Wasted

Wasted...that term meant something different to me in high school (to my great shame). Now it has become a feeling. A season. A big fat question mark of wondering if love and discipline and effort will amount to anything fruitful. Somehow the past always follows me into the present. "What you did before"...he whispers over my shoulder..."It didn't take. It wasn't TRUE. They didn't follow Jesus like they said they would. Love and discipline and good care didn't change the outcome."  The horrible voice of the Accuser follows quickly behind me...looking for my weak moments when it's all I can hear. And it keeps me from sleeping. Some days it renders me prayer less. It feels like the broken stuff will always stay broken.
  I DO have a tendency to make plans. I am not going to lie. I wanted to MOTHER  those 2 little boys in foster care that didn't end up here...in the middle of my sister in law's death. In the middle of my beautiful daughter's wedding. In the middle of reunifying my niece to her mom. They were placed somewhere else.  Couple of wasted bunk beds just staring at me every day when I come up the stairs.
      Again,  I realize my inability to hand it over to Jesus completely. I have held onto them...the broken pieces...AGAIN! Lord have mercy on this stubborn heart and weak mind!
      I read a blog that reminded me what God does . Can't tell you whose blog it was, sorry, but it was about Jesus  feeding the 5000 and what he told the disciples to do NEXT. The disciples collected the broken pieces so nothing would be wasted. It dawned on me the broken pieces are indeed worth collecting. They will be used again. To feed others who are hungry for life and safety and God. Now there are 3 empty beds staring at me. I'm not going to pretend any of it was easy or that I learned from the experiences over the last year. No more wisdom with my age ( 50! yikes!). Just knees with carpet indentations and a raspy voice from crying out to Him for it to make sense. But I am WILLING, again, to try turning them in. Handing them over. Trusting the one who gave me the Bread in the first place.    To feed His sheep.  For the praise of His glorious grace.                                                        

Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine,
according to His power that is at work in us- Eph. 3:20

Hush It's Ok

Well now- there has been a silence.

There have been many thoughts- many too strong to publish- though easy enough to write and subsequently erase. Who needs to hear the gut wrenching story that most would agree is just too hard to hear? What reaction am I looking for if I say all the things I want to? These questions silenced me for the last 10 months. Who can bear watching a broken child find resolve and reclaim a life for themselves?  If I could remove caring about the death of a child's identity it would certainly make it easier to navigate. And how do you endure feelings about your own worth as a parent when you are rejected around every corner?  

It lives in the background of every conversation. Every meal shared. Every future plan made. It's just broken and there is no way around it. The future is unknown and uncertain. In the culture of foster care...all we can count on is stressing about the next court date while enduring multiple home visitations from well meaning strangers. All the kids...biological, adopted, and fostered are continually sensing the underlying unrest. Each wondering "what's my place in this really jacked up ecosystem created by someone else's failures and controlled by the judicial system?" We haven't figured this out at all. Some days are good. Laughing, working, and feeling like we found some surreal normal. Other days are filled with sharp words and red faces. Lots of sighing, crying and learning to die to self. Certainly we know that God has ordained our steps here. We hope and pray that He gives us strength and courage to get up in the morning and attempt impossible love. I miss the days when I worried how 2 little blondes were going to turn out. I miss the days of frustrating pajama school with my boys. And I fear that someday in the near future I will miss the stubborn little redhead that changed our world for a season.