The Holy Ground of Grief (part I) A foster mother’s threshold

I can’t bear the thought of him leaving.
Yet I’ve had to bear the thought a thousand times already.

The anticipation of goodbye has haunted me in the night.
It’s sat heavy in the pit of my stomach as I reach over to feel his small hand and listen for his quiet breath.

The unbearable thought has welled up through joy-and-sadness tears in moments of sweetness and connection.

In the giggles when we played chase in our circle of rooms—living room to kitchen to dining room and around again.

In the joy on his face when I walk through the door, and he runs to me with open arms, shouting “Mommy!”

I always knew the day would come when he would leave us—his home, his family, his people. And me.

And now it’s almost here.

In four days, I will load his belongings into the car and buckle him in for the last time.

I might try to hold back my tears.
I probably won’t.

I will say “I love you” as many times as I can.

I will hold his face in my hands and kiss his soft two-year-old cheeks.

How can he understand this change is coming?
And how will his heart feel when this change becomes forever?

He is too young to understand this was the plan from the beginning—to return to his birth parents.

And I am holding the weight of that in the balance of my heart:

The ache and devastation.
The happiness for them.
The gratitude for the way God has loved all of us through these last two years.

I have a lot more to say about this.
I know I have a lot more tears to come.

I have tarried through sorrow before.

And here I am again, wading into the waters of loss—

the holy ground of grief.

This is where I find myself today.
On the threshold.
Holding love in one hand and loss in the other.

If you are here too—in foster care, in motherhood, in grief, in faith, in questioning—you are not alone.

I’ll be writing from this place.
From the holy ground of grief.