Foster Belonging

By the end of my first day working in Foster Care, I found myself staring at my notes, straining to remember the details of my next tasks. I had spent 5 hours in court for two of my cases, about which I knew minimal information. It made me thankful for God's grace, and the purpose He gives to these tasks. Foster care is definitely a deeply impactful work and I pray that God continues to sustain me to carry it out so that families may be strengthened. So, needless to say, I have a lot of respect for people who have done this job for years.

Now I've been at my job for 4 weeks and I'm beginning to understand some things that were mysteries at first. Still, I know there is so much to learn. I am constantly asking other people for the answers to questions that I don't know. Some days I just look down at my papers and think "what am I supposed to do next?" I am thinking that 80% of the job is learning to ask the right questions--at homes, with clients, everywhere. The other 20% is a mixture of time management/prioritizing skills. Above these things, I am praying for compassion with discernment to cover it all.

Speaking of compassion, as I sat here typing these words, I heard a song I haven't heard for probably years. It's by Chris Rice, a thoughtful lyricist. The words hit me this time, not in relation to myself, but to the children I see each day in foster care. Their world is quite different than mine has ever been. Their path may be long and hard, but I pray they hear this song being sung over them.

So this drives me to a question--how can we foster a sense of belonging in children's lives, regardless of where they live?

Belong

Fading memories ignored, I crawl across the forest floor.
Pool reflects an orphan child; dirty, lost, alone and wild.
Fatherless and nameless still, fallen heart and broken will
there ever be a place where I belong?

I cower 'neath the monster trees, and try to stand on tired feet.
But gravity knocks me to the ground, where I give up and tears roll down.
I claw the dust and beg the end, and curse the day that I began
to hope there'd be a place where I'd belong.

I hear a sound I recognize. You lift my chin and seek my eyes.
Song of Love you sing to me; I ache to sing it back to thee.
Father Love prepares a place, and brother Jesus leads the way.
Follow to the place where you belong.

How did I miss this wondrous song? The forest sang it all along:
"River rinses all your shame, and Father offers you his name.
Father Love prepares a home, brother Jesus leads you on.
Follow to the place where you belong.

Father Love prepares a place; brother Jesus leads the way--
Follow to the place where you belong.
Follow to the place where you belong."

top spinning

 

 

Spinning Top

Spinning like a top
where I sat still and calm
just yesterday.
Resting in the assurance
that taking a risk
will help me find my footing.
May even help me fly.
But You only know
what the straight path looks like.
In silence I wait,
I worry, tremble at every step.
Where can I go from your presence?
Any road is fine
I step into boat, on uneasy surface,
to make the journey to the other side.
Aim and row, let the wind take me
It’s at my back.
Calm, now
another light shines;
waves come with force
Throw me off course
Rowing is of no use
so I wait
for the wave-calmerthis is not for confusion’s sake
maybe not even for Pete’s
but for his, I wish I could see
Your heart
it's about transformation and glory
Waves don’t come steady
as a wave pool
out in these open seas
We follow into the boat
only to be swamped--
It’s the perfect storm
These waves would have died
yesterday
But today is here
spinning, dizzy as
A top; in a whirlpool.

 

Wind

Wind is a funny thing.

It whips around us, indifferent to the changes it causes. It may bring relief from oppressive heat, or it may tear down a house, but whip along it does. We are left to interpret the "goodness" of its actions (or perhaps the results).

Sometimes life happens and there is nothing we could have done to control it one way or the other. We acquire a job and call it good; or are met with the death of a friend and call it, at best, a catalyst. And so life's wind whips around us and we're left to our interpretive systems.

But we're never left alone.

Hallelujah!

Dengue Remembered

At this time last year, I was recovering from a tropical, mosquito-borne disease on the opposite side of the world. It was not a pretty or fun couple weeks of being sick, but God's grace was all over it. I've never wanted to complain about this experience, and I am not starting now. I was, however, compelled to document it as I recalled the experience in recent days. I was inspired to write a bit of unconventional poetry...well, I think it explains itself.
 

 

Dengue Remembered

              Nausea
              get sick
                rest
              get sick
           head imploding                
                                                          eyes stab like a shish-ka-bob
    joints aching             
                  bones breaking     
                                              heat rises
                   sweat falls
                                      delirium
                     “HAVE FAITH IN GOD” sticks                             
                                                                              like peanut butter to the roof of your mouth.
                                                           arrozcaldo
                                       in the cauldron
             liquids in, liquids out                         
         pills popping
                                            friends stopping
                                                  faces like a whack-a-mole
                                                                         cool rag to the skin
                      and muscle-kneading
(needed more than they know)
           a rocky road to become the specimen.                                                   

Sit.
Up.
short, small breaths
heart racing in my chest
room spins
head hangs, light
try to force a little bite
Open.Wide.
Swallow.
Hard.
‘nother ride, to the ward.
                                                  needles pricking, sticking
                                           into my veins
                  chair glides
    I slide
 in and out of sleep                               
pills popping                                                                 
friends stopping                                                                                       
faces like a whack-a-mole                                         
joints aching                         
bones breaking   
thirst-slaking all day long.
Night has come.
Rear is numb
from bed-inhabiting.
strange sounds from the tube invade my ears;
Attempt to prevent my brain to hear.
awake once again--                                                                     
what hour on the clock?
                                                                                      a pump, a prick, bandage applied.
     always waking,
waking to a nurse by my side.                                                           

--a surge of angst whirls—PEOPLE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD.
daylight comes; type out an email.
sleep
stir
turn
gaze
out my window, a beautiful day.
Forced nutrition:
crackers,
soup;
Sip and nibble
just to please...
liquids in, liquids out.
Rising is slow; steady now, steady.
for all I’m not eating, my body is heavy.
friends become family--measuring liquid gold.
measure, discard.
measure, discard.
days and nights
meld together;
stream of people,
ebb and flow.


moment of calm--
Jesus speaks through a father’s placid voice
He walks on the water, He calms the sea.
tears escape, push their way through
the veil that’s been closed too tight to undo.


Pills still popping
friends still stopping in to say hi,
raise a prayer.
Joints release aching
fever breaking
spots appear
claw at the surface
for what’s deep within;
looks like the circus
is under my skin.

Platelets dropped; need some extra.
people talk
come and go;
faces like a whack-a-mole
here’s the bag
white liquid first.
feels cold;
--my wrist could burst!
long smooth strokes
repeat and knead.
drifting off--
what slurred speech??

Another sun
cold food on a tray.
Red meat I can’t eat
nor do I want.
doc says good, it’s going up.
I’m ready to bathe
it’s been ten days.
I’m flaky
shaky
as we ride,                 
I’ll close my eyes.                                                
sun burns bright                                                                                     
steps falter, I grasp any arm I can find.                                                                                     

Weeks pass and hours are filled with words on pages,
shows on TV I haven’t seen for ages.
coffee-smoothies, mango, ice cream.
second family was formed, thankful prayers are said.
Savory dishes, dogs, bed.
Rest and repeat.


but please,
don’t repeat.

What do you want me to do for you?

"We are not the initiators of our experience of God, we are the responders."

It's a Wednesday morning at our women's study on prayer. We're looking at stories of how God had answered specific people's prayers in the past, when it hits me--

1 Kings 3:5 "At Gibeon the Lord appeared to Solomon in a dream by night, and God said, 'Ask what I shall give you.'"

--Boom. the Lord appeared to Solomon. I just have to stop right there. Don't we go to God because there's something we already want or feel we need? I thought that's what prayer was--us approaching God, asking for the things we think we need. Is this telling me that God comes to us and asks us what we want?? Could this really be the case? If so, why?