I find foster care nearly impossible to talk about. Which is part of the reason I write. And write so little.
It’s not for lack of passion or purpose. Or by any means, emotion.
Foster care has taken me to my lowest lows and highest highs. It’s seen me to my rawest weakness and steeled me to a greater strength.
But I still stutter and stammer when I try to wrap it into words. Try to make sense of the brokenness.
In public with strangers or acquaintances, I search for an eloquent elevator speech that inspires. But instead my vague awkwardness falters. Giving hints of the pain and difficulty, refusing any bows to tie around it.
I try again and again. Working to find a place that shares with honesty, not devastation. Without ignorance, but still with hope.
That’s the same voice I need at home with my foster son.
Here, I don’t struggle to talk of the difficulties of foster care. We all know them.
I don’t wonder how to name why we do it. The days and months together make those conversations simple.
But how do I tell him I’m glad he’s here…when here means foster care?
Words feel weak and fall flat here.
My husband admits foster care has taken his polite finesse, leaving blunt reactions in its stead.
And so I’ll say it as he might. I’m not glad Big D’s here. I would never wish foster care on anyone.
But even then it isn’t that simple.
Because there is still good here. And I’m glad for that. For the good I see in him. And for the good I see him allowing himself to see.