Court comes tomorrow. It feels heavy. With black robes and huge desks. Loud gavels and police officers.
Looming decisions on who will go where, when. Mere moments defining entire lives.
All by someone towering over us named the Judge.
So I will dress up. Because that will be the piece I can control. I can look professional and speak respectfully.
That’s all I have. A presence. I have no say. No vote.
And yet even with an intimate knowledge of these boys and a decent understanding of foster care statistics, I waffle myself over what may be best. Every option painfully broken.
I don’t know. But more importantly, if I did, it wouldn’t matter. And so I turn back to consider the pencil skirts and slacks.
Here, in my closet, I begin to see it. Just a glimpse of what so many see and know so deeply.
Biological parents. Foster parents. Adoptive parents. Divorcing parents. All facing the question of who will raise children they know as their own.
A single judge determining their child’s forever. Their forever. In one fell swoop.
Here, it doesn’t matter what college I went to or if I have good credit. I can’t plan or prepare or do the right thing to make sure the Judge makes the best choice for these boys. I can only pray and hope.
And I can’t stop doing either. No matter what’s decided.