I still remember meeting my first foster brother. His arrival turned my teenage world upside down, or at least knocked it off its axis for a few weeks. He doesn't know it, but ten years later, he's still impacting my life.
I think about him and the reasons why he eventually aged out of care. And I look at my son and think you're not so very different from that scared young man. And I wonder, am I capable of making an impact on another life? Am I ready to open my home to a child, knowing their stay is temporary?
Prior to his arrival, I thought I had this family thing cornered. Some of us were biologically related, others came home through adoption. But all of us were permanent fixtures.
That changed the day a young man arrived. He was skinny and mouthy and not happy to be moving into a home with so many kids. I was in my late teens and not happy to be sharing a home with him either.
He was only 12 years old, but his beautiful brown eyes betrayed a lifetime of adult experiences. Where had he been before he arrived, backpack slung on his shoulder, clothes and a handful of toys in a suitcase?
He stayed for about a year, even following my parents to their new home on Vancouver Island. On more than one occasion, he would plead with my mother and father, "Will you adopt me? Please? "
I've never asked my mom how much it hurt to hear those words, how much pain it caused them both when she answered honestly "No, I can't". Eventually, the boy moved in with an extended relative, but his stay with our family left its mark. In truth, he never really left.
A few years ago, I ran into him at the mall on Vancouver Island. I was there with my mom and with Noah - who at the time was snoozing peacefully in his snugly.
He came running up, smiling "Hi Mom!" he beamed. They exchanged a big hug. "He still calls you mom?" I asked later. Turns out he had never stopped - and that he was welcome at our home whenever he wanted to stop by.
I think I underestimated my parents' commitment to their foster children. I was humbled to see the love they had for their 'temporary' son was really more permanent than I had given them credit for.
I said hello and introduced the baby to him. I watched his eyes flicker when mom explained to him that Noah was once her foster son, too. "So you adopted him, eh?" I smiled, and watched as he quickly broke eye contact.
I'd give anything to know what he was thinking. Was it "why him and not me?" Did he still wonder why my parents said no, or did he understand their role a little better now that he'd grown? Did it make him feel less worthy, knowing that adoption was now an inter-generational part of our family? Did he feel like he alone had not been denied official welcome and permanency?
I wanted to tell him about all of those that came after him. The boys and girls, the babies and sibling groups, who were not meant to stay forever. The tears my mother shed when the children moved on, the grief she felt that no one seemed to comprehend or even bother to empathize with.
Did he know the pain it caused when she watched a child leave her arms and home? Could he guess how that pain was twinned by the pride of seeing "her babies" embraced by the loving arms of their parents? Could he imagine her joy when they went home to birth family or were introduced to adoptive mom or dad? Did he know she cried those same tears for him, had the same worries over his future, and keeps that same love on hand for him whenever he needs it?
Mom, you may not have adopted or fostered me. You "only" gave birth to me the old fashioned way. But you've set an amazing example to your children - ALL of us, whether we called you mom for a day, a week, or a lifetime. Thank you.
And brother, if you're reading this. We may not share a name, but we share some pretty incredible parents. I'm glad you came to stay with us that day. I'm glad you're part of our family.
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