Sunset at the End of the Road

It’s been one of those weeks. You know the kind: the weight of your emotions has glued you to the couch, long, sorrowful sighs cascade from your lips, and your stomach has permanently settled in your hips. Change is coming. I know it’s coming. My husband knows it’s coming. My foster children of 3 years do not.

What do you do in this situation? How do you prepare young children for goodbye? How do you handle it yourself?

A few nights ago, my foster daughter awoke in the middle of the night and started crying. I went into her room, knelt beside her bed, and asked her if she wanted a glass of water. She slowly shook her head and croaked in a small, hoarse voice directed towards the wall, “Me go bye mom-mom?” Then she turned to look at me and added, “No you?”

I didn’t have a second to hide my face from her before the tears burned at my eyes and flooded down my cheeks. “Yeah, baby,” I responded, “You’re going, and I’m staying here.”

“But even when you’re far away, I will always love you.”

Lately, I’ve been the hype person for my foster children. We talk about the transition with excitement. It’s going to be so much fun. They get to be with their family who loves them sooo much and misses them all the time. And those things are true, but when it’s just me at the end of the day, alone with my thoughts, taking long, heavy walks with the dog up and down our street, it’s a different story.

I will always worry that they won’t understand what’s happening. How confused will they be when they step into a new life, one we’ve disappeared from? That thought alone keeps me up at night.

I could tell you about how I came down with shingles two weeks ago from the stress I’ve been bottling up. I could tell you how I feel so desperate and aged beyond my years. I could tell you how it sometimes feels like I’m drowning in sorrow but then how numb I feel in the next moment as if I’ve convinced myself nothing matters.

All I’ll say is that grief is a process. I’ll be okay. But for right now, goodbye is hard. Change is hard. About a month ago, I was waiting in the van with the kids. I glanced into the rearview mirror to find my 6-year-old son crying. When asked what was wrong, he told me he didn’t want the kids to leave. He didn’t remember what it was like before them.

Sometimes I don’t feel entitled to grieve because we signed up for this, and it was always intended to be temporary. But then I think of Jesus’ reaction at the death of his friend Lazarus. He wept. Even though he would be reunited with Lazarus in eternity soon enough, the son of God was deeply moved and troubled. He grieved. And no matter how I “should” feel, God is intimately acquainted with the pain we’re in right now.

I don’t know the bigger plan for the kids, my biological children, or myself. It’s been a good three years though. And as if the God of the universe orchestrated this especially for me, we have had spectacular weather lately. Gorgeous sunsets, brilliant lightning, and large hail that I brought the kids out of their beds one night to enjoy with me. 2020 has been quite the year, but at least there’s a sunset at the end of the road.