We were hoping our foster story would end with the adoption
of a child…specifically our first placement.
I really believed, through all the drama in the 16 months she was with
us, that the Lord would “work it out,” that we had to be patient and push
through and it would work for us. But nothing about fostering was, or ever
will be, about us.
With broken hearts, we accepted another placement. This time, we are ALWAYS aware that she is
not ours, and assuming she will go home.
It seems safest this way. Problem
is, in our flesh, it is really hard to love well with this detachment. It’s hard to give unconditional love to a
child who isn’t yours, when you won’t get to see the fruits of your labor. To love in a “we’ll-always-be-here-we
will-fight-for-you” kind of way, when truth be told, we might only have her to
fight for during a short season. It
feels hard and effortful, all the time.
When preparing to foster, I understood that you have to show
up for these kids, even when they push you away, showing love even when they
can’t receive it. But in reality, when I
have a child screaming at me and saying she wants her mommy, I want to wimp
out. I want to throw a fit just like she
does. I feel like we’ve been faithful
with the call to foster, but my flesh says it’s enough, and I’m ready for my
reward. It’s too hard, I can’t do it. Which quickly translates into, I don’t want to do it.
We got into this to love these kids who so desperately need
love, and with a genuine desire to show gospel love to these kids. Love that says, it doesn’t matter what you do
or how you act, there is enough grace for it.
You are loved, fought for regardless of your actions. Relentless love, love that shows up even when
we don’t deserve it. Especially when we don’t deserve it. And here we are presented with a chance
to live that gospel, to love a challenging child, when it doesn’t feel good, to
love her despite herself, despite what we have in us. And I want to throw up my hands and say I
can’t do it. Of course I can’t, that’s
the entire point! The gospel is nothing if
we can save ourselves—and these kids—on our own.
I am constantly face to face with my own sinfulness. I see my impatience. I see how much my love is contingent on what I get.
I need gospel grace just as much—more—than
she does. Grace despite the fact that my
capacity to love is so limited: it’s contingent on her behavior, my
circumstances, and how successful and capable I feel. My heart aches for the end of the story; for
a beautiful, broken and redeemed, adoption story. But right now, I am living out the broken
part, and praying for a heart that relishes the chance to learn what gospel
love really means.
