Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

broken heart

Guest post: Bringing home strays (informal foster care)

Today, I’m honored to have a guest blogger. Carol Cool (yes, that’s her real name, and yes, she lives up to it) is a speaker, editor, writer, pastor’s wife and dear friend. Carol has been a mentor, encourager and supporter to me in countless ways. She and her husband, Les, serve in the same denomination my husband and I are part of. Find out more about Carol and how you can be a superstar where you are here. And if you’re looking for a retreat or event speaker, she’s your woman!

Today, Carol writes about her and Les’s journey with adoption and informal foster care. May is National Foster Care Month. Check out Carol’s blog for more stories, stats and tips that are helpful in ministering to and supporting people working in and with foster care.

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“You and Les should do foster care,” said the guy sitting next to me at my brother’s wedding. He was the head of a children’s home, so he had a vested interest. Les happened to hear the comment and knew it would break my heart if I ever had to let a foster child go. So his reply was, “I’d have to have a personal message from God before I would ever let Carol do foster care.”

There was no personal message from God.

And yet over the years, Les and I have had 10 kids live in our home for periods of time, as well as two young adults and a single mom. Some were with us for only a few weeks, some a few months, the mom and her kids for almost a year, Joy forever. Not one came through a placement agency, government or private.

Les always says, “Some people bring home stray animals; Carol brings home stray people.” But I’m not the only one bringing them home; he’s brought his share. They’ve come as we’ve kept our eyes and ears and hearts open to how people are hurting. They’ve come as we’ve recognized a need we could fill. The family came through a thought God pressed on Les’s heart (so I guess there was a message from God).

Did my heart ever get broken? Multiple times. Eighteen-year-old Lori “left” before she even came, calling me before boarding a bus to head back to the mentally ill mother who had kicked her out at age 13, the mother who would attempt suicide two days after Lori arrived home. As she explained her rationale and the eagerness to be loved by her mother invaded her voice, I sat on the floor of our bedroom, hugging myself and sobbing. I was pretty sure this would end badly for Lori. I believed I would never heal.

Les and Carol Cool with Debby (green) and Joy (red)

When 14-year-old Debby and her 13-year-old sister Joy came into our home, we had known them for several years through our church and got along well. We were going to adopt them. The four of us were going to be a family. Some complications required us to get permanent custody first. The day the permanent custody papers came for us to sign—20 months after they moved in with us—Debby walked out, never to return to us. I was at work. Les called to say she had left in a fight over a candy bar (Joy can still tell you what kind it was). I thought they were joking. We all grieved. We all believed we would never heal.

Two years ago, our adopted granddaughter Ashlee came to live with us. She wasn’t adjusting well at home and had become a threat to her brother and Joy. She seemed to do well for the seven months she was here. She wanted to go home. Three weeks back she imploded and things got so bad the adoption was terminated. Again we grieve. It feels like our hearts will never heal.

They do heal, but there are always scars, tender spots that, when poked by a memory, produce pain. And yet . . .

Our lives have been enriched by the presence of each person. There’s the chunk of coal still in our front yard (moved 4 times) from Lauren. There’s the “Bedtime for Bonzolinas” song I made up for Max and Katie that still runs through my head. There’s the word “crookalized” that’s still in our vocabulary thanks to Joy (and her presence in our lives and hearts always). There’s memories of the Chinese tea ceremony at Leslie’s wedding. There are the funny stories of Hannah and Gloria whose Korean father thought it was fine to have his 12- and 13-year-old girls drive on I-95 on the way to Washington, DC. There’s the “Welcome Home, Mor More” sign from Ashlee hanging on my bulletin board. There’s a friendship with Cyndi that’s lasted 30 years, in which she still calls us Mom and Dad.

Yes, I’d do it again. (Why do people ask that? Do they ask that of people who had difficult times with their birth children?) Yes, I’d do things a bit differently. Yes, I’d ask God to help me be more patient with all of them. Yes, I’d try harder to get Lori to stay, to convince Debby to come back, to keep Ashlee here in Pennsylvania (although I don’t believe any of them would have).

Eleanor Roosevelt said, “Do something every day that scares you.” We didn’t set out to do that, but when you open your heart and your home, it’s scary. Things can break. It’s worth the risk to love as God loves (however imperfectly we manage it).

Open your eyes. There may be someone who needs the warmth of your love and, possibly, your home. Step out and take the risk—even if you don’t receive a personal message from God.

The day music saved my life

I’ll never forget what happened that night.

Change was on the horizon. I’d seen hints of it, like the first wisps of color in the sunrise, but the full light of day was yet to break.

And oh, how I needed light.

From the outside, you might not have thought I lived in darkness. Even now, I don’t know how close I was to the edge of the abyss.

I was 19, a college sophomore, majoring in mass communication, settling in to life “on my own.” But I was also insecure, desperate and lonely. For months, I had been clinging to a relationship that I knew — in my head — was over but that I wouldn’t let my heart let go. What I believed about myself was wrapped up in this relationship, and if it unraveled, I had nothing to fall back on. He told me I was pretty. I believed him. He said he loved me. I believed that, too. Then he broke my heart, and instead of picking up the pieces and putting myself back together, I let him break it again. And again.

That night, I was walking and talking with friends, appearing to have a good time but sinking in self-pity.

Light was dawning, but gray skies clouded my view.

We were on our way to a concert. A Christian concert by a band I’d never heard of. (They were local, though even if they weren’t, it wouldn’t have mattered. I wasn’t familiar with any Christian bands back then.) That I was attending a Christian concert was not shocking. In college, I adopted a casual practice of religion — a few  Sundays in church, some Bible reading, nothing changed about my day-to-day life — partly out of curiosity, mostly out of peer pressure. (The aforementioned heartbreaker was a regular churchgoer. You could say I blessed to impress.)

No, what was surprising was the company I was keeping. A mix of new friends and old, with the heartbreaker nowhere in sight. I was being pulled toward something, but I didn’t know what. All I knew was, it was different. My best friend was among us that night. Something had changed in her life, but I didn’t understand it, and those whom I thought would, were afraid of it.

But back to the concert. It rocked, literally. My parents were teenagers in the ’70s, so rock ‘n’ roll was part of my upbringing. I loved it. And music, in general. Songs had a way of speaking what I couldn’t, of expressing the emotions I felt deep inside, connecting me to others who struggled when I thought I was alone.

Is it any wonder, then, that music saved my life?

The band had pressed the pause button on the hard rock set and gave the lead singer a chance to showcase a ballad. Or so I thought. Every good rock band has a ballad or two in their set, right? We sat. And we listened as this guy, probably not a lot older than us, poured his heart out about a time when he felt lonely and unloved and let down. He had my attention. Then he sang, and though I can’t remember the words of the song, I’ll never forget what I felt, what I couldn’t ignore. This sense that I needed to stop caring about what other people would think of me and start caring about what God thinks of me. “Live your life for Me.” Those words filled my mind and pounded in my heart. I was in tears. I wasn’t alone. Somebody wanted me.

Life as I knew it was over. And it was just beginning. Dawn had come, at last.

I could tell you I never made another bad decision or lost my temper or sank into a pit of despair and self-pity. But I’d be lying.

Over time — 14 years now — God has changed me in ways I wouldn’t have thought possible. And He’s still working on me. He didn’t change everything that night, but what He did change made all the difference.

He gave me a purpose. A reason to live. I didn’t know exactly what it was at the time, but I knew He wanted me for me.

Jason Gray

A few nights ago, my husband and I took our kids to a concert. Music speaks to him, too. Two little ones and no room in our budget for concerts has created a gap in our lives. This concert was a treat. And a privilege. And it reminded me of that night so long ago that some days still seems like yesterday.

I made a decision that night to get to know Christ better. To live for Him. To follow Him. I asked my best friend to help me because I knew I was weak and would make excuses. (She did. She is still the truest of friends.)

Watching college kids at this recent concert, making declarations with their praise, I wondered if they knew what would be required of them in the years to come. I was humbly reminded that I didn’t back then, and if I had, I might not have signed up for this journey.

Music continues to speak to me, refreshing my soul, showing me Truth in new ways. I’m grateful for musicians, songwriters and singers who share their talents so that others can know Christ more.

It was fitting, though I almost didn’t realize it, that we could attend a concert this weekend, the anniversary of the day my life changed forever. Fitting also that God’s timing is both perfect and sometimes comical. That concert that changed my life — it happened near the heartbreaker’s birthday, a period of time I can’t forget if I tried.

In that week, my heart was broken, and it was mended.

I’m grateful for both.