The Faces of Our Story

Before there was this:

 

There was this:

 

This picture makes me smile and brings me back to a time when these three little faces (and about 15 more) were my world. I am thankful to be an adoptive parent, a foster parent, a biological parent, but that wasn’t always my identity. Before anyone called me “mom” I was a hosueparent for an amazing group of young men who called me “Miss Maralee”. The three boys in the picture above are now three handsome young men who make me proud. They have persevered in the face of big adversity. They have beaten the odds. They have blessed me by allowing me to share in their stories long after we no longer lived in the same place. They are welcome in my home and I consider them family.

Last night one of these boys had dinner with us. We hadn’t seen him in many years, but through the wonder of social media we had been blessed to keep tabs on his life just a bit. We had a great evening with him sharing stories and laughing and looking at pictures of him from when he was eight years-old and I would carry him around on my hip. I loved this boy so dearly and many of my happy memories of my time as a housemom have his face front and center.

So hearing him tell what had happened in his life in the years since we’ve been together was hard. Multiple foster placements. Failed adoption attempts. Difficulties in school and sadness at being separated from his siblings. It broke my heart for him and for us because if we had known, we would have wanted to step in. But we were states away with no idea what he was going through. And I know even if we had been able to help, it might not have been easy. Little boys who learn that no one will love them unconditionally turn into teenagers who struggle with trust and act out when they’re scared, even when what they’re scared of is realizing they’re being loved.

We listened to his story. But I didn’t know my seven year-old was listening, too. When our visitor was gone, Josh sat down with us and asked, “Why didn’t you adopt him? Why can’t we adopt him now?” I realize the answers are complicated, but in the mind of an adopted 7 year-old, there is no complicated answer. He needs a family and we love him. We did our best with tears and hugs to explain, but Josh’s cries are the cries of my own heart.

I know at the root of my passion for kids in crisis are the faces of the boys I have loved. They motivate me and inspire me and sometimes they haunt me. It is one thing to read about the effects of kids being bounced through different foster homes, it is another thing entirely to have a child you hugged and read stories to and ate meals with telling you how it affected him. It’s not a story. It’s a person with a soul. A person who has worth.

Caring for children changes you. The kids who I have loved did not cease to exist when I stopped seeing them. Their stories continue to unfold and I pray my influence was positive. I fight to have contact with them and to express to them that the door is open for whatever amount of relationship they want. It’s not because I am such a selfless person, but because I am so selfish. I selfishly want to know these men and be allowed into their lives. I want to see them succeed and praise them when they do. I want to show them that love doesn’t stop when we make bad choices. Honestly. . . I want to be a mother to them.

But I know I can’t control them or their situations. I can’t protect them from the hard realities they continue to face. And hearing the story of our guest last night reminded me that sometimes it takes the hardest of hard realities to help a person learn the lessons they need in life. (A big thank you to him for giving me permission to write about this piece of his story.)

I tried to tell Josh last night that without the stories and the faces of those first boys in our life, there might not be the family we have now. We are foster parents because of those boys. We want to love the children in our home in a way that changes their lives and changes ours. We want to develop relationships with their families because we don’t want to lose track of them when they leave our home. We sacrifice our time to go speak about foster parenting wherever they’ll let us in the door because we want other people to know that these boys exist. That inside every tough 16 year-old who says he’s too old to be adopted, there is a 7 year-old who is afraid if somebody really knew him, they wouldn’t want him anymore. If your own mother rejects you, how will you believe you can be loved? It isn’t easy, but my goal was always to aggressively love our kids so they’d know how lovable they were. I wanted to show them an aggressive love that pursued them when they were hiding, hugged them when they were cold and distant, offered affirmation when they were doubting. I wasn’t perfect at it, but my failures in those days keep me pushing through with my children now.

Young Men Who Were My Boys, when you replay the story of your life in your mind, I hope you know you were loved. I hope you remember that somebody tucked you in at night and cleaned up after you when you were sick, and hassled you if you didn’t do your homework. I hope you know she still loves you. When I hear this song, I think of you:

I love you today and I love you tomorrow

I love you as deep as the sea

I love you in joy and I love you in sorrow

You can always come home to me  

–“You Can Always Come Home”

Andrew Peterson