Attached

I have a friend in another state who is a foster care “mom” and mother of 4 of her own, a pastor’s wife, and whose husband is currently fighting colon cancer.  Her recent post on Caring Bridge was so encouraging, so Biblically insightful, and so tenderhearted and touching, that I’d like to share it here.

She writes….

We entered last week with a mixture of excitement, dread, sadness, and deep joy.  It was the 5th week of the chemo/radiation regimen,  so we were glad to have progressed so far along this path without any earth-shattering side effects or infections.    It was also the week in which we needed to say goodbye to our Cub. (Elaine interjects: *this is the affectionate name for their almost-two year old foster boy who remains unnamed for  lots of good reasons.)    I'm not sure I can adequately express the atmosphere in our home this past week, and have been putting off writing this update for that reason.  I'll try.

Garry's strength has ebbed and surged this week, usually unpredictably.  On Saturday he just couldn't.go.one.more.step. so he curled up under warm covers and said he wasn't coming out until the apocolypse.  :-)    He was unable to focus even on reading (you know that's unusual!!), but didn't need to sleep, so he just rested quietly as our busy world swirled around him.

 He was worried that the extreme fatigue would mean he'd be out of commission on Sunday morning, but he woke up yesterday bright and chipper, ready to preach.  And he didn't sit very much as he preached -- he was full of his usual restless energy, excited about the passage from John 16 he'd been studying all week.  What a good day we had with our church family!   So many good words spoken, so many hugs, so much shared fellowship.   

Ahh, the Cub.  He went home permanently, to live with his mother, on Friday morning.  There was no dramatic music playing -- actually there was no drama at all -- just two women who know what a gift that little guy is, and some tears as the crib was disassembled and little teethmarks on wood were noticed,  and a lot of gratitude that his life is precious to so many people.  And a papa who made himself very busy that day, but not too busy to take his weary sad wife out for some delicious Vietnamese lunch and talk her through this separation.   And some siblings who spent the day in a melancholy mood and needed some extra lovin's and a good comfort-food dinner.  The house is pretty quiet now, less cluttered with toys,  and the high chair is put away.   People don't know what to say. 

Since our first tentative steps into foster care a couple of years ago, we have heard one phrase repeated more than any other:  "Don't get too attached."   

It has variations:  "It must be hard not to get too attached,"   "Doesn't it hurt too much when you have to let them go?"    "You guys are awfully attached to him -- Are you going to be able to adopt him?"   "You and he would be so much better off if he could be adopted!"  and my personal not-favorite:  "You must be so strong -- I could NEVER foster because I would get too attached!" 

Really?

What kind of a society have we built, that strives so hard to keep our own hearts safe?  That promotes our own little world of security, our own sense of we're-going-to-be-ok-of-course, that elevates our own sense of security to a necessity?  That would rather let hundreds of kids in their own city grow up without a stable family, when we have stable families and nice homes and good educations and lots of love to give?

And what kind of people would we be if we refused to "get attached"? 

And don't you think a child knows when you're not fully invested in him?  When you're not completely, madly, crazily in love with his every move?  Don't  you think HE knows when you're "not attached"?

 How on earth is it possible to live in this world, love other people with all their frailties and foibles, and not be attached?    Every single person you love, are you attached to them?  Of course you are. You have a closeness to them, an inner understanding of their thoughts and feelings, their preferences and their fears -- and you have allowed them to also know yours.  You want them to grow, you want them to be fulfilled, you hope good things for their futures.   You are attached.  Their hurts make you deeply saddened, and their losses become your own.   

What we DON'T want to think about is that those people we love are also fragile, and they can be taken away from us in an instant.  So, in many ways, we just don't think about that part of it.  Mamas have nightmares about their children being taken by illness or strangers, daddies worry about not being able to provide enough for their loved ones, and when we wake up or shake off the scary feelings, we go right on willing ourselves to believe that our attached ones are always going to be right there, safe.  And our secure little world forges ahead.  If we don't get attached to something we can't keep, then we can keep the things that really matter to us.

Cancer and foster care won't let us believe that.

God says we're to love one another fervently, out of a pure heart.  He made our loved ones, gave us the relationships we have, blessed us beyond reason.  But make no mistake:  His primary purpose in our lives is NOT to make us feel happy and secure or even to make us feel loved;  it is to draw us toward Himself so that we will have what we really truly need --  the ability to love and worship HIM.  Sometimes He shakes up the security, sometimes He takes it completely away from us.  You know, I often think I'm going to go out and change the world.  But what God really wants to change is ME.

Choosing to fully love someone who may or may not be able to stay with you forever?  That's risky.  That's cancer, foster care, and everyday life.  You give everything you have to loving and investing in the lives of the people around you.  But you don't make their presence (translate:  your security) into the idol that controls whether or not you love needy, broken people or not.  You give what you've got, love with all the strength in your soul, worship freely and without reservation, and let God pick up whatever's left of you and make something good out of it.

So, that's where we are today.  Quiet house, full heart, heading into the last week of chemo and radiation.   

Loved fully, loving fully.