“Have you ever had one of those life situations where you take a step back and think to yourself, ‘I could have missed this!’ Where do you remember how everything pointed to you saying no to a choice, but you chose yes for whatever reason, and it changed your life forever? When I look into my son’s eyes, I get that emotion all the time. Allow me to transport you back around ten years.
My husband and I had been married for almost three years and were looking forward to beginning a family. We were equally startled to learn of the need for foster parents in our neighborhood as we sat in church one Sunday around the same time. The numbers were mind-blowing. Our county was in great need of individuals to come up and intervene in the lives of these children who were in a difficult situation due to no fault of their own. Later that evening, we got down and discussed whether or not this was something we should pursue. We had never considered adopting a child! We made the decision to attend an informational meeting. We were hooked after that. We knew we couldn’t continue with the information we’d just gleaned about the needs of children in our own neighborhood. It was either now or never, we realized. The enthusiasm we had now was so strong, but what if that desire dwindled once we started our “own family” and the hustle that comes with it? So we took the plunge!
Over the next three years, we had the honor of long-term fostering five children and adopting two of them, our lovely baby girls! More diapers than we could ever count, innumerable social worker visits, bio parent visits, highs and lows, and sometimes just pure mayhem filled those three years! But then, all of a sudden, we found ourselves in a lull. We had been fostering a child for about a year when he was unexpectedly adopted, and we weren’t getting any phone calls to take in other children. At the same time, we discovered that some members of our church were relocating to an underdeveloped South Los Angeles neighborhood to create a church and other community resources. We knew after a couple of trips that this was the next step in our journey. So we packed up our two young daughters, bid farewell to the suburbs, and embarked on a new journey.
The word “busy” doesn’t even begin to characterize our life in the coming year. We were knee-deep in building a church, organizing community events, and raising our two daughters while working full-time! We received a disturbing phone call around 6 months after arriving in LA. A three-year-old boy who we had fostered for over a year had recently been removed from his mother and was in need of a foster home. I was so filled with emotion that I almost dropped the phone. This was a no-brainer! Yes, please deliver this young man to us! This now 5-year-old, whom I still adored, appeared in my living room a few hours later.
The next four months were a blur. We now had three children, ages three, four, and five. Our community commitments were growing, and we were about to launch our first summer day camp for underserved children in our area, with my husband as camp director. Every day, approximately 100 youngsters, many of them were in foster care, would come through our church doors. They would be loved, fed, and cared for for the following 5 hours. For our family, running this program was a full-time job. Camp life was what we lived, ate, and breathed. But once a week, I’d put on my nurse’s uniform and go to work at my hospital for a shift.
My phone rang one Friday while I was at work. I was all too familiar with that figure by this point. It was the foster care agency that we used. ‘Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please ‘Would you be interested in taking in a newborn for the weekend?’ They went on to say that every agency was full and that this boy would almost probably return to his parents on Monday once they had worked out certain issues. Otherwise, he’d be stuck in a room at the county hospital, with a volunteer calling other foster homes around the clock in search of an open bed. We could do it, I reasoned, although my head screamed, “Oh no, you don’t!” I knew we didn’t have a minute of free time or truly free brain capacity left because of how hectic our lives were! But something inside me compelled me to dial my husband’s number. I dialed his telephone with caution, knowing that he would say no. It was water day at camp, so I could hear water balloons zipping over his head as he picked up the phone. He shouted, ‘What?!!’ ‘Are you insane?’ No way!’ This was an answer I was expecting. It was the only rational response. But I couldn’t let go of it. I imagined a small infant who was alone and in need of someone to hold him and make him feel safe. ‘Please, honey, just think about it,’ I said. ‘It’s only for the weekend!’ says the narrator. Surprisingly, he agreed to give it some thought. We shouted our goodbyes as he dashed off to chase down a stray child. ‘OK, tell them we can do it, but only for the weekend!’ he called back a short time later. I was driving home from work in minutes to prepare for his arrival.
There was a knock on my door at 9 p.m. that night. When I opened it, there stood a social worker holding a lovely newborn African-American baby boy. As she went to go, she handed him to me without any other items and stated, ‘You should hear from someone on Monday.’ As I closed the door, tears welled up in my eyes as I glanced at this tiny bundle, remembering all he had been through in his first few days of existence. ‘We’ll take excellent care of you this weekend, little man,’ I thought as I cuddled him and sang sweetly to him.
When Monday rolled around, the social worker informed us that new information regarding his birth family had surfaced and that the case might take a bit longer than planned… My heart began to sink. We didn’t know what we were going to do. With our other three children and administering the camp, we had our hands full. I was scared to tell my husband because we had been hesitant to even bring him in for the weekend. But we kept going. I realized the baby was warm about a week later. His fever was over 102 degrees when I checked it. I immediately rushed him to his doctor, who advised that he be admitted to the pediatric unit right away. When they arrived at the hospital, they quickly began running tests to figure out what was wrong. He was found to have a blood illness that was most likely related to his delivery. He’d have to stay for at least a week, they added. I began to panic a little on the inside. How were we going to manage a baby in the hospital while also caring for our other children at home, attending summer camp, and working? My concerns were rapidly dispelled as family, friends, and even interns from our program began to arrive. Our tribe kept us going for the following ten days. Every day, someone would arrive to give my husband or me a break, bring us food, hold the baby while I showered, or even bring my older children so we could visit them outside the hospital. It was all about the way they encircled us.
During my stay in the hospital, I developed a strong bond with this small infant guy. During blood draws and other operations, he napped in my arms, nestled against my chest, and found solace in my arms. However, the social workers continued to insist that he would be reunited with his mother soon, so I knew in my heart that no matter how much I loved him, he belonged to someone else. A volunteer musician knocked on the door one day as I sat in the hospital bed, holding him on my chest, and asked if he might perform a song for us. As I glanced out the window with tears streaming down my face, this nice young man brought out a ukulele and sat in the doorway singing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ Something in the song’s lyrics struck a chord with me. That’s where you’ll find me, little baby, somewhere over the rainbow. I know we won’t be together indefinitely, but you can count on me to always be there for you. I will love you no matter how much time I have with you, and you will know that you are loved. It was a very special time for the two of them.
We were informed shortly after being released from the hospital that the infant would require foster care for at least six months. Fear had crept in yet again. This is too much, a tiny murmur was suddenly booming in our ears. Should we serve him with notice and have him relocated? Could we pull it off? We pondered and prayed about this issue, but instead of responding with the most logical answer, we said yes. Yes, we’d be happy to look after this little man for as long as he needed us. He was bonding with us, and he was bonding with our entire family. As a result, we kept going as a family!
Not only was the prospect of having another kid at this point in our lives daunting, but I had never before cared for an African-American child. The neighborhood in which we were residing at the time was predominantly African-American. So there I was, a Caucasian blonde lady caring for my African-American foster son in the center of an African-American town. I knew he needed specific items for his skin and hair, but I had no idea what to use or how often to bathe or wash his hair. But then something extraordinary occurred.
Some of the same women who had been caring for our children at our summer camp began to assist us and educate us on how to properly care for our children. They went to the local beauty supply stores and purchased the appropriate hair products and combs for him. They showed me how to bathe him and how to wash his hair on a regular basis. They assisted me in properly moisturizing his skin. When I was in summer camp, they would often take him from my arms and hold him and play with him so that I could be freed up. After a while, this little man began to feel like OUR baby, rather than just our baby. A newborn for whom the community came together to provide care. A baby who was known and acknowledged. Many people adored this baby.
Time continued to pass. A year had passed since six months had passed. A year slipped by until nearly two, and the love for this tiny guy grew in all of our hearts. My other children cherished him, and he was very much a part of our family. Obviously, we were all overjoyed when we learned that we had been chosen to be his adoptive family, despite the fact that we were heartbroken that his birth parents were unable to reunite with him. He’d be here indefinitely! We had the incredible honor of adopting our son in December of 2015!
With each passing year, it becomes clearer and clearer how unique this young kid is. His laugh is contagious, and his grin brightens the room. He has an uncanny ability to find delight in the most insignificant of things. Everyone knows who this little man is wherever we go. He’s a one-of-a-kind individual. His assurance in who he is is palpable. Perhaps it’s because he’s been adored by so many people in his brief 6 years on this planet. Perhaps it’s because he was often informed as a child that he was unique and valuable. Maybe it’s in his blood. Whatever the case may be, I am grateful to our family, friends, and community for making caring for this young kid a reality. And I’ll be eternally grateful for my son, who almost didn’t make it.”
The story and photo: Courtesy of Shannon Henson