I lack nothing

Foster kids arrive with huge gaping holes of need. Of course they do. They wouldn’t be in care if life had all been rosy.

They also arrive trying desperately to hide the hole. Of course they do. They have personalised the neglect and abuse they’ve been through, blaming themselves for it. What others have done to them has become a burden of shame. It shouldn’t be theirs to carry, but nonetheless is firmly stuck to their backs. So they desperately try not to need anything. Or at least, not to show it.

They are like baby birds, desperate for food, weak and scrawny and underdeveloped – but instead of cheeping furiously and stretching out their wide open beaks to receive, they clamp their beaks shut and glare furiously at you and preen the feathers they don’t actually have.

For example…

Holly didn’t tell me when she’d run out of toothpaste, in case I didn’t get her any more.

When he first arrived, Hanh told me every dish I served him was ‘good!!!’ – with a big fixed grin, and scared eyes.

Harmony wouldn’t tell me what she liked to eat. But when a dish appeared on the table, she’d grab the serving spoon and pile her plate with the bits she wanted – irrespective of who else was meant to be sharing it too.

Ella was only ever happy. But she cried every time we went to church – huge heaving sobs, throwing herself into the arms of the mums of the other girls in youth group. And then she’d come over with a smile plastered across her tear-stained face, and assure me she was fine, and that she’d just been remembering her beloved godmother who had died. There wasn’t anything else she was sad about. Not ever.

Hanh didn’t ask for anything, but he hid things. He had garlic stuffed into his pillow and food stashed around the bedroom. He hid cigarettes and lighters, though he was allowed them. He hid his story. If he never told us why, he never needed to admit the needs that drove him.

When things went wrong, Harmony was totally incapable of saying sorry. Sorry means admitting you were wrong, that you are in the other person’s debt. Even when the consequences ramped up, even when we both knew she wished it had been otherwise. No way. She didn’t need forgiveness. She didn’t need you.

Almost a year after arriving with me, I found out Ella had been through a difficult police interview in a location we regularly drove past. We could easily have gone another way. She had never told me.

I look back at these events with such sadness.

I wanted to provide. I wanted to support. I wanted to love. And they wouldn’t let me.

It reminds me of the time Jesus laments over Jerusalem, the symbol of the nation of Israel, the people he chose, the people he redeemed, the people he brought close – who turned their backs on him. “How often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing!” (Luke 13:34). And we hear the same unrequited longing in the heart of God in the prophecy of Isaiah: “In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength, but you would have none of it.” (Isaiah 30:15).

What are the needs we won’t bring to our Daddy?

Are we scared he won’t hear us?

Are we scared he’ll be cross if we ask for something different to what he’s given?

Are we ashamed to show where we’re weak, or grieving, or needy?

Are we unwilling to admit where we’ve got it wrong?

Are we dismissing our pain, or need, or fear, as being too small?

(maybe read that list again and pause for the questions to sink in)

Hear his words. “How often I have longed… to care for you, to show you love, to hold you and give you rest and comfort your weary soul… and you were not willing.”

We can come.

Actually, we must come. Because if we don’t come to our Daddy, we’ll go somewhere else. And those other sources are counterfeit – they don’t provide what we actually need.

Just like the kids.

Foster kids are consummate survivors. They’ve developed a whole arsenal of tricks to elicit what they need from the hostile world they’ve known. I’ve been thinking about the tactics that I’ve seen – and as I’ve thought about what they did, I’ve wondered about me. Which of these am I also using to avoid facing my need, and the Daddy who could truly provide?

We may be doing it better, with more subtlety, more finesse, than the kids managed. But I reckon we fool God considerably less than they fooled me.

Fabricate an emergency

Holly claimed to have injured herself every time she got home from school or basketball or cheerleading. It was the only way she knew to ensure she’d be cared for – and help from professionals, like nurses and doctors, was easier to deal with than help from a family figure.

Do we find ways to make our needs urgent, so that others will meet them, instead of bringing them to God?

Take control

Hanh would not let me put his coat into the wash – even though he wore it inside and outside, day and (presumably) night. There was no way he would let me take it away, whatever I said the reason was.

Do we find ways to take control, to keep what is precious, or hurting, at arm’s length from God, instead of trusting him with our whole selves?

Make yourself exciting

Kayleigh told the most incredible stories. Unfortunately they were literally incredible. She knew the name of every police officer we saw. She’d done a million piece jigsaw. She had competed at the athletics stadium we passed on the way to see my parents.

Do we find ways to make ourselves a bit bigger, better, brighter than we really are, to earn the friendship, admiration, or respect of others – instead of resting in the approval of God?

Have a back up plan

Harmony kept a window key in her pocket at all times. Occasionally she’d leave the house by the window, as if to remind both of us that she could, any time she wanted to.

Do we find security in something else: savings, talents, job security, family, service – instead of relying on God’s loving plans for us?

Earn love – or at least, approval

Ella would often assure me that she was going to be good. She’d try to make me cups of tea, buy packets of sweets for anyone we were seeing, and tell everyone she’d had ‘the best day ever’ when we saw them. As she sought to end the placement, she started calling me ‘mam’; if she could just force me to love her, she could cope with the pain of moving on.

Do we try to bring gifts, to present our best, so that others will love us? Do we wonder if God is pleased with us today, or stay away when we’re aware of sin – instead of relying on the faithfulness of his covenant love for us?

Drown out the awful voices

Hanh couldn’t sleep. But he wouldn’t talk about it. Instead he played action films, with the volume as loud as he could get away with, one after another – until he was so exhausted he dropped off. And he claimed he was practising English.

Do we numb the pain with activity, or pleasure, or work, or just social media scrolling, instead of bringing our darkness to the Light of the world?

Inflict your own pain

When the emotional turmoil got too much, Holly would cut herself. It was never deep, but it was painful – and that was the point. She couldn’t control the sorrow and anger and grief in her head, but she could force her attention elsewhere, and express some of the darkness within, taking it out on her body instead of her soul.

Do we deliberately damage ourselves? Is our self-talk vicious? Do we torture ourselves with overthinking? – instead of bringing our pain to the only one who can actually heal us?

Meet the needs another way

Ella couldn’t accept a hug at home. But when we were out, she’d get physical contact in any way she could – often painfully so – crushing my hand, pulling my arms, sitting on me, blowing in my face. And she’d go from one mum to another at church, hugging and being hugged, trying to fill up those aching places inside.

Do we turn to other places for approval or security? Do we abuse alcohol or food or money or sex or the people we love by seeking from them what only God can give?

One of the starkest moments happened one night about a week after Kayleigh had arrived. She arrived home from school like a coiled spring. Everything about her body language said it had been a terrible day. She couldn’t settle into any of our usual activities. She wouldn’t talk about it. But after dinner she sat in a corner of the kitchen, covered herself with a blanket, and started bashing her head off the cupboard door. Over and over again.

She had hidden her day from me and now she was literally hiding from the world, out of sight under the blanket. It cocooned her. But it wasn’t safe in there. Not at all. And she wasn’t actually hidden. Not at all. Even the neighbours could hear her.

She curled in on herself, and she did herself no good.

When we hide ourselves, our needs, our desires, our hurt from the God who made us, the Saviour who redeemed us, the Spirit who indwells us, we are only kidding ourselves. We are not safe. We are not hidden. And we are doing ourselves no good.

A few months ago God showed me how I see myself.

I saw an ugly, gaping pit, like an opencast mine. It was made of my needs. I had all the usual human needs, and then more: damage I had done to myself, hurt inflicted by others, and scars where good things had been taken from me. The yawning hole was there for all to see. But I was ashamed of it. I wanted to appear whole; so I had tried to cover the pit with a tarpaulin, which wasn’t big enough and kept coming loose. So then I was building a big shiny castle nearby, hoping to distract everyone’s attention with what I was achieving. It had wings and towers and turrets and flags – and when you looked closer, it was leaning and the windows were broken and the paint was peeling and the shiny bits were flaking off. And I was manically busy, dashing around, erecting scaffolding, supporting wobbly bits, painting over the cracks, and grinning, so that everyone would think it was all OK.

And then God showed me how he sees me.

The hole was still there, but it was filled, filled to the brim with pure gold liquid love. The love poured into every crack and fissure; it lapped the shore; and it was teeming with life. The castle had disappeared, and free from its garish distraction I could see trees and birds and distant mountains. And I was there, but I wasn’t dashing anywhere. I was lying back on a lilo, floating across the lake, resting in the goodness God had poured into my need, enjoying the beautiful transformation he had wrought out of all the wreckage. Above all, enjoying him.

When I invited the kids into my home, I wanted to help them. I am far from perfect, but I wanted to give what I had, to make good things happen for them. And all too often, I couldn’t, because they wouldn’t let me. I chose them, but they did not choose me, or what I could offer.

Our Daddy gives us the choice too. We are adopted, but if we want to, we can continue to live as orphans. We are forgiven, but if we want to, we can continue to condemn ourselves. We are accepted, but if we want to, we can continue to listen to voices of rejection. We are provided for, but if we want to, we can continue to muster our self-sufficiency and strive to meet our own needs. And we are loved, but if we want to, we can continue to live shut off, turned in, desperately seeking to earn the world’s affection.

Or we can choose another way.

“How often I have longed to care for you, to show you love, to hold you and give you rest and comfort your weary soul… and you were not willing.”

We can come.

The Lord is my shepherd (and my saviour, my friend, and my Daddy)…

I lack nothing.