This isn’t the post where I champion biological mothers’ rights and efforts and the story that provides context to their narrative.
I do that sometimes.
This isn’t the post where I remind you how important reunification is in the grand scheme of things.
I’ve written that one, too.
This isn’t the post where I give you ideas to build relationships with biological family members.
All those are so important…but so is this one.
This is the post where I admit that this thing is hard.
I see you, mama.
Yes, you…the one holding that screaming little boy as he rages at the world after yet another missed visit from his first mom. I see the way you whisper into his ear and close your eyes in a desperate attempt to hold in your own fury. How could she do this again? I hear you on the phone an hour later, advocating for the timelines and transition plans and scheduling that your sweet boy needs. I see you when you run into a brick wall over and over again as you try to balance the scales of impact and how you rage into your pillow at night at the injustice of it all.
I see you, mama.
Yes, you…the one climbing into the car for yet another three hour round trip for access…your foster love buckled in alongside your own two littles. I see all the snacks packed, the sippy cups tucked into cupholders, the car games and silly songs and whining toddlers and screaming babies. I see how exhausted you are, and I know why you say no to the volunteer driver. I get it. I see you as she is carried away from you, crying and reaching back over the social worker’s shoulder for you. I know the pain that unfurls in your chest as you try to reassure her and the tears that spill over after she’s gone and all you hear are her screams. I see you waiting in the parking lot and I see when you’re the first face she sees as she rounds the corner…the first arms she flies into, finally feeling safe again.
I see you, mama.
Yes, you…the one who will never get the nice card, the mother’s day post, the thank you. You’re the “other” mom. The one that wasn’t chosen but instead did the choosing – you said yes to a question your child never wanted to ask. I see how you show up again and again and again, and how you make space for the tumultuous grief of your child…even while your own grief threatens to sweep you away. I see how you intentionally post her picture on the wall, help make a card and buy thoughtful gifts for them to give her. I see the way you smile at her and carefully give space, becoming smaller so that she can be larger in the room. I see the way you quietly put your needs second to hers…because you love them and you know this is the part where you start to fade so she can shine.
I see you, mama.
I see the way you tremble in the dark, rubbing her back and whispering reassurances as she relives the horrific, nauseating details. I see the way you lay wide awake for hours, staring into the blackness with black rage and numbness eating away at your insides until you think you might explode. I see the fear that you push down; the fear that you might not be able to go on. I see the anxiety that eats away at you, the hours you spend in courtrooms and police station rooms as she retells her story again and again. The graphic images she paints will change the way you see the world forever, for better or for worse. I see you holding her hand and nodding reassurances and advocating for therapy and teaching her how to breathe through the panic attacks. “Look at me. I’m right here. Tell me something you hear, see, smell, feel.” I see you as you crumble into your own pillow at night, out of earshot and out of sight, finally able to fall apart under the crushing weight of it all. I see you sobbing in a therapy room as you let it all out. A mother’s heart was never made to carry this kind of toxic weight.
I see you, mama. I see the constant battle of your mind – the way you are always fighting for the pure thoughts, the gratitude, the perspective shift…fighting against the intuitive mother inside of you who just wants to protect and nurture and bubble wrap. I see your prayers and the verses you post on your bathroom mirror to keep your heart aligned with the gospel work of this messy, messy ministry you’ve stepped into.
Foster care isn’t always pretty and it doesn’t always bring happy endings. Our prayers don’t always get answered the way we asked for and we often don’t get to see the end of the story. Children we love disappear from our homes and our lives, leaving vacant spaces in our hearts. Parents who have done and said horrible things often hold more power than we do over the trajectory of these tiny ones we try to nurture. Our schedules get overturned, our kindness gets taken advantage of, our insight is ignored or not asked for despite the reality that we may know this child better than anyone else in the world.
These are the moments when we need to realign our hearts with the Commander of this mission; we need to remember our “why” for being here and accept the limited vision and control we have in the situation.
I see you, mama…but more importantly…
HE SEES YOU.
He can be enough, when your enough runs out.
“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” – Psalm 73:26
He can strengthen your exhausted body, soothe your overwhelmed mind, heal your damaged nervous system.
He can take all the pieces of your efforts and bring about wholeness and goodness…without your help.
He is crafting a story for your life and ministry that you cannot begin to fathom.
He is crafting a story for each child’s life who enters your home – undoubtedly in ways you rail against in frantic fear – but I promise you He’s got it.
-AF
Adoption, Mommyhood & the Rest 