When I’m Gone

We’ve been a foster family for 12 years. Although we get asked fairly frequently, we actually don’t know how many kids we’ve had in our home in the past 12 years.  Nor do we know how many we’ll have in the next 12.  We do know that every one of those kids when they moved in to our home, also moved into our family.  And those who left, for whatever reason, left an empty space.  

We often get asked about being a foster family.  And much too frequently, we hear people remark that they “just couldn’t do it,” they “couldn’t handle having to let them go.”  

Yeah, that’s kind of the crux of it.  Deciding to love a child, knowing that they might not stay.  In fact, knowing that they probably won’t stay. But the reality is that every time we decide to take the risk and love someone we make that decision without guarantees. Love isn’t about receiving, it’s about risking.  It’s a risk we take, without the safety net of guarantees.  And it’s the very act of loving that enriches our lives.  Every single time.

We had a little one not too long ago who had been with us for almost two years while efforts were underway to find her a permanent home, preferably with relatives.  We had been told that a potential home had been found, and they were going to begin taking this little girl for visits with the potential family.  

I was sitting in the living room one afternoon having a cup of tea and trying to finish some work on the computer when she came through the front door in tears. I looked up and asked what was wrong. 

She had smudge marks on her cheeks where dirty hands had tried to swipe at the tears.  Her hair was sweat-matted to her face in places, and her arms and legs were dirty too from active play outside.  She struggled to kick off her shoes, all the while, crying loudly about some egregious action on the part of the other kids in the yard.

I closed my computer and set it aside, and then patted my leg for her to come sit with me.  She complied, collapsing in a heap on my lap.  I smoothed her hair, and asked if she was hurt.  She shook her head no.  I asked again what had happened, and she relayed the story of someone not being nice, although I suspected that wasn’t really the cause of her tears.  

We sat together for a while, her snuggled up on my lap, and me thinking about how much I would miss her once she went to her “new family.”  Gradually her breathing slowed back down, and the tears seemed to have stopped.  We were rocking peacefully in my chair together when she interrupted my thoughts.

“Mom?” she said, without lifting her head to actually look at me.   “Will you miss me when I’m gone?” 

The tears came instantly.  I kissed the top of her head again, letting my tears soak into her hair.  I nodded my response, while swallowing so that I could speak.

Oh Honey.  More than you know.  

I finally managed to whisper a “yes,” and then went on to remind her that we will always be family for her.  We will always be here anytime she needs us.  That we will always love her.  And that will never change.

“Yeah,” she said, “I know.”  

I went on to lay the groundwork for her move, reassuring her again that this sounded like a good family, and that they will probably love her even more than we do.  Which, I said, was hard to imagine.  She snorted a chuckle over that one, and finally lifted her head to look me in the eye.

“I love you, Mom.”

I said that I love her too, and always will.  And right at that moment the ache in my chest made it hard to take a breath.  

Yes, I’ll miss her when she’s gone.  I always do.  Her presence here has enriched our lives.  Just like the other kids who’ve come into our family for a time.  Every single one of them.