You're Wasting Time

When's the last time you've seen it?  Really, really seen it?  Brokenness that brings you to your knees, with tears streaming and crying out to the Lord "please come".  Maybe you're personally experiencing this kind of brokenness and you don't see a way out.  Definitely not what you intended or ever dreamed of.  Every so often, this brokenness rears it's ugly head and I'm thrown smack down in the middle of it.  Clinging to the cliff that I feel like I'm falling off of and crying out to God, "not now, not again".  I'm tired of seeing the hurt and the nastiness that is in every crack and crevice of this world.  And I'm going to venture out and say that to truly be the hands and feet of Christ, you will need to not only witness it but come alongside and experience it yourself.  And let me tell you, it will be the most uncomfortable you've ever been.

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The sun is shining, conversations with precious friends, and happy children are enjoying a moment of escape from the life of school and chores.  It was a moment I could stay in forever.  But then, as real life does not stay beautiful like this for very long, a friend shares her heart, her life and the despair she's feeling.  You can't be present in that moment without feeling it with her.  Wanting to take it away, offer a quick fix, or snap your fingers and put her at the other end when things will finally feel good again, but you can't.  We listen, cry with her, and offer her encouragement in the only way we know how. Friendship is tough and doing life with one another is a beautiful mess. A mess I'm happy to be part of.  A couple of hours go by and little did I know but I was about to be sucked into a little life that would further break my heart.  

Picture this little boy, about three years old with brown hair and golden brown eyes, with the word "stinker" written all over him.  He was cute, no doubt about that, but within two minutes of my eyes catching his antics I knew he had a story just waiting to be told.

Rocks flying from his little hands with a posture ready to fight, he had no remorse when his peers tearfully told him to stop.  My friends and I looked around for the parents waiting for them to intervene, but nothing.  It happened again, rocks raining down on the heads and into the eyes of other toddlers.  Looked around, still nothing.  When I saw it a third time, I decided to intervene from a distance "hey, rocks stay on the ground".  Brown eyes look over, and lo and behold the rocks are deliberately thrown again.  Parents?  Nope, still nothing.  So I decide to get up, go over to him and bend down to get on his level.  I look into his eyes and calmly say "Remember, rocks stay on the ground.  Your friends don't like that game."  Guess what, he picked up the rocks and threw them once again.  

I leave and go sit back down with my friends. "Well, I tried.  But I give up!"
I still don't see any parents and I begin to get a little uncomfortable redirecting a child I know nothing about.  We all continued to watch and then a friend noticed his mom off in a distance.  Something clicked and I just knew...he's in foster care.  Once I realized mom (or whoever) wasn't going to be involved with him, I decided to try and interact with him on a different level.  As I walked over again, he grabbed some rocks and threw them.  I bent down and asked him his name.  After he told me, he screeched with a demand of "swing me!!" He obviously had no home training and was coming from some sort of trauma.  He was used to strangers and had a superficial trusting of random adults.  My heart broke.  I saw my own boys in this small child.  I was reminded of their stories and the brokenness of the system.  After a few minutes of swinging, I told him I was going to go sit with my friends.  His voice clamored out, "I go with you!" and here he came following closely behind.  He sat down next to me and said "I want to eat with you. I'll go get my food."  I told him to ask his mom and he unemotionally responded "That's not my mom, that's my foster mom."  Tears came streaming down my cheeks and again I was reminded of the stories of those that call me mom.

I wish I could say that I handled this well, that I had compassion for his "foster mom" and that I had energy and a desire to invest in her life.  But honestly, I was angry.  I hear from my oldest two the horror they endured while in foster care.  They have more trauma in living in 10 different homes in two years than the four and six years of living with their biological parents.  I was angry that she didn't parent him, engage with him, or that fact that she was completely fine with her son spending unsupervised time with a stranger.  She has six kids in her care, all under four.  I didn't show her grace and I didn't have any compassion for her.  I was judgemental, angry, and heartbroken for all involved.

I didn't care that she's probably tired, overwhelmed, and lacks any parenting skills.  I'm mad at the system that would set her and these precious lives up to fail.  I'm angry that she has three different CPS cases in her care from three different counties and that her husband works from 3pm-11pm.  She could not possibly be successful with this situation.  But I still didn't care.

I'm thankful that when I'm in the midst of sin and can't see God calling me to do something, He calls others.  My precious friend decided to get up and go talk to the mom, learn her story and minister to her.  Numbers were exchanged and commitments were made to pour into her life.  Where this story goes, only the Lord knows.  But I know He's calling you.  Will you make a difference?  When will you truly become uncomfortable for the Lord?  Have you thought about becoming a foster parent? Why does CPS give a young woman six kids under four to care for?  

BECAUSE THEY DON'T HAVE ENOUGH HOMES

Fast forward a few hours, having dinner with my three precious gifts and the story from the park comes up.  Mark is angry and memories begin to flow from his sweet lips. 

Mark: "Mom, wonder if they aren't getting fed." 

Mom: "I think they are, they seem like they were eating.  Do you remember not getting fed in foster care?"

Mark: "No.  But I remember not getting fed with (first mom) and (first dad).  I used to sneak into the pantry and get the peanut butter and then go hide to eat it."

Mom: "How do you feel talking about this right now."

Mark: "Fine.  I just can't believe I did that."

Lord God, please come.  Now