He Went Home Yesterday

I put my two boys to bed last night, but the third bed was empty. His side of the closet and dresser drawer - empty. My alarm didn’t go off this morning to get him on the bus, and I won’t hear the honk from the bus driver when I’m late to pick him up. There are no visits to schedule this week or court dates to remember. He’s home. Reunified. Back with his mom, dad, and brother.

Tonight, he will sleep in his new bed, at his parents’ house. They’ll fill a new closet with his clothes. They will wake him up, get him dressed, and hug him goodbye as he hops on the bus. He’s home, right where he wants to be, and for him, I am so happy.

But for us, I am sad. For the last 18 months, I’ve had three sons. Today, after the most exhausting year and a half of my life, I have two. We go into foster care with the goal of reunification, but it never makes it any easier or less abnormal to say goodbye. He walked into our home, lived and grew as a part of our family, and then left. Just like that.

We pray that he doesn’t come back. It’s a weird thing to pray for - that you never have to see that child living in your home again - but that’s the beauty and brokenness of foster care. We want his parents to succeed in caring for their kids so that the foster system never has to intervene again. We may not agree with the decisions made or even the timeline of his return home, but we have done our part. We've loved him, advocated for him, prayed for him, and built a solid foundation that we hope holds him strong for the rest of his life.

For 18 months, we were the ones who calmed his fears after nightly meltdowns. For 18 months, we were the ones who fed him three meals a day and watched his love for food blossom. For 18 months, we navigated therapy, doctors, dentists, weekly visits, school, court hearings, team meetings, and every other little detail of his life. For 18 months, we felt a small piece of the weight he was feeling, and we could barely handle it. How did he?

For the past 18 months, he’s been one of our own. Our eldest child. Another boy in our crazy crew. He’s come to church with us, celebrated holidays and birthdays with us, and vacationed with us. We’ve celebrated so many of his “firsts” with him - memories we will hold on to forever. Our extended families have taken him in as a grandson, nephew, and cousin. He’s been one of the gang in every sense…for 18 months.

I still don’t fully know how I’m supposed to feel about his return home. In one sense, I’m relieved. His daily emotions and needs have been difficult to work through. We are so so tired and mentally burned out, so I’m thankful for a return to “normalcy.” But, at the same time, he has been our “normal.” Our boys’ bedroom is decorated in outer space - for him. The passenger side captain seat in our car - it’s his. The bike sitting in my garage - he rode it. The pile of pictures hanging on our fridge - he drew them. We certainly won’t soon forget our life with him.

I pray that one day, he will look back on his 18 months with us and see stability, trust, and love - in both words and deeds. We weren’t perfect foster parents, by any means, but we did our very best to share our love with him and give him endless support to overcome the trauma he felt.

As this chapter of our foster care journey closes, we hope to still be a part of his life and support his family and their needs. They will be more successful if they have a support system, and we plan to be that for them. We will also take time to heal as a family, build new memories with our two boys, refresh our hearts and minds, and start praying for the next child that we will have the privilege of welcoming into our home.

This is foster care. Broken. Chaotic. So, so emotional. But beautiful. Memorable. Life-changing.