The first time I met her, she didn’t say a word. She’d had some involved dental work that afternoon, so her face was swollen. She covered the right side of her face with tissue and leaned into the sofa and avoided eye contact. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so painfully awkward. I made small talk with her foster mom instead—home décor, the August heat, and the back to school rush. The longer I sat there, the more uncomfortable I felt. The knowledge that I didn’t “have” to do any of it kept creeping into my thoughts, as I asked her questions that were met with only the slightest of head nods. I left without knowing the sound of her voice but with a plan to try again next week. Ugh. All the way home, I tried to figure out how I could get out of it. In all of my escape plans, I came out a liar, so I reluctantly stuck to our rain check for dinner the following week.
Once the swelling went down, we clicked instantly. She met me at the front door with a big grin and climbed into my car. I joked about hoping we didn’t die as I tried to maneuver my way from their driveway onto the busy street. There’s something about hypothetical near death experiences; they really bond people. And much to my surprise, she started to talk. I knew parts of her story from her social worker, none of it good, none of which I’ll share here. As we drove to the restaurant, she started telling me about her life. Some of it was typical teenaged stuff, but much of it was just….There just aren’t any words.
Sixteen-year-olds should be worried about getting a part-time job, totally “ridiculous” rules, and whether or not that cute so-and-so is interested. This was my sixteen-year-old life. For the most part, this was the life of my sixteen-year-old friends. Of course, at the time, I thought life was uncertain. I thought life was unfair. I thought I had it bad. I took for granted things like parents and safety, a permanent place to call home, and the knowing that I was loved. I was valued. I was significant. I mattered.
I didn’t know what to say to this tough looking girl sitting next to me. In the past, when working as a mentor, I always tried to being encouraging and tried to offer perspective. I didn’t have any perspective for her. All I had were tears, and when I finally found my voice I said, “You’ve had a really hard life, and it’s not fair.” Those words seemed to cement our relationship, and I realized that part of my role was to help her realize that she didn’t deserve the life she had been born into. There was so much that happened that was beyond her control, but when bad after bad happens, it’s hard not to look inward and wonder what you’ve done to “deserve” it. She told me that she never lets people in, and I felt so blessed and honored that this didn’t seem to apply to me.
Over the last six months, all of our conversations have been filled with tough love, tears, and laughter. So much laughter. This was a gift that I was not expecting, as we share the same sense of humor and often found ourselves giggling. Sometimes, maybe a little loudly based on the stares of others in restaurants, but I didn’t care. We needed to laugh, and they could just get over it. (Maybe her tough attitude did rub off on me some.)
In our conversations, I didn’t always tell her what she wanted to hear, but through the power of the holy spirit, so often found myself knowing was she needed to hear. It’s such a crazy feeling to pray, open your mouth, and have the supernatural wisdom flow forth. Other times though, I felt so helpless when all I had to offer was words. All I could do was listen as one thing after another rose up around her. Taking her out for a few hours gave her some respite from her reality. I thanked God for every opportunity and looked forward to next time.
What I didn’t realize was how suddenly it would all end. I received a call, and now she is being sent to another home three hours away. Just like that. Pack your bags, if you ever even unpacked them, and let’s go. I’ve had a glimpse of the uncertainty of her every day. I just can’t believe she’s gone. I want this new place to be the one for her—that “forever home” she so desperately seeks. Selfishly, I want her here because she has become part of my heart. I keep crying over the things we’ll never get to do together. The moments we won’t share. And yes, while I’ve reassured her that three hours won’t stop me from being a part of her life, it’s just not the same. I can’t pick her up on a whim or when life’s “just too hard” to deal. It’s just not fair. I’m angry. I’m frustrated. And like so much over the last six months, I feel helpless. Just a tiny glimpse into her reality and the life of so many kids.
Please pray.