Rich in Love: When God Rescues Messy People (19 page)

“I’m still waiting for the social worker to tell me. I learn bits and pieces here and there, but nothing substantial.” I felt that sense of fear in my gut, knowing I was about to learn about Ruth’s past. I knew it was going to break my heart—but I needed to know. “I was told she’s supposed to be on medication, but I don’t know what for.”

“Ruth has been diagnosed with schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, ADHD, obsessive-compulsive disorder …”

My brain sort of stopped at the word
schizophrenia
and got stuck there.

“Ruth started a fire in her apartment and was abused by her birth father. The medications are to calm her down so her mother can control her.” The psychiatrist looked down at Ruth quietly playing next to me. “No one has been able to make her sit and not be destructive. How are you able to get her to be so calm?”

This was so much disturbing information to take in at once. When I finally came back to my senses, I didn’t answer her question but asked one of my own: “Why wasn’t I told about all this behavior before?”

The doctor took a deep breath. “Probably because no one would take her. She’s already been in a foster home for almost two years.”

The words of the county worker came back to me—“She is a normal, good little girl.”

Now I understood. The county worker had snaked us. She’d called us directly because she knew our agency would’ve screened Ruth and warned us about her. Pretty smart thinking on the social worker’s part. She knew we cared about Mac, so she laid on the guilt trip. Well, hats off to her—we fell for it.

The psychiatrist told me I would need to give Ruth meds right away to control her.

“What would happen if I didn’t give her the meds?”

The psychiatrist watched Ruth play and said it was remarkable she listened to me.

I wanted to tell her it was God who helped us with her, but I knew she wouldn’t understand. “Could her behavior be because of her mother and what she was exposed to?”

“It’s possible,” she said.

“Do you think her mother could have made up her behavior or exaggerated it so she didn’t have to deal with her?”

“Possibly,” she said again.

“Can we try not giving her any meds right now? She’s been without for so long, maybe she doesn’t need them. If she gets out of control we can put her right back on them.”

The doctor thought a moment, then nodded. “Yes. I think that’s a good plan.”

I felt God put me in favor with her since other doctors weren’t always so willing to try something different.

Before we put our kids on meds, we always want to try other things first. For example, one thing we teach our kids is self-control. It’s a difficult thing to teach, but our commitment is to do what’s best for them, not what’s easiest for us. In the long run, self-control helps them in every area of their lives.

When I left the doctor, I asked Ruth why she’d started a fire. Her answer broke my heart. “I was trying to cook because we were hungry!” Just four years old, hungry, and responsible to feed herself and her little brother. It made me wonder how much of what Ruth had done on her lengthy rap sheet was really her fault. Was it because of her circumstances?

But Ruth’s behavior went from bad to worse. Not only was she acting out inappropriately, she was trying to engage the other kids in her behavior. She refused to listen.

I finally called the social worker and told her she couldn’t live with us any longer. This was the first child we had ever given a seven-day notice on. I felt horrible, but after much prayer we felt it was best for all the kids.

“Please don’t send her back,” the worker said. “She’s done so well in your home. Better than she’s done anywhere else.”

“That’s nice, but we can’t keep her. She’s too disruptive and harmful for the kids who are now settling in.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you keep her? I don’t want to see her go to a group home.”

“All right.” I sighed. “We’ll give it one more month.”

A few days later I saw her try to kiss a child inappropriately. I got angry, and in a loud voice I said, “Ruth! What are you doing?” Everyone in the room jumped—especially Ruth! I pulled her into the other room. “Pack your clothes. You’re leaving.”

“Why?”

“What were you thinking? You don’t do that—it’s inappropriate.”

“But, Mom, I was just trying to show her love!”

Oh my goodness! I was hit with a bat once again! Ruth was only trying to show love the way she had been loved!

I needed to sit and regain my thoughts. I was so stunned by what she’d said. After a few moments I sat her down and spoke to her gently. “Ruth, only married couples kiss each other like that.” I then spent a lot of time explaining in detail what is acceptable and what is not. She needed a clear picture of boundaries and what acceptable behavior was for a young girl. I couldn’t expect her to live out what she didn’t know.

You can see why so many of these young girls who are abused mistake sex for love. But the beauty of this story is our God can heal this mess. We agreed to let Ruth stay with us and take one day at a time.

chapter 19

learning forgiveness

June 2007

Each foster child has a county worker, an agency worker, an adoptions worker (if the child is in the foster-adopt program), and an attorney. Each of these workers came to visit each individual child once a month or more. There were scheduled visits with parents two to three times a week. Sometimes we took the kids to visit with their parents, and sometimes the social workers picked them up. Can you imagine? With five to nine kids in the foster system at one time, it was like we had a revolving door in our home—people in and out all day. We didn’t worry about it too much. We had systems for keeping track of who needed to be where and when. It wasn’t foolproof, but it worked reasonably well. It kept chaos at bay—as much as is possible in a home like ours.

Tony’s worker showed up again, unannounced, only this time I wasn’t home. Earlier that day Mac’s worker had taken him on a visit with his mother. When he came back, he had a bump on his head. This big guy was still learning to walk and wasn’t steady on his feet. He always seemed to be falling on his head, probably because it was a bit out of proportion with the rest of his body.

Tony’s worker looked at Mac and said, “What happened to him?”

Domingo, who is always straightforward, said, “He went on a visit and came back with a bump on his head.”

“Did you fill out an accident report?”

He looked at her curiously. “No.”

The worker seemed to get agitated and upset.

“It wasn’t on my watch,” Domingo said.

The rules require any accidents to be reported by the adult who was in charge of the child at the time. Since neither of us was with Mac when he got the bump, there was no way we could fill out a report anyway. That was the responsibility of the social worker who had taken him to and from his visit.

However, this worker apparently wasn’t satisfied with Domingo’s answer, because everything went downhill after that visit.

Later that day, we were having a meeting with two adoptions workers and were expecting two more to arrive soon. In the middle of this, a supervisor came to the door, wanting to investigate the bump on Mac’s head. Domingo took the supervisor to Mac’s room, showed him the bump, and explained Mac’s developmental delays. He also showed the supervisor that Mac’s protruding forehead made the bump look worse than it actually was. The supervisor didn’t seem concerned and left.

On the other hand, it was clear Tony’s social worker didn’t like us. She wanted Tony to leave our home and wouldn’t let up. A few days after she threw a stink about the bump on Mac’s head, she showed up again—with the county supervisor.

When they arrived, Domingo was outside, holding Mac while watching the other kids play. Because Mac didn’t balance well, Domingo buckled him into a chair swing so he could keep an eye on him while talking with the visitors.

As Domingo was talking to the supervisor, he saw Tony’s worker taking Mac out of the swing. Before Domingo could say anything, she’d pulled him out and set him on his feet on the ground. Mac tried to take a couple of steps, then
boom!
he fell and
bang!
he got hit in the face by Rose, who was in full swing right next to him.

Domingo rushed to pick up the boy and said, “What are you doing? I put him in there to be safe. You had no business taking him out without asking me.”

Mac almost instantly developed a goose egg where he’d been hit. My husband looked at the supervisor and said, “You see what I was telling you about him not being stable on his feet?” I’m sure they got out of there pretty quickly. And the funny thing is, the social worker never filled out an accident report.

This worker was new and young, and I think she believed she had it all figured out. If she could find fault in us, she could get Tony back to his family and be a hero. She wanted this so badly that she arranged for a meeting with Tony’s attorney and the judge.

What was wrong with this worker? I wondered. We weren’t trying to take this boy away from a family who really wanted him. Reunification had been attempted more than once. Of the families who had had him and given him back, some were relatives. Tony had been in the system for two and a half years before he was placed with us. So it baffled me why the social worker was so insistent that she needed to take him from the only family who had wanted to keep him. There was a point when I was so frustrated with this woman that I thought,
Take him. I really don’t care.

But I did care. Very much. And times like this, I knew Domingo and I were following the Spirit. Who in their right minds would fight so hard to keep a difficult boy, especially when others are fighting to take him back? It had to be that we were following something supernatural.

When a child is brought into a foster home, the foster parents must wait six months before pursuing adoption. However, since Tony’s case had been transferred to the adoptions section a while before, we could start adoption procedures immediately. Despite this woman’s false accusations, we pressed forward with the help of the adoptions office. They hired an attorney to fight on our behalf. And within a few months, Tony became a Garcia.

With a tremendous smile, he still says to anyone who will listen, “We Garcias stick together.”

I still struggle with fear of many things, including the fear that someone will come take our kids. The sad thing is, I know fear is the opposite of trust, and I want to trust fully in God’s care, provision, and plans. When there is no calamity in our lives, I fear something bad is going to happen at any minute. When trials do come, I shake in my boots, fearing the worst outcome. Reading the Old Testament helps me; I think of how God rescued the Israelites and took them out of bondage. In the process, his beloved people were privileged to see God’s miracles. Yet how quickly they forgot them. They were taken out of bondage from Egypt only to put themselves back in bondage again because of their fear and lack of trust.

At times I’m just like them and let fear get the best of me even though I have seen God part the Red Sea. My God has always been there, has always been trustworthy. He has answered one prayer after another, yet I still fail to trust him.

Trust for me is like a weak muscle. I need to exercise it. So I go to God’s Word and fill my mind with God’s truth. Then I meditate on it until my fear is gone and I trust God to take care of me. Psalm 34 is a passage in Scripture that puts me on the right track. Verses 4–5 say, “I prayed to the L
ORD
, and he answered me. He freed me from all my fears. Those who look to him for help will be radiant with joy; no shadow of shame will darken their faces.”

I have to continually remind myself that I don’t need to be afraid of what people say or do. My God is my defender. As long as I obey God, I can trust and fear not! Fear can be my friend when it keeps me on the right track. But it can easily become my enemy when it takes over and I no longer trust the one who knows best. God gave us Tony to teach us this most valuable lesson. God is always there. I just need to call on him.

court

I suppose that time wouldn’t have been so hard if those had been the only accusations. But it seemed as though we were continually being attacked; accusations were flying at us from all fronts. Spiritual warfare raged around us, sending us to prayer and fasting. I tried to live the cliché: take one day—sometimes one moment—at a time. But I was exhausted.

You would think parents would be grateful to us for caring for and loving their children in their absence. Instead, we became the enemy. They seemed to forget that the kids were brought to us because of their neglect or child-endangerment issues. We didn’t go looking for kids to hijack from their parents.

I was cleaning house with a couple of the older girls and Esther when two social workers showed up at our house—one was the director of our agency, and the other woman looked familiar. This was trouble, and I knew it. Not only was my belly rumbling, it was erupting. We were being investigated again. This time the girls’ mom said I had abused the girls. She had photographic proof that I had burned Rose with cigarettes.

I said hello to both of the social workers and let them in. The woman I had recognized was someone from licensing who knew me. I had shared our family’s story with her while doing her hair once, so she already knew my heart. How good of God to have sent her to me! I could tell she didn’t feel comfortable with the investigation, but she had to do it. She took out pictures the mom had supposedly taken during a visit. I almost laughed when she showed them to me. The photos had cut off the head of the person with the marks. It could have been anyone. The burns could have been photoshopped. I didn’t even smoke. It was ridiculous. Still, I brought out Rose so they could check her and verify that there were no marks on her.

The girls’ grandmother also claimed I abused the girls. The investigator for that allegation also happened to be a client of mine. She did her job and followed through by speaking to the girls, who refuted what Grandma claimed.

Because the allegations were false, it didn’t really matter whether I knew the investigators, but I felt that God was taking care of me, knowing that these awful accusations would be easier for me to face if the investigators were people I knew.

Because the girls’ mom despised us, she tried every way she could to destroy us. She continually dredged up something to call the county about. Sometimes it was about stupid things. She claimed we told the girls they must call us “Mom and Dad.” When any child came into our home, we told them to call us what our grandchildren did: Mimi and Papi. It usually didn’t take long before they chose to call us Mom and Dad, possibly because they heard George and the other kids calling us that. Or possibly because kids really need people to call Mom and Dad.

My husband and I didn’t take in these girls with the intention of adopting them, but when they were put into the adoption system, we had to make a choice. Then, when the girls asked us to adopt them, what could we say?

These girls felt safe with us. That wasn’t our fault, nor was it a sin. And the more we learned about the children of meth users, the more we understood their need for safety. These kids suffer beyond our imagination and cling to love and safety when they find it. It makes sense that they wouldn’t want to go back to that scary environment.

Sometimes the mom’s claims were more serious. And each time she called, the agency had to do an investigation.

A hatred for the girls’ mother started churning in my soul. I defended it as a righteous hatred. After all, I was caring for and defending the weak. But God has a way of not letting me sit in an unholy place like that for long. Soon I knew in my heart I couldn’t be consumed with such hate. God had created this woman—and he loved her too.

I learned that her own mother was an addict, so she had started taking drugs at a young age. She hid from her father. If he couldn’t find her, he couldn’t hurt her. Like the kids we had taken in, she had been a child who was a victim of the sins of her parents. Only she didn’t have someone to give her a way out of her messy home. She wasn’t one of the fortunate ones.

psychologist

The agency recommended that the mom and I go to a child psychologist to see if we could mend something. In the days before the appointment, I felt more and more nervous. I prayed I could show my love to this woman as well as convince her that the lies she believed about us weren’t true. I hoped that in talking with each other we could both do what was best for the girls. Well, the meeting didn’t go at all the way I’d hoped.

This woman was incredibly narcissistic. Everything was about her. She was the victim, blaming everyone else for her bad choices. This was all a conspiracy—everyone in the system was out to get her. After all, she was a good mom who loved her children. When she said, “I really am a good mom,” the psychologist responded, “If you were such a good mom, why were your kids taken away from you?”

She often shifted the blame to me, kept making it sound like I was doing all these crazy things. My responses weren’t exactly kind. When I tried to explain, she wouldn’t hear any of it. I finally told her the girls didn’t want to see her and that was because of her, not me.

I went to the meeting wanting to show her the love of Christ, but I’m afraid I showed no love. In fact, I’m sure my anger was far more evident.

attorney knows best

The attorney for the girls had been representing them for two years. She was assigned to decide their fate, but she had never spoken to them and didn’t even know what they looked like. And yet she felt that it was in their best interest to send them back to their parents. Most attorneys who work for the courts want reconciliation, and I understood that. But I never understood how these attorneys could have no interest in meeting the kids they represented. How can someone not take into account the input of the foster parents, who are with these children 24-7, who see their pain and anguish as well as their reactions to seeing their parents?

In court, it seemed like everyone had an attorney. One for the stepdad, one for the dad, one for the mom, and the state attorney for the kids. The questions were endless as each of the attorneys had their turn with me, one after the other. They ripped me apart and turned every action of mine into something with an evil-minded motive while trying to portray both of the incarcerated parents as model citizens. This woman who had harmed a child, spent many years locked up, and was
still
in jail (she hoped to get custody of the girls when she was released) was being portrayed as a wonderful person. And we, who were trying to take good care of the girls, were painted as criminals. It made no sense and was so difficult to deal with. Why was I put on trial instead of the parents? The whole fight was so difficult that I was ready to give up and let the girls go back to the mom. But I’d take one look at them and then put my hand in God’s for more strength to keep going. It was a horrible place to be and one of the biggest trials I have ever been through.