I Didn't Know

I used to think that as a house parent, I could relate to Mary’s pain as she watched Jesus grow, knowing he would leave her and it would cause her pain. The last year or so though, while I obviously have no business comparing myself to Jesus, I’ve been so grateful to realize that in some of my deepest, most painful moments, he can relate so fully to me. 

Since becoming a house parent, I’ve said goodbye to nine kiddos as they’ve gone to their forever families. While certainly joyful occasions, these are also seasons filled with grief. Each departure has been hard in its own way, but some have hit more intensely than others. And each subsequent farewell makes the grief a bit heavier to carry. At Easter last year, anticipating the departure of J, who’d been with me for over six years, I told a friend “if there was any other way, I’d choose it. Nothing in me wants to do this.” It was what we’d been waiting and praying for and it was huge cause for celebration, but it was also profoundly painful and in that moment, I desperately wanted out. Out of the pain. Out of the grief. Out of the intense emotions I knew we were all about to experience. 

“Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done.” Jesus knew. He knew why he came to Earth. He knew the cross was the plan. He knew it would hurt. He knew he was doing it for his kids. But, in that moment in the garden, he didn’t want to. And in that moment of preparing to say goodbye, I didn’t want to either. And as yet another goodbye loomed only weeks ago, I found myself pondering that garden scene, deeply grateful for how I know Jesus understands my human emotions, but wondering, even though he knew, did he know? Jesus, fully God, knew the plan and accepted it. But did Jesus, fully human, know ahead of time just how much it would actually hurt. Not even just the physical, which was obviously agonizing, but the emotional pain that is so deep it physically hurts. The pain that makes it hard to breath. The pain that just makes you sob because you don’t even have the words to describe how you’re feeling. The pain that makes you beg God for another way. Even though you know there’s not. Even though you’re doing what you planned to do. 

Going into foster care and house parenting, I knew it would hurt. I knew there would be sleepless nights. I knew I’d intentionally carry grief that wasn’t my own, so that these little people didn’t have to. I knew I’d get “too attached” and saying goodbye would be hard. I knew, but I didn’t know.

I didn’t know it would hurt so badly to walk through those transitions. To experience deep grief at something the world celebrates. I’ve written those emails to sponsors myself “Exciting news - this child has gone home” and it is exciting, and joyful and worth celebrating. But it also hurts.

The past few weeks held a very hard transition, a bit unlike any before it. This time, it was E’s turn to go home. E, who’d been with me since he was 10 weeks old. My baby, who’d been with me from his very first moments at COTP. The one I’d cared for from a newborn. The one who transformed the most in front of me. Almost every first for his first four and a half years was ours to share. His to experience and mine to treasure. First smile, first tooth, first step, first birthday. 

From the beginning, I pondered his personality and prayed over his future. I wondered who he would be and I prayed for his family. Because I knew that, although he was mine, he wouldn’t always be. I am so, so very grateful for the ways that I saw E grow and I am so, so very grateful for the family God prepared for him. Walking through this transition with them was unbelievably hard, but so beautiful. Even now, a couple of weeks later, I don’t think I can fully capture the experience with words, but I do know that it was one of the most intense experiences of my life. I knew it would be hard, but I didn’t really know.

I didn’t know the depth of emotion we would all go through in those few days together. I didn’t know how badly I would want to choose something, anything, less painful for all of us. I didn’t know how I’d feel like I was abandoning E, even though my rational brain knew it was good and right. I didn’t know how hard it would be to watch him try and process all of the changes happening in his little life. I didn’t know that leaving the house without him would take every bit of willpower I had. I didn’t know that I would have to fight every maternal instinct I had to return to COTP without him a few days later. I didn’t know how badly it would hurt to look at his empty bed, realizing he’d never again fill it.  I didn’t know the depth of the fog I would feel trying to function in those first few days. I just didn’t know. 

But I do know that I was called to this. I know that in my weakness, he is strong. I know that God places the lonely in families. I know that he answered my prayer for a Christian family for my baby boy. I know that he will give them everything they need to care for E every day. I know that E belongs there. I know that although there is brokenness in this story, there is so much beauty. 

In one of our very hardest times together during those transitional days, in a moment where it made absolutely no sense, I remember just having such a sense of peace and knowing that it would be okay. Considering the circumstances, it didn’t make much sense. And yet, it made sense. Because God has a way of bringing peace to chaos and redeeming what is broken.

And now, looking back on every memory with E and still sitting in the pain of saying goodbye to him, I know that even if I could go back in time and spare myself this experience by saying no to being his foster mama, I’d still say yes. Because he is worth it.

I don’t know if Jesus knew ahead of time the depth of emotion and pain he would experience, but I do know that even if he did, and even if he begged for another way, he’d still go back and do it again. 

Merry Christmas

Weary. If I had to pick one word to describe how this year has made me feel, this would probably be it. I’ve struggled to write this letter, because honestly, Christmas letters are supposed to be about cheer and joy and happiness. Perhaps we’ll work our way there by the end, but for now let’s sit in the weariness for a minute. 

Weary. I guess I could say 2020 and you all could relate. Covid-19 has changed the game in so many ways. The reality for us in Haiti is that we also lived much of 2019 the way everyone has lived 2020 - limited outings, less travel, extreme uncertainty, etc. It’s wearying.

Weary. None of my kids’ adoption statuses have really changed this year. No one has gone home, no referrals, no possible families stepping forward for the kids with special needs, no becoming “unstuck.” The mountains that need moved, still haven’t moved. It’s wearying. 

Weary. Regular friends haven’t come to visit. Regular trips to Canada haven’t occurred. People that bring refreshment, relief and, let’s be honest, cheese, haven’t much been a part of this year. It’s wearying.

Weary. We’ve been working with reduced staffing to help save money. I also have nannies who are sick or missing work for other reasons. This means fewer adults to help wrangle toddlers, regulate tantrums and feed, change and love my kids who need complete care. Early mornings, rare breaks, late nights. It’s wearying. 

Weary. So many details of little lives that are theirs to tell, but for now, ours to bear. Heartbreaking realities with no easy solutions and just a lot of heaviness. It’s wearying.

Weary. Certainly this describes so many prophets of the Old Testament, speaking to people over and over, with no one listening. The burden had to be wearying.

Weary. I suppose this is how the world felt, waiting for Jesus. They knew he was coming, but when and how? The wait had to be wearying.

Weary. This had to describe Mary after that long trip to Bethlehem, pregnant with the Savior, obedient, but wondering when the details would start to make sense. The uncertainty had to be wearying. 

“A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices.” 

It was into this weary world that Jesus was born. The prophets had known, the people had waited and his mother had prayed. And, finally, the weary world rejoiced! 

I am guessing that a lot of you feel a weariness similar to mine. In so many ways, it feels like we are still waiting for Jesus to break through this weariness. And he has promised that he will. First, he came to us as a babe in a manger, and then he said to us, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” 

May this Christmas be one where we lean into him in our weariness. May we rejoice at the hope he brings. May we know that even when we can’t find the words, he is good. And may we remember that even in the weariness, there is cheer, there is joy and there is happiness. See below for photographic evidence from the Peace House crew that I am blessed to call mine, and Merry Christmas, friends!

Love,

Carla 

(and W, J, D, W, S and E)

Children of the Promise has given explicit permission for the posting of photos on this site.  Photos taken of children in the care of Children of the Promise are not be posted publicly without explicit permission given by Children of the Promise.

 

What An Opportunity

So there’s this game - “Never Have I Ever.” People play it to get to know each other better. You complete the sentence with something you haven’t done and then everyone has to say if they’ve done it or not. I think sometimes there are points involved, but honestly the game confuses me a bit so I’m not sure if you want points or if they are to be avoided. The reason I bring it up, though, will hopefully become clear. I suspect that, before COVID 19, many of my (and many of my friends) “Never Have I Ever” answers may have looked a little different than some of yours. 

Maybe someone would have said “Never have I ever…”

Gone to the grocery store and not know when I could go again. 

Spent weeks in a row without leaving my neighborhood.

Not known when my kids would go back to school.

Looked at the food on my shelves and wondered if it would last long enough.

Wondered if I or my kids could get healthcare if we needed it.

Tried to explain to little souls, without scaring them, that it isn't safe to go somewhere fun and it won't be for awhile.

Read government alerts telling me to travel while I still can, because soon, the option may not exist.

Realized so fully that I am definitely not in control. 

At some point in the last couple of years, I have lived each of these experiences. My friends here have lived each of these experiences. Our Haitian coworkers have lived many of these experiences and So. Much. More. 

And now, what an opportunity, friends, because so many more of you have now lived these experiences too. What an opportunity for all of us to see how similar we are. What an opportunity for compassion and empathy. What an opportunity to see more clearly into how many around the world live. What an opportunity to realize our weakness and trust in God’s strength. What an opportunity to learn and grown. What an opportunity to change for the better.

I know that it’s scary right now. It’s overwhelming. It’s unknown. 

But God is sovereign. He is not surprised. He will bring us through.

This will end eventually. And when it does, may we understand each other better. May we remember. May we be better.

I Am A Mom

See, I’m guessing a lot of people clicked on this expecting a big announcement of the familial sort. There isn’t one. Well, not in the traditional sense, but maybe in an eye opening sense nonetheless. :)

I am a mom. I have been for years. At the moment, I have six kids. Six kids who I feed, bathe, pray over and put to bed every night. But unless you’ve been to COTP, you haven’t met any of them. They’re not my forever, but they are very, very much my kids. (Side note: I can’t adopt for 3 more years, but if you're between 30 and 50 and love Jesus, you're a perfect candidate, so please ask me for more info on my little loves with special needs. Don’t make them wait that long.)

Several of the other missionaries and I were recently talking about elements of our life that make it hard for other people to relate to us, and vice versa. And the “mom factor,” is one that has really stuck with me. Because, although no one calls me that, I am a mom. I can’t travel with my kids or show you their pictures on Facebook. So many decisions regarding their lives are out of my control. But, I couldn’t possibly love them more. I fight for them (and with them.) I hold them when they cry. I celebrate their success. I want more for them. I want better for them. I want Jesus for them. I want an end to injustice for them. I want all of the things a mom wants for her kids. 

I have a little boy. He’s five. I’ve made every. single. one. of his birthday cakes. Because right now, I’m his mom. And he deserves that. He’s stuck in a system that has failed to advocate for him. But he has me. So I will be his mom, his biggest fan and his go to person, for as long as it takes. One day, I’ll let him go. But he’ll take a huge part of me with him. Because that’s what kids do to their moms when they leave. 

He’ll have another mom, and I am already so thankful for her, because she will be what he needs, she will be his forever, she will be his family. She will love and lead him well. She will be his mom, his biggest fan and his go to person, for ever and always. 

I have a friend here. Her foster son died. She was his mom. She cared for him through months of pain and sickness. She loved him well. She held him. She celebrated each little success and cried over every setback. She was his mom, his biggest fan and his go to person, for as long as it took. His forever home is heaven, but here on earth, he had a mom. 

I have another friend here. She’s an adoptive mom, but before that, she was a foster mom. Before it was "official", she was already a mom. She fought for her kids, she cared for her kids, she spoke life over her kids. She was and is their mom, their biggest fan and their go to person, then and now. They have a forever mom, but before that, she was their foster mom.

We’re not their first and we’re not always their forever. But we trust that God is redeeming the lives of these little ones we love so dearly.

So you see, there are all kinds of moms. Some are forever and some are just for awhile. But every single one matters. Even though we may not always wear the title of mom for our kids, we will always be a part of each other’s stories. And, as is the case for every mom, we will always love them. 

Children of the Promise has given explicit permission for the posting of photos on this site.  Photos taken of children in the care of Children of the Promise are not be posted publicly without explicit permission given by Children of the Promise.

Christmas Ponderings

We just finished the Christmas season, and I’ve been thinking a lot about Joseph and Mary. 

I’ve been finding their story very relatable to my life and this intense thing called foster care. See, Joseph and Mary willingly stepped into a messy situation that they didn’t really understand.  Their willingness to do so must have made it so hard for them to relate to those around them. They were no longer a typical couple with a typical family. People must have had trouble understanding. Even those who meant well probably couldn’t relate. And probably Mary and Joseph didn’t even get it half the time. But they were willing to do it anyways.

Obviously Jesus didn’t come with the same behavioral baggage that many of the kids we care for do and he didn’t experience trauma that wired his brain differently. Instead, he was born to heal this brokenness, but the stakes of parenting him were still very high. And caring for Jesus came with some promises. Some of these were beautiful, like “He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High,” but there was also a very painful promise given to his young mom: “And a sword will pierce your own soul too.” Here she was, doing this beautiful work that God had chosen her for, now knowing, without a doubt, that it would hurt like nothing had ever hurt before. And yet she did it willingly, because everything was at stake. 

I’ve now had eleven different kids move into the Peace House. The second “wave” was, in many ways, harder than the first. Because, oh, my soul had been pierced with the departure of the first precious five, and I know that the departure of each of these new little ones is the eventual goal. In order for them to fully know healing and redemption and family and Jesus, they must first come, and then they must go. Because they don’t belong here, they belong with their families. While the parallels are obviously not direct, and I am sure I am nowhere near as worthy as Mary, I am thankful for her example of parenting faithfully, even when it didn’t make sense. Her example of parenting even when she knew it would end in pain. Her example of parenting only to give away her precious baby. 

There is no doubt Mary was blessed by God. There is no doubt that being a foster parent is a blessing. May we continue faithfully, proclaiming that we are the Lord’s servants as Mary did, even though we know that this is soul piercing work.

School Christmas Program - Angel, Inn Keeper and Wise Man

We're still working on our group photo skills... 

...but at least we can dress up. :) 

Children of the Promise has given explicit permission for the posting of photos on this site.  Photos taken of children in the care of Children of the Promise are not be posted publicly without explicit permission given by Children of the Promise.

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I was in a meeting recently where we were going through a list of every child in our care and writing down their estimated departure dates from COTP. But the thing is, not every child had a date listed. Or a season. Or a year. Some had only a dash. And that dash spoke volumes. In that simple line, was a heartbreaking code. Because it meant that we don’t know when, or if, they will leave. It meant the child has special needs. It meant they were hard to match with an adoptive family. It meant that, if history is any indication, they would wait a long time before someone chose them. It meant that, if we were being honest, we maybe didn’t even have the will to continue believing that they would ever get a family. 

And one of these dashes landed on a child that I particularly love. A little boy who, for the last six months, has lived in my home. A boy whose meals I cook, whose baths I give, whose bedtime songs I sing. A boy I hold, and change, and pray for every day. A boy whose smile lights up the room, whose cry deafens the room, whose eyes speak volumes to everyone in the room. A boy who is trying his hardest to sit up on his own, who loves to hold his own spoon and bring it to his mouth, who lays on his tummy and lifts his head up while he watches the action around him. 

A boy who has cerebral palsy.

A boy who needs a family.

But a boy who got a dash. 

Even though he'd only been here a short time, we already couldn’t confidently say we believed that he’d find a family. And that sucks. It breaks our hearts every day. Because this boy is so much more than his diagnosis. He has personality, he has joy, he has worth. He desperately needs someone to come forward and believe in his life. Someone who will triumph over the stereotypes, over the unknown, over their fears. Someone who will be brave, be bold and just believe. Believe that he needs them, believe that they need him, believe that when God calls us to care for the vulnerable, he means it. Believe that he will equip and empower them to care for this boy. Believe that he is created in the image of a God who loves him. 

He needs someone to delete the dash and replace it with hope.  

For more information on adoption, visit http://childrenofthepromise.org/adopt/

Change

Since the moment we became “The Peace House,” I knew it would end in goodbye. I would call them mine, treat them as mine and love them as mine. But I also knew I would spend every day preparing them for a time when they would no longer be mine. And now, for many of them, that time is almost here. After years of waiting, we can now count on one hand the number of papers remaining before one, two, three, and then four and five, will leave with their forever families. (Six and seven will still be here for awhile.) We have been waiting, praying, begging God for progress such as this, but now that we are so close, I’m finding that the words needed to describe my feelings are somehow just out of reach. 

In a single moment, I can feel the absolute impatience over how the final days of waiting for one more paper are stretching out, and yet dread the moment when we will find out it’s finally done, because somehow, that will make it real. And they will leave. 

A day can seem endlessly long and amid the tantrums, tears and struggles, I tell myself to treasure every moment, because soon I know they won’t be here anymore. 

And I am so thankful for that. These babes who I love with my whole heart will finally get to go home, to their forever families, who have been waiting and praying and begging God for this moment to arrive. It is beautiful and it is redemptive. It is purposeful and incredible. It is a holy miracle. 

But it is also so painful. Because I know that oh so soon they will no longer yell my name when I get home from the office, or join me on walks outside the gate. They won’t rest their heads on my shoulder or come to me for comfort. I will no longer be the one to pray over them each night, tell them I love them and kiss their little cheeks. 

That undeniable privilege will go to their mommies and their daddies, the beautiful people who said yes to these little ones that I love so much. And while it hurts knowing they will leave so soon, I have so much peace knowing these families and seeing the undeniable ways that God has prepared each child for each family. 

Foster care is hard. I knew that, but I didn’t know that. I’ve learned it over and over, and I’m still learning it. But it is also the best thing I’ve ever done. The ways in which these kiddos have helped me learn, grow, love and be better are innumerable. I have learned on a deeper level how a parent and child relationship mirrors God’s relationship with us. I have been beyond overwhelmed with the hard stories these children bear, but I have been privileged to play a small part in the redemptive work God is doing in their lives. I have failed more times than I care to admit, but I have learned to lean into God’s grace and forgiveness in a whole new way. 

I am so proud of these kiddos. They are braver than they know. They are more beautiful than they know. They are more treasured than they know. And I will always and forever be grateful for the role each of them have played in my life. It might be the hardest thing I have ever done, but I wouldn’t change a thing. 

Pray for us. For the five precious kiddos leaving (relatively) soon. For their amazing forever families. For our team of nannies. For the two kiddos who will still be here with me when the dust settles and their five best friends have gone home.


Children of the Promise has given explicit permission for the posting of photos on this site.  Photos taken of children in the care of Children of the Promise are not be posted publicly without explicit permission given by Children of the Promise.

House Parenting Means...

We often talk about how hard it is to describe our lives to people who aren’t here. Not because you don’t want to know, but because we don’t know where to start. So many things have become “normal,” that we don’t even think about sharing them with you. Other things we decide are just too bizarre to share and so we stay silent.  

Chances are if you’ve asked me about my foster parent life, you’ve gotten a pretty standard answer. “I’m a house parent in the Peace House. I’ve got seven kiddos living with me while they wait for their adoptions to complete.” 

And then you either compliment me or call me crazy. ;) There are maybe a couple more questions, and then we move on. Because, quite frankly, I don’t have a better prepackaged answer available for conversations. Sometimes I can’t even wrap my head around what I do and it’s just too challenging to give you a succinct response. 

But today, I’m going to try. Allow me to unpack a little of what it means to be a foster parent at COTP…

It means saying yes when you have no idea what you’re getting into, but knowing it’ll be worth it.

It means little feet running up to you the moment you come out of your room or walk into the house. And then little arms reaching up asking to be held. 

It means loving these little humans with everything that you are, knowing that one day soon you will let them go.

It means wiping countless tears, noses and bottoms.

It means living full time with nannies who do not share your culture. 

It means celebrating each little victory - a feeling expressed, a diaper dry in the night, a pound gained, a prayer said. 

It means losing your patience over and over, and learning to apologize to your little people with a sincerity you didn’t know you had.

It means praying for God to use you as he heals traumatized brains and prepares little hearts for their forever families.

It means breaking up endless fights over endless topics. Pinching, hitting, biting and throwing are just some of the techniques that you willingly throw yourself in the middle of. 

It means holding sobbing children while they process big emotions.

It means praying every single day for adoption paperwork to complete so your kids can go home, while simultaneously dreading the day that they walk out the door for the last time.

It means being constantly in demand, even when they can’t see you, because seven kids know that you are their person and that they need you.

It means constantly thinking about food - what to make for dinner, if there are snacks left, if you’ve given the kids enough milk that day, if you need to send someone to the market, etc.

It means endless conversation about airplanes, mommies, daddies, new houses and when the paperwork will be finished so that they can experience all of those things. 

It means a lot of birthday parties.

It means socialization visits - the unbelievable joy of meeting your kiddos’ forever families but the concrete reminder that one day they will leave your home.

It means putting the littles into their beds over and over again because you know they need to sleep, but just can’t settle yet.

It means bedtime kisses, songs and prayers.

It means being ever so humbled as you lay in bed and realize the number of times you failed that day, but then remember how his grace is sufficient, these children are forgiving and that tomorrow is another chance.

It means endless lotions, essential oils, shampoos and conditioners.

It means planning trips to your home country around what is happening with your kiddos, because you know you can’t miss these big moments. 

It means going out for dinner because you need a break from your kids, but realizing half way through dinner that you already miss them.

It means that sleeping in is no longer a thing. 

It means reminding children, many times a day, that you are right there and they don’t need to yell when they talk.

It means writing updates for sponsors and adoptive families, because you know if you don’t record these memories, they will never know them.

It means giving medicine at least twice a day, every day, to the kiddos that need it.

It means at least three loads of laundry every single day. 

It means reading books and attending conferences on attachment and trauma and then feeling simultaneously inspired and inadequate. 

It means approximately a dozen trips from the kitchen to the table at each meal.

It means getting up in the night with littles who are up sick, need to eat, or have just decided that sleep is overrated. 

It means taking your kiddos on outings for ice cream or lunch and then hearing them tell the story to their friends for the next several days. 

It means feeling incredibly successful when you actually get out of the door with two or so kiddos and make it to church (or anywhere) on time. 

It means wracking your brain to figure out why a particular child is on the tenth meltdown of the day. 

It means the occasional doctor's visit or hospital stay when one of your kids has something extra going on.

It means juggling a variety of schedules - therapy, school, tutoring, etc.

It means color coding bowls, cups and toothbrushes so that everyone can keep track of whose is whose.

It means dealing with tantruming toddlers in public while a crowd gathers and begins to narrate and/or offer suggestions on how you might do things better. 

It means constant chatter at the door when you finally find an opportunity to pee.  

It means so much laughter and play. 

It means willingly taking on the burden of trauma that these children carry. Hearing their stories, dealing with their behaviors and celebrating their victories.

It means praying each day that your babies would know that they are safe, they are loved and they are treasured.

It means not believing how incredibly blessed you are to be a part of these kids’ stories.

Children of the Promise has given explicit permission for the posting of photos on this site.  Photos taken of children in the care of Children of the Promise are not be posted publicly without explicit permission given by Children of the Promise.

Fun in the Sun

Just some cute kids in some cute sunglasses. :) 

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Children of the Promise has given explicit permission for the posting of photos on this site.  Photos taken of children in the care of Children of the Promise are not be posted publicly without explicit permission given by Children of the Promise.

Peace House

February 2, 2016. The day I laid in my bed and said to myself, “Well, there’s no going back now. Nothing will ever be the same.” Because I knew that the very next day, three toddlers would move in and four more would soon follow. We were about to become the Peace House. 

And I was right, nothing would ever be the same again, but I wouldn’t trade my time with these seven littles for anything. 

January 2016, shortly before we moved in.

It’s been a busy year of change and growth for all of us. 

Our birthday party count is at 10, each with their own cakes, presents and prayers. We are now 2, 2, 3, 4, 4, 5, and 8 years old and we love to announce this regularly. 

Three and a half of us have completed the potty training process. (The “half,” is still working on it.) ;) 

We have added so many English phrases to our vocabulary. “Look at me,” “Good morning,” “Hold me,” and “I love you,” are some of our favorites. 

We’ve been introduced to many new foods. Cheese, M&Ms, pizza and ice cream are now on everyone’s list of favorite foods (which means a lot more sharing for me.) ;) 

We love to talk about Mommies and Daddies and when we will go with them on the airplane. 

We have learned so much about regulating, expressing ourselves and using our words.

And finally, I have redefined “sleeping in,” as not waking up until 7 am… 

Never the same, but forever grateful. 

April 2017 Selfie

Children of the Promise has given explicit permission for the posting of photos on this site.  Photos taken of children in the care of Children of the Promise are not be posted publicly without explicit permission given by Children of the Promise.