Mourning the Unmournable

-->

“The way he treated you, that’s not gratitude.”

“He didn’t deserve your care.”

“Let him be the one to show you he’s truly repentant."
"You don't send kids back, no matter how terrible they are acting."
"If you were a real mother, you'd never have let him go." 

After spending a year as a foster mother to a 15-16 year old boy with a trauma and abuse background, replete with addiction issues and poor coping mechanisms, I had to send him back to his biological mother when I found out he was stealing from me, and after all the lies, manipulation and breaking of trust time and time again, emotionally, I didn’t know how to cope anymore.  

These experiences don't come with manuals... at least not ones that you know about when you just jump in over your head. But everyone, including myself, has an opinion on how things should be, even if the opinions don't line up.  Still, in my heart, he was a son.

What I didn't realize, is that I too had a lot of baggage that I didn’t know I was carrying. The baggage of codependent behavior in myself, of being too needy to be a good Mom at the moment. Fear is never a good guide, and I was drowning in fear - fear of losing him, fear of what would become of him if he made the wrong decision, instead of listening to the still small voice of the Father who loves – but has good boundaries.  The baggage of wondering if I had somehow screwed him up more by my enabling… and then by my abandonment.

The hardest person ever to forgive, I've found, is oneself.

“Of course God used you in his life, you just can’t see it yet. These things take time.”

“You never know how God used you. You showed him love, now you just have to let go and trust.”
... and so on. Well-meaning words of comfort, but it's never seemed that easy to me to let go and trust. Perhaps I'm a horrible Christian too. 

What do you do, when you’ve been a Mom, and all of a sudden, you aren’t anymore? When you realize that you’ll probably never see them fulfill the dreams that they had shared with you? That the house will be empty from now on, and what was can not be again? And in the place of purpose, connection, hope and belonging now, is just loss. Disconnection, guilt, shame, blame, and confusion.

If only I had been more vigilant. If only I had listened to God better. If only I had protected him more, protected him less, scolded him more, scolded him less, and let him face consequences earlier… if only I had been a better Mom, this wouldn’t have happened. 

What do you do when you lose a son… but you feel that the people around you blame him, and wonder why you’re still caring about what happens to the manipulative twit? Or when you feel that people blame you, and wonder why you gave up on a kid that you had called “son” once? Gave up? No, I felt he was forcibly ripped from my hands by God who could not have said much louder, “Let go!”

Then, what do you do when God gives you a gift… and then takes it away? What do you do when you feel that all you ever knew of God’s goodness and faithfulness seems to contradict what He’s asking of you? How do you trust God again when you’re not sure if maybe you’re the next one to be evicted?  And how do you mourn a son who is still alive but not your son anymore?

A friend of mine lost her son at the same time I lost mine, but in a car accident. And I watched with horror, compassion… and might I even admit… a twinge of jealousy, as she processed her loss and grieved publically on facebook. The horror and compassion are understandable – I could empathize with her ravaged grief. But the jealousy? How was I to mourn, and who could I talk to? All my conversations felt like they were about betrayal, failure and… loss? But what loss? The loss of an angry, manipulative, and oh-so-wounded teen? But oh, what loss!

To not hear his voice in the morning coming from downstairs, saying “hello, mamá!” and “good morning, mamá!” And his favorite way to bother me as he was washing (clothes, dishes, etc.) down below… “mamá!... mamá!... mamá!” until I caved and said, “what?”… “nada… jajajaja!” Or, the alternative answer: “I love you! Jajajaja.” To not hear the quiet “good night, mamá” in the evening when the house was dark, and I could barely hear it whispered through the floor.

And the things I learned from him. I learned about God’s amazing sacrificial love for us. When my laptop was run over, falling out of a motocar he was in, and was supposed to be taking care of and he responded with palpable remorse and said "I wish I'd been the one run over," I learned about how God paid what we could never hope to pay for, in order to maintain relationship with us through Christ. When he told me not to thank him for washing the dishes all the time, because it felt like I was trying to pay him with my gratitude for something that a son should do for his Mom, I learned that love is not earned, and we don’t have to bargain for it… and that gratitude should always be sincere, not offered in payment, which is a bit manipulative. The things that God showed him about how God offers us more and more precious treasures as we grow deeper in relationship with Him, but how we often settle for cheap and gaudy on a superficial level. He heard God’s voice, and with what he learned, I learned.

But his past caught up with his present in the form of a girl, seductive and broken, just like he was. From a past of abuse and abandonment, with the same hurts and same struggles… and she started playing with his heart, and he started playing with hers, and they both lost. Even after God warned him time and again to stay away from her. And I’m sure if she could have heard God, He would have been telling her the same thing. And now there’s another baby growing up without a Dad present, far away with his Mom in Lima.

How do you mourn such loss when there doesn’t seem to be any platform for it? To be a Mom, then to not be a Mom… but not through a death, though it felt like a miscarriage. Or an abortion. How do you mourn when there’s such guilt? And blame? And so few that might understand without feeling that you’re minimizing their loss (when their child really has died), or exaggerating your pain (he deserved it, get over it)?

So. I still mourn. And wonder how long it takes to heal, when I have a son/not son out there that I don’t know what to do with in my heart.  How to maintain any connection, from a distance, without setting him up for false expectations? Or how do I let him go, when he was not mine in the first place? And how do I hear God in all this, when all the messages seem conflicting, those from without as well as those from within? 

 

So. I'll mourn. And continue to mourn until the mourning is done, whether those around me agree with my mourning or not.  And I'll continue to pray for him, undeserving as he might be... for weren't we all once enemies of God, when He loved us enough to lay down His life for us? And I am convinced that even with his anger, rebellion, fear, shame, self-loathing and poor choices... that God still loves this stinker, and still has plans for his good, if only he will trust Him once more.

“A voice is heard in Ramah,
lamentation and bitter weeping.
Rachel is weeping for her children;
she refuses to be comforted for her children,
because they are no more.”

Jeremiah 31:15 

And please, Lord, verses 16-17 too.

God's Foolhardy Grace

“Free Will.” I am learning so much these days as a temporary parent, with a son on loan from God and from his earthly mother. I don't even want to think about the Pre-destination vs. Free Will debate right now. I have no doubt that Psalms 46:10 and 11 are true and that God is sovereign: “Be still, and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!” We can indeed cease and desist from striving, from effort, from works and quiet our hearts before the King of the Universe, knowing that He will be glorified, that He will be exalted – because He is God, and we are not.

 

However, at the same time I am blown away more and more each day by the incredible freedom that God allows to operate in, with His permission and within that all-encompassing sovereignty. He truly does want our love, and not our obligatory service. I can give my “son” advice, I can set down rules and consequences... but his grudging and dark-faced obedience is not what makes me happy. On the contrary, it breaks my heart. I don't want his reluctant service or his conformity – I want his heart. I want to see him able to make the best (and hardest) choices for himself. Choices to love, to toss fear out the window, choices to deny himself, to give to others, to be considerate and kind, to seek his Heavenly Father and His will with all his heart. And the only way those choices are valid is if he is the one making them – not me. So there are times that I don't insist... I make my desires known... then give him freedom to make a decision, knowing that I may worry and ache when I see him choosing what will eventually bind him instead of freeing him.

 

But the alternative is miserable and multiple times worse. Forcing his hand, forcing his obedience, constraining him through punishment, shame and manipulation to conform to my will – these only breed anger, rebellion and push him farther and farther away from the ultimate goal, which is his true freedom to choose love. And I see more clearly each day how God has given man the dangerous and heart-wrenching freedom to choose Him or to deny Him. And I am starting to feel how His holy and loving Father's heart must ache when He sees his children run helter-skelter away from Him toward their own (and even others') destruction. But the other option is impossible for a God who desires our very hearts and selves, free and able to choose what is for His glory not just our own comfort or pleasure, what is loving, what is bold, what is based on trust in His love for us – not our forced obedience, nor our dark-faced service. God gives us a ridiculously long leash and is absurdly patient with us, preferring a few that see and choose to return His prodigal love, even if it means leaving others to shipwreck their lives on the rocks of rage and selfishness. He prefers to permit the consequences of our terrible decisions in the world, instead of Divinely and irrevocably insisting that we all obey unquestioningly ... and involuntarily.

Thoughts? I'd love your wisdom too - I for sure feel super un-prepared for this!

“Or do you presume on the riches of his kindness and forbearance and patience, not knowing that God's kindness is meant to lead you to repentance?”

Romans 2:4

Beautiful Messes

I've now lasted two months as a personally-selected foster Mom to a 15 year-old boy. He asked, I prayed about it, and I think God said “yes.” Why am I bringing this up? I don't know. And that brings up another point: I have realized these days just how much I don't know. It's so super easy as a single person (and this is such common knowledge that I know it's trite, but I'll say it anyway) to see how others raise their children and say, “What a rotten job they're doing, I would Never have children like that.” Until you find yourself in that role of trying to predict the unpredictable. Of facing odd silences and wondering if you said or did something to offend. Of wracking your brains and your heart trying to figure out how to teach things like respect, gratitude and responsibility without making someone feel small or humiliated. Of trying to teach ANYTHING at all without making someone feel stupid. Do I teach anything, or do I just shut up and love? What about when he comes home waaay too late from school, doesn't listen when you call and has that look on his face when asked to wash the dishes once in two days... after you've started cooking 6 days a week, looking for likes and dislikes, and have yourself washed a pile more dishes than normal just because you now can't eat bread and eggs three times a day? After you've given up freedom and a self-oriented schedule, stayed up late to make sure he ate when he got home from school at 10pm, only to wake up again at 3:30am to get ready for the radio program at 5? Invested money, time, prayer and as much love as you can possibly pour into someone, only to be met with ingratitude, rebellion and indolence?

Sometimes. And other times he opens his heart and pours out confessions of past sins, future hopes and present dreams. Or when he prays daily for your parents and Gram because he knows she fell and broke her hip. When he grabs the broom and sweeps without you telling him. When he accidentally lets your backpack slip from the back of a motor car, and your laptop gets run over, and he tells you with tears in his eyes that he wishes it'd been him under those tires (believe me, I knew he'd had disciplined himself enough in that case, and it was a great chance to show him unconditional love and forgiveness... though I confess in the first 3 minutes after I found out, my heart went through the mourning-anger-blame process as quickly as it possibly could, begging God silently for grace and the right response). I wrote in my journal this morning that I feel over-worked and under-appreciated... and then I laughed out loud. I think that most Moms of teenagers may possibly feel just that way. Parenthood. Even temporary foster-parenthood... what a beautiful mess.

Maybe this is why the sunsets seem more vibrant these days, the stars a bit brighter, the birdsong a little sweeter and my other worries or disappointments a little duller. Having something or someone to give to, beyond yourself is a very good thing. Especially if that someone is close enough to live in real relationship and not a convenient “when I feel like it, we can hang out,” sort of deal. It keeps you real – or points out your hypocrisy very quickly. Busy neighbors, fair-weather friends, and possible cardboard cut-out suitors on e-harmony aren't as helpful when it comes to that. So I admit, I'm bursting right now with gratitude to God for this sometimes-laughing, sometimes-jokey, sometimes helpful – and sometimes sullen boy who has been lent to me for a season, however long or short that season may be. And if you're reading this, I admit to being extra-eager for your prayers.

First Night

I spent the night for the first time last week in the house on the land. A rickety ladder and no walls, but what a glorious time! I feel God closer there, for some reason. There are no distractions (yet) to be had. It is quiet there, and the breeze is always sweet over the valley, unless it's windy, then it's downright wild. Walking across the wooden bridge to Paraíso, the songs of the different frogs were captivating. One high and sweet, and the other low and explosive, as if the frogs were little boys playing a game of war. The house is the last house on the road into the forest, our plot the last plot that the city has agreed could be settled and developed and not many have come to live on their land yet. The nearest neighbors  are carbon makers, and their flashlights were dancing as fireflies as they were preparing to rest for the night. I expect my flashlight marked a first point of light in the house in the black of the night as I carried my dog Máscara (the Mask in English) up the ladder to sleep. He went resignedly, for he hates to be lugged about, but I didn't want to make him sleep downstairs and was happy enough for the company upstairs.

This last week has seen its fair share of ups and downs. A family that I know only indirectly through a nephew of theirs, lost a wife and mother to a sudden illness, leaving a gaping hole in the lives of all around her. Not yet 40 years old, Anita died leaving six young girls who now will grow up without a mother's advice when they have their first boyfriend, when they walk the aisle toward the young man of their choice, and will achingly feel her absence when their first child is born. A mother leaving a son is heartbreaking enough, but a mother leaving a daughter behind is to me an unparalleled loss.

After the ceremony at the cemetery, I left hastily, having forgotten a commitment the previous day to pray for the elderly mother of another man I know. He had asked me to come pray for his mother the day before, but in the news and shock of Anita's death, the commitment had slipped my mind, and repentantly I hurried to fulfill the missed appointment. I arrived to find her son out fishing and so went alone, only to hear that her body is now rejecting the IV she's been on for months. Her time is short and her son was worrying to me the day before that he's not sure she's made her peace with God. Unable to speak, her communication is limited to nods and head shakes, but after praying with her, I dearly hope that in her nearest thoughts, God and her have made peace and she is able to go trustingly.

After the dismay of these two gut-wrenchers, I returned to the son's house to find his wife also feeling unwell and disheartened with a long bout of on-and-off-again sickness that has left the doctors confounded and herself despairing. We prayed together also, and it was such a welcome relief to see how God lifted her spirits and took away her bodily affliction. She was in a much better state when I left her, and again when I saw her the next day she was completely well, for which I am still so very grateful to God and thankful for the way He allows us to minister with Him. I wish I understood why in some cases He choses to heal, and in others He doesn't, but I am inexpressibly grateful for the times He does.

 I confess this week also that I have been feeling reclusive, glad that the children on the street are in school in the mornings and desiring to shut myself in my house until the heat becomes too oppressive, then glad enough to escape to the internet or to my hammock downstairs. Partly due to a nasty cold, and partly because there seem to be patches of time where I don't feel like I have either the oomph or the inclination to continue pouring out into the lives of my neighbors and those who cross my path. So I try to close off the path, keeping myself out of others' way as much as possible, God forgive me. The continual need around me, the repeated asking for money on almost a daily basis wears on me and my reserves of patience and love run out much faster than I would like. How did Jesus do this, I wonder? I know the answer comes from a continuous connection to the heart of the Father: that well of love and compassion that never runs dry, as well as the source of all wisdom that knows when to feed the thousands, and when to tell them that it's an “evil and adulterous generation (that) seeks a sign” (Matt 16:4), sending them discontentedly on their way. Sigh. I have so far yet to go, may God have patience with me and not abandon His work in me! May I learn the full meaning and experience the live truth of Psalms 87:7 “...all my springs are in you.”

Fire with Fire

 Lying in bed the first night in the dark, the situation hit me as surreal. On one side of the valley there was a raging party. Buen Retiro was full swing in their anniversary celebration and the volume on the audio system was loud enough that it sounded like my neighbors had their stereo on full force. Except that the party was at least four blocks away.

The music wasn't quite loud enough however, to drown out the sound of gunfire on the other side of the valley. Wednesday night was the first night of the town uprising against the mayor, against injustice, with all the frustrations that corruption in government bring. On the way home from the gathering in Juan's house, we had walked by the town court where the mob was centered, with rumors that the mayor was inside, that the judge he had bought to exonerate him was inside, and who knows who else. The townspeople were pitting all their fury against the building, throwing broken cement pieces at the windows, and when we passed, they were ramming the doors below with a post-turned-battering ram, a man was pushed from the second story and a fire was lit in the entryway. Molotov coctails were being thrown into the broken windows above and a spirit of violence was heavy in the air. The people wanted blood. At ten, Iquitos sent reinforcements, riot police with tear gas and guns, and the people retreated.

And last night, the second night of the strike, the people got what they wanted. Why they choose to fight only at night is anyone's guess, but the riot police stopped playing and started shooting into the crowd. Tonight there's one youth dead, one child hit by a stray bullet and chances are very good, another two youths have passed from critical condition to join the first. Such senselessness. I guarantee you that the mayor and his officials haven't been hurt. I guarantee you that the leaders of the parties who are instigating the townspeople to rise up haven't been hurt. Only the youth who don't truly even know why they're there, and the policemen who have the very ornerous task of trying to maintain order in a town gone crazy.

My friend Juan saw the first young man shot in front of his house, hit from behind while running from the police with the rest of the crowd. His family had to leave their home because the tear gas was so bad, and he had stayed to watch the house only to be caught in the melee with images he now can't erase from his mind.

Tonight all is quiet and hearts are heavy. It's 8:30, and I pray it will stay that way the rest of the night (it did). Lord, have mercy. Do please pray for Nauta with me. Injustice and corruption are evil, but fighting fire with fire will only make more people hot... and an “eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth” will soon leave the whole world blind and toothless.

"He has told you, O man, what is good;

and what does the LORD require of you
but to do justice, and to love kindness,
and to walk humbly with your God?" Micah 6:8

"Repay no one evil for evil, but give thought to do what is honorable in the sight of all.  If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord. To the contrary, if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink; for by so doing you will heap burning coals on his head.  Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good." 
Romans 12:17-21

Airport Trust Fund

There was a knot in the pit of my stomach, and the night was falling quickly. At the same time yesterday I was already heading away from the Quito airport, for the first time in my life having erred on the date and had shown up for my flight a day early. My embarrassment was only equaled by my feeling of helplessness, not knowing where I would stay, and... night falling quickly.

Trust is a big issue for me, and I KNOW God is good. He's proven Himself over and over... and over. But still I doubt. Not that He wouldn't be good, but that I won't hear Him correctly or that maybe this time I've messed up once too much and He'll leave me to my own devices. Which would really stink, because my own devices are pretty flimsy... even though when I start to doubt, I still think I need to lean on those splintered sticks.

So yesterday, one day too early, and today... well. God had provided a place to stay at the HCJB guesthouse last night and I had been able to pick up the bag I had accidentally left at the first hostal I stayed in. My email was nicely being caught up, and amazing Lois Price had appeared at the guesthouse too, a retired nurse who still lives in the jungle of Ecuador and sweetly invited me tolunch with her. My afternoon plan was to grab some snacks for the airport, shower at 5 and run to the bus stop. Lois thought that would be a bit late for my 8pm flight, but I was sure it would be fine. “You're the expert!” Lois remarked after I told her of my dry run yesterday. However, I hadn't counted with the rain. And the rush hour traffick. At 5:30 I was standing in the rain with Lois holding an umbrella, and every taxi that passed was full. So we walked to the corner. And to the other corner. And down the block. By the time I grabbed a taxi and made it the half-mile to the bus station, it was almost 6pm. And the ride to the airport is over an hour. In rush hour traffic.

Sitting in the bus, waiting for it to fill up and seeing the sky darken... I started to get that knot in the pit of my stomach. What if one day I was WAY to early... and the other day I missed it altogether? That would also be a first. 6pm. 6:05. At 6:10 we left the station and crawwwlled out of the city. My Dad's advice as a TSA agent were ringing in my ears... “Always arrive too early, rather than too late!” So? I prayed. At first I prayed my mantra, “Father, please open the door so that I can go through.” Then I prayed, “God, please delay the flight coming into Quito from Guayaquil.” Then I realized how selfish and well... panicky I was feeling. So I started to pray “God, please help me glorify you no matter what happens.” And I started to pray for ANYone who came to mind. Alli Mellon. The persecuted church in North Korea (THAT will put one's momentary troubles in focus like nothing else!), I prayed for people in Nauta, for youth that had left Nauta to look for work,... and the knot remained. God's still small voice broke through as I squirmed... “Do you trust me, Crystal? Do you trust me?”

Yes. No. Yes. No. “Yes” as I focused on my knowledge of God's faithfulness. “No” as the bus crawled through the jammed streets. 7pm. How far away were we? 7:10. The bus picked up speed. “Do you trust me?” Oh Lord. I had to confess. I don't trust very well. I was already planning how I would need to look for a bus to the Ecuador/Peru border back in Quito. At 7:23 we pulled into the airport and I sped up the stairs to the LAN counter. “8pm flight?” the attendant asked as I was whisked through... breathing sigh upon sigh of relief. Yes, God, Yes! I trust you!

And then I was miraculously in line, waiting to board.

“Reitsma, Crystal, please approach the ticket counter...” What was this? I haven't been summoned to the ticket counter since Februrary of 2008. “Your baggage has been selected for a random search” said the agent. “Follow me please.” Seriously? The flight left in ten minutes and... “Do you trust me?” Oh Lord. Yes. I do. So we ran down back through security, through the waiting people, outside to where the luggage was being... no, had already been loaded on the belts to the plane, and there sat my red backpack, lonely. It was opened, peeked in, questioned... and we were off and running again, back into the building, back up the stairs, back through security, and down to the very empty gate.

Last one on? Yes. On the plane? Yes.

 Oh Jesus, why is trust so hard? Why do I feel I have to figure everything out, have a plan B, and C... and maybe even D, doubting God's provision, His willingness, His very love. I don't know. Trusting Him comes hard, even with a mountain of evidence in His favor. Trust for the ministry when all looks sparse. Trust for friendship when friends are scarce. But I do know that I want to live out trust more. And live much less in the panicky, tight-fisted, close-hearted cynicism that I seem to have garnered over the last few years. He proves Himself over and over... and even if I HAD missed the flight, even if I had NO place to stay... would He still be good and trustworthy?

This.

"More and more, the desire grows in me simply to walk around, greet people, enter their homes, sit on their doorsteps, play ball, throw water, and be known as someone who wants to live with them. It is a privilege to have the time to practice this simple ministry of presence. Still, it is not as simple as it seems. My own desire to be useful, to do something significant, or to be part of some impressive project is so strong that soon my time is taken up by meetings, conferences, study groups, and workshops that prevent me from walking the streets. It is difficult not to have plans, not to organize people around an urgent cause, and not to feel that you are working directly for social progress. But I wonder more and more if the first thing shouldn't be to know people by name, to eat and drink with them, to listen to their stories and tell your own, and to let them know with words, handshakes, and hugs that you do not simply like them, but truly love them."

-Henri Nouwen