Today will not be the first time I cried over a foster child.  It wasn't the first time I've cried over this foster child.  I'm equally sure that it will not be the last.

Madi is our 15th foster child.  They've mostly all been babies, and mostly all short term/temp stays.  Madi came to us almost a year ago, a pudgy cross eyed 10 month old.  Today she is 21 months, with huge  Lilo and Stitch  brown eyes and little curlsat the ends of her hair. Her bangs brush her eyelashes and her cheeks are round and pink.  She is wearing REAL shoes, Striderite Shoes, shoes that make her such a big girl.  At 10 months, she cried a lot and was clingy.  It's not too different at 21 months, except now she can smile and flirt, give kisses and hugs and high fives.  Now she runs and laughs and dances and says, "wahb yoo!"

Today I cried over Madi.  I drove down the street and saw such poverty that I nearly forgot I was in a big city, less than 10 miles from my own home.  On this street I saw some boys as young as 6 riding bikes, no helmets, no shirts, in the middle of the road.  No grown ups.  On this street I saw an older toddler, in nothing but a diaper, playing with a broom on a front porch while his momma smoked a cigarette and talked on the phone at the bottom of the steps.  On this street I saw a group of men, young, hugely muscled, freakishly tatooed, scary angry men - in the middle of the day - right there on the street - in their nylon webbed CVS chairs and their music, smoke floating in the summer sun around them.  Every house was multi-family, surrounded by concrete, cars, weeds, trash.  On this street is where I am supposed to leave my Madi.  And I do.

When I return, early, I see her there on the sidewalk.  She is facing her father and eating something he is handing her.  I wonder if it is something peanutty, something full of dairy, something made of petroleum based chemicals and sold cheaply, something she shouldn't be eating.  She is in the direct sunlight and I see the sun gleaming off her golden brown curls and the way her new shoes are so white against the gray pavement.  It is only later that I will notice the slight redness of her arms and feel the clammy chill of fever and know that she did not have any sunscreen on.  It is only now that I wonder if her father even knows that babies SHOULD wear sunscreen.  Even brown babies.

In my car she is full of talk.  Most of her talk is, "ma-mah?" and my reply of "yes baby, I'm right here!" repeatedly.  It is said cheerfully though.  Her cheer changes as soon as we park and walk into the big building. She must know this place from all the times before.  The DSS building.  We ride the elevator to the 2nd floor and when I step out, it is directly into a "waiting room" where the receptionists are encased in bullet proof glass with little speaker systems.  The long hallway before me holds closed doors, individuals parked on benches and plastic chairs waiting for their turns, and the sounds of crying.  A few people are with children. No one is smiling.  No one.

I am ushered into a small room with a rocking chair and some bright clean toys.  Madi experiments cautiously with a little push toy, glancing at me often to judge my reaction.  Within seconds though, we are ushered out, it's the wrong room, not our room.  Our room is the one at the end, the big room, the room with tables, chairs, and no toys. The room with grit on the sills, obvious dirt on the floors, and no toys at all.  I ask for toys.  I am nodded at but ultimately told, "no, this room doesn't have toys".  And this is where I sit for an hour with Madi.  A window-less big room, concrete block walls and cold tile floor, flickering flourescent lights, and whatever objects from my purse that are safe to play with. 

We sit for an hour, Madi's mother hovering over us and Madi screeching indignantly whenever her mother even looks in our direction.  Madi hasn't seen her in 3 or 4 weeks - I don't know, I lost track. I only know that Madi begs plaintively for juice but shrieks when her mother tries to give her some juice she brought in a Dora cup.  Madi continues to beg for juice, and for bye-bye, and for outside.  She cries and cries.  She is silenced by the removal of her shoes and the admiration of her pretty painted toes.  She cries more though and is placated with her mothers cell phone.  When I tell Madi to give it back, she reaches out with no complaint.  Now THAT is a sure sign that she is upset.  My girl loves her some cell phone.  She cries again. I feel her fever coming and notice the red tint to her arms, her little pudgy arms peeking out of the spaghetti strapped polka dotted blouse I just bought her the other day.  She stays in my arms or on my lap, frantic at every opportunity to encourage her to get down, to look at her mother, to dance or sing.  After little more than a half hour or crying interludes, I suggest that we get the social worker back since Madi is not feeling well.  Madi waves her hand wildly and shouts,"Byebye, byebye, ahh done!" and then falls back into crying when she realizes we aren't leaving.  It is another 20 minutes before we are released.  Madi is nearly asleep in my arms.  At the car, she practically leaps into her carseat... so ready to leave.

And so when Madi slept, I cried.

I cried for her future.  For what it could be, what it won't be.  I cried for her sense of loss and mistrust, her anxiety and her allergies and asthma.  I cried for her pretty pink toenails and the image of her in nothing but a diaper playing with a broom.  I cried for missing her, even though she isn't gone yet.

God? I know you love Madi. I know you have a reason for her, for her life, and for her presence in mine.  God, please, help me to trust you.  Help me to give Madi up to you, for you, and to be able to know she is in your grace.  God? I know that you must love Madi's mother and father too.  But I don't.  Help me to be forgiven for not loving them... but how could I ever?  God? please...please...please...pick Katie and Brian, pick the Greene's, pick ME, but please don't let Madi go back to the place she came from.  I know you love her. I know it. I know you love me.  And I know I can't save every child that needs saving...but I can save this one.  Just this one.  Help me to trust you.

Amen.