Joy

I remember the day like no other. They came and took her from us and left us standing in uncertainty, confusion and heartbreak. "They'll be back before Christmas." I told mom. We cried ourselves to sleep, remembering the beginning of our nightmare. It all started March 2008. The grandmother called asking my sister and I to babysit her 15 month and 6 week old granddaughters. We were captivated that night, though we didn't know it. The chubby 15 month old with the deep voice and curly dark hair and chocolate brown eyes. She stole our hearts and ran with it, though we didn't feel it. Babysitting began to turn into daycare. My sister and I were not paid, we did it simply because we loved the children. We soon learned that the parents of the children were in rehab. The 15 month old came to live with us, though we didn't realize it. The 6 week old went into foster care. The two older children lived with another family and occasionally spent the night or week with us. The months passed and we lived and loved these children.

Summer came, the baby was out of foster care and placed with the grandmother. I will never forget the night mom unloaded the car and brought in baby dresses and a little pink swing. "You do see what's happening, right?" I knew it, the grandmother was a manipulative woman. "No, no. She wanted you to see all the cute stuff she bought!" Somehow the stuff never left our home and the baby came into it. I loved her. She filled me. I rocked her to sleep every night to the song Motions by Matthew West. I clutched her to my chest and she listened to my heartbeat. I knew her schedule well. She woke up around 5 for a bottle and then fell back asleep in my arms. I woke up to the sound of her baby talk or crying every morning. I remember the morning I woke to find her sitting up in her crib. I was so proud. I remember the days as she learned she had a voice, she would start quiet and her voice would lift higher and higher into her high pitched scream. Her giggles. Her dimples. Her first tooth. Her first taste of solid foods. Her being cheered on as she sat up, and we timed how long until she would topple over. The day she was ill and I held her all day, brought her outside and let the breeze wash over both of us. That night I became ill too, but I wouldn't change that day of holding her sick, feverish body. I remember carrying her through Costco, my arm aching and sweaty, but I wouldn't put her down. She was mine for that short stay with us. For two months, I loved her. She was mine and I was hers.

Then it happened. The 15 month old (now 21 month old), was taken from us. It was supposed to be a visit, we didn't get to say goodbye to the reason we had become involved in this mess. I held tightly to the baby, hoping they would allow us to raise her, hoping but not believing it would happen. We had just driven home, mom and I, from a night out. The knock on the door and the dog growling told us it wasn't a neighbor stopping by. The police walked into our home, hunched over and looking into the bedrooms as though we were criminals. We knew. Our hearts pounded. We gathered her toys, clothes, and car seat. She woke up and stared at us. I didn't have the nerve to say goodbye. I watched as her birthmom waltzed into our home, bent over and buckled her into her seat talking to her. I hid my heartache. She was gone. Mom came into my room that night, "You ok?" I nodded. But I wasn't. I cried myself to sleep that night. The emptiness filled me. I grieved. I remember the wondering and longing. Were they ok? Would I ever see them again? Would they grow up never even knowing what we did for them? How much we loved them? Would I ever hold my baby again? I felt as though I was being slowly suffocated, but soon the feeling left. God filled my emptiness. Maybe the birth mom would make it, maybe she would be ok. We prayed. Christmas. Three months away.

Those three months were long, dreary, and hopeful. The girls older brother visited, he only brought heartache, wishing for the girls to be here for a visit too. We loved on him and then watched him go again. It was early December when we got the phone call. Everything was blowing up in their faces. The children were being neglected, malnourished, left home alone, and living with a felon. They were very ill. We prayed. We began to research, check in with the CPS worker who knew the situation and had been following the family for years. We contacted DSHS over where they lived, making sure they weren't picked up yet (if they had been they would have been split up). That week was the longest ever. Sitting in the courthouse, hoping fictive kin custody was possible, as the CPS worker suggested. It was. Extended family didn't want the children. So we fought for it.

I remember laying in bed, huddled underneath blankets, the next day would bring the answer. 'Joy to the World' by Nicholas Jonas came on the radio. For some reason it had always been my favorite Christmas song, but now it brought new meaning. Tears fell and I pleaded to God. Bring them home, bring them safe. The next day I sang Mighty to Save all day long. My mom was soon on her way to pick the children up with a court order. It was one o'clock in the morning when they pulled in. The baby was brought in first. She stared at me with scared eyes and I began to unbuckle her from her car seat. I held her tight. She was different. She was dirty. She was sick. When she had left with her birth mom she was close to crawling, she was standing up holding on to the couch or chair. Now, she was developmentally delayed. Her legs were spread wide apart, she dragged herself across the floor with no use of her legs. She was unhealthy. The now 2 year old was brought in, she was ill, with a staph infection covering her entire body, frightened and dirty. We embraced her. The brother came in, wheezing, his hair long and dirty. He hadn't had a asthma treatment since he had left. All my siblings woke up, and we stayed up until four and then went to bed. I got three hours of sleep that night, but it didn't matter to me. I snuggled the baby, reintroduced myself to her.

The days leading up to Christmas consisted of haircuts, asthma treatments, doctor appointments, training the baby to use her knees to crawl and how to eat baby food, and tons of loving. I held the baby most of the time. Christmas arrived and we were a family again. We are a family today. Three years later we are preparing for the adoption of our babies. Anna the baby has grown into the funniest, smartest and most imaginative almost 4 year old I know. Dilly is healthy, beautiful and the reason we are a family today. Isaiah is handsome, funny and charming. Our journey with these three has been the most difficult and yet the most rewarding. I have been unable to forgive the birth family for the neglect they put the children through, and the manipulation they hold over my family. I tell myself that forgiveness must take place, Jesus told us to forgive. But I can't. So I ask God to forgive my unforgiveness. The babies have brought so much joy, so much laughter and so much life to our family. They filled us. I can't imagine my life without their silliness. I can't imagine. And every time Nicholas Jonas' song comes on, I remember, I cry, and I am filled with hope. HE still hears those small little prayers cried out from what seems like the darkest corner of the universe. Not only does HE hear, HE answers.

Thank you, Jesus. You set the lonely, neglected and fearful children in families.

Captivated.


Loved.


Adored.


Dilly Doll.


Silly Goose.


Brother.