Beware the Jabber-talkie

I am still cycling down after a white-knuckle Monday.  It opened with screaming, (not mine--that came later) closed with crying (also not mine--that came earlier) and in-between was a whole lot of sinning, selfishness, and sadness. 

I am so heartbroken to see the heartbreak in my little foster son.  He is simply torn up inside.  He is a naturally spirited boy, and he has an uncanny radar for hypocrisy.  

He still remembers a conversation which took place between his mother and her social worker back when he first came into care at age two.  He has brought it up over and over in the past two years.  I don't know exactly what he heard, but he came back saying, "My Momma needs to be good and get a job so I can go back to my house."

So what do you say to a tiny child who asks you, "Why doesn't my momma be good and get a job?"  For the first few months, you can find words. 

"She's working hard." 

"She's trying."


"We need to wait for the next time the judge comes to court."

He turns three and we start saying, "We need to pray for her."

"She needs Jesus to help her."

"We are all trying to help her."

He turns four and we start feeling like liars no matter what we say.  But meanwhile, the stream of empty promises flows from other places and eats away at his heart.

"You'll be back in time to go to Head Start with your cousin."

 "I'll get you a Spider Man room."

 "We are getting a Jeep for when you come home." 

"After your baby sister is born you can come home."

"After your next birthday, you'll be home."

And after 24 months in foster care, this little man is getting angry.  It primarily comes out, of course, at the people who are here every day, raising him and loving him.  

It is coming out in torrents of misbehavior, in screaming, in wanton destruction, in efforts to hurt everyone around him.  It even comes out in the wrecking of things he loves--blankets with holes torn in them, stuffed animals with fur pulled out, his prized CD player with the top smashed off. 

My concerns about his escalating behavior were met with suggestions for therapy.  What I wanted to say was, "Therapy for whom?"

For the mother who can't be bothered to complete the minimum requirements to be reunited with her flesh and blood?

For the agency that makes excuses, enables, drops the ball, hides the ball,  pushes concerns under the rug, plays musical social workers, and drags their feet?

For the court system that schedules, not ONE permanency planning hearing, but SIX in a row?  Each three months apart?  In total violation of state and federal law? 

Our next hearing is exactly 26 months from the day the children entered care.  Where is the lawsuit?  Where is the outrage?

This child is the only one who DOESN'T need therapy.  Why do grown-ups get to create chaos, uncertainty, and mistrust in the lives of children and then, when little Junior react in normal ways (fear, anger, sadness), the grown-ups pop a pill into his mouth and slap him into therapy?

Pat, pat, pat.  "Mommy, Daddy, and the rest of the grown-up universe have the right to abandon their commitments and live hedonistic and irresponsible lives because that's what makes them HAPPY, Sweetheart. 

"But we really need to help YOU, a weak, defenseless, dependent child, get a handle on your anger issues and figure out why you can't concentrate in school.  YOU are turning out to be broken, weird, and a little bit scary.  Also, we think you are dumb.  Because we're betting you will never figure out that going to therapy three times a week, having people look at you with pity and disgust when you act out, and being labelled as a trouble-maker by all your teachers from first grade on, is a negative thing.

"How dare you react with pain and rage when I sear your little soul with my selfishness?  NUMB THAT BOY UP, DOCTOR!"

Therapy will happen over my dead body.  There is nothing wrong with him other than what is wrong with all of us.  I love this boy.  He drives me nuts sometimes.  He makes me cry.  He ruins my stuff.  He squanders my time.  And he also burrowed his curly head into my lap today and hugged me, in the middle of his screaming fit, when I reached out my arms to him. 

Yes, he peed all over the bathroom wall this morning, but later he ran his hands over the picture of the woman washing Jesus' feet with her hair and  said, "You mean He forgave ALL her bad things?  Like when I stole Elijah's gum and broke Jude's corvette and threw the car at the window?" 

Yes!  All her bad things!  And yours.  And mine.  It's grace.  And it is the only thing that, once understood, can enable us to let go of all the bitter pain in us and respond with forgiveness and love.

 I want to hold onto people like Christ holds on to me.  Protectively. Sacrificially. Tenaciously. Inexplicably.

I want to see this story end with a boy finding a spiritual anchor that cannot be shaken, no matter where his earthly home is.  I want to write my chapter with him well, as God would write it through me. To not get weary when all around me looks like craziness and discouragement.  To know that He who began the good work will be faithful to complete it. 

That is ultimately what I want for all my children.  If you are reading this, would you pray for that with me?

God gives--

"beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified."—Isaiah 61:3b. 

"Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy!  He who goes out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy."  Psalm 126:5-6a

"He will tend his flock like a shepherd;
     he will gather the lambs in his arms;
he will carry them in his bosom,
    and gently lead those that are with young."  Isaiah 40:11

"Restore to me the joy of Your salvation and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.  Then I will teach transgressors Your ways, and sinners will turn back to you."  Psalm 51:12-13