View from the Prairie Box

Getting to see this sweet family in the middle of Covid isolation was such a treat for me! It’s a special joy to see these little girls grow and develop personalities and preferences. Thanks for spending some time in the autumn sun with me, Alex and Kat!

We had magic soil.

That’s what you have when you live on a city lot in a house that’s almost 100 years ago, magic soil. We could grow almost anything. Once we got started planting, we found ourselves deep in the world of experimenting with gardening and it was so rewarding.

Fast forward to a move to a newer home closer to the outskirts of the city, in a suburban ‘hood characterized by vinyl siding, white plastic fences, and a deep devotion to lawn care, and we found ourselves in a different situation. The phrase “underground sprinklers” has both delighted us—look! you set a timer and your lawn gets watered!—and completely stalled out any of our gardening visions. Our bodies have grown just a little bit older and the aches of life have made dealing with a sprinkler system and very unmagic soil not as compelling.

Darn the way new developments are built, right?! Top soil is removed and presumably sold, and the new ‘hoods are left with clay. Booger.

But at some point, around seven years deep into suburban living, we started to take baby steps in the yard and it has brought us delight.

It’s a simple delight to wake up in the morning and want to survey your plant babies.

Gardening hat goes on, and a walk around the yard is called for.

Doesn’t matter that we live in the ‘burbs.
Doesn’t matter that we have a handful of plants we’re encouraging.
Doesn’t matter that we haven’t initiated our grandest landscaping plans yet.
What matters is new growth, aided by a few soil amendments, lots of water, and some glorious Nebraska sunshine.

We don’t have magic soil anymore, but plants are always magic if you have eyes to see them.

Flexible. Observant. Questioner. Big things come in little packages. A blessing. A mini me to her mama. A little sister. A big sister.

Precious.

Loved.

I skipped right past the onesie with “Mommy’s Little Sweetie” on the front. Onesie shopping is, apparently, like shopping for the perfect Hallmark card for whatever occasion you’re celebrating. One size truly does not fit all when you’re a foster parent.

I know from experience.

Years ago we brought home our first foster baby—a precious African American daughter—straight from the hospital. We stopped at a grocery store to get the right type of formula, and due to generous friends I did not have to pick out onesies. We had what we needed. The onesie this time is for a friend, and I felt a profound need to celebrate the homecoming of this little girl who may not stay at my friend’s house for long.

Fostering is some weird wacky stuff. It involves a thousand different emotions.

I want so badly to celebrate this baby girl because she is a HUMAN who is new on this earth. I remember exactly nothing from my own birth, but I know what happened: I was loved and wanted by my biological mom and my biological dad and my biological big brother whose footsteps I’ve followed in since the day I came home. I never considered my first car ride home as an incredible blessing until I peeked into the world of foster care. No doubt bio mamas and daddies love their children, but the reality is that not everyone is equipped to care for an infant’s needs. Sometimes one’s age or goals prevent them from parenting. Other times the ability to safely love and tend is masked by drugs or alcohol and long days of bad decisions, little family support, and hard obstacles. Regardless of the reason, not every child goes home with a family who rejoices in them.

Which is why I’m so proud of my friends who are loving children within foster care. And it’s why I am delighted to be able to pick out girlie onesies (OMG, the cuteness nearly bowled me over), and little teeny socks, and headbands to go on the curls on her precious baby noggin. Let’s CELEBRATE this child! She’s human. She’s beautiful. And she is SO LOVED ALREADY.

I wish everyone could feel that level of joy when they arrive in a home for the first time. This baby will come home to two parents willing to love her as long as she’s with them. She’ll arrive and greet a biological sibling who she crazily and beautifully resembles. She’ll be touched and fed and diapered by a whole crew of big foster brothers and sisters who have cheered her arrival long before she was born. What an amazing thing.

The hope of a foster parent is not in possession.

It is not in doing the right things and making all the connections.

It is not in being the better mother and father, in loving the most, in providing better than another person.

No, the hope of a foster parent is found in treating other human beings with dignity and compassion because God made them. God has made man and woman in his image and cherishes each and every person. If God loves people like that, who are we to do anything different?

Fellow foster families, keep on keeping on. We love you and we’re proud of you.

To God be the glory.

I stopped to sniff the lilacs and almost sniffed a baby bird instead.

I held my camera stretched out before me, lens angled down to hopefully capture Mama Robin’s eggs.

Got it.

I hear there is one tiny robin in the nest now, his shoulder blades still bare. I’ll let the neighbors and my Dr. Dolittle daughter check on the babies now. Time for Mama to have some peace. At least until I unhook our hose and scare her again.

Robin’s eggs are always stunning.