Saying, “I could never do that” appears to be a socially acceptable thing when one is confronted with foster care. This I have noticed.

God bless ya, folks. I know exactly what you are saying and thinking because I’ve been in your shoes, I’ve been on that side of the issue. But now I’m on the other side of the issue, on the foster parent side, and I want to say a few things.

You could do it.

No really. You could. You really really could.

Handing back a child—for the good of that child—is not an easy thing. In fact, it can be fairly heartbreaking. But I’ve never heard heartbreaking equated with a “can’t” statement except for in foster care. Except in the case where the foster family is actually looking out for the good of the child. You can’t do it? Really now? I think you might mean that you don’t want to do it. (Which is completely fine and normal and is a statement that I understand.)

I’ve never heard someone upon meeting a potential love interest say she “can’t” fall in love because she might get her heart broken. You don’t say that you “can’t” pick up a stray from the humane society because it might get hit by a car someday. You don’t say that you “can’t” make an offer on a house because something might go poorly at closing time. We chance disappointments quite often. This is LIFE after all! If you didn’t chance being disappointed you would never experience anything at all.

Here’s the thing. I didn’t want to give back the baby I fostered. The one whose diapers I had been changing since birth, the one who snuggled in my neck after her tummy was full, the one whose chubby legs I would slather in sweet baby shampoo and then again in lotion afterwards. Yep, I kinda liked her. Scratch that, I loved her! But I loved her with the knowledge that her good was more important than the impending heartbreak I saw on the horizon. Her good, not my happiness, was the angle there.

The truth is that we’ve only fostered once and that we are total newbies here. I’m admitting that I know nothing beyond what my classes, my foster parent friends and my one foster experience have taught me.

But if you think I’m doing it because I can easily hand off a child to another parent, you’ve got another thing coming. Though I imagine some kids, the really challenging ones, are easier to hand off, in our situation it wasn’t so easy. While we were reaching for the good of this baby, we were also feeling quite sad that we couldn’t keep her.

At the end of the day though, we could get over it because it’s not about us.

We’re all tougher than we think we are really. You can do it. Really really, you can.

Artistic inspiration is an interesting thing. Sometimes I’m on a roll and then other times, say after surgery in the middle of a Nebraska winter, I’m a little less than inspired. There are days where the internal urge to create is so squelched that I wonder if a little spark will ever return. And then I’m reminded, just do it. Emotions can follow actions. Pick up that pen, or start typing, or grab the camera and get to work.

There are still realities to deal with. My left arm is still sore and tender. My energy levels aren’t up to par. It’s still winter. Still winter. Still winter. But if I ignore all that for a few minutes, I can find light coming through the west kitchen window, casting odd shadows upon the walls and reflecting against the pilsner glasses I gave Jeremy for Christmas. I question if I like the image enough to put it on my site, question its composition and coloring. But at the end of the day, I like it.

And today, liking something is reason enough to share it.

My friend Sommer, rocking her baby back and forth in early December. I love this shot. These precious baby days move by quickly, which is why capturing them is always worthwhile.

A surefire way to remind yourself of God’s goodness to you is to count your blessings. You can do this via Facebook status the entire month of November or you can keep a journal ala Ann Voskamp. However you do it, just do it. Remind yourself of the good things and let them win, in your heart, over the harder things of life. This post is to remind me.

My folks. My mom massaged my hands, my wrists and my feet yesterday while I was luxuriously tucked under blankets watching HGTV and—it gets better if you can believe it—my dad helped Livia do her homework. Seriously amazing.

Jeremy. My husband has been a rock. He’s endured my frustrations of late with grace and gentleness and he’s been a big help before, during and after elbow surgery. Our time together in Rochester was as sweet as it possibly could’ve been and even here at home he’s taken on dad and mom duties with more sacrifice than I ever would have shown. God has paired Jeremy and I together for a reason. I like to say we’re a bit firework-y in our relationship, but that’s what happens when iron sharpens iron, right? At 14.5 years of marriage, we’re definitely more humbled and more in love than we were in the early years. I’m grateful for this man!

Piping hot mercy meals. Our church provides meals to those who are sick or have had babies or are dealing with death in the family. We ate something tonight that was 100% comfort food—love in a foil pan. A huge thanks to our church family for feeding us.

Flowers. People magazine and chocolate. Texts. Phone calls. Emails. As a giant extrovert it means a lot to hear your words of encouragement over the past few weeks. Thanks, dear friends, for not forgetting me even though I’ve been out of commission.

Being on the receiving end of lots of help has me thinking about friendship and generosity. Credit also goes to Tim & Kathy Keller’s The Meaning of Marriage, which we’re reading for a small group discussion, and my friend Kerri, whose latest blog post speaks of visiting new churches.

Friends, it means to the world to someone else when you go out of your way to remember them, when you take time from your own concerns to consider how you can help them. You don’t have to do anything world-changing or profound. You can send a card, drop a gift certificate in their front door, call and ask how they are doing, or text with plans to set up a coffee date. You can remember their birthday. You can shake their hand on Sunday and ask their name. You can ask about their kids (parents kind of love that) or you can offer to share your Sunday lunch (I loved that in college especially). When you’re making dinner, double the batch and deliver half to a friend for no good reason. Bake cookies for yourself and then take a plate to that neighbor you’re embarrassed you don’t know. Pick up a plant at your grocery store’s floral section (or a special juice or cheese and crackers that feels a bit extravagant) and drop them by your coworker’s desk the next day.

There are a million tiny ways to bring light and joy to the world around you. Just do it. For the glory of God, do it.

These beauties showed up on my dining room table yesterday to cheer me along in my recovery from surgery. Charity has encouraged me to just get this surgery done already for many months now—how sweet is she to send flowers after I’ve finally done it? Thanks so much, friend! I love how they brighten up my kitchen on these overcast winter days.

For those curious about such things, I had an arthroscopic debridement of my left elbow done. (Sounds fun, doesn’t it? Mmmm.) I have no need personally to Google this surgery or watch youtube.com videos on it. What happens at Mayo stays at Mayo, in my opinion. Speaking of Mayo Clinic, we pursued medical professionals in Rochester, MN, because apparently no one in closer driving distance “does” elbows. And frankly, when you need your elbows to work for the forseeable future, you want the very best in elbow care. I’ve consistently received excellent care at Mayo (of course, it’s MAYO) and so far my elbows and me, we are grateful.

Final word of gratitude goes to my husband who is a really good caregiver. He’s a far better nurse than I’ll ever be and he takes great care of me. Right now I’m still in that post-surgery phase where you need a nap after getting dressed for the day, but things are gradually improving. My left arm will take some time before feeling strong again—two to three months of time—but I expect to be up and running more normally long before then.

“Achoo!” Livia sneezes.
“Bless you,” says the mom behind us on the walk to school.
“Oh, that was a fake one,” I counter. “But thank you anyway!”

Liv proceeds to explain, loudly, that her little brother, who is holding her hand, sneezed. In our world—the material one, that is—her left hand holds mine and her right hand dangles in the cold morning air. The mom and son part ways with us, no doubt questioning our sanity.

I wait on the sidewalk until Livia has passed her principal. This is my safety check—passing him surely means she won’t accidentally wander the wrong way and end up at a grocery store instead of her second grade classroom. Even after she’s passed the principal, she slows down while the other kids, more goal-oriented perhaps, are racing to their rooms.

Liv has a rich inner world one might say.

While the majority of children around her are pulling off coats and backpacks, Livia is meandering behind them, deep in imagination. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be in her mind. What is she thinking about? Are her pretend thoughts like the claymation or video bits done on Community? But way more innocent?

The snowman deal originated with me. Because I know my daughter and I know that while she may not be motivated to walk fast in order to get to people school, I do know that she will walk fast if we pretend we are snowmen on our way to snow school. Snow Mama and Snow Girl, to be exact. Apparently there was a Snow Brother in there I didn’t know about.

Pretending to be a Snow Mom for a four minute walk to school is easy stuff. I love that my kid is incredibly creative and hilarious and fun-loving. Sometimes I wonder when she’s going to mature, when she’s going to be more concerned with what her parents and teachers and classmates expect from her. But honestly, I don’t want her to grow up too quickly. Since when does an eight-year-old need to be overly concerned about pleasing others? There are a lot of issues in this world that Livia is not yet prepared for. Today I’m glad she’s eight and full of ideas and images and goodness knows what else exists in her imagination. I pray she can hang on to this gift of hers until adulthood in some sort of way. The world, the “real” one, will be a better place with her creative spirit in it.

There’s no nice way to follow a super serious post. So I found myself digging through my 2012 DPP folders for something random. And random was exactly what I found. I’ve never snapped a shot of the inside of my kitchen cupboards (at least I don’t think I have, feel free to prove me wrong) and I’m slightly pleased that the glasses don’t look as haphazard as I thought they did. There’s actually a little balance and interesting composition going on here. Nice.

I’ve been in a moody, navel-gazing funk the last several days and it’s shaking off slowly. I am incredibly appreciative of your affirming and helpful words. I’ve gotten texts and emails that show that I truly know the best people in the world.

Local friends know that I have more going on than foster care. I’m gearing up to do this again quite soon—on the left elbow this time—and the stress has been a bit much. In bright moments I can acknowledge that someday as soon as three months down the road my left arm will be strong again and I can recognize the goodness of foster parenting, even for a short period of time. But to be honest, I identify more with Pollyanna on her sickbed, all frowns and pouts, than I do with her in the majority of the movie. (I love me some Hayley Mills.)

Livia came out of school empty-handed. Children had poured out of the building before her, one even proclaiming, “Look, I have four bags!” I could smell the steaming hot popcorn and knew she had taken a quarter to school to buy a bag on Spirit Day. When she finally appeared, empty-handed, she sadly explained that they ran out, and I couldn’t help but feel kind of angry towards the kid who got four bags while my kid got none.

Sometimes, oftentimes, always—life isn’t fair.

While my mama defenses were on high alert for this very small injustice, and while my hackles were raised, I knew in my heart that popcorn wasn’t a huge deal and Livia knew it, too. I can’t remember, but in all likelihood we probably went out and bought ice cream cones instead. It all worked out.

Still, I’ve been reflecting lately on how life really is not fair.

I’m going to hand our foster baby, this teeny small child of amazingness, to her future family on Sunday. (At least we’re all hoping they are indeed her future family. Fostering is never a sure thing; adoption is.) After waiting to adopt for over six years, after becoming foster parents, after praying and praying and praying and praying and praying, I am going to hand over this child that we brought home from the hospital last month.

Now, we knew what we were getting into. The situation was presented to us and we jumped in with both feet. We knew it was a short-term gig and we’ve explained it that way to everyone we’ve met along the way. We’ve met and genuinely like this baby’s future family and it’s been so good to be a support to her future parents. There is goodness, yes. Fairness? Yes. And no.

In my struggle to find fairness I look into this baby girl’s face and I’m reminded that life is absolutely not fair. Fair would mean she was born into a mother’s arms and could stay there forever. Fair would mean she’d have a mom who would call her sweetheart and soothe her when she cried and wipe her tears and bandage her knees when she trips and falls. Fair would mean a home that is safe, food that’s always on the table, and a childhood free from fear and worry.

This life is unfair. It’s hard. And sometimes I want to cry FOUL! from the rooftops and demand justice until I am satisfied and complain loudly and without pause because THIS IS NOT FAIR.

It hurts. Oh goodness, the unfairness hurts.

I took my little foster baby to my monthly mom’s group today and looked around the room knowing that every other mom there would still have their infants next month. Mine is a loaner. (Did you know you can laugh and cry at the same time? I highly recommend it.) While I was taking this little girl home from the hospital—an incredible privilege as we didn’t get to do so with Livia—I was doing it with the knowledge that I could not keep her, that she doesn’t belong to me.

Today I am sad, for many reasons. I’m sad that I can’t make babies and thus have to deal with the twists and turns of adoption and foster care. I’m sad that God hasn’t answered our prayers for children in the affirmative. I’m sad that we have to wait and wonder some more. I’m sad, deeply sad, that I can’t give my daughter a sibling. (There is great grief in this fact.) I’m sad my foster baby wasn’t born into a simple situation and I’m sad that her future family couldn’t take her right away. I’m even sad they have a longer road to walk before being able to adopt her.

A day is coming when all will be made right and the tears and sadness and general fist-shaking of this life will all fade away. Jesus will one day heal every wound and right every wrong. Would I look forward to heavenly glory if I didn’t experience injustice today? Probably not. Does the knowledge and expectation of heaven make me feel less pain right now? No. There is hope. There is beauty. But damn, sometimes the unfairness just plain sucks.

The past three months I’ve collaborated with gifted writer, speaker and all-around awesome friend Maralee Bradley on articles over at Her View From Home.

This month’s post—Church of the Plastic Bags—is particularly poignant for me as I’ve literally received plastic bags (and paper ones and boxes and furniture deliveries) from friends as we’ve welcomed a foster child into our household. Our church community longs to help. They love to help. They give and give of themselves and never ask anything in return. It’s remarkable, this evidence of Christ-like love for one another, this giving and not expecting anything back. And you know what else? It’s incredibly humbling to be on the receiving end. It’s humbling and something in me desperately wants to give something back so I feel like we’re even. But that’s not the point! Give, give and give some more. Without expectation. With a lot of grace. With joy. Thank God for these women in my life. They are the hands and feet of Jesus to me and my family.

November collaboration: A Musing Maralee
December collaboration: Our Christmas Miracle

You can find Maralee blogging multiple times a week over at A Musing Maralee and, from what I gather, her voice also graces the radio waves of My Bridge Radio.