by Debra Moerke
The Bower children were still with us as November moved into December. When the first snowflakes fell, we went shopping again, this time for warm winter coats and snow pants. When the first real winter storm hit, the sunroom became the mudroom with gloves and boots neatly lined up.
On the first Saturday in December, Al retrieved the boxes of Christmas decorations from the garage and brought them into the living room. As the kids opened each one, the spirit of Christmas spilled out.
“Christmas is coming!” Hannah cheered.
I watched joyfully as small hands pulled out shiny bulbs, garland, and lights, and the children danced to “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” on the radio. We spent the entire day decorating our home for a month of celebration.
“Are we going to have a Christmas tree?” Hannah asked Al.
“We sure are! Let’s get it tomorrow,” he answered, trying to untangle the lights.
“Will you all help decorate it?” I looked at Hannah and the kids.
They answered in unison, “Yes!”
There is something about children and Christmas that goes hand in hand. As I watched the kids’ faces glow with excitement, I asked, “Do you know what Christmas is all about?”
“It’s when Santa comes and brings us toys,” answered Hannah.
“Yes, that’s part of how we celebrate, but it’s not the real reason for Christmas. Christmas is someone’s birthday. Do you know who that is?”
They looked at me blankly.
“It’s Jesus’ birthday, the most important birthday in the world. Do you know about Jesus’ birthday?”
The Bower kids looked at one another, checking to see if one of them knew about this, but no one answered. My kids remained silent, knowing this was a teaching moment.
“Jesus is God’s Son. He was born on earth and came here to show us the way to God and how to live.” Four pairs of brown eyes stared at me, as if to say, Okay. Go on.
Kneeling on the floor, I opened the box that held our nativity scene and began to unwrap the individual ceramic figures. “Jesus was born in a manger, like this one.” I placed baby Jesus on the carpet in front of us. The kids stopped what they were doing and sat around me. As I unwrapped each piece, I told how each one—Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, the angels, the magi, and even the animals were there to welcome baby Jesus.
“So, that is the real reason for Christmas. Jesus came to be the best gift of love we could ever get in our life. We give gifts to show our love to others. Santa is a fun part of the holiday, but Jesus is the real reason for Christmas.”
The children looked satisfied with the explanation. They each picked up the ceramic pieces and looked at them. Hannah picked up baby Jesus and studied him intently, as if she would see something different, something special, about that particular piece.
Help them to know you, Lord, I prayed.
A few days later, after all the kids had gone to bed, I snuggled under a throw blanket on the couch. The house was quiet, other than the crackling fire in the wood-burning stove. I watched the flames lap against the logs through the glass door of the stove while Al sat in his chair reading.
My thoughts turned to another group of siblings we had fostered a year before. I had first met their mother when she was hired by our church to provide childcare in the nursery during the services. A few years later, when I was working at The Caring Center, this woman came to my office in tears, disclosing she was pregnant. Her relationship with the father had ended, and she had two other children at home.
“I can’t have this baby,” she said to me in tears. I prayed for and counseled her, explaining that assistance was available and an abortion was not her only option. Adoption could be an alternative.
“But you have to make your own decision,” I said gently.
Months later, my receptionist came into my office and said I had a collect call from Denver. It was the same woman. She wanted me to know she had given birth to twin girls and was coming back to Casper. I told her I would help in any way I could.
A few weeks after the phone call, the woman brought her twins into the center. The babies were beautiful and healthy. I offered her baby clothes and other services that would help her get on her feet. She returned a few more times, and I prayed with her each time, sharing God’s love. Then she vanished; I never saw or heard from her again.
Six years later, I was walking in the door after church one Sunday when the phone rang. It was DFS saying they had a family of four children at the police station needing foster care. The mother had been arrested on drug charges and had requested that her children go only to me.
I went to the station and found four dirty, wild little children: twin girls and two younger boys. It didn’t click with me who the children could be until their caseworker called me the next morning and told me the mother’s name. I looked at the six-year-old twins sitting across from me at my kitchen table.
These are the babies I prayed for in my office.
I didn’t know what had become of the two older children, but the two little brothers had clearly come along since the twins were born. God had brought them back into my life for a purpose. A purpose greater than just physical care while their mother got help. Perhaps I’ll have the opportunity to introduce them to the love of Jesus.
The embers in the fire popped, waking me from my daydream. Then I remembered, this was where I was sitting when the twins came out of their room and said to me, “Debra, we want to ask Jesus into our heart. Will you show us how?”
My friend Marilyn Pipkin, from the Longmont Crisis Pregnancy Center in Colorado, happened to be visiting me that evening. She took one twin in her lap, I took the other, and we explained what it meant to ask Jesus into one’s heart, and together we listened to their sweet prayers for salvation.
Would the Bower children do the same? After months of hearing my prayers, would they choose Jesus? I closed my eyes. Save these children, Lord. Let them and their mother come to know you as I know you. You are love. You are safety. You are their only hope.
Chapter 3Clues
RUMMAGING THROUGH CLOSETS and drawers and under beds, I found assorted pieces of clothing, toys, and hair barrettes. I finished organizing and cleaning the little room, returning the treasures I found to their proper places. The Bower children had moved in five months ago, and in a few hours all five siblings would return from their first unchaperoned overnight visit with their mother, Karen.
On this second weekend of December, savoring a rare Saturday afternoon alone with my own family, I moved around the house soaking in the sweet silence and peaceful atmosphere. The scent of pine from the Christmas tree filled the family room. Al was at work, Sadie was at a friend’s house, and Helen and Charles were each in their rooms, no doubt enjoying their own space in the peace and quiet before the Bower children returned. There were no little ones running through the living room. No loud shouts or screams of toys being fought over. All the kid-sized plates and cups used for each meal were still stacked neatly in the cupboard.
I prayed their visit was going well, just as I’d been praying since their mom had picked them up the evening before. For months, I had communicated with Karen, inviting her to church, to attend a Bible study where she could meet other women who could befriend and support her, and to The Caring Center to meet one-on-one with me. As a foster mom, whenever a single mom would trust me enough to allow me to step into her world, I tried to be a support.
Karen had taken me up on invitations to church, probably because it gave her an opportunity to see the children. She’d also met with me a few times at The Caring Center so that the two of us could talk about how each of the children was doing. Whenever we got together she offered me an update on her progress in meeting the DFS requirements to get her children back. While I wasn’t privy to conversations, updates, or arrangements between her and DFS, she seemed to be making a sincere effort to do what she needed to, to demonstrate that she was trustworthy and responsible. Al had even given Karen a par
t-time seasonal job at the Casper Events Center in early November so she could get on her feet financially—which she told us was one of those requirements.
I thought back to a few months before when, after having the children for about the first eight weeks, I’d been asked by DFS to attend a hearing that included two caseworkers, Karen, and her parents (who were raising her oldest child, DeAnn). As far as I understood it, I was there for the sole purpose of telling what my experience had been since I met Karen in June, and what my thoughts were as to how she was doing. When asked, I’d spoken highly of her efforts and said I felt she was serious about regaining custody of her children. As I spoke, Karen and I would look at each other and smile. It seemed we had begun a small level of friendship. I relayed to the caseworkers that she had commented to me that the parenting classes she was required to take had been helpful. I was encouraged at what I had seen and learned about Karen in the short time I had known her.
Karen’s parents did not seem convinced. They shook their heads and communicated serious concern for the children and for their daughter. The whole time I was talking, Karen’s mother had a troubled look on her face and frequently focused on her hands folded in her lap. She sat very still and made no comment, but her expression spoke volumes. Karen’s father was more expressive as he listened. He shifted from side to side in his chair in apparent frustration and would shake his head.
At the time I’d assumed her parents’ judgment was clouded by their displeasure over Karen’s past behavior and their stated disapproval (according to Karen) that all the children except DeAnn were biracial. But as recent months had passed, I’d been having second thoughts. Perhaps I’d been naive to believe that my first two months of observation should outrank the nearly thirty years her parents had known her. After all, past behavior that had repeated itself could serve as a predictor of future decision making. Maybe her parents had good cause to be leery of Karen’s fitness as a parent. I remembered now how the caseworker had smiled as she listened to my statements, in sharp contrast to the weight of sorrow evident in the eyes of Karen’s parents as they listened to me and scanned the caseworker’s positive written report on the table.
Following that hearing, a preliminary visitation plan had been put into effect in September. Karen complied with the DFS requirement that she move out of her parents’ home and get a place of her own. In October she’d rented a little newly refurbished house in Casper. First came brief weekly supervised visits for which I delivered the children to their mom’s home when a DFS worker was present. They stayed no longer than about a two-hour playdate. I couldn’t help but notice that while Kyle and Kyra eagerly piled into the car for the visits, Andrew seemed hesitant and sober, and little Hannah was downright anxious.
“Please don’t make me go, Debwa. I want to stay here with you,” Hannah would plead. She’d be especially clingy as the visits approached. I did my best to assure her that the visits would be short, that I’d be close by, and that a nice caseworker would be present.
“I will come pick you up in two hours,” I said. She had cooperated, but when we’d arrive at Karen’s house, Hannah stayed glued to my side for about fifteen minutes before running off to play with the others.
When I returned later, Hannah and Andrew seemed quiet and withdrawn. I knew from my fostering experience that the transition of visitation was more disconcerting for some children than others, but since I saw no evidence of physical harm, I simply gave the two preschoolers extra cuddles and attention that soothed them both. Still, they reacted the same to each visit.
Karen continued to attend church with us sometimes, where she came across as sweet and shy. She even joined us for an occasional lunch out. What struck me during those visits was her obvious closeness to Kyle and Kyra, and her distance from Hannah and Andrew.
DFS checked in regularly for my observations, and I freely offered them. They saw the visits as a success, though I had mounting misgivings. I discussed them with Al, who confirmed my observations.
In late November, DFS approved brief unsupervised visits. If all went well, they’d permit an overnight visit. If those were successful, the children would spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with their mother. Hannah’s anxiety grew to the point of tears over the unsupervised visits. Hard as it was, I coaxed and shepherded her to her mother’s house. Afterward, when I picked up the children, Hannah seemed happy. The other siblings gave their mother good-bye hugs, but I always had to remind Hannah to do so.
Since Hannah seemed safe at Karen’s and she quickly returned to her normal self after spending time there, DFS determined the visits should continue. It was important for Hannah to learn she was safe. As far as I knew, the children had not been removed from Karen’s care because of any type of abuse. The investigation had been triggered by the cocaine found in baby Ally’s system, raising concerns about Karen’s lifestyle, associations, and fitness as a responsible mother.
My concerns for Hannah and Andrew and their apparent uneasy relationship with their mother led me to a conversation one day with Karen at The Caring Center. I was bold enough to ask her why she was less loving to the two of them and often seemed so distant or at odds with them.
Karen explained that she’d had her six children by three men. To put it mildly, there was considerable friction and jealousy between one of the fathers, William, and the father of Hannah and Andrew. The more she explained it to me, the more the word hatred seemed to fit William’s attitude. She confessed to me that Hannah and Andrew were treated very unkindly by him, yet she still allowed William in her life. Karen admitted that in order to keep the peace in her relationship with him, she had often shunned the two. It was her way of showing loyalty to this man who seemed to have considerable influence over her. Fortunately, one of the DFS requirements was for Karen to have nothing to do with William as he had been in and out of jail or prison for a number of charges. Their concern, of course, was that Karen stay off drugs and away from negative influences.
Hannah and Andrew spoke of this man occasionally, calling him “mean.” Whenever I would ask questions about the mean man, they shut down. So, I seldom brought him up but tried to respond with caring concern if they did. By listening and observing over the five months the children had been living with our family, I realized that Karen’s unhealthy pattern with her two youngest was not limited to the past when that man had been around. She had adopted the same negative attitude toward them as he had modeled.
I looked at the clock. A few more hours to go. What has this first overnight visit been like for them? What will be their state of mind when they come home? I realized I was worrying, so I began praying specifically for Hannah’s and Andrew’s physical safety and emotional well-being. Then I remembered that Karen’s oldest daughter was invited for the overnight. DeAnn is there, too, so maybe she has added a positive influence. Still, as the afternoon dragged by, I was haunted with a vague sense of unease.
Headlights finally flashed across the living room windows. The children were home. As the front door flew open, they tumbled in, bubbling with joy. This was a good sign. Karen, carrying baby Ally, followed behind them all with a bright smile on her face. She appeared as happy as her children.
Hannah pushed through the other children to get to me first. Her hair was beautifully combed in a tight ponytail that curled into a ringlet, accented with a large bow in her hairband. Her outfit was new and she was carrying a doll I had never seen before. She came right to my knees, anxious to share something. I bent down close to her sweet face. That was when I saw it—her forehead and left eye were black-and-blue.
Before I could ask what happened, Hannah blurted, “Debwa! I slipped in the bathtub last night. There were bubbles and I slipped when I was getting out.” Her eyes were dramatically opened wide. Her jaw was tightened, and she showed her teeth with a forced smile.
“Mommy bought me this new doll because I was so brave. I got to pick it out myself,” Hannah said, holding her doll up for my inspection.
“Wow! You sure did fall. That must have hurt.” I returned a forced smile as I looked up at Karen, who had moved quickly behind Hannah.
“Yeah. The kids all wanted to play in the tub, and Hannah was trying to get out of the tub by herself. I told her to wait, but she didn’t listen, and she fell against the side.” Karen’s smile was big. Were Karen and Hannah glancing at each other to confirm their story?
Karen caught my questioning look and said, “Well, bubbles can be slippery.” I was sure Karen could read the incredulity in my expression. The story was presented with a bit too much drama and sounded a little too practiced. If the whole bathtub-and-black-eye story proved to be true, the presentation certainly warranted suspicion.
After hurriedly hugging each child, Karen left and drove off into the dark.
“It’s so good to have you home. Go put on your pajamas, then come to the kitchen for milk and cookies before bedtime.”
Five minutes later, the kids were sitting at the table, eager for their snack. “So what did you do with your mom?” I kept an upbeat happy tone to encourage the children to talk, but they all became quiet as they drank their milk and nibbled their cookies.
“Did you go anywhere? Did you have visitors?” They grew even quieter as they glanced at each other. Hannah stared at the cookie crumbs on her plate. Her shoulders drooped. Andrew, still nibbling on his cookie, quickly looked at his sisters and brother. Kyle and Kyra stared at Hannah. It’s wise not to push for answers. I suspected from their responses that they had been given firm instruction to say nothing. Good or bad, they were obeying their mother.
“Okay, time for a story. Everyone in bed!” They knew the routine, but I felt they needed to hear it announced, to help them adjust to being back in our home again. For a child, even one night away from familiar surroundings can be a disruptive change. Everyone climbed into bed, and I began to read. Prayer time followed story time. I went from bed to bed, kneeling and praying with each child, ending with a kiss on each forehead.