Rich in Love: When God Rescues Messy People (14 page)

chapter 14

Raymond and Samantha

wisdom

By March 2005, although George was cancer-free, we still needed to take him back and forth to the oncologist. Kurt was progressing, although still having difficult visits with his parents. One afternoon, the social services agency called. “We have two kids—a boy and a girl—who have been in a temporary shelter for a month. Both parents are in jail, and we can’t find a placement. Would you consider taking them?”

Even though Domingo wasn’t home, I knew what his answer would be. “Yes, of course we will.”

They told me the boy, Raymond, was sixteen months and the girl, Samantha, was about to turn three. Would I be able to pick them up?

I was able to reach Domingo, and he was just as excited as I was. We wanted to fill our home to the brim with children.

As I drove our van to the county pickup office, I was excited. I guess I always got excited knowing God was answering our prayers to make a difference in the lives of kids. So when the opportunities came, we were ready and eager.

I parked the van and went inside, especially excited to meet the little girl. The social worker approached me, holding this little girl with a pixie haircut and bright green eyes that grabbed me. As I reached out to receive this precious gift, my heart leaped with joy and my eyes filled with tears. I couldn’t believe it. She was such an itty-bitty thing who so easily came into my arms, an innocent child trusting and embracing me, someone she didn’t know. Conflicting emotions flooded through me: anger, fear, love, joy, and hatred of those who would harm her. At that moment I knew my purpose in life: to help the defenseless.

Then another social worker came through a door, holding the boy. The moment I saw him I thought,
He is the ugliest baby I have ever seen.
He looked at me almost like he was dazed, his tongue hanging out of his mouth like a thirsty little puppy dog. He didn’t cry, but his eyes were watering as I buckled him into the child’s seat in the back. The girl also didn’t cry when we put her in her seat. She just looked at me with those beautiful green eyes. She was so tiny—almost frail looking—but she had the most beautiful smile.

As I drove home, I kept looking at Raymond through the rearview mirror, baffled at his hanging tongue. I’d never seen a baby do that before, and nobody had told me why it was protruding like that. I thought about how most babies have a sweet look, but this one just looked mean and
mad
. He didn’t seem to be the least bit afraid. But there was something in his eyes that caused a stirring in my stomach. He looked so stinking tough. I started praying for these little children, asking God for wisdom. I knew they had been through a lot; I just didn’t know yet what that was. At the very least it had been a month since they had seen their mom.

When we got home, the first thing I did was give them each a quick bath. The little guy didn’t cry. He stiffened his whole body as though he was saying,
Go ahead and try.
On the other hand, the little girl was all smiles and hugs, as though she had known me her whole life. When it was time to put on Raymond’s diaper, I grabbed his ankles to lift him. And then I saw them. Boils. Lots of open, festering boils. His bottom was raw, almost like one open wound. I got really upset and called the county immediately. “Why does this boy have these boils?” I demanded.

“The boils are actually getting better,” the worker told me. I thought,
No way are they getting better. Somebody wasn’t on top of this.

When Domingo came home, I was sitting outside on the grass and Esther was sitting on the steps, holding Samantha.

“Is this our new little guy?” he asked, taking Samantha from Esther’s arms.

“No, Mingo. This is our girl, Samantha.”

“Hello, Samantha,” he said. “I’m Papi.” She grinned at him—again, as if she’d known him her whole life.

“Mingo, you’ve got to see this,” I said. I took him into the bedroom, where Raymond was waking up from his nap. I put Raymond on our bed to change his diaper and showed Domingo.

He was so upset. “Who would allow this to happen to a baby?”

We took him to a doctor right away and found out he had a staph infection. We got the prescribed ointment. It took nearly a year for his poor little bottom to heal. We believe that was one of the reasons why he didn’t want to be held or touched—it hurt.

A few days after Raymond and Samantha came to stay with us, we were informed that their mom had gotten out of jail and was scheduled to have a visit with them. The moment we arrived for visitation, it was clear Samantha
loved
her mom. She took off running to her at full speed, screaming and yelling with excitement, and threw herself into her mother’s arms for hugs and kisses and all sorts of sweetness between the two of them. The children’s grandmother stood to one side and took emotionless Raymond from me. Mom didn’t pay the least bit of attention to Raymond, aside from giving him some candy and a liter of soda that she had brought for both of them.

This became the pattern for every visit. When the visits ended, both kids were wound up from a sugar high. I was not a happy camper, but Samantha loved those visits and the attention she received from her mom. She was so clingy and wanted all the attention for herself. That didn’t seem to bother Raymond in the least. He didn’t want anything to do with his mother.

When the visits ended, Samantha became completely distraught, screaming, and crying, “Don’t go! I don’t want my mommy to go!”

It was horrible. Can you imagine what was going on in her little mind? I was tearing her from her mommy, saying gently but firmly, “Come on, Samantha. It’s time to go.” I’m sure that little girl saw me as the enemy since I continually took her away from her mother. I didn’t even know how to console her. My heart was pleading,
Please, God, no more visits.
But my mind was reminding me,
This is her mother!

At home, Samantha frequently asked about her mom, her grandma, and her grandmother’s horse. She demanded a lot of attention, wanting to be loved and hugged constantly and wanting me all to herself. Although she had a sweet, teachable spirit, she was also disobedient, sometimes throwing tantrums, screaming and crying. That didn’t bother me much. I knew it was normal—especially with foster kids.

On the other hand, Raymond didn’t want anything from us. After his first week he started to show some personality. Only it wasn’t warm and fuzzy. He just wanted all of us to get out of his way so he could be left alone to do his own thing. And when he got mad, he threw horrible fits and tantrums where he’d fling himself backward. You could hear the crack as the back of his head smacked the hard tile. He kicked and screamed and bit. His little body was so thick and muscular, it looked like he was strutting about when he walked. If you have ever seen the Foghorn Leghorn cartoon, he was like the tough little Chicken Hawk who bossed around the big rooster. The only difference was Raymond didn’t talk. In fact, he didn’t talk for another year. And if I wrote his first words, this book would have to be X-rated. Since they were words we never speak, I knew he had picked them up from his past.

When he was upset, it was impossible to console him. I wanted to love on him, but he wouldn’t allow it. Eventually I was at my wit’s end. I fell to my knees in the closet. “God, I need wisdom for this boy. I don’t know what to do. How can I help him?”

I walked into the kitchen with the sense of prayer surrounding me. A bag of chocolate caramels sat on the kitchen counter. And it came to me. These two kids obviously
loved
sugar, since their diet with their mom seemed to be full of it. So I tucked a caramel in my pocket, found Raymond, and took him to the rocking chair. He screamed bloody murder and stiffened. He fought me and fought me. I calmly unwrapped the caramel and stuck it in his mouth. Within moments, I could feel his little body start to soften, then he totally surrendered and relaxed in my arms. I was so jazzed that I rocked him until he fell asleep.

Oh, how I was praising God!
God, I’m so silly. Here I was knocking myself out, trying to figure out what to do with this baby boy, and all I needed to do was to ask you.
You
gave me the wisdom, God! It was you!

I felt like I heard God say, “Irene, all you needed to do was ask.”

Boy, was that ever a lesson for me. It’s not complicated like I try to make it. It’s simple. Every time I’m stumped, I need to get on my knees. These are God’s children, and he knows what to do.

I continued to work with Raymond. I’d get the candy and say, “Come on, Raymond.” I’d take him to the chair, and he’d fight me and fight me while I tried to hold him. Then I’d give him the caramel, and he’d start to relax. After a while, when we got into the rocker, he’d start relaxing automatically, waiting for the candy. Pretty soon I didn’t even need the candy. I could pick him up, hold him, and rock him. I felt like we were finally connecting. And from that point on, he started to blossom.

Memorial Day weekend, 2005

For about two and a half months we’d been taking Raymond and Samantha three times a week to visit their mom and taking Kurt twice a week to visit his parents. Raymond and Samantha’s mom had become erratic in her visits. We didn’t know if she’d even show up, but when she did, she’d likely be high and well equipped with candies, cookies, and liters of soda pop. Her mother came with her; you could tell the grandmother loved her granddaughter very much. But neither Grandma nor Mom ever went for Raymond; they only went for Samantha, paying no attention to Raymond. Raymond acted as though he didn’t even know his mom.

I went to God on my knees and pleaded with him to stop the visits, but they continued. I called the social worker and told her that I suspected the mom was high on meth during the visits. Could they please have her tested?

I don’t know why the social worker didn’t do anything about it for so long. She was new, so I don’t know if she didn’t believe me or was too busy—social workers’ caseloads are so big. It took weeks before she came to observe visitation. When she saw the situation, I was sure she was going to tell me that the visits would change. Instead, she told me she had authorized the kids to go on an unsupervised three-day weekend over Memorial Day with the mom and her new boyfriend—who had a current police record. It took every ounce of self-control not to throw my own tantrum.

The social worker finally relented and ordered the mom to have a drug test on the Tuesday before the planned visit. My social worker called on Thursday to tell me I was right. Mom had tested positive. I was relieved, figuring they’d cancel the visit. But since the other social worker was on vacation and she had authorized the visit, there was no canceling it. I was dying inside, praying and pleading with God.
Lord, something bad is going to happen to these kids during this visit. I know it. Please protect them.

When the mom picked up the kids on Friday, I was sick inside. I had to hand over two little babies to a mom high on meth and her boyfriend. All I could do was pray for their protection. And I did. I was uncomfortable the entire three days, feeling like something was going to happen. I cried and pleaded with God to let me keep these babies and protect them.

When I went to pick up the kids on Sunday, my heart was anxious, eager to see those babies. I was taken aback by my strong emotions—I had fallen madly in love with them!

As I pulled into the county agency parking lot, I knew right away something was wrong. Grandma was with the kids, not Mom. The court had ordered the mom to be with the kids at all times. Rage began to build inside of me. I marched up to the grandmother’s car with quite the attitude. I opened the door to let the kids out and said, “Where’s their mother? She’s supposed to give me the kids, not you.” I think it was a matter of seconds before I had the kids out of her car and into mine. I was furious.

I got in the car and started to drive away. Before I could get out of the parking lot, conviction swept over me. I had been rude and mean. “What did I just do?” I groaned softly. “Oh, Lord, please forgive me.”

Completely ashamed, I turned the car around and parked close to the grandmother’s. Her head was down, forehead against the steering wheel. She was obviously crying.

“Give me wisdom and the words to say to this woman, Lord.”

I tapped lightly on her window. She unrolled it, then looked at her hands gripping the wheel, not at me. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“My daughter is going to lose these kids, and I love them so much. I don’t want her to lose them. I don’t want to lose my grandkids.”

What could I say? I couldn’t tell her that things would be okay. “You know,” I said, my hatred and anger beginning to fade, “I can’t tell you what’s going to happen, but what I can tell you is that as long as the kids stay with us, they will be loved.”

She took a deep breath and looked at me with big, sad eyes and said softly, “I know.”

“I’m sorry for the way I acted. That wasn’t right or fair.”

She looked away and nodded.

I said, “I don’t know if you know that you can turn to Jesus and give him your burdens.” She didn’t respond, so I turned and walked away, thinking that not only did I no longer feel hatred for this woman, but I felt compassion for her. And I couldn’t help thinking how, blindsided by my anger, I had judged this poor woman. She was probably the only one really watching out for these kids. Instead of being rude to her, I should have said, “Thank you.”

I never saw her again.

Samantha’s revelation

When we got home, I could tell something was up with Samantha. She wasn’t acting herself—she was too quiet. After visits with their parents, kids have a really hard time readjusting to the routine in our home, so I wasn’t completely surprised by her behavior. Yet something was still a bit unsettling. When we went for the first supervised visit a few days later, little Samantha, who had adored her mom, was very distant from her.

A few days after that, Samantha, who had turned three in April, began to talk again. Only now she was talking about sexual things. She had never talked like this before her weekend visitation, so I called the social worker and told her the things Samantha was saying. That call led to an investigation. To say I was angry with the sickening results of that investigation is putting it mildly. I started fighting to stop the visits.