Someone Borrowed
I find my isle seat on the 10-seat-wide airplane bound
for Dubai from Jo-burg. The almost nine-hour flight excites me, and the upcoming
four-hour layover plus another fifteen-hour flight to Chicago doesn’t bother me
at all. Why? Because I get to be in my own internal bubble for the next 28
hours – uninterrupted. I’ll be
surrounded by people, yes, but truly, thankfully, greedily alone in a crowded
room. I haven’t always been like this – craving isolation and alone time – but recently
I just can’t get enough of it. Life has utterly consumed me. Yet, I’ve put on a
good show, kept up my strong front, marched into the battles, painted on my
smiles, posted the positivity to social media – hoping that I can just fake it
till I make it, trying to convince myself that everything is fine, and really
I’m okay, just tired – that’s all.
But that’s not all.
Being tired of making plans, tired of being patient,
tired of giving second chances, tired of empathy, tired of pain, tired of
disappointment, tired of loss, tired of my attitude, tired of my poor mothering
or poor leading, tired of multitasking, tired of unanswered prayers, tired of
letting someone down… that’s not “just being tired.” That’s a dangerous
condition of spiritual depletement, of compassion fatigue, of emotional
emptiness. It’s like being a soldier coming back home with PTSD after a war –
only my wars are spiritual battles against an unseen enemy, and serving very,
very wounded and sometimes lifeless victims.
So, I’m soaking in the next 28 hours as a benefit. Not
only that, but I also didn’t tell anyone I was coming home, except my siblings.
The plan is to surprise Mom for Mother’s Day, then celebrate my friend’s
wedding, and then rest rest rest for the remainder of the two weeks.
I put on my headphones and look through the movie
selections. I saw previews for the movie “Instant Family” while in Eswatini
(Swaziland), so when I see it as a selection for the flight, I eagerly put it
on. Little did I know…
I’m giggling and bawling so much I have to get up, go to
the bathroom, and get more Kleenex. Not sure my neighbors enjoyed hearing me
blow my nose for almost 2 hours, but I couldn’t help it. It is is too close to
home. Far too close to my heart. But in a good way, it evokes the tears and
emotions and grief of my own that I’ve buried, as I watch a married couple go
through the same pains and joys I have experienced over the past five+ years…of
basically being a foster mom, which by now feels more like an interim mom, a
borrowed mom.
As I watch the movie and witness the teenage girl do
anything to get her birth mom back in the picture - even defame, reject, and
hurt her foster parents in the process – the pain of my own rejection, being
badmouthed or defamed behind my back, and being hurt purposely by the very ones
I gave my life to help emerges in pools of tears down my cheeks. Yet, my tears
are for the teenaged girl, too. They are for her inability to accept love, to
believe in hope. They are for her desire to be loved by and belong to her birth
mother, to want to believe that she is worthy. Oh yes, this is all too familiar
for me. But in the process of watching the movie and reliving my own pain, I
begin to discover the source of my bitterness, the source of my compassion
fatigue, the source of my pain. I feel like I am only someone borrowed. Someone
used to fill in the gaps, someone used to provide stability, hope, but then
they move on. Just as something borrowed is never kept, neither am I. I am not
their real mom, and I never will be. They will always want their real mom(or
dad), no matter where she/he is, who she/he is, or what she/he has done to the
child.
I remember vividly the first time Benji taught me this a
couple months ago. I thought it would be Lucia who would make the first
comments like this, and I didn’t think it would be for a couple years yet. But
I was on my knees in the bathroom as Benji sat on the toilet seat with an
injured knee. His scraped knee was infected and I was tending to the disgusting
amount of puss coming out as I squeezed it. He screamed in pain and as he
continued to cry, he spat, “I don’t want you, I want make!” I was stunned at his innocent comment, more so stunned at
how sharp it hit me in the heart. Like a sword piercing my own soul. He’s only five, and he’s already saying he
wants his birthmom? I’m not good enough already. My pain turned rapidly
into anger and I threw the bandage and ointment down on the floor and yelled,
“Then go and find her! If you want her, go get her!” and stormed out of the
room in tears. My anger wasn’t at him, though. It was at her. I was so angry at
her, not just for abandoning her kids but for abandoning me. The perpetual
runaway. The habitual promise-breaker. For those few moments, I wanted to hate
her. And I wanted to pack the kids up like a box of returned goods I never
ordered. I didn’t ask for this! I
yelled to God. They want their real mom,
then send them to their real mom! Where is she, huh? What has my 10 year long
prayer for her ever done? How long must I wait? How long will my prayer go
unanswered? When will you do something for me?
I never asked for this! I start to
cry again, this time realizing my own self-pity and hating my bitter outburst.
I wish it was just that once, and I wish it was just with
Benji and Lu. But it’s the same type of situation with all my girls, especially
the runaways and now the older ones who are transitioning out. At a certain
age, no one is as good as birthmom or birthdad, no matter the situation. No one
can replace that bond, the sense of belonging. In as much as we try to create a
family at the girls homes, for some, they never see it that way. In the movie,
when the couple first wants to pick foster kids, they notice that all the
teenagers are grouped together and no adults want to go and talk to them, let
alone foster or adopt them. And the teenagers know it. This happens with us,
too. Most of the girls we get are older because other homes won’t take them,
they are beyond the acceptance age (usually before 12 years old). And I see
why. They are hard. They know they are with us for just a couple years, so why
make it a home? Why risk seeing us as family? In the movie, the fact that the
teenagers are overlooked moves the couple, though, and they sign up for a girl
who comes with two younger siblings, and so begins the journey they “never
signed up for.” At one point, the couple is so exasperated that they tell each
other they are done, they want to send the kids away, and for a moment they are
serious. But the comments quickly fade and the wife says, “We’re never going to
do that are we?” Her husband responds, “Nope. We’re stuck.” That scene honestly
refreshed and encouraged me. I didn’t feel so evil or alone for wishing to
quit, wanting to ship kids off, or throw in the towel and still escape a hero.
And then near the end of the movie, when the kids are going
to get placed back with their birth mom, I was empowered by the grandma’s
encouragement to the couple to fight for the kids.
“She
doesn’t hate you, she just thinks you don’t love her. You get reminded what a
sack of sh*t you are five times a day, after a while, you can’t believe anyone
could ever love you.” And as I watch the couple both fight and let go all at
the same time, I wonder if my “letting go” has been my excuse to give up
instead of an essential balance to the continual fight of love.
Did I let
go or give up? Because there’s a fine line. Did I let go because it’s a piece
of the puzzle or did I give up because I’m tired of being someone borrowed?
After five
years of raising the girls, the staff, and spirit in the home, more joyous yet
painful moments are coming. The ones of letting go. The ones of watching the
girls grow out of me being “mom” like they once adorned me with the most
honoring name. The moments of letting go to watch them test their own wings,
pave their own destinies, with or without me. And then there are those special
moments every full moon or so, the far off steps of the returning prodigals,
that make me realize it’s not over yet.
So, as I
land in Chicago, I wipe my tears, I embrace the brokenness, so I no longer have
to fake it. And after 2 weeks of resting in Love Himself, I know I’ll see
myself again as being more than someone borrowed. After all, to Him, I am
someone purchased, ransomed with a
price no one can replace. I am His
“instant family.” And that alone makes every breath, every tear, every smile,
every hug, every reprimand, every battle, every loss, every prayer… worth it.
All of it.
