We said “I love you” for the last time today.
How do you fit 11 months of a child’s life into boxes? How do you pack up their memories, their belongings in such a way that they feel as if their whole being is moving? That pieces of themselves aren’t being left behind?
I’ve discovered you can’t.
There is so much I can’t fit in those bags and boxes. I can’t pack “I love you’s”, kisses and tickles. But I tried.
I can’t pack “You are so loved”, “God loves you so incredibly much” and “Remember you are a good boy with a kind and gentle heart”. But I tried. Oh, how I tried.
We packed endless clothing, shoes, toys, their favorite toys, books, soap, toothbrushes, toothpaste, medicine, their favorite foods, pictures, blankets…everything we could think of. And it still doesn’t feel like enough. It feels as if too much of who they are, who they have grown into, will be forgotten. I walked the house looking for their things to make sure they don’t forget their time here. Things that they might want or need back at their parents’ house. Things that I know will bring me to my knees as memories take over.
And it all feels so empty. How do you fill the physical space that a person once filled? I press into Him, the only one that can fill the empty spaces with His grace and purpose. The only one that brings me hope that this pain has a part in revealing His glory.
Our house now holds the sound of their laughter. Their footprints on our floors. Their fingerprints on our furniture. Our yard holds the images of them running, climbing and screeching with delight. Our barn holds their giggles as they played with the goats and helped us collect the eggs.
This place holds so much of them that I cannot send with them. But I tried.
The one thing I did send them with? Hope. O keeps telling me he is going to call me and come see me again. I let him believe what he needs to believe. I let him hope. I let him hope that his parents are “all better” and “not sick anymore” because we truly long for that to be true. What could be more beautiful than those boys seeing their parents overcome their addictions? What could make this current suffering and pain worth it? The hope that comes with seeing lives changed.
But what if God doesn’t give them the miracle of broken addictions? What if the boys come into care again? I have to trust that God writes the better story. Has he not proven his faithfulness and provision again and again? I want to be Abraham. I want these boys (and all foster children) to be Isaac. I want to lay them on the altar and trust that God will write the better story. I want to declare that “God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son”. So I cling to the truth that although I am in this place of indescribable pain and confusion, Emmanuel, God is with me. He will provide what I need; the lamb for my son. And not just what I need now but what I will need to open my heart and my home to another child in need. The Lord will provide.
“We hold on to our hope. There is always a ram in the thicket. Because there is always the Lamb on the throne.” -Katie Davis Majors
