-

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.