Listening between the lines

They'd been showing up at our house to play almost every day, these two kids. Close to Michael's and Simon's ages. Polite, but reserved. New to town.

We don't mind when the boys have friends over. As long as you follow our house rules, you're welcome here any time. These two kids, I'll call them Jack and Jill, knew the rules and were happy to abide. All too happy, it seemed.

At first, they made comments like, "Wow, your house is huge," and, "Why do you have so much food?" I love my house, but "huge" is never a word I would use to describe it. And all that food? Just a couple stacks of cereal boxes and canned goods I'd stocked up on. Nothing extravagant, by any means. But listening between the lines I heard, "I'm hungry," and I gave Jack and Jill some milk and apple slices with cheese.

Then I heard comments like "He sleeps a lot" and "I don't know" when I asked if their dad was at work. And I heard them refer to him by name instead of "Dad" and wondered who this man really was who was sleeping at their house while their mother took swing shifts at the gas station. Probably not their dad, after all. And I listened between the lines and heard, "He's a drunk" and "We avoid him." I'll refer to him as Loser.

Jack and Jill continued to show up at all hours of the day and night. Were always hungry. Always happy just to be on our property. As they became more comfortable they began to say other things, like "Mom says we're moving again soon."

"Who is?" I asked. "All of you?"

"Yes."

"Even Loser?"

"No, we're not telling him."

And I listened between the lines.

That night, I laid awake thinking and praying. Were Jack and Jill in danger? Were they moving to a better place? Should I have said something to them about coming to me if they needed help? About calling the police if they REALLY needed help?

The next day, they showed up again and said "Our mom couldn't go to work today because she fractured her arm last night." But I heard, "Loser found out about our plans to leave and lost his temper." I swear, that's what I heard. But did I listen correctly? Was I reading too much into it?

Better safe than sorry. We called the cops about our suspicions and gave them as much information as we could, but it wasn't much. We didn't know where their house was, only the general area. Didn't even know their mother's first name. All we could do was ask the police to keep an eye out.

Again, I laid awake. If the police snooped around their house asking questions, would Loser think the kids said something he told them not to say and get angry? Had we made things worse for them in the name of trying to help? Should we call CPS? Were we overreacting?

The kids disappeared for five days. We waited for them to knock on the door, drove by where we thought their house was. No sign of them. Maybe the big move had happened and they were long gone. Or maybe....no, I didn't want to think about that. I prayed.

Then they showed up. "We came to say goodbye. We're leaving tomorrow. It sure smells good in here, what are you making?" My relief was immense. I fed them dinner and gave them hugs and slipped a piece of paper with our phone number on it into Jill's hand.

"Call me if you ever need anything," I said. "We'll miss you."

And that night while I laid awake, I cried. I should've done more. Fed them more. What kind of chance do those kids have? Who's going to look out for them in their new town? How did I never know growing up that I was so lucky just to have two parents who loved me?

And I came to realize it's a difficult and serious thing to listen between the lines. Because sometimes it's easier not to hear, not to know. Not to get involved. Not to have to worry. I mean, who has the time and energy and courage it takes to listen between the lines?

I hope I do. Do you? Do you really listen to the people you cross paths with? Do you ever listen between the lines and hear things like "I'm lonely" or "I'm scared" or "Something's wrong"? Let's take a chance this week and open up our hearts (and our ears) to the people around us. Because, like Jack and Jill, I believe God put them in our lives for a reason.

Collateral Damage

He had big, blue eyes and a floppy mop of dirty blonde hair. I'll call him M. He wore a bulldozer t-shirt and his heart on his sleeve as his foster dad knelt in front of him and put his hands on the little guy's shoulders.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he said. "Be a good boy."

We had volunteered to take 3-year-old M for the weekend so his foster parents could get a much-needed, long overdue break. Only another licensed foster family could take him overnight. "We can handle anything for one night," we said to ourselves. At least, we hoped so.

The fear and confusion in M's heart was almost palpable. Only two days before he had had his first overnight visit with his bio mom since entering foster care, and now the foster parents he'd been living with for six months had left him with complete strangers. How's a 3-year-old with developmental delays and a history of trauma supposed to deal with that?

M only knew one way to cope. He spit, and screamed, and banged his head against the floor. He threw toys, and clawed at my skin, and banged his head against my face. He cried, and cried, and cried. I still have marks on my arm from his fingernails.

"We can handle anything for one night, right?" We said it with a little less bravado now, but no less assurance. We were in it together. This is what we'd trained for, prepared for, braced ourselves for. It was only one night. But our own three kids were less sure. "How much longer until he leaves?" they asked. Were we being unfair, asking this of them? Sure, it was only one night, but how much could they take? Should they take?

It didn't take long to realize our plan to give M the extra bed in the boys' room wasn't going to work. He would have to sleep in our bed. Thankfully, because he had refused to nap and had thoroughly exhausted himself during the day, he let me tuck him in and read him a story. He went right to sleep.

We put our kids to bed, too. Then we pulled the futon mattress up from the basement and dropped it with a thud in the middle of the living room. It took up most of the floor. Light from the streetlamp on the corner poured in through the window as I tossed and turned on the mattress and tried to push back my fear that M would wake up in the middle of the night and tear our bedroom to pieces. I didn't get much sleep.

The next day was much the same. He chewed on toys, tested every boundary he could find, and ripped up the vintage red stool in my kitchen. My favorite stool. I studied the damage done and wondered if it was a physical representation of not only the internal damage that's been done to vulnerable kids like M, but also the damage kids like M unwittingly cause to others. To my own kids even. Collateral damage.

When he left, everyone heaved a sigh of relief. I won't sugarcoat it - it was hard. But as we sat down with our kids afterward to thank them for their patience, tell them we love them, and discuss with them why M acted the way he did and why we had offered to watch him for the weekend, I thought about their futures. How would they remember this experience?

Will they look back and think it was a crazy thing, what we did? A foolish thing? Thoughtless? After all, we allowed M to invade their space, wreck their toys, and compromise their peace without their consent. They had to make sacrifices they didn't choose. Endure a trial they didn't ask for. But we got through it together.

Will their memories of the experience be indifferent someday...or bitter? I don't know. I really don't. But my hope - my prayer - is that because of the experience, and others like it that will no doubt come our way, they'll have a little more compassion for others and a little more thankfulness for their many blessings. And that they'll face the challenges in their lives with a little more determination, a lot more grace, and a loved one by their side who's in it with them through thick and thin, and they'll say...

"We can handle anything for one night, right?"

She's In There Somewhere

Day by day

she disappears,

deeper into her memories and fears.

He watches her

fade to gray.

It's getting harder to care for her every day.

He thinks about the smiles they used to share,

and he wants to believe she's in there...

Somewhere.

Sometimes she sings,

sometimes she laughs,

on the good days, if he can get her in the bath.

But most the time she

points at him and shouts:

"Why won't you let me in?" "Why won't you let me out?"

When she's calm he leads her to her rocking chair,

and he wants to believe she's in there...

Somewhere.

She doesn't know what day it is.

She doesn't know the time.

But she knows every single word

to My Darlin' Clementine.

He knows he can't keep this up forever,

but he hates to let someone else take care of her.

The hardest part is that she can't remember

how much he's always,              
                            always,
                                                           always loved her.

He shows her pictures and

repeats, repeats the names.

She wonders, "When are we leaving for the train?"

When she falls

he helps her up again.

He knows she would've done the same for him.

He still sees her as she was with golden hair,

and he wants to believe she's in there...

Somewhere.

He will always believe she's in there...

Somewhere.