Won’t it Be Hard to Say Goodbye?

This is a question I have been asked by others, or have asked myself, fairly frequently. The way the question is worded varies, but at the core is the issue of risking your heart to care for foster children in your home for months, or a year, knowing that they may someday return to biological family. I have an answer to that question that I’d like to share with you, but bear with me as I set the stage.

The hardest thing that Erik and I have endured together and with our children has been the death of Erik’s mother. After Bethany was born, “Jojo” would drive down from Baltimore to our house in Leesburg, Va once a week, spend the night with us, and watch Bethany while I was working. This continued until we moved to Texas 4 years later. After our move, she flew to Texas frequently and stayed for extended periods of time. Largely due to my prolonged bedrest during my pregnancy with Nate, Jojo had lived with us in Texas for 6 of her last 12 months. As such, we were all very close to her, myself included, but most certainly Bethany, Bryce and Leah. During her final visit to our house, we were sitting on the couch chatting one night after the children were in bed. She turned her head in Erik’s direction and I inquired with confusion, “Jojo, is that a mass on your neck?” “Oh, it’s nothing,” she answered coyly, covering her neck with her hand. After much prodding, she reluctantly revealed that she had noticed a lump on the side of her neck during the past week or so. A few weeks later, after some testing back in Virginia, we had the answer. It was a shock to her doctors and to us – anaplastic thyroid cancer. Searching google (I mean I never see this kind of thing in pediatrics) revealed grim terms such as “extremely rare”, “very aggressive”, “no effective treatment”, “death within weeks to months of diagnosis”, and case descriptions along the lines of, “medical advice is usually sought when the otherwise healthy patient notices an enlarging mass on their neck”. Jojo died six weeks later.

Erik and I and our children were devastated. But, I have a reason for telling this story, and it goes beyond garnering sympathy for such loss. The six weeks that we had to say goodbye, and the months of grieving following her death, were some of the most precious, bonding times we had with Jojo and as a family. We expressed love more frequently, we held each other more tightly, I stopped sweating the small stuff and wasn’t even tempted to raise my voice when mud was tracked into the house or milk was spilt at the dinner table. Our eyes were turned from the mundane to the meaningful, and ultimately, the eternal. I treasure my memories of Erik speaking through tears at Jojo’s funeral. Even more so, I treasure seeing Bethany, tears streaming down her own face, hanging on every word as she watched her daddy speak such heart-felt words about his mother. That moment is still referred to as “the time we saw Daddy cry”. I cherish the times that my children, sometimes completely out of the blue, clung to me to comfort them as we wept together. And I hope they also remember my recurring reassurances that it’s good to cry and to grieve because it means you deeply cared for someone else. I will always remember the time Bethany prayed at bedtime, “Dear God, I know that you can heal Jojo, and I pray that you would heal her because we love her so much. But if you choose not to heal her, I know that you are good and I trust you.” She wiped tears from her eyes and rolled over and went to sleep. I left the room and cried. That is a life lesson I can’t teach my children from a textbook. I can read to them from God’s living word, about the bravery and faith of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, who prayed a similar prayer as they were facing the fiery furnace in the book of Daniel. I pray in times of trial the truths of the Bible will be memorable to them. Nonetheless, I am confident that their life experiences, both good and bad, are what God will use to demonstrate his faithfulness to them and shape them.

I wish that Jojo were still alive, oh how often I have thought of her in these past six weeks. I know that she would have been here. Holding baby boy and cuddling little girl with a grandmother’s love and patience that seemingly knows no limits of time constraints and schedule demands. She had a heart for the homeless and orphans, largely due to her own tumultuous childhood which contained similar threads as those of many foster children. I can imagine the deep empathy in her eyes as she would have loved these children and cheered us on through the hard.

And so, finally, to my point and the question at hand: “Won’t it be hard to say goodbye to foster children, should that day come? And won’t fostering be hard on my own children?” Well, yes, it will be quite hard. But that’s not my answer to those questions. This is my answer: I’m not afraid of “hard”. I’m not afraid to expose my children to “hard”. See, I know the secret. Whether in hard paths that we choose (working in an ER – that’s another story for another day, taking in children who need a home), or hard paths that we are forced to walk (death of a loved one, such as Jojo, saying goodbye to foster children after months of giving your heart to them unconditionally), God uses the hard for His glory, and to sculpt our hearts in ways that define who He wants us to become. This can be painful. Very painful at times (I admit, I’ve only experienced a fraction of the pain this world has to offer). Sculpting requires hammering and chipping, which isn’t always pleasant. But in the end, God is producing in us a masterpiece. He is making us into something great – the likeness of Christ (biblical sanctification). And hard is part of the process. I don’t fear hard. I fear remaining a rough piece of rock that could have otherwise been used by God. By God’s grace, it’s the “hard” that makes it great.

(even Hollywood stumbles on to a biblical principle now and then)

“Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And let endurance have its perfect result, so that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.” – James 1:2-4

“Work out your salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God who is at work in you, both to will and to work for His good pleasure.” – Phil 2:12-13

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7 thoughts on “Won’t it Be Hard to Say Goodbye?

  1. “I don’t fear hard. I fear remaining a rough piece of rock that could have otherwise been used by God.” —Amazing. Such a beautiful answer. I initially thought that anyone who could work in an ER and not grow callous, and love the job, could surely handle fostering. But your perspective on how it will mold your kids is so insightful. Such a good word, Viv.

  2. My dear sweet friends!
    I have loved every second of this blog. This one hit especially hard as we have had people close to us loose loved ones in very tragic accidents this past few months. It has rocked our worlds and reminded us that every second is precious. Your faith and never-ending commitment constantly inspire me! I miss you all so much!

  3. Linda, Please, steal away! And feel free to pass this along to anyone you think would like to read about our experience, I hope that it is helpful.

  4. So similar to thoughts I have had recently about my son’s friend who lost his mother last week. Thinking back to when I was a child and lost a parent and what that did to my life, my perspective, and my outlook. Perhaps I should share these thoughts with my son’s friend. . .

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