Category: Blog

As the heat of summer fades away, and the coolness of autumn slowly enters our Bay Area forecast, I cannot help but be in awe, once again, of God’s artistic creation. He created our world to ebb and flow in seasons, and he created us to do the same.

Summer is a season of ease and lightness, where the schedules are looser, the days are longer, and the bucket lists are full of adventure. Autumn is a season of gathering and storing…one where animals and people are busy preparing for the winter months ahead.  Winter is a season of quiet…stillness…rest, hibernation, darkness for some, grief for others. It is a season to feast on all that was gathered and stored in the season before. Spring is that of growth, of beauty flourishing…of birth and new life. And then, we repeat, over and over again, year after year. In the natural life, each season is predictable, lasting only a few months at a time. It is simple to calendar out when to head to the beach, when to go to a pumpkin patch, when to find skates to ice skating, and when to head to a farm to witness all the baby animals adjust to their new life.

In our personal lives, though, these seasons are not as predictable. We do not know how long the season will last…or when it will arrive…or when it will move on to the next. Often times, we are completely unaware of what season of life we are in until we are right in the middle of it. And in our personal lives, not all seasons are particularly pleasant. So we do our best to rush through to the next. We don’t want to stay in our season of winter and grief, so we hurry to move to spring, and then we are frustrated when we are not experiencing the warmth and newness we are yearn for. We overfill our calendars in the fall and then groan about being weary, just aching for the peace and stillness of winter. We are in a constant state of wanting more, different… “better.” Yet, in each and every season, both in the natural world and in our personal lives, there is beauty to be found… there is hope, joy, and true peace to be found knowing and fully believing that God is working through us in all seasons of life. And seasons…well, they simply cannot be rushed.

As unpredictable as the system may be, there are seasons in foster care, too, but they are a bit easier to see coming. Spring is the time of a new placement, new routine, new beauty in our homes. Summer: a time of sweetness as families adjust and hurt children are healed. Autumn is a time of business as reunification is made clear and transitions are put into place. And for me, winter is a time of goodbyes as children go home and our own home gets a little quieter as our hearts take time to mend. Winter is not bad, it’s actually my favorite season in the natural world. It’s beautiful and quiet. There is feasting to be done and thanks to be shared for the journey of family reconciliation. But the nights are longer…quieter…and the days can feel lonely.

I am in a season of gathering and storing…a season of dead things falling away, of my heart and my life lay as bare as the trees in my backyard. I am gathering God’s truth and tucking them deep into the places of my heart that I know I will need to lean on in the season to come. You see, I know a is winter is coming. A season of quiet, and stillness, maybe a little grief, maybe a little dark. But I am not afraid of that winter, and I am not afraid of the unseen storms that may be brewing because I fully believe in God’s promises… the promises I have stored deep so that I can feast on them when I am hungry for hope. Ones like Isaiah 43:19 that says, “for I am about to do something new. See, I have already begun! Do you not see it? I will make a pathway through the wilderness. I will create rivers in the dry wasteland” or Psalm 46:5 “God is within her, she will not fall. God will help her at break of day.”

Whatever season of life you find yourself in, know that you are fully seen and fully cared for. The Father does not abandon his children, but is faithful to make all that is broken beautiful in its time. May you find joy in your season of life, and may you fully feel God’s presence in the cool Bay breeze this autumn.

Christina B.

Nothing prepared me for the way I would fall in love with him.

Given only the barest details of his life and situation, I felt a pull toward him that I could not describe. The yes rolled off my tongue as if it had been decided even before the question had been asked.

“Yes. He’s welcome in our home.”

Only days after meeting him, I knew I was a goner. His clever eyes and mischievous smirk got me hook, line, and sinker.

Our journey would be long, hard, and treacherous, but it would also be filled with laughter, affection, and joy.

“Hard and holy.”

That’s how my friend describes it.

In the end, the grief of losing him knocked the wind straight out of my lungs.

And right there, in the middle of the hardest season of my life, I found the holy.

Bill Johnson says it like this, “In heaven there won’t be any pain, confusion, or loss. So I embrace my moment of pain now and give Him praise in the midst of it. That’s an offering I’ll never have a chance to give Him in heaven.”

Isn’t that amazing? That we, as mere humans, have the ability to offer God something that can’t even be given by angels?

So we begin again.

We say yes again.

We endure the hard, and we are grateful for the holy.

We sacrifice the unique earthly offering of praise in the midst of pain.

Because when our hearts break, we find God right there, near the brokenhearted.

Amen.

“If your heart is broken, you’ll find God right there;
if you’re kicked in the gut, he’ll help you catch your breath.”
Psalm 34:18 (MSG)

I hate being interrupted. When I’m reading a good book, telling a good story, or attempting to complete a good task, I want nothing more than to be left alone to complete what I’ve started.

I also hate having my plans disrupted. When I’ve purchased tickets to a show, mapped out a hike, or made dinner reservations, I want nothing more than to be given the pleasure of enjoying the plans I’ve made.

It isn’t just books and dinners, though. I’m the type of person who feels more comfortable when I know what’s going to happen and have a firm grasp of what to expect. I find joy in my ability to have some control over my days and years. In fact, there was a time in my life when I had a 1, 5, and 10 year plan worked up…tools that I felt would give me the motivation I needed to cultivate a successful life.

Then, I became a foster parent.

Don’t get me wrong: becoming a foster parent was definitely part of my plan. I simply didn’t realize how that part of my plan would alter every other part of my plans.

We got our first call for a foster placement on a clear summer morning right before my daughter and I headed out on a girls’ day. We had planned to get our nails done and share a meal at our favorite lunch spot. Then, the phone rang. Our day was interrupted, and our plans changed completely.

Our first scheduled home visit was re-scheduled twice before it finally happened.

Throughout my time as a foster parent, I got my kids ready for dozens of visits that got cancelled or changed at the last minute.

To be honest, I don’t think I had the opportunity to read a single book without interruption in my entire time as a foster parent.

But it wasn’t these kinds of interruptions and disruptions that had the most affect on me.

It was my sheer inability to plan my children’s futures. I had no control over how long a child would stay in my home. I had no power or voice when it came to major decisions that would affect my children for the rest of their lives. As much as foster care interrupted my life and disrupted my plans, it was the complete lack of plans that changed me the most.

Foster care forced me to live each day for itself, not worrying about tomorrow. It taught me to value each moment with my family, since I never knew how many moments we would have left together. I learned how to make tentative plans, expect changes, and cultivate a successful life in the middle of the unknown.

I learned how to be faithful with the tasks that had been entrusted to me, and I learned how to trust God to be faithful in the areas that were far outside of my control. I learned how to love without expectations. I learned how to look at the bigger picture. I learned that Plan A isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be, and I learned that Plan C (or D or Z) can be more beautiful than I would have imagined.

Ultimately, I learned how to live by faith.

Was it challenging at times? Absolutely. But I’m so thankful for the way foster care interrupted my life. Even though it caused some pain, I’m extremely grateful for the way foster care disrupted my plans. I no longer have a 1, 5, or 10 year plan. Instead, I’m comfortable being completely dependent on God. I find joy in following where He leads, no matter how many twists or turns show up along the way. I have big dreams and a deep faith. Those are things I wouldn’t trade for the best laid plan in the world.

“Trust God from the bottom of your heart;
don’t try to figure everything out on your own.
Listen for God’s voice in everything you do, everywhere you go;
he’s the one who will keep you on track.” Proverbs 3:5-6 (MSG)

Lindsay G.

“They are both deaf or significantly delayed,” we were told. “They have no understanding of words. The boys are two and three years-old, defiant, wild, and fighting the world.” After living in six different foster homes and being exposed to four different languages, our boys came to us drowning in a sea of undecipherable and confusing words.

Then we discovered how to teach and share words through story. At nighttime their busy little bodies would still as they listened to a bedtime story read aloud. Their wide eyes would scour the picture books and their little ears would listen eagerly to each detail. They loved hearing my husband’s homespun tales of adventure and danger and courage where they became the heroes and stars of the story.

During story time, our buddy who was afraid of physical touch, the one who often winced if someone even brushed against his skin, began to inch closer and to snuggle in. The stress and confusion that accompanied visits with birth family, social workers, or therapists eased as they lost themselves in a story.

We started reading chapter books and classics aloud when they were toddlers. These busy little men, that took three social workers to wrangle into their car seats after birth family visits, who both had Individual Education Plans in preschool, and who failed their auditory screening, would listen and engage and get lost in the magic of stories.

We have the power and privilege as parents to introduce our children to the magic and beauty of words. “…Still I believe that words, too, are necessities- and to give the children of the world the words they need is, in a real sense, to give them life and growth and refreshment…” Katherine Paterson, children’s author, Gates of Excellence.

Our children from hard places know that words can be used as weapons. They know that words can wound. What we discovered was a way to show our boys that words can heal. Words can transport us. Words can be the valve that releases hurt and tension.

For those of you with older kids, do not discount the value of stories and reading aloud. When I taught junior high science, I read aloud to my thirteen and fourteen-year-old charges often. The backtalking, overconfident, rebellious attitudes disappeared as we entered the world of inventors, explorers, and misfits that we discovered in books. Imagine a room filled with defiant, hormonal teenagers enraptured in botanist Beatrix Potter’s Tales of Peter Rabbit or the biography of Thomas Edison, the famous inventor who was once expelled from school.

Recently, my buddies, who are now eight and nine, were having a rough morning. While plowing through school work, frustration ensued, books were thrown, and angry words spilled out. One of the boys was curled into an angry ball in the corner of the couch, refusing to speak to anyone. At a loss for the right words to help my son, I pulled out a book. I read aloud about wagon wheels, snowy winters, and brothers traveling alone across the prairie in search of their father. As the story unfolded, so did my son. His body began to relax. His brow unfurrowed. His eyes lost their shadow and began to twinkle.

On those days where you child seems unreachable and lost, be encouraged. When your own words seem ineffective and unheard, don’t give up. Establish connections with your kids through the beauty of words- Read-aloud. Share a story. Listen to an audiobook. Share a funny family memory. Discover the lyrics to a song. Recite a poem. Write your child a love note. Be courageous and give your children the gift of words.

For book lists and creative ways to incorporate stories into your home, excellent resources can be found at ReadAloudRevival.com.

La Ne Powers

“NO!” she screamed. “I WANNA KURT!”

I sat back on my knees and stared at this formidable three-year-old in bewilderment. We had only known each other for a couple of days, and I was struggling to understand her. I didn’t know who or what Kurt was, and I had no ability to reunite her with anything from her life before she came to live with me.

My oldest daughter heard the yelling and came into the room to see if she could help.

“What do you want, Little Girl?” Big Girl asked.

“I wanna kurt!” she declared. Then, she walked over to the big girl and gently grasped the edge of the big girl’s skirt. “I wanna KURT!” she reiterated.

“A SKIRT!” I exclaimed. “She wants to wear skirts like you, Big Girl!”

Big Girl and Little Girl had quickly formed a deep bond. They shared a room, and Big Girl was wonderful with Little Girl. She would happily read “The Monster at the End of this Book” a dozen times in a row and participate in dance parties on demand. Little Girl adored Big Girl, and the feeling was mutual. It was incredible to watch our Big Girl exhibit the patience we were desperately lacking.

Our time with Little Girl was difficult. Early on, it became clear that the county hadn’t be completely forth-coming about her history, and we were dealing with more than we expected. While she bonded deeply with Big Girl, she didn’t react very well to the males in our family. Her developmental delays were severe, and her trauma behaviors were extremely difficult to manage. She was our first placement, and we quickly realized we were too far out of our depth to properly care for Little Girl.

We reached out to the county for help, and we were given a few phone numbers. One phone number was disconnected, and one phone number led to services that were restricted to children several years older than Little Girl. The last number led to a program that would have been absolutely perfect for Little Girl…a program that gave me hope for our future together. Then, I found out Little Girl would be put on a six month waiting list.

The simple truth was that we couldn’t make it another six months. Things were deteriorating quickly, and we needed immediate help.

In the end, we asked the county to move Little Girl to another home.

Big Girl was angry and devastated. She begged us not to make that decision and bargained with us to the very last minute. She was so disappointed in us when Little Girl left.

Our son was grateful and relieved. He came out of his room and started spending time with the family again. He was relaxed and thankful when Little Girl left.

My husband and I were disillusioned. No longer did I hold the arrogant belief that I could care for any child placed in my home. No longer did he believe he had endless patience. We found our limits. We had been forced to take a long, hard look at ourselves, and we felt like complete failures.

Tempted to quit, we took another look at our limits and had another discussion with the county. We decided to give it one more shot, and I’m so thankful we did. We went on to welcome twelve more children into our home, and we never had to request another removal. If we had never known Little Girl, we might not have learned how to better care for the children who shared our home. She taught us a lot in a few short months.

It’s been four years since we said goodbye. Big Girl still keeps pictures of Little Girl by her bed. She still talks about the way they twirled their skirts and danced together, and I know she will never forget Little Girl.

We won’t, either. Little Girl opened our eyes to the beauty in the midst of the brokenness. She made us laugh when she whipped and nae-nae’d. She made us melt when she cuddled with Big Girl on the couch. She filled us with pride when she learned to identify a couple of colors. Watching her grow and change over those few months was a great privilege, and I’m thankful it was bestowed upon me.

Lindsay G.

“When you welcome one of these children because of me, you welcome me.”  Matthew 18:5

Welcoming Jesus.  This is the way I’d like to spend my life.

What a beautiful idea, that when we welcome a child, we actually welcome Jesus!  This, my friends, is foster care.

I remember when God whispered His call into our spirits regarding re-entering the world of foster care.  After having adopted our beautiful second child through Alameda County in 2008 following years of heart-breaking infertility, we had let our license expire.

But God was beckoning once again, awakening our hearts to His for the most vulnerable among us.  It was February of 2013 and we had just been through a heart-wrenching season in our pastoral ministry. At the end of our rope, we had stolen away to Half Moon Bay to seek God’s face, to hear from Him, to come away from the chaos of daily life and ministry to once again get in tune with His heart.

It was quite a surprise when I sensed a call from the Lord back into foster care. In fact, when God spoke to me about this, I literally retorted, “Well, if that’s the case, you are going to have to tell Doug (my husband) the same thing.” As you can tell, I am kind of into “entering the throne room of grace with boldness.” Thirty minutes later, Doug said out loud what God had told me only minutes before: “I think we need to go through the process to be re-licensed as foster parents.” Wow.

When God speaks, it is so exciting and so clear, and everything seems to make sense. All is bright and true and everything seems possible.

I love what the author Robert Morris says in The Blessed Life about what happens when God invites us into a faith adventure.  This has been my experience:

• Phase one: Hearing from God.

• Phase two: Excitement.

• Phase three: Fear — this is crazy!

• Phase four: Logic — reasons why I can’t do it.

• Phase five: Doubt — did I really hear God’s voice?

• Phase six: Faith to act.

It is always incredible to me how clearly I can hear from God and yet how quickly I can move to fear and logic.  How many times have I gotten stuck in phase four, talking myself out of what I was so sure that God had told me to do, which then leads to five, questioning that I ever really heard Him in the first place.  I don’t think I am alone in experiencing this.

Jason Johnson said it well at a past Foster the City event when he stated, “We are good at talking ourselves out of hard things.” Yet we should never question in the dark what God has told us in the light.

Be assured that the darkness comes.  The enemy gets ticked, and between his lies and just the sheer difficulty of taking the path of faith, it is easy for me and for all of us to derail what God has so clearly put in motion.  God invites us into His beautiful plans all the time, but how often do we opt out?

I recall that as we moved into Step 6, the prospect of welcoming more children into our family, be it for a season or forever, felt like a big adventure.  I was filled with hope and fear, but mostly excitement.

It’s normal to experience an idealistic phase that happens in most every love relationship.  You know the feeling, where anything seems possible because of love. The state that makes you walk down an aisle and promise to devote your life to someone forever — the fairytale feelings that wash over you when you decide to start a family or take steps of faith toward a life long dream.

I think God put that idealism in us, that gorgeous hope.  It is written so deep within us, this idea that we can make a difference, that we can give and receive great love, that we can change the world.  This idealism is what propels us forward and makes us commit to audacious dreams.

Foster Care has been harder than I could have ever imagined, and also more deeply beautiful.  I knew that, in many ways, we were walking straight into pain. I had committed to giving it my whole heart no matter what, and whenever you give your heart away, you open it up to both great joy and great sorrow.  It is the way of love, and it is worth it.

Christine I.

“I don’t think I can do this.”

My husband and I had just walked out of our ninth foster parent training session. We only had one more class to complete before we would be granted our license to provide foster care. Although previous sessions had taught us about the horrifying effects of trauma and abuse and the vast responsibilities of caring for vulnerable children, nothing had deterred me from my desire to become a foster parent until that night.

A top-level director of the Department of Child Protective Services had been the speaker at that night’s session. He spoke about the serious manner with which the department handled allegations of abuse made against foster parents. He explained that the department had a responsibility to investigate and prosecute every single accusation of abuse to the fullest extent of the law…even if they believed the accusation was false. He described the manner in which we’d be investigated if we were ever accused of inappropriate behavior, as well as ways to avoid allegations and ways to protect our family from such an experience.

It scared me to death.

As soon as we got in the car, I grabbed my husband’s hand and made my confession. I wasn’t scared of challenging behaviors or a broken heart, but the thought of a false accusation caused my heart to quake.

“If that ever happened to us, I don’t think I could handle it. I’m not strong enough for that,” I admitted.

We talked about the risks and the ways we could protect our family, and my husband offered his reassurance. In the end, I convinced myself it could never happen to us. I decided we would be the model foster parents. I never thought about it again except for when I made sure to follow all the necessary precautions to keep our foster children and our family safe.

Then, it happened. A serious allegation was lodged against me, and our family faced the greatest trauma we’ve ever faced. It was worse than I even imagined it could be.

In the midst of the trauma, my grief was so deep that I woke up crying every morning. The tears would be leaking through the cracks between my eyelids and sliding down my cheeks before I even opened my eyes. The fear was overwhelming, and hopelessness was lurking at the edges of my heart. When bedtime arrived each night, I fell asleep as my tears fell onto my pillow.

I felt like I was constantly surrounded by enemies: my accuser, the investigators, the broken system, grief, fear, hopelessness… I remember reading the following psalm one afternoon during that time and feeling like I was seeing it for the first time:

“Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” Psalm 23:4-6

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. I tried to imagine it that night at dinner. I tried to imagine sitting at my dining room table and eating my dinner while my accuser stood right behind my husband. I imagined trying to swallow my food while the investigators stood behind my children. I imagined the grief and the fear as rancid scents permeating the air around us. I could not figure out why preparing a table in the presence of someone’s enemies would be a comfort.

Then, I started to think of the nights when our foster children were with us at our dining table. I remembered preparing a table for them and creating a safe place for them to eat in the midst of the brokenness in their lives. I remembered rocking them to sleep in the midst of their immense grief. I remembered playing and laughing with them despite the incredible trauma they had faced. As a parent, I created a space where they could find safety and rest in my love no matter what circumstances surrounded them outside of our home. In the same way, I could trust God and rest in his love no matter what I was facing.

Being a foster parent challenged my faith in the most extreme ways. I came face to face with the boundaries of my belief, and I was forced to recognize my limited view of God. But through each challenge, God proved himself faithful. Time and time again, he answered my prayers and revealed his strength in my weakness.

If you are walking through a dark valley, trust God. Read Psalm 23 and consider the power of those words. If you are fighting a fierce battle, listen to “Surrounded (Fight My Battles)” and let the truth of the message sink deep into your spirit. Pray and ask God to carry you through this time. Trust him. He is good.

The first time I came face-to-face with one of my foster kids’ parents was not a planned meeting. Since my training had taught me that seeing biological parents was something that occurred at my discretion, I assumed foster parents were kept in a separate, “secure” location, away from the birth parents.  I was a brand new foster parent, and didn’t fully understand the procedures of the county. So at the end of my first placement, when I brought the boys to be reunited with their mother, I was standing directly in front of her as I held her children.  It wasn’t an interaction I had planned for, and probably wasn’t one I would have chosen. It was awkward, to say the least. But today I’m grateful it happened the way it did. Having my first birth parent meeting under my belt, I was better prepared and open for future birth parent meetings.

We took in Leo* during the summer of 2013, shortly after becoming licensed foster parents.  He was a surly, serious three-year old when we brought him home from the receiving center. He cried for his dad when it was time to go to sleep, and I had little to offer him but empathy, smiles, and bowls of macaroni and cheese.  Over the three weeks we had him in our care, we saw many more sides of Leo. When his protective walls fell, he was the funniest, smartest, most loving little guy. He made us cry from laughing so hard, schooled us in the sport of getting toddlers to eat vegetables, and broke our hearts more than a little when he left after just three weeks.  But what I remember the most about our time with Leo was getting to know his mother, Ana*. Ana was living in a halfway house when I met her. I admit that I had judged her before our first meeting.  Without knowing anything about her I assumed some things of which I’m not proud. I assumed she had been neglectful.  I assumed she was an addict and didn’t deserve to have her son returned to her. I assumed she was not a good mother. And, since I also assumed she would not react well to meeting me, I was terribly nervous to meet her.  Along with my husband and little Leo, we drove to our designated meeting spot, a park just a few miles from our home.

Ana was quiet during our first meeting; she seemed to avoid looking me in the eyes.  It had never occurred to me that she may be feeling embarrassment or shame about her son being placed in foster care.  As her visits with her son continued, and I transported him to and from those visits, she began to open up a bit. Our initially brief conversations and sharing of Leo-related information turned into more personal sharing of our stories.  Most notably, I learned a lot about Ana’s tragic past.

Ana had been in foster care as a youth.  Her own mother was a single mother suffering through alcoholism and drug addiction.  In her lifetime Ana had never experienced what it was like to live in a safe, stable, and loving home.  To this young woman who only knew chaos, addiction, and mental illness, I appeared to be an “angel”. She actually viewed me as “a guardian angel sent from God” to take care of her son until she could provide for his needs.

God gave me empathy for Ana.  I wasn’t expecting to be able to feel her sadness.  This twenty-eight year old woman had an undeniably tumultuous childhood.  Even as she tried to make positive changes as an adult, her son was removed from her care.  All she desperately wanted was to be the best mom she could for him. That was clear to see.

As she cried her story to me, I knew I was no better than her.  I very well could have been Ana, but I was born into a middle class, Christian family.  I was given guidance, resources, and privileges in my young life. I was set up for a bright future because I was born into a family that was able to care for me.  I had influences all around me that helped maintain that straight path I was set on from the very start. Ana didn’t have those things. If I had been born into similar circumstances, I have no reason to think I’d be doing any better than Ana.

Ana’s expression of gratitude humbled me.  In her view, I was some kind of angel, but I knew better.  I wasn’t an angel. I was just a woman, like her, trying to do my best.  Although I was appreciative of her kindness towards me, and I was thankful that she could be at ease and know her son was loved and well-cared, I couldn’t accept her assessment that I was somehow above her.  We were more alike than we were different.

All of these thoughts bring me to a quote from Jason Johnson.  He writes, “At some point we come to the realization that it’s not so much ‘us’ helping ‘them’ – it’s just ‘us’, together – all uniquely broken humans, wired for struggle, worthy of grace and in this thing called life together.”

Those meetings and phone conversations I had with Ana changed my outlook on interactions with birth parents.  With every child placed in our home since Leo, I haven’t shied away from meeting a child’s birth parents. Instead, with appropriate caution, I hope for those face-to-face opportunities.   When I get the chance, I love to share all the things I treasure about their child, and I love to allow them to tell their story when they decide to.

I’ve been privileged to meet at least one birth parent for every child that has been placed in our home.  I’m not saying it’s always a safe, smart, or beneficial decision. It just so happens that it has always turned out well for our family and the kids we love and care for.

Now I carry around in my mind many of the faces that brought my precious little ones into this world.  I remember what these parents look like, what they sound like, and even facial expressions I’ve seen them make.  Almost daily I see those same faces, voices, and expressions in smaller versions on the younger members of my household.  When I do, I pray for those adults whom my children resemble as they are out in the world without the babies they brought into it.  Sometimes I cry for the loss I believe they must feel. I think of my kids’ birth mothers on Mother’s Day and their birth fathers on Father’s Day.  I wonder what those days are like for them. I hope and pray they have some kind of peace from God, and that they are doing well. If one day my children desire to meet the birth parents, I hope that’s something we can all do together, because I do believe we are more alike than we are different.  “All uniquely broken humans, wired for struggle, worthy of grace and in this thing called life together.”

Patty M.