A year ago, I was reflecting on Zechariah 9:12 2020 certainly battered that fortress. At the onset of the global pandemic, I wasn’t sure the walls would hold. The sight of yellow caution tape surrounding playgrounds and picnic tables brought … Continue reading
Two years ago the call came. “I don’t know why I was hesitant,” the social worker said. “Once I met you, it was clear you’re the right family.”
My son, Adley, had languished in foster care for more than half a year once he was eligible for adoption. His social worker, who had been on the case since he entered the system at birth, was devoted to him. She wanted what was best and didn’t see how that could be me. Due to his special needs resulting from a micro deletion and micro addition genetically, her wish for him was a two parent home without any other children where he could be the primary focus. A single mother with two adopted children was not ideal.
She waited. She searched. She tried to find what she thought was best. I appreciate her concern and dedication. Having been told I was not a possibility, I’d attempted to convince Raine and Athena that he was not going to be their brother after all. They would not believe me. I’d made them no promises. I’d not even introduced the idea to them. It was something the girls determined on their own. As they visited with Adley at my friend’s house where he was being fostered, they decided he would be their brother despite being told all along it was impossible. To begin with, adoption was not looking likely in his case. Then, when at last it was, our family wasn’t a consideration.
Without any other options, the adoption department pushed the social work to at least meet me. Reluctantly, she agreed. Then we waited for her decision. Raine and Athena’s faith was unwavering. I knew the system well enough to know nothing was predictable. The meeting seemed to go exceptionally well but that was no guarantee.
“Yes,” a stranger at McDonald’s playland recently said, “This is the right family for him.” The woman, a recently retired special needs EA, had watched my crew intently after I shared how we came together through adoption.
Easter morning 2018 – Kinder Eggs and Lego (Duplo for the boys, but they like to call it Lego)
“He has one older sister who really challenges him,” she said of Raine who was climbing in the structure calling to Adley to come up with her. “Another who is a little mother, encouraging him along,” she said of Athena who often came beside to gently lead him out of hesitation. “And a younger brother to run with,” she said of Branch. The two boys had taken off together in a rush when I announced they could leave the table and go play, that’s what had initially caught the woman’s attention.
“This is the best thing for him,” she said with certainty, as I sat back drinking coffee.
There are times I’ve wondered. Adley’s progress has been astounding since he came to me. He’d doing things previously thought impossible – eating on his own. There was a time he was choking so often a feeding tube was being considered. He’s speaking, sometimes in complete sentences. It was thought unlikely he’d ever communicate with words. His comprehension is often surprising. “Unless you have his full attention and speak directly to him in very simple words he won’t understand, “ his therapy team had told me in August before we moved here. We continued to do that. Yet often when I’m not speaking to him at all, Adley understands what’s going on.
When I told Raine and Athena that he wouldn’t be going to school last Monday because he had a dentist appointment, Adley jumped into the conversation, “Tooth. Pull. Out. Gone. No doctor,” he said. The week before, he’d fallen at school and cracked his front tooth. An emergency trip to the dentist had resulted in the tooth being pulled. We were returning to check on how he was doing. Adley understood the word dentist though when speaking directly to him I’d always used doctor. He remembered what had happened and could explain it. And he didn’t see any reason to go back since his tooth was already gone. The many facets of that interjection were considered to be absolutely impossible when he first came to us. The team of therapists who had worked with him since birth didn’t anticipate him to ever reach that level of comprehension and communication. It was a hope, but not something they were expecting.
This morning while waiting for the bus, he was jumping in puddles with his sisters like any other 4yr old would. Both feet left the ground as he tried to make splashes as big as theirs. When he came, there was still the real possibility that he could be wheelchair bound. That’s not even a consideration now.
I worried about making a move that would result in Adley being in a regular school instead of one specifically for special needs children which is where he would have gone had we stayed where we were. It was a risk I took with the encouragement of the team of therapists who had worked with him most of his life.
The school here on Wolfe Island has been outstanding. Being the only child with extensive special needs, Adley is able to access the full amount of funding designated for this area of education. He gets the same equipment he would have gotten at the special needs school. He has a one on one EA. He has friends who encourage and challenge him. At the little island school, he’s known and loved by all. Children fight over who gets to sit with him on the bus. From JK to Grade 8, the children are cheering him on as he makes exceptional gains.
When God brought us together, He knew where our path would lead. Though at the time I had no idea we’d find ourselves on this island, God knew. It’s been such a special place for Adley. Not only is he accepted despite his special needs, he’s celebrated in ways I never imagined.
Looking back on the boy who joined our family two years ago, I can hardly believe it’s the same child I watched splashing in puddles this morning.
April 2016 – cautiously trying a meringue cookie. First place Athena wanted to take her new brother was the bakery.
When I said yes to Adley it was with the knowledge that those simple milestones might never come. I said yes to loving him in the limitations of his condition. In love, he’s been able to grow and exceed many of the expectations. Today, I’m celebrating the son God saw fit to give me. He knew we were the right family for Adley. And I’m grateful for the opportunity to love him.
April 2018
I was expecting this child. Not in the way this word is generally applied. I knew he was on the way and that I was his mother. But had no idea when he would be mine. I was there when … Continue reading
15 months ago, a little girl joined our family through foster care. She was on the verge of turning 9 but the size of a 5yr old. I can’t say she’s grown much. But she has been completely transformed. And so has our family.
J brought a peace and unity to Raine and Athena. The three girls connected on the deepest level. Their days were spent playing joyously together. Raine has become so much calmer and can even whisper now. (If you’ve ever met Raine you know she pretty much always sounded like she was speaking through a megaphone.) Athena has grown in confidence and will actually hug people – something she wouldn’t do with anyone but me prior to J’s arrival.
There have been struggles as J deals with all the emotions that come with foster care and the reasons a child must be there. But she’s embraced a measure of healing. The girl here now is nothing like the one that arrived 15mths ago. She’s taller – though still needs to gain a significant amount of weight – happier, and more at peace. I’ve not been a perfect parent to her. But she knows she’s loved by our family.
And that’s why the news that J almost quite certainly will be leaving us August 19 caused Athena to run away from me crying. It made Raine go quiet. Eventually, Athena asked if I could take down the pictures we have up of J around the house. Once she’s gone, Athena doesn’t think she’ll be able to bear seeing the face of her lost friend.
The news of J’s departure isn’t really a surprise. It’s something that’s been a year in the making. Her mother has finally met all the requirements necessary to have her children returned. The social worker expects the judge to confirm this in court next week. Then J will need to go.
This is the heartbreak that keeps many from entering the world of foster care. The truth is not every child fully enters your heart. Often their brokenness keeps you from getting close. Sometimes in spite of your best efforts, there’s no connection with a child in your care. So every departure may not be completely heartbreaking. We’ve had some children with us temporarily or for a length of time and the moving on hasn’t been hard.
But in the case of J, there has been a deep connection. Her absence will hurt every member of our family. And, no doubt, the loss will affect her as well. It’s love that has changed each one of us as we’ve grown together. Whenever J’s social worker comes to visit, she’s always on the verge of tears seeing the relationship that has evolved. It saddens her to know it will come to an end. This isn’t the outcome that seems best. It’s not what we were expecting. And it’s not what we want.
Still, it is always possible in the world of foster care. So we bless J as she prepares to move from us. And I pray that Jesus, the one who calls us to love the needy, will comfort my children as they say good-bye. They’ve loved J so well. Their unconditional acceptance has enabled J to discover the beauty within herself. That revelation will go with her – that she is loveable, that she is valuable and to be treasured. Those truths are not coming to an end even though it appears J’s time with us is. She will take with her the deposits we’ve made. And we will keep the imprint of her on our hearts.
I understand white privilege. The term gives a label to what I discovered the first time I read Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin. At the age of 12 I realized that my life, though by no means perfect, is privileged. I am white. My children are white. I will never have to worry about my son dying because of the colour of his skin. No one will fear for their life when he walks down the street.
I ought to find comfort in this fact. But I can not.
As someone committed to following Jesus, I must not rest in the comfort of injustice. Doing so makes a mockery of my faith. Psalm 45:6 says: Your throne, O God, will last for ever and ever; a scepter of justice will be the scepter of your kingdom.
Since I’ve been able to speak, I’ve recited the Lord’s prayer. With sincerity, I say “Your kingdom come, Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” (Matthew 6:10). But as long as I continue to benefit from an unjust system, my prayer is in vain. The kingdom of God comes with justice.
In a land that has long proclaimed His name, there is no justice. My facebook feed is saturated with calls to pray for the safety of police officers in response to the shootings in Dallas. There are videos and strong signs of solidarity. As you may have guessed, most of my friends are white. There weren’t any posts calling for prayer for young men walking home after the Trayvon Martin shooting in February 2012. It seemed no one really cared.
As Canadians, I suspect we are largely unaware of the situation in America. It crosses the path of our media outlets. But we don’t really understand the systems and structures in place.
Even in our ignorance, we can no longer dismiss the vast number of black lives being taken. Black lives do matter. That isn’t a statement meant to offend. It’s spoken in response to a nation’s actions that say otherwise. The reply that “all lives matter” is cruel. And should not be coming from the church.
We ought to be leading the way in dismantling injustice. Psalm 9:12 says: For He who avenges blood remembers; He does not ignore the cries of the afflicted.
It’s time for us to stop ignoring the cries of the afflicted.
As a teenager, I read every book available to me on American black history. Living in a pre-internet world, the selection was slim in the library of the Canadian city I grew up in. But I learned enough to know there is an on-going tragedy occurring in our midst. It’s part of the fabric of our Canadian culture. We’re inundated by American movies, television shows, news stations, music, celebrities, etc. We’re very much linked to America. With the mandate of Canada – to bring healing to nations – I challenge you to look at what’s happening. Really look. Look at the reality that black mothers and fathers live in fear that their sons will not come home from simple outings like going to the corner store.
Because it’s more than anyone can possibly bear, that burden of fear is sparking action.
More death is not the answer. But do you have one? The times we live in are spoken of in the Old Testament prophets. ….And He looked for justice, but saw bloodshed; for righteousness, but heard cries of distress. (Isaiah 5:7)
When God looks at us, does He find justice? Does He see righteousness? Even if you don’t, He hears the cries of distress. If you’re unable to, I beg of you to open your ears.
I’m white, living in Canada. I’m safe. My children are safe. But this fight is mine. And it ought to be yours because no child is free until all are free. I do not want my children to be established on a foundation of injustice. Nor should you.
Let it no longer be true that: No one calls for justice; no one pleads a case with integrity. They rely on empty arguments, they utter lies; they conceive trouble and give birth to evil. Isaiah 59:4
It alarms me that our culture is so crippled by fear. The white men who are quick to take black lives claim they feared the loss of their own lives. Fear is not a lens through which any of us can see clearly. We can not let fear dictate our actions. We must disarm the fear that is derailing our culture.
For me, it’s been the fear of offending that’s kept me from speaking out before now. My voice is small and insignificant. But in not speaking, I run the risk of being counted among the masses who are satisfied with the continuation of white privilege. Please don’t count me in. These words I’ve written won’t change anything. But they’ve been burning inside of me and I had to get them out.
Beyond the words, I’m doing the only things I know to – teaching my children not to fear and praying.
Here’s what my prayers sound like:
Father God, forgive me for participating in a structure that evaluates the worth of individuals based on the colour of their skin. Forgive me for benefiting from a system that places me above my brothers and sisters. Remove from me the mindset that says this is alright. I recognize that we are all made in Your image. You intentionally created differences in appearance to fully capture who You are. Teach me to rejoice in the diversity while fully embracing those who don’t share my appearance.
Break off of me the belief that I am powerless to change things. I seek the scepter of Your justice in my life. Holy Spirit, I invite You to illuminate any wrong attitudes, racism, prejudice, or malice that exist in me. As You reveal these things, I am committed to removing them from my being.
Open my eyes to see as You see. Black lives matter to You. I choose to live in a manner that confirms this truth. Forgive us for arguing against this truth. Forgive us for wanting to ignore the breaking of Your heart. You weep over the blood that is being spilt. Let us not add to Your suffering by our response. We choose to break off apathy and ignorance that have prevented us from acting. We join our voice with Yours in calling for justice. We choose to no longer be content with freedom for some. We seek freedom for all. Let us no longer live in the poverty that separation brings. Let us know the rich blessing of unity.
I ask for wisdom and divine strategies. I don’t know how to solve this, but You do. Thank you for the opportunity to partner with You. Enable me to respond and serve in a manner that establishes Your kingdom. Let the justice of Your kingdom be established in me and enable me to bring it to the culture I’m a part of.
Amen.
Wonderfully Unusual 