if he were my own.

My heart lies in shards around me. Although I knew this day was coming, all I can feel is devastation. All I know is the deep ache inside of me that longs for my baby. The panic alarm inside of me is growing louder by the second. 

But even as the storm rages inside of me, I know that there is a still, small voice whispering, "Come to me, all you who are heavy laden... I will give you rest." I cling to that voice, that promise, that hope. There is no other alternative, for I cannot bear this on my own. 

Abba Father,

As my world falls apart, remind me of my calling.

As I call out in my despair, remind me of the hope that I have in You. 

As I stand among the broken pieces of what once was, remind me of the broken nature of this ministry. 

As I grieve for a child who will no longer call me 'Mama,' remind me of the terror that birth parents feel as their child is taken away. 

As I pick myself back up to continue walking down this road you have set before me, remind me that You are the healer of all broken things. 

As I cry in desperation, remind me that You know my heart and soul to a depth that I will never understand and You love me still. 

As I wake up tomorrow to a new wave of grief, remind me that You are the source of my strength. 

Lord God, remind me of Your power, Your love, Your sacrifice. Remind me of Your grace. For without it... Without YOU... I am nothing.