More Room

"I'm done," I sobbed to my mom and dad. It's too hard.

Too hard to have my heart shattered. To have the baby I've loved for over half his life to suddenly not be there.

Too hard to not know if I'll ever be able to see, hold, smell, hug, and kiss him again. The agency has led us down a rabbit trail: we are told we will be able to see him again, then that we can't see him at all, then that there is absolutely no reason why we can't visit with him and his new foster family the same way we visit with many of our other foster family friends, then that he can only visit at our monthly support meetings (if that family can make it.)

That sounds so whiny. This is NOT about me, or about our family. We only want what is best for the baby and will follow the directions of the agency and will respect the foster family. At this time of uncertainty, it would be helpful to get one clear answer.

Too hard to not be able to DO something. This case is being handled, mishandled, and manipulated by the baby's mother and all the attorney power she can afford. We were doing what we thought was best, what was good for the baby. Taking care of him, keeping our heads down, not asking questions, avoiding confrontation on all fronts.

We are doing something. We are contacting those in authority over this case. Letters are being drafted and crafted and sent so that this will not happen again. This baby needs and deserves stability; to not be bounced around from place to place at the whim of his mother because she is not getting her own way.

Too hard to have insults and accusations directed at me, at us; to not be able to even voice an explanation, a defense. In the short time that our case worker had to prepare for the hearing, she pulled together all varieties of documentation, but was never able to present any information. The agency that has custody of the baby did not even send a knowledgeable case worker to the hearing, and so our "side" of the story was never told.

Too hard to know whether or not the agency will consider placing children with us anymore. Several days of silence - no phone calls or e-mail messages to ask how we were doing, or to let us know that we were not going to under-go investigation. After contacting the agency, we now know that they have a full understanding of what happened - well, as much as any of us can fully understand. We are going to be considered for placements and there are no reservations, no black marks, no misgivings on their part toward us.

Too hard to think about taking another placement - another child.

My dad's response was, "No, you're not."

How is it that God causes our hearts to expand with love for every child who enters our home? How is it that he knows that we're not done? Or is it he who is not done, he who honors us by using us as a channel for his love?

It is God's love, after all, that we poured into that baby's life; that we pour into the lives of our other kids. Of the children who are yet to come to us.

As we prepare to celebrate the coming of Jesus this year, several thoughts have resonated in my heart and mind this week.

God gave us his only Son. He gave up his Son. He lost his Son. He knows how much we hurt, for he was going to hurt just as much and more.

God hurts with the grieving families in Connecticut, he cares for them, he loves them. He has prompted me to pray for them every time I feel my heart ache for the baby I have lost - but my baby is safe, happy, and healthy. God, help those heart-broken parents.

God sent his Son at at time and to place without accomodations for his birth, there was no room. God asks each of us to make a place for his Son in our lives. God has called our family to make a place for his Son in the form of "the least of these."

Last week, there was no room in my heart for another child; it was consumed by hurt and confusion.

By God's grace, he has healed and repaired and somehow added more space so that now there is more room in my heart. Room for Jesus and room for his children who need us.