The Power of Memories Fifty Years Later

I stepped into a print shop yesterday and back in time. The smell of fresh ink was intoxicating, at least for me. I love paper and words and letters and everything that brings them to life. The counter was lined with stacks of orders, handwritten notes and invoices attached haphazardly to boxes of all shapes and sizes.

I waited patiently for the man behind the counter to approach. Usually I wait impatiently. It's a terrible habit, one I am trying to overcome.

The man behind the counter was large in stature with black and gray hair and a long, gray beard. His black-framed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, his brown eyes peering out from behind them. Our small talk started as he fished for my order in the sea of boxes. Triumphantly he pulled out a green and white box and lifted the lid to reveal 600 copies of a conference brochure.

"Protecting Babies, Projecting Hope," he read as he eyed the title of the conference. "What's this about?"

"It's a conference about taking good care of babies and young children so they can thrive as they grow," I answered as I dug for a credit card.

"You a therapist or something?" he asked.

"No, I worked in foster care for a long time, representing the best interests of abused and neglected children in court," I said simply as I slid my card across the counter.

"You mean kids like I was? I was a foster kid and I was abused and all that stuff," he looked down shyly, as if he had something to hide. A split second later he looked back up and our eyes met.

"You were in foster care?" I asked this man who looked old enough to be a grandfather. 

"I was. Me and my two brothers and sister. I was five when they took us away from our mom. My sister was six and my brother was three. My baby brother wasn't quite two yet. It was 1964."

I was intrigued, as if the printer itself had started telling its own story, one locked away for decades. He seemed willing to talk and I was dying to know.

"What was it like being in foster care?" I asked him. 

"I lived in four different foster homes in about five years. Some was OK, one was horrible. That lady beat the crap out of me. Once I went to school when I was 8 and I was bruised so bad I couldn't sit down. The teacher took me to the nurse and they pulled my pants down and saw all these bruises. They just put some stuff on it, called the caseworker and the caseworker just took me right back to that home and I got beat some more. I think I got it the worst because I refused to cry."

I could have sworn his eyes were misty. Still, he smiled.

"I wasn't gonna let her break me. I was determined, I guess. Sometimes being determined is my downfall."

"There's a downside to every strength," I told him. "The trick is to balance it." He took that in for a moment and then nodded.

"But eventually that lady gave me away because I got these new toy cars and was playing with them on her new carpet and she said I was ruining it so she put me out. I got lucky." His eyes twinkled.

"What happened to your siblings?"

"My baby brother committed suicide a few years back." This time the misty eyes could not be mistaken. I told him how sorry I was and he just looked at me sadly. "The other two are in and out of jail."

"So how is it that you made it?" So few kids who grow up in similar situations do.

"I don't know. Luck maybe. And determination. I left the system when I turned 18 and went to military school. I'm married with two daughters. One is a mechanical engineer. One just graduated from medical massage school. My wife and I, we help look after the woman who I call my adopted mom. She worked at a group home where I lived when I was 15. She's getting up in years now."

Our transaction long complete, we said our good-byes and I thanked him for sharing his story. I had just one more question.

"Do you mind if I ask how old you are?"

"Not at all. I'm 54."

Nearly five decades had passed and he had recounted with clarity his removal from his mother. Nearly four decades had passed and tears had formed when he talked about the beatings he received in his foster home. The colors of the toy cars he had played with on new carpet were likely as fresh in his mind as the ink in that print shop. Decades later, the brother who had committed suicide was still considered his 'baby brother'.

I walked away from him humbled by the resiliency of the human spirit, the power of memories that linger, and the incredible gifts inherent in connection and the willingness to listen to other people's stories. Good or bad, what we do matters.

There is nothing more important than creating hope, anchors of safety, and an all-embracing love for hurting children. Those gifts live on forever.

IRS or CPS: Which is More Outrageous?

As the newest political firestorm surrounding the IRS unfolded, something much more horrific was unfolding also. As Tea Party-affiliated groups demanded investigation into IRS practices, desperate grandparents and a devoted teacher begged for an investigation into multiple, ongoing bruises covering an eight-year-old little boy. As President Obama took the national stage and declared the actions of the IRS ‘outrageous’, the painful sobs of a helpless child echoed in vain.

In addressing the behavior of the IRS unfairly targeting Tea Party-affiliated groups, Obama insisted, “I have no patience for it. I will not tolerate it.” Meanwhile, another child died of torture and abuse, all under the nose of children’s protective services (CPS), the government agency charged with protecting children.

Why do we have patience for that? Why do we tolerate that?

Eight-year-old Gabriel died last week after suffering from multiple injuries including broken ribs, a skull fracture, and burns. His mother and her boyfriend have been arrested in conjunction with his death. His grandparents who had previously raised him before he was returned to the custody of his mother tried in vain to get authorities to heed their concerns regarding his safety.  His teacher made calls to Los Angeles County Department of Children and Family Services after he came to school with bruises on his face and told her his mother shot him with a BB gun.
The responsibility for his death rests squarely on the shoulders of those who inflicted harm. However, the responsibility to protect him when his mother failed him belongs to the government.

Which government agency needs more scrutiny and more transparency with the ultimate goal of providing better services: the IRS or CPS systems nationwide? Where should we direct our outrage and intolerance of failure? You could ask children like Marcus Fiesel, Gabriel Myers, Vyctoria Sandoval, Isaac Lethbridge, Summer Phelps, Damarcus Jackson, Alize Vick, and Neveah Gallegos. Oh wait. You can’t ask them. They’re all dead. Utter failure on the part of the child protective and/or family court systems cost these children their lives. Their numbers measure in the hundreds across the nation.

The Tea Party-affiliated groups may have been subject to invasive questioning. Were they subject to torture, starvation, broken bones, and burns as these children had been?  These groups may have had their right to freedom of association violated.  These children had a right to safety and freedom from abuse but suffered brutal deaths on the government’s watch.  Which is more outrageous?

Unfortunately these children don’t have a political voice, an ability to organize, or financial resources to impact change. They are chattel, property of their parents even if their parents allow them to be tortured and killed. Why else would Gabriel’s dead body sit in the coroner’s office because his mom is in jail but refuses to allow it to be released to next of kin? Even in death, Gabriel is not free from the heinous, long arm of his mother.

The time has come to channel our outrage and intolerance effectively to improve the child welfare system and laws designed to protect children. Too often, our government makes a lousy parent and a lousy protector. That will not change until we all get involved and use our voice to speak for abused and neglected kids. Our collective voice is the most powerful one these children have. We must strengthen and use it.

We need to see our president or political leaders on a national stage demanding transformation of a system charged with our most important task: protecting vulnerable children and families. Then the rest of us need to roll up our sleeves and do what we can to help.

Anything less than that is outrageous.

Visit www.invisiblekidsthebook.com to learn how you can help.

 

 

Nicole and Nina Part 5 of 5

By the time Nicole and Nina moved to the Warren’s foster home they had been in the custody of Children’s Services for six months. They hadn’t seen their biological mom since they were removed from her care. They’d had weekly visits with their biological dad, Jason, who was making steady progress toward achieving sobriety and stability. During these six months, Nicole and Nina lived in two different foster homes. Nicole had turned four without any fanfare and Nina turned three in much the same way.

According to the ‘court clock’, their biological parents had six more months to make steady progress toward reunification. Adoption Safe Families Act (ASFA) is a federal law passed in 1997 to prevent kids from languishing in foster care. Children's Services can file for permanent custody if children are in temporary custody for 15 out of 22 months. At the two year mark, Children’s Services must be ready to move kids out of temporary legal status to something permanent. Children’s Services can file for permanent custody to sever family ties and make the children available for adoption. It can file for custody to be returned to parents or custody given to approved relatives. In the case of teenagers where there is no family and little chance for adoption, Children’s Services can file for Planned Permanent Living Arrangement (PPLA) which really is long term foster care. This is the legal status for kids who ‘age out’ of the system at age 18.

Days after Nicole and Nina moved into the foster home of Darryl and Beth Warren, I drove an hour north, away from the urban core and into wide open country fields. The tiny town the girls had moved to had only a handful of traffic lights. I found their new foster home easily. It was a modest orange brick house with large front and back yards. It was a completely average home; nothing fancy and nothing worrisome.

I knocked on the door and moments later a tall, thin woman with long red hair opened it.

“Holly, come in. I’m so glad to finally meet you,” Beth exclaimed as she held out her hand. I shook it with the same enthusiasm she had. We had talked so often on the phone I felt like I knew her.

Nicole and Nina each had baby dolls in little strollers and were pushing them around the living room when I walked in and said hello. They both completely ignored me and went on with their play.

I was thrilled. They appeared comfortable in their environment and didn’t seem to be worried when they saw me. Sometimes the sight of a caseworker or GAL causes a foster child to believe something bad will happen. Once I was GAL for a five-year-old boy who always went to get his little suitcase from under his bed every time his caseworker visited because he thought she was going to take him away. With as often as they moved, I was starting to worry Nicole and Nina might do the same thing. Happily, it seemed like they wanted to pretend I wasn’t there and I did not blame them.

In an adjoining room, Beth and I sat down to talk about how they were adjusting. Nicole was still awake most nights and had trouble sleeping. They had seen the doctor earlier in the week. Nina was given antibiotics for pneumonia and Nicole was treated for a skin condition. Beth’s concern and empathy for the girls was evident in every word she spoke. Compassion radiated in her eyes. When a fight broke out between the girls over a play diaper bag for their baby dolls, Beth immediately got up and intervened in a gentle but firm way. She seemed to understand Nicole’s anger and forceful personality and worked with it. Beth was the kind of foster mom I wished every child had.

Darryl walked in from the garage out back and introduced himself. He exuded the same kindness as his wife. We talked for a while as they showed me around the house including where the girls slept. By the time I left I was confident that the girls were going to be just fine. No matter how long they lived with the Warrens, whatever they soaked up would stay with them long after they left.

For the next five months, the caseworker and I worked diligently to monitor the girls’ placement as well as Jason’s compliance with court orders. Nicole and Nina continued to do well but they both struggled with intense temper tantrums, especially Nicole who was easily ‘set off’ by minor issues. The caseworker referred Nicole for therapy while Beth and Darryl continued parenting the girls with a tremendous amount of love and a healthy set of boundaries.

Nicole and Nina were also introduced to a large church family who gave them their first sense of community. Although Nicole and Nina weren’t baptized and not permitted to be without parental consent, they played in church groups and enjoyed fun times with new friends. Through these frequent events, they came to know a couple by the name of Kevin and Debbie. Kevin and Debbie didn’t have any children and weren’t looking to adopt. Kevin and Debbie were good friends with the Warrens and spent quite a bit of time with them. On Sundays after church they often went out as a group for breakfast and developed a little ritual. Each week Debbie asked Nicole if she was sunshine or a raincloud.  In response Nicole would giggle or scowl depending on her mood. Over time, Nicole was more sunshine than raincloud.

In time, Nicole and Nina developed wonderful relationships with them. As a result, Kevin and Debbie offered to be backup babysitters for the girls and had their background checks completed so they could watch them on occasion. Soon thereafter they offered to watch Nicole and Nina every Friday night so Beth and Darryl could go out. It was hard to tell who was happier with the arrangement: the adults or the children.

Five months later, Nicole and Nina were returned to the custody of Jason after expanded visits including overnights and weekends. Jason had maintained his sobriety and kept his home orderly and maintained for the girls. He had sufficient income because he received disability due to his chronic health condition. Their visits with Jason went well and they had grown in their relationships with him. Jason had joined in Nicole’s therapy sessions and got a positive report from the therapist. Beth and Darryl had been open to communication with Jason and he had talked on the phone with the girls often as well as visited them in their foster home several times.

Shortly after Nicole and Nina returned to Jason, I transferred the case to another Guardian Ad Litem (GAL). My book, Invisible Kids, had been released and I was suddenly catapulted into a world of media and marketing and publicity. I was exhausted after spending every spare moment I had writing it and it was beginning to take a toll on my own three kids. I knew it wasn’t fair to them or the kids on my caseload. My oldest child was 12 when the book came out. One night I overheard her tell my husband she thought it would get better when I was done writing the book but it was only getting worse. She was referring to my stress and the late nights. That was all it took for me to realize something had to change. Besides, I was afraid I would drop a ball on a case and I couldn't imagine how I would feel if something happened to a child on my watch.

The hardest thing I ever did as a GAL was quit and see my caseload scattered onto the desks of other GALs. They were all competent, good people but handing over my cases was tough. I loved my work and I loved the CASAs I supervised but I also felt drawn to write my book. I didn’t exactly think through where it might take me and I wasn’t prepared to lose what I loved so much. Still, the loss came and hit hard, leaving me bewildered and not just a little afraid of what was ahead.

Nicole and Nina returned to Jason and initially did well. They were both in preschool about a half mile away which enabled him to attend AA/NA meetings in the morning while they were gone. Nicole remained in therapy through the transition home and Jason continued attending with her. My biggest concern upon their return was his lack of support system.  Who would he call to get one to school if the other was sick? Jason didn’t drive and walked them to school every day. How were they going to get to school in bad weather? Jason was parenting two busy preschoolers who were dealing with yet another adjustment. While the system had ‘shored’ him up as best it could, there would always be a gap.

Within three months, Jason was increasingly exhausted. His emphysema worsened and he had difficulty walking the girls to preschool without getting winded. The girls got lice and he couldn't seem to get rid of it although he apparently tried. He was increasingly frustrated with Nicole and Nina and yelled often. Around that time, the biological mom contacted him and wanted to see the girls. The court had told Jason not to permit contact. The biological mom was ordered to file for visitation prior to contact. She was still on drugs and living with a sex offender. Jason later admitted he allowed her to visit two different times. Although he wasn’t supposed to, this infraction wasn’t enough to remove the girls from his care. Jason’s health continued to spiral downward and the girls’ absences at school began to pile up.

The court terminated their case on the girls, finding that Jason had done all that was requested of him to the best of his ability and it was good enough. There was no imminent risk of harm that necessitated the girls’ removal from him. All of the legal parties including the Children’s Services caseworker and GAL agreed. Still, the case that was no longer my responsibility continued to nag me. I had to let it go. There was nothing I could do.

A full year had passed when I opened my email one morning and received a message from Beth Warren. The subject line was in all caps. It read: NICOLE AND NINA ARE HOME with a long trail on exclamation points.

One Sunday morning after the case had closed in court and Children’s Services and all the professionals were gone, the couple from Darryl and Beth’s church, Kevin and Debbie, woke up with an open day before them and a desire to see the girls. On a whim, they decided to drive down into the city to find them. They had met Jason one time when he was visiting and the Warrens had brought him to church. They knew his name and easily found his address as well. They knocked on his door and he opened it, looking haggard and worn and breathing heavily. The girls heard the voice of their friends from church, squealed with delight, and ran to greet them. Upon seeing the girls’ excitement, Jason invited Kevin and Debbie in to visit. They talked for several hours and exchanged phone numbers. They visited several more times over the next couple of months. On one such visit, Jason pulled Kevin aside while Debbie played with the girls. Jason confided the stress of caring for Nicole and Nina proved to be too much for him. His health was deteriorating and he barely had the energy to get out of bed. He also admitted he had started drinking again. With tears streaming down his face, Jason asked Kevin if he and Debbie would be willing to take custody of the girls. He could hardly take care of himself.  He had no family. There was no one else to help him. He didn't want his girls back in the system but just couldn't take care of them the way they needed and deserved.

Before long, Kevin and Debbie sat in a courtroom alongside of Jason and the girls. Beth and Darryl accompanied them as well. The magistrate formalized the adoption arrangement and with the pound of the gavel, Nicole and Nina were officially adopted by Kevin and Debbie.

Later that night, Debbie and Kevin tucked six-year-old Nicole and five-year-old Nina into their beds. Nicole put her two hands on Debbie’s cheeks and pulled her head close.

“Me and Nina are adopted, right?” she asked.

“Yes, you are adopted now and you are going to live here forever,” Debbie told her.

“I get to stay forever?” she questioned.

“Yes, you and Nina get to stay here forever but you can still visit Daddy Jason too. He loves you just like we love you,” Debbie assured her. Nicole’s brilliant blue eyes bore into Debbie’s as if to search for the truth. Seconds passed before Nicole smiled.

“That’s like sunshine,” she whispered in Debbie’s ear. Then she giggled. Debbie hugged her tight.

"That's right," Debbie said. "It is like sunshine. There will be many sunshine days ahead but some raincloud days too. No matter what, I love you."

That night was the first night Nicole slept soundly for a solid ten hours. When she awoke, she ran into Kevin and Debbie’s bedroom.

"I am sunshine today," she announced.

Today, Nicole is ten and Nina is nine. Nicole loves animals and all things purple. Nina excels in sports, especially soccer and basketball. Neither like math but both love to read. Jason visited often after they were first adopted then gradually dropped off after he moved six hours away. He still calls on occasion. There are sunshine days and raincloud days.

Thank God for sunshine.



*As always, all names have been changed to protect identity.

 

 

 

Nicole and Nina Part 3 of 5

Nicole and Nina were up for a new foster home and a new caseworker, just like thousands of kids across America every day. At ages 3 and 2, what happened to them at this critical time would build the foundation of how they would learn, grow, and experience life indefinitely.

Nicole and Nina were assigned to a new caseworker named Richard. He had been out of training for all of two weeks when he inherited the case from Robin. He and I talked on the phone several times and while he didn't seem particularly bad, he didn't seem particularly good either.

In the meantime, Nicole and Nina were placed with a single woman in her 50s. 'Ms. Katherine' worked full time during the day and attended school at night. She took the girls to childcare at 7 AM and picked them up at 6. She brought them home then left them with a babysitter who put them to bed.

Nicole had started attending a therapeutic preschool program for children who have a history of being abused or neglected and are involved in the child welfare system. Children's Services arranged and paid for transportation to and from preschool.

Contrary to popular belief, foster parents can qualify for childcare vouchers (free childcare) if they meet the federal guidelines for income which is generally below poverty. Essentially they can foster children, work outside the home, and get free childcare. In these cases, the government is paying foster parents a board rate to take care of kids as well as childcare to take care of same said kids.

I made my first home visit to Ms. Katherine's on a Saturday afternoon. It was snowing and the roads were icy. Ms. Katherine lived in a rented townhouse. I noticed right away the broken blinds that hung on the inside of the window. I knocked on the dirty white door after I realized the doorbell was broken. After a while, I stepped off to the side and peered into the window. Nicole and Nina sat next to each other on a couch which was covered with clear plastic. The room was dark, except for the glare of a big screen TV. I returned to the porch and knocked harder.

"I told you all to sit!" A woman yelled as her voice moved toward the door. It swung open.

"Come on in," Ms. Katherine said as she stepped aside and I entered. "I've never had a GAL visit on a Saturday," she said. She didn't seem exactly thrilled.

"Thank you for letting me come," I told her. "My week ahead is booked and I wanted to get out and meet you." I turned to the girls who had left the couch and were at my feet. "Hi Angels," I said as I bent down. "How are you today?"

"They ain't no angels," Ms. Katerine laughed. She was the only one. Nina held her arms out to me. My heart sank.

Side note: I love cuddling kids. One of my favorite things is when a baby or little person falls asleep on my lap. Normally I would be thrilled to have a toddler want me to hold her. But Nina barely knew me. She didn't know if I was a safe person. My arms were as good as any. That was as bad a sign as a visible bruise yet far more damaging over the long-term.

I leaned over and picked up Nina. She immediately rested her head on my shoulder. Her hair was greasy. Nicole's sticky little hand found its way to mine and grabbed it.

"I like your coat," Ms. Katherine said, oblivious to the girls' emotional needs. "Where did you get it? I want to get one of those."

"I don't remember," I replied. I didn't have to try and hide my annoyance. Worry dominated instead.

Another side note: I got over-protective when it came to the children for which I was responsible. I expected A LOT of myself and everyone else. I admit it. On occasion I was a bull in a china shop. I wasn't always right and sometimes it caused unnecessary trouble for which I had to apologize later, which I always did when I was wrong. However, sometimes red flags flapped in the wind and I usually saw them first.

I didn't care if the doorbell was broken or the front door was dirty. I didn't care that Ms. Katherine was single and older than parents of toddlers. I've advocated fiercely to keep kids with relatives or families like this when it is clear they are loved and safe. Bottom line, safety and a sense of being loved are most important. I doubted Nicole and Nina felt loved or safe in this home. How could they?

I'd been in the house less than five minutes and the flags were flapping like crazy. Nicole and Nina needed a safe and nurturing place to heal. If they didn't get it, we were setting them up for all kinds of emotional and behavioral problems later.

I hated that they had to go to childcare everyday. They'd already moved around too much by the time they arrived on Ms. Katherine's doorstep. They needed a foster parent who would make their healing a priority. Nicole and Nina had one chance at a childhood and it was in our hands. It was slipping through fingers. I couldn't stand it.

Ms. Katherine led me, with girls in tow, to the dining room table. I sat down with Nina in my lap and Nicole standing beside me. As Ms. Katherine and I talked about the girls' schedules and daily routines, Nicole, almost 4, began knocking the salt and pepper shakers together. Ms. Katherine snatched them out of her hands. A moment later Nicole picked up a stack of napkins and began lining them up across the table.

"Girl, you are going to be the death of me! You know better than that. Put those back," Ms. Katherine said sternly.

"Is it okay if I give her a piece of paper and some crayons?" I asked. When Ms. Katherine nodded, I ripped a piece of paper off my yellow legal pad and pulled a few crayons out of my briefcase. I always tucked some in there in case of emergencies. Once when I didn't have a pen in court I was tempted to use a crayon instead but decided that probably wouldn't look very professional.

Nicole began scribbling. I was pleased to see she held the crayon well. By now Nina was sound asleep on my lap.

Ms. Katherine's only concern was about Nicole not sleeping. She didn't fall asleep for hours. Ms. Katherine wanted to talk to a psychiatrist about medication for her. I made a note of it with no intention of consulting a psychiatrist until we got Nicole settled and feeling safe. Finishing up our conversation, I asked to see where they slept. I gently put sleeping Nina on the couch in the living room and covered her with a blanket. Nicole sat next to her and returned to her television show. Ms. Katherine and I walked down the hall to a small room with a toddler bed and crib. The blankets were threadbare and the windows were drafty. It was freezing.

"Are they warm enough at night?" I asked Ms. Katherine.

"Oh yeah, they're fine," she replied with conviction.

"Are there extra blankets they can use if they are cold?" Maybe this had something to do with Nicole not sleeping. I never slept when I was cold. It was torture.

"Sure," she said. At least I planted a seed. I returned to the living room to say good-bye.

"Where are you going?" Nicole asked as she looked up from the television.

"I have to go to my home now," I told her, "but I'm going to come and visit you again."

"When is my mommy coming?" she asked without emotion.

"You must be thinking about your mommy. Do you think about her a lot?" I asked, diverting the question and taking this opportunity to learn something, anything, about Nicole's relationship with her mom. She just shrugged her shoulders. I said good-bye again and turned to leave. With one hand on the doorknob, I heard Nicole speak again. I turned around.

"Stay," she said, her blue eyes fixed on mine.

If there was ever a time in my career when I suddenly wanted to scoop up a couple of kids and take them home with me, this would have been it. My arms ached to pick them up and carry them out the door. For a split second I actually wondered how much trouble I would get in if I did just that. I knew their entire futures were at stake and I felt completely helpless. There was nothing blatantly wrong with their placement, at least not in regards to foster care rules.

"You know that lady can't stay here," Ms. Katherine said with exasperation. "She's got to go home now."

"I'm going to come and see you again soon," I told Nicole after I walked over to her and bent down one more time to be at her level. She turned away.

That night I woke up at 2 AM and immediately thought of the girls. Were they warm enough? Were they safe? I couldn't bare the thought of them shivering in the dark, alone and scared.
The next morning I emailed my good friend who is a priest and asked him to pray for two little girls named Nicole and Nina. A long time ago when I had told him how much I worried about the children I represented in court, he offered to light a candle to hold them in prayer and light throughout the day. In turn I offered to buy him votive candles in bulk. Over time he rubbed off on me and I started lighting my own candles, up to six at a time, with my favorite book The Tree That Survived the Winter in the background to remind me to trust and have hope. My sister and her kids added Nicole and Nina to their nightly prayers as well. Everyone can do something to help foster kids.

Whenever I felt this helpless, I reminded myself that these kids belong to God. I relied on a prayer written by Bishop Ken Utener. It is often called the Romero Prayer, wrongly attributed to former Archbishop Oscar Romero. I kept this prayer taped to the bottom of my phone at my office. It is below:

It helps now and then to step back and take the long view. The reign of God is not only beyond our efforts. It is beyond our vision.

We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction of the magnificent enterprise that is God's work. Nothing we do is complete, which is another way of saying the reign of God always lies beyond us.

No statement says all that could be said. No prayer fully expresses our faith. No confession brings perfection. No pastoral visit brings wholeness. No program accomplishes the church's mission.

We cannot do everything but there is a sense of liberation in realizing that because this enables us to do something and to do it well. It may be incomplete but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for God's grace to enter and do the rest.

I went back to sleep that night after putting them in God's hands. It was all I could do at 2 AM and it had to be enough.

Coming Very Soon:
Part Three: Nicole and Nina Catch a Break

Nicole and Nina Part 1 of 5

I arrived at juvenile court on a snowy November morning to sign in as Guardian Ad Litem (GAL) for the first court hearing held regarding Nicole and Nina*, three-and-two-year-old sisters who had been placed in foster care one week earlier. Their mother had voluntarily signed custody of the girls over to children’s services and walked away. 

I approached the security guard and exchanged pleasantries while he handed me the court complaint. I shrugged off my coat and began reading it while juggling my briefcase, purse, and gloves, never once taking my eyes off the paperwork in my hands. It was a window into these two little precious, vulnerable lives, and I wanted to catch every glimpse I could.

Nicole and Nina’s biological mom was allegedly living her boyfriend who was a convicted, registered sex offender. She had refused to make him leave knowing this choice would force the girls to leave instead. She also allegedly was addicted to prescription painkillers and had a history of untreated bi-polar disorder. A man named Jason* was listed as the biological father with address unknown. No other family members or significant others were identified.

The security guard leaned across his desk and told me someone had signed in for the hearing. I scanned the courthouse waiting area as the guard pointed to a petite man with dirty jeans two sizes too big and long, gray hair pulled back into a greasy ponytail. Somehow Jason had made his way to court. That almost never happens.

Jason was seated on a hard metal chair beneath florescent lights. He held a battered pad of paper in his wrinkled fingers and an old, frayed backpack on his lap. I walked over and shook his bony hand as I introduced myself as the girls’ court appointed Guardian Ad Litem.  I couldn’t help but notice gentleness behind his tired, worn blue eyes. He was 41 years old going on 70 after living a hard life of alcohol and nicotine addiction. He coughed incessantly courtesy of emphysema. He had started drinking at age nine with his father and never stopped.

Jason lived under a bridge near the river. He was forever hopelessly in love with the girls’ biological mother whom he met at an AA meeting years before when both were trying to get clean for a minute. He learned of the girls’ placement in foster care when he called the mom the week before.

Attempting to build respectful relationships with biological parents is the single most important step in moving a case swiftly through the court process. As professionals we are not here to judge. We are here to work toward solutions. The first meeting is critical.

The first meeting is also a pivotal moment to gain as much information about the history of children in case such relationships later head south. Sometimes against our best efforts cases languish for years and by the time court moves toward adoption the biological family is long gone, taking with them important information such as family medical history and which hospital houses birth records.

Jason and I sat together for twenty minutes while I collected as much information as he was willing to give me. In return I answered his questions about what comes next. He had yet to meet his public defender who was caught in another hearing down the hall.

“Case of Nicole and Nina Moore.”* Hearing the names of the girls called out in the large waiting room was our cue that the magistrate was ready. As Jason leaned forward to stand, his backpack fell to the floor and piles of crinkled paper spilled out in every direction. They were covered with scratchy handwriting and dirt stains. He looked almost apologetic as I bent down to help him retrieve them.

“I like to write,” he said. I was surprised. I’d never met a homeless alcoholic with tired, kind blue eyes and a backpack filled with writing. He had no way of knowing that I did too and was stealing every spare minute I could to write Invisible Kids, a book I wrote in snatches of time like lunch breaks during day-long trials. 

We headed into the courtroom and took our seats at separate tables while the hearing was called to order. I pulled out my own yellow legal pad of paper and flipped to a crisp new page, ready to write down every detail disclosed during the hearing. Being charged with representing Nicole and Nina’s best interests in court, having a say in their lives and how their futures would unfold was one of the most powerful, important tasks a professional could ever have. It would never be just a job to me. It was sacred.

On that snowy, November day I had no idea what course the case would take. I could only do my very best to advocate for two traumatized little girls I had yet to meet. On my fourth page of notes I wrote their names one more time. Nicole. Nina. Then I ran my finger over the ink and silently said one word. Promise. 

Part 2 Next Week: Meeting Nicole and Nina in their foster home.

 

*Names have been changed to protect identity.

 

 

 

 

For My Three Kids on Mother's Day

I cringed when the babysitter told me you played social worker instead of doctor and wondered if, despite my diligence, you picked up bits and pieces of overheard work phone conversations at the tender age of five.

I cringed when midway through a trial I remembered that I forgot to send you to school with money for the flower sale. My heart sunk, imagining your six-year-old self sitting off to the side while your classmates carefully chose and picked out their favorites.

I cringed when you called me because you forgot your lunch and I couldn’t bring it to you. It was fish stick day. What horrible timing.

I cringed every time the stress of my job created stress at home and you soaked it up much like your skin soaked up the sun the day your babysitter forgot to re-dose you with a hefty amount of sunscreen.

Most days I balanced your needs with needs of motherless children. I often worried all of you were short-changed. I did the best I could and tried to convince myself it was good enough.

It was.

I swelled with pride the day you boldly proclaimed I did not need to come with you as you took your little foster cousin outside to play. From the living room window I watched you spread out a quilt and sprinkle it with toys and books. You set her down and automatically bent her legs at the knee just like the physical therapist suggested. Her little hand reached out to you and you instinctively leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. Such tenderness coming from my boy astounded me. Maybe somewhere, somehow, seeds of compassion were sown into your heart when I wasn’t looking.

Relief washed over me when you bounced out of school with delicate hands full of tiny plants ready to grow. You were all smiles when you relayed how your teacher slipped you a five dollar bill. Somehow, your carefully chosen plants were made more special by the fact that someone other than your mom took care of a problem for you.

I laughed out loud when you told me your aunt brought you McDonald’s on fish stick day. What started out as a mini-crisis morphed into a treat. I laughed harder when you suggested perhaps you should forget your lunch more often.

Growing the three of you in this world reminds me that when I fail or forget or mess up, it will be OK. I’ve learned there are others who will right my wrongs, remember when I forget, be there when I can’t. Because of this, I know that despite the horrors, the suffering of so many, the anger and hatred spewed over politics and other contentious issues, the world will be OK. Really, it will be, as long as we help each other and the helpless.

As you have grown, your gifts to the world have grown as well. I remember this when another mom randomly stops me at the grocery store and thanks me for raising such a great kid. You’ve been extraordinarily kind to her daughter at school who’s been having a hard time. I want to save the facebook message I receive from a woman who echoes the same sentiments about your sister. I hang onto all the words I’ve heard in dozens of parent-teacher conferences for the three of you over the years. Compassionate. Kind. Driven. Problem-solver. Joy. Bright. Helper. Funny. Determined. Gift.

Gift indeed. What a gift each of you is and what gifts you bring to our hurting world.

Happy Mother’s Day to the stay-at-home moms who helped me in a pinch. Happy Mother’s Day to the working moms who covered for me when my own kids needed me more. Happy Mother’s Day to the teachers who cherished my children and went the extra mile for them. Happy Mother’s Day to their aunts and grandmas who do things like bring them McDonald’s, take them shopping, take them on vacation, and love them wholeheartedly.

Finally, Happy Mother’s Day to the mothers of the motherless who stand in the gap and lovingly care for their foster children with a fierce and loyal love that will stay with those kids forever.

Gift indeed.

Swapping Stories

I had lunch yesterday with a colleague who is a child therapist and works with young children who have been abused or neglected. A dozen years ago we started working cases side-by-side. She taught me almost everything I know about young children and largely shaped the ideas portrayed in my book, Invisible Kids, regarding the importance of relationships as vulnerable children grow and develop.

We sat across from each other in booth at a crowded Panera swapping horror stories we'd read in the local paper or heard on the news in recent weeks.

Did you hear about the nine-month-old baby who died of burns from a heater? Did you hear about the two-year-old beaten to death by his teen father? What about the mom who over-dosed on heroin in a restaurant restroom and left her three young kids sitting at a table in the dining area? What do you think of the three-year-old little girl who was found dead in her bed? Did you catch the story about the two-year-old who was severely scalded with hot water?

Not your typical lunchtime conversation, to say the least. Maybe it should be.

These stories are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to what has been happening in the past MONTH alone in our neck of the woods. Horror stories like these dot the landscape of our daily paper, sandwiched between news on the economy and the silliness of city council meetings. Do we even notice these stories? Do we think about the surviving siblings of battered babies and what their lives look like?

We need to, hard as it is to come face-to-face with children's pain.

I'm sorry. I wish I could spread happy sunshine about how we live in a wonderful world and stop there. But I can't. The reality is that we do live in a wonderful world. And because we do, we must step into this hell and help these kids and families find a way out.

Today, please visit my Invisible Kids Facebook Group and click on a link from Zero to Three that gives you information about using your political voice to help young children. Read up on your ability to inform public policy. It won't take you long.

I have faith that our most vulnerable children can live in wonderful worlds. We just need to help make that happen.

From Horror to Hope

Trevor* was three-years-old when the relatives who planned to adopt him changed their minds and abandoned him in the emergency room of a local hospital. Three years later, Trevor's adoptive parents sent pictures of a little boy grinning from ear to ear and getting onto a school bus for his first day of kindergarten.

Rhonda* was a drug-addicted mother on the verge of permanently losing custody of her seven-year-old daughter, Mikki*. Ronda got sober and went on to become an addictions counselor. Mikki, formerly in foster care, on medication for depression, and failing first grade was reunited with her mom. Today she is eleven-years-old, on the honor roll, and sings in the church choir.

Eighteen-month-old Josh* was in the backseat of his mother's car when she drove drunk and crashed into a concrete barrier. He was grossly neglected and physically delayed to the point his pediatrician suggested he may never walk. Josh, now four, went sled riding last week, giggling all the way down a hill and climbing back up with his foster brothers and sisters. His foster parents, along with physical therapists and others, have lavished devotion, professional skill, and ton of love onto this little boy. It shows in his wide grin, eyes that sparkle, and his healthy body that can do everything other preschoolers can do.

CASAs, foster parents, social workers, therapists, and countless others build the bridges between horror and hope for hurting children. They give the gift of new life every single day, despite how difficult and devastating it can be. They know the cost of standing in the gap for children who need safety and protection is a small price to pay for the reward of a job well done and a child saved.

Only two small words can begin to suffice when I think about what these people offer to children and to our world: thank you.

If you want to learn more about how you can help a foster child, visit www.invisiblekidsthebook.com for ideas on getting educated or getting involved.

*Names have been changed to protect identity.

WANTED: Loving Caregiver for Abused Baby Girl

Requirements: Must be a licensed foster parent. Love, structured routine, bedtime stories, hugs, and kisses desperately needed but not mandatory.

Immediate Availability.

How many of you would sign up if you came across an ad like this? How many of you would say yes if I stopped you in the parking lot at Target as you buckled your own kids safely into their car or booster seats? If I came to you and said, “Look, there is a ten-month-old baby girl sitting in the county children’s services office with caseworkers while they look for a home for her. She was exposed to cocaine, and not just prenatal. She has to go somewhere. Tonight. She can’t sleep or be raised in an ugly gray cubicle with ancient computer equipment. She needs YOU. Can you take her?”

How many of you would say yes? How many of you would think about it, go home, and talk to your spouse? How many of you would cruise the Internet for information on how to become a foster parent? How many of you would swallow down the fear that catches in your throat and trust that you can give a precious child a chance at a childhood? Your arms are the ones needed to comfort and console a baby who was dropped into this world without safe arms waiting to catch and protect her.

Go. Now. Google. Talk about it. Figure it out. Then sign yourselves up. Because children under age five make up the fastest growing group of kids in foster care. They are more likely to be abused in foster care than older children and more likely to stay in foster care longer. They desperately need you.

Please (and thank you).

Remembering Marcus Fiesel on his Birthday

Birthdays in the lives of children are important and often celebrated. As the mother of three children, I’ve organized and agonized over a number of birthdays and the parties that routinely accompany them. But when it’s all said and done, what seems to be most important to my kids on their birthday is the feeling of being special. They want to hear stories about day they were born along with stories of being babies and toddlers. They need to know their arrival in this world mattered. They want to be loved and to belong.

All children share these longings. Unfortunately, not all children are celebrated and find a place of belonging with people who love them unconditionally. Three-year-old Marcus Fiesel was one such child. He was removed from the care of his biological mother at age 2 for reasons of abuse and neglect. He was returned to her and removed again. At the time of his third birthday he was living with his foster parents. They killed him six weeks later.

Today would have been Marcus’ 7th birthday.

As the story of Marcus’ brutal death at the hands of his foster parents unfolded, people were outraged that a child under the custody of the government-run foster care system could be tortured and killed by those who were entrusted to care for him. We demanded answers and improvements in the very foster care system central to his suffering.

Things have changed in the three years since Marcus died. The foster care system of 2006 is much different than the foster care system of 2010. In many ways, it is worse.

Today, the government system charged with overseeing the care of foster children faces crippling budget cuts due to our current economic crisis. Due to layoffs at Children’s Services agencies across the nation, there is less supervision of caseworkers and fewer support staff. In Hamilton County, there is little money left for relatives who step up to care for children whose parents have failed them. Adoptions subsidies are reduced, and post-adoption services for children have been eliminated.

Marcus’ story shone light on a system that betrayed him. While many foster parents are loving and well intentioned, not all of them are. While many caseworkers are caring and competent, too many are overburdened, burned-out, and occasionally reckless. While the court system is designed to protect the best interests of these children, laws that govern them tie judge’s hands.

The answers to these problems do not lie in the current system. The solutions lie in the community. Thousands of volunteers responded to the park to search for Marcus when he was reported missing. Marcus’ death marked the end of his life but the beginning of a wake-up call to his community. But have we fallen asleep again?

Today, Marcus isn’t here to blow out candles on a birthday cake or to receive gifts. Instead, we can give the gifts of our time, our passion, and our promise that we as a community will no longer ignore the problems facing our most vulnerable children.

This just could be the best birthday present little Marcus ever received: his legacy that we will take care of Cincinnati’s foster children. What a great gift to give our community and our foster children in honor of a little boy remembered more for how he died than how he lived.

Happy Birthday, little buddy. May you live on in our commitment to ensuring safe, stable, and loving homes for all of our children.

Throw Our Foster Kids a Line

I’m sitting at my favorite Panera, drinking Light Roast Coffee. I can’t help but overhear a conversation at the table next to me. Three men are discussing the oil spill and the need to divert their summer vacation plans. I watched news coverage of the catastrophe last week with my out-of-town sisters who were visiting while our kids all played outside in the summer evening. The footage of ocean animals covered in slick, dark crud, desperately trying to shake their feathers clean, was upsetting to watch.

As usual, my mind turned to foster children. I thought about how they are awash in a sea of helplessness, struggling to shake free from the trauma and tragedy of the childhoods they never had. When they are turned to shore at age eighteen, emancipated, I think they feel relieved to be out of the ocean. However, that sandy shore is far from solid ground.

Sarah bounced around between foster homes, group homes, and locked mental health centers from the time she was six until she was eighteen. A ward of the state with no hope of returning to her mentally ill, drug-addicted mother and no hope of finding a forever family to adopt her, Sarah counted the days until she could be on her own, free of county caseworkers and the oversight of a juvenile court magistrate. I became Sarah's GAL when she was 14. I was forever advocating for services for her while encouraging her to finish her high school education while she was forever running away. It was too little, too late.

On the day she turned eighteen she called me. “I ain’t trying to diss you Ms. Holly, cuz you real nice and all, but I’m through with you people. I’m moving on.” I begged her not to walk away, to let the system people at least help make sure she had stable housing. “I’m done.” Since she was clear about this decision and there was no changing her mind, I asked her to let me take her out to lunch to celebrate her birthday. The next day we sat at a restaurant in Northern Kentucky overlooking the Cincinnati skyline. She was amazed at how pretty it was. “You mean that’s the city I’ve been living in?” she asked, incredulously. She spent years on the streets of Cincinnati, sleeping wherever she could find a couch, running from system people. Unable to step back and see the forest for the trees, she couldn’t see how staying in the system voluntarily and accepting help with housing and education was a good choice. She was itching to make all of her adult decisions on her own. She was out of the ocean of foster care, covered with a heavy coat of abandonment, trauma, abuse, and neglect. To think she could shake it off all on her own was ludicrous. I knew that but she didn’t. And what I thought didn’t matter.

Thousands of America’s abused and neglected children adrift in the sea of foster care are plucked by skilled and devoted hands that bring them to a safe harbor. Unfortunately, thousands more are not.

Across the country people are watching the oil spill and pondering the effects of this disaster. Many are helping where they can.

Likewise, many people are reaching out a hand to foster children and pulling them to safety. But they can’t do it on their own and desperately need more hands on deck.

Please consider how you can throw our foster kids a line.

Can Little Fleas Biting Take Down a Big Dog?

"So often we think we have got to make a difference and be a big dog. Let us just try to be little fleas biting. Enough fleas biting strategically can make a big dog very uncomfortable.” ~Marian Wright Edelman, Founder of the Children's Defense Fund

It was a warm April evening in 2007 when I went to meet five-year-old Joey*. He had been in foster care for only one night when I had sat through a court hearing listening to the facts of his case. I came home from court, had dinner with Ed and the kids and then headed out to see Joey. I just couldn’t rest until I laid eyes on him and the foster home where he had been placed.

My book, Invisible Kids: Marcus Fiesel’s Legacy, begins with the conversation Joey and I had that April night. Somewhere between the words rushing out of his mouth and the fear in his eyes, something inside of me shifted. I was the same Guardian Ad Litem (GAL) I had been for nearly a decade, but in the flash of a second, between his words, my commitment to him and kids like him took a radically different turn.

I didn’t know exactly how I would do it, but I was determined to educate people about the tragedies facing foster children with the hope of empowering them to get involved. Foster child Marcus Fiesel’s death proved the government could fatally fail children. Joey’s fear demanded that I do something so that solutions could emerge. That evening at the kitchen table, my commitment to writing this book was solidified.

I wrote Invisible Kids by taking it one idea and one sentence at a time. The thought of writing a book was too overwhelming for me. I just told myself I had to write a paragraph. A year later, the manuscript was finished. I discuss this process in a podcast I did with Women Writing for a Change just after the book was released. Check it out HERE.

Joey had no way of knowing that he pushed me into writing Invisible Kids. In his childhood innocence and suffering, he refused to allow me to sit quiet any longer. He enabled me to see that I had an important message to bring to the world.

I’m extremely grateful for the countless people who have read my book and have been moved to action. I receive your emails and hear how you have made a difference for a child and I know that Marcus Fiesel’s death means something and we are bringing good from it. I also know that little Joey had an important contribution to foster care when he moved me to write about him and others.

Every significant accomplishment begins with a thought backed by a commitment to do the piece in front of us that we can do. Invisible Kids ends with a dozen ways to make a difference: some are big and some are small. All are doable. We don’t have to solve the foster care crisis overnight. We don’t have to find the one big answer to the problems facing our vulnerable children. We just have to do one small thing at a time, kind of like a flea biting a big dog.

*Joey’s name was changed to protect his identity.

Esme's Light Shines On

Three times today I was annoyed at my kids for leaving the bathroom light on. Each time when I went to hit the switch to turn it off, I discovered it wasn’t on to begin with. The sun is finally shining after weeks of cold and ugly gray skies. I had gotten so accustomed to the gray that I had forgotten about brighter days when the sun streams through windows and casts light on every nook and cranny of my house, even the bathroom.

Although the sun is finally out after a long hiatus, gray clouds hang over my head today. Four children lost their mother this week after she was shot and killed by her sometimes boyfriend. Her three-week-old baby dropped from her arms as she fell to her death. For the past week, my thoughts have never strayed far from the family of Esme Kenney, a thirteen-year-old who went out for a jog on the first sunny spring-like day of 2009 when she met a nightmare named Anthony Kirkland. He (allegedly) murdered her. His trial began last week.

Just like Marcus Fiesel’s photo, I vividly remember seeing Esme’s picture flash across the TV news on the night of March 7, 2009. On the cusp of becoming a woman, she seemed childlike yet kind and wise beyond her years. There was a gentleness and sensitivity that radiated from her photo. My family and I prayed for her and her family that night. Two days later I went to mid-day mass to pray for her family as they digested the most horrible news anyone could receive about a precious child so loved.

Esme’s parents, Tom and Lisa Siders-Kenney, have every right to slam the door on life and live in hatred and excruciating pain. They must experience those days. Instead, just two weeks after Esme's death, Tom and Lisa issued a statement urging kindness. Read it here.

Something stronger than death is emerging in the countless good things that have been accomplished in the year since Esme died. The myriad of good deeds stretches across the globe but is held together by common themes of hope, courage, and tremendous love. A full list detailing the impact of Esme’s tragic death can be found here. It is amazing and powerful.

I’ve learned important truths while watching the story of Esme’s lasting impact on our world unfold over the past year. I’ve witnessed how an unspeakable act of violence can become the fertile ground of new growth, if passionate and courageous gardeners like Tom and Lisa tend it and a flock of loving family, friends, and strangers lend a hand. Tom and Lisa are teaching us that anything is possible when we work together. They are showing us the power of choosing life over death. They are reshaping our world with goodness and love.

Today is the first anniversary of Esme’s death. Tomorrow Esme’s mom will stand in a courtroom and testify against the man who took the life of her beloved girl. The gray clouds hanging over my head today pale in comparison to the darkness that must be raging in the hearts of Esme’s family. Even so, I pray that the light of Esme’s life radiates around them, envelopes them, and caresses them with her love and her presence. Her light, like the sun, is undeniable and brilliant. Even though it is sometimes hard to see and feel, it is always here.

Safe Families for Children

Amanda* is twenty-three years old and a product of the foster care system. She drifted through foster homes and group homes for years until she was emancipated at the age of 18. Her parents are both deceased, as is the father of her two little girls, ages 2 and 1. Amanda is on her own today, without the support of any extended family or friends.

Most kids who age out of the foster care system don't do so well on their own. Amanda's older brother was found shot dead just months after he aged out of the system. Her younger brother was incarcerated within a year of his emancipation and is in prison today. Many former foster children suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder at rates twice as high as US war veterans. Less than half have a high school diploma and many are homeless within months of being on their own. For more sobering statistics on kids who age out of the system, CLICK HERE.


Compared to her brothers, Amanda is a success story. She earned her high school diploma while in foster care and has managed to meet her own basic needs, as well as those of her infant and toddler. But every day is a challenge, and the challenges are mounting to the point where Amanda wonders if she can face another day.

Amanda is currently homeless and without a job. She is also significantly depressed. This makes parenting her children nearly impossible.


The shaky ground on which she has been treading is slowly crumbling and she is desperately clinging to the hands of each of her babies, terrified of losing them to the very foster care system that raised her and turned her loose. Even so, she can't do it anymore. Is there a way out this nightmare?

If she lived in Indianapolis there would be. Or Chicago, Orlando, Jacksonville, or a handful of other cities across the United States. What do all these cities have in common? They are home to a program called Safe Families for Children, a program born out of the brilliant vision of it's founder, Dr. David Anderson. I first read about Safe Families in the New York Times last May.

Dr. Anderson is from Chicago. Like you and I, he watched news accounts of story after story in which a child died of abuse at the hands of a parent. These stories moved him to search for a better response and a way for parents to get help before they abuse or neglect their children.

In 2003, Safe Families for Children was started with a handful of volunteers. Biological parents facing problems such as homelessness, illness, or incarceration have an option of placing their children briefly with volunteer families who agree to care for and support children. Biological parents retain custody and volunteer families are not compensated for their services. The goal is always to provide respite and support to children and families like Amanda and her little ones.

The beauty of this model is that it is a community or family responding to those most in need of stability. Foster care is necessary and life-saving, but the Safe Families model helps families and children before blatant abuse or neglect occurs.


Because there is no exchange of custody and no reimbursement involved, everyone stays focused on resolving the issues that led to the need for placement. Being a volunteer family is a great alternative for people who've often considered fostering but have been overwhelmed by the lengthy process of licensure. Safe Families complete background checks, references, and homestudies, but the required training is all online. It is also short-term in nature, a perfect fit for families who are unsure they have what it takes to be a foster parent with placements that can last indefinitely.

I wish with all my heart that Amanda had Safe Families here in Cincinnati to turn to during this crisis. It would give her children the stability and safety they need while she focuses on getting her feet back on solid ground.



If you are intriqued by the idea of bringing this brilliant, caring alternative to Cincinnati's families in crisis, comment on this blog or email me at admin@invisiblekidsthebook.com. Maybe if we all work together we can find a way to make this a reality for our most precious resources: our children, our families, and our communities.

Thanks for reading and for caring!

The Truth Hurts

Sometimes truth is brutal. Sometimes it's so horrific we want to turn away. Sometimes we think we are not strong enough to handle it and we forget that we're only asked to hear a story, not to live it. Living it would be much, much worse. Please, don't turn away just yet.

Meet 17-month-old Peter, who (I believe) rests in the arms of angels after a short life of complete and utter torture at the hands of his mother's boyfriend. The attached video is less than six minutes long and paints a picture of a life story that none of us want to hear or see. I challenge you to view it.

I asked you to do this because kids like Peter and Marcus Fiesel need you to know their stories. Not so you can be devastated and feel helpless, but so you can do whatever you can to make sure another child doesn't suffer abuse and neglect to the point of death. There is nothing that we cannot do when we come together around a common cause. Nothing. So if the foster care or legal systems need to be re-made so children do not suffer, we can do that. It won't be done by social workers, judges or other professionals alone. It can only be done by all of us.

But we can't do it if we are not willing to come face to face with the stories and to be moved to action. I know it is uncomfortable and sad to hear about children suffering. I also know that nothing in this world is more gratifying than working to bring their suffering to an end.

You can do this. You can watch this video. If you can't bring yourself to do it, I understand, but that doesn't mean you can't do something to help. You can visit www.invisiblekidsthebook.com and learn how to make a difference in the life of a child like Peter or Marcus who we still have a chance to save.

Doctor's Faith Guides Work with Maltreated Children

For every bad story about a child mistreated in foster care, I stumble across a great story about people dedicated to helping them. For every darkness that casts a shadow over vulnerable little lives, someone, somewhere is working to make things better.

Meet Dr. Phillip Scribano from New Albany, Ohio. He is the medical director of the Center for Child and Family Advocacy at Nationwide Children's Hospital in Columbus, Ohio. You can read about the two health-care programs he has implemented here. One involves coordinated medical care for foster children. The other involves home visitation and outreach to mothers with children under age two. Both are promising practices, no doubt changing the lives of the children served and strengthening their futures.

Many children in foster care lack comprehensive, consistent medical care with doctors who know their histories. There are lots of different reasons for this. Children move from foster home to foster home and change caseworkers frequently. Each transition increases the likelihood of important information getting lost. As a former Children's Services caseworker, I seldom had updated medical records on a child when I received a new case.

Once as a Guardian Ad Litem I came across a medical report in the file of a new case I had just received. It involved a baby who had been scheduled for an MRI. When I contacted the foster parents, they indicated they had taken him for the MRI but assumed the caseworker would tell them if they needed any further follow up. When I talked to the caseworker, she had assumed the foster parents would be contacted by the doctor if follow up was needed. These are the cracks through which the medical care of foster children fall. Within days, thanks to a big-hearted pediatrician (probably one a lot like Dr. Scribano), the foster baby was seen and treated accordingly.

What I love about Dr. Scribano's story is that he talks about how his faith guides his passion. I know what he means. So do you. It is that feeling of being driven to be part of something bigger than just ourselves, of giving because we know that there is no greater purpose for our life. It is taking the skill you have, whether you are a doctor, social worker or everyday, average American and using it to make the life of a child better. There are so many ways to help these vulnerable children. Visit www.invisiblekidsthebook.com or read Invisible Kids: Marcus Fiesel's Legacy to learn how.

This Thanksgiving, this is what I'm grateful for. I'm grateful for the thousands of people across our country who have dedicated their lives to helping foster children. And I'm grateful that you are considering joining them.

A Booming Voice for Foster Children

The first time I met Bishop WC Martin, I was taken in by the look in his kind eyes. Although we are physically close in height, it felt like he towered over me with his life experience and heart for foster children. We couldn't look more different. He is a black Southern Preacher old enough to be my grandfather. I'm a white, thirty-something mother of three and social worker. He is boisterous and I'm a little more reserved. He's been a guest on Oprah, 48 hours, and other national media venues. My media exposure has been mostly local. He doesn't seem to worry about what people think of him. I tend to second-guess myself more than is probably healthy.

He shook my hand warmly and introduced himself, leaning in to catch my name. He and I were both keynote speakers at a conference last Spring. After his address I passed him on my way to the podium. We had a minute to talk and I couldn't resist asking if he had any last-minute tips for me before I took the stage. When he speaks, people listen. He looked me in the eye and said, "I'm just a poor country boy from the backroads of Texas. I speak from my heart. You do the same and you will be fine." I took the stage and finished my address to the sound of resounding applause. "Good work, my friend," he said as we walked out together.

Bishop Martin and I crossed paths again last week. He was in Cincinnati to address pastors and other church leaders in our area with the goal of motivating them to get involved with foster care and adoption. Midway through his passionate speech he stopped, took a deep breath and said, "Everyone one of you in here has a responsibility for a child lost in the system." He talked of passing the buck, closing our eyes and turning away from children who have been abused, neglected or abandoned by their parents. Enough is enough.

This is exactly the message church leaders needed to hear and I was thrilled to have someone like Bishop Martin deliver it. To read John Johnston's Cincinnati Enquirer article about Bishop Martin's address, click here. It is a great piece and really captures the message.

Bishop Martin and I autographed our books (mine is Invisible Kids) for the attendees. After the crowd was gone, we packed up and headed out the door. He was returning to his home in Possum Trot, TX and I was on my way to guest lecture at a university. As we parted ways, I found myself wondering when we would cross paths again, and I hoped it would be soon.

To catch a glimpse of this great man and his life's work, please visit http://www.bcministry.org/ or check out his book, Small Town Big Miracle.

To learn more about the Coalition of Care and the 28 churches coming together around the needs of foster care, please visit http://www.coalitionofcare.org/.

Katie's Chance at a Childhood

A close friend of mine began fostering a fourteen-month-old little girl named Katie* not too long ago. Confidentiality prevents me from giving any identifying information about this sweet little baby, so bear with me as I try to paint a picture of her that makes sense. Malnourished, severely neglected and grossly delayed, Katie came into foster care with simply a name, a date of birth, a t-shirt and diaper. I met her that night. She sat on the floor next to her foster mother, her dull green eyes lost in a world all of her own and her soft, curly brown hair reeking of cigarette smoke despite a warm bath and clean jammies.

By morning, there was a case of diapers and some board books from the neighbor down the street who heard of her arrival. Later came gifts of clothes and a "security blanket" from friends. Several months later, random gifts for Katie continue to appear, courtesy of extended family and friends.

Material items weren't only the benefits Katie received. Thanks to the proactive work of her foster mother, within two weeks she had referrals for developmental assessments. She also had her first doctor's appointment: she had never seen a doctor before.

While other kids her age were building vocabularies of hundreds of words, Katie didn't know she had a voice. I was lucky enough to be with her the night discovered she could make noise. Silent for weeks, she suddenly began mimicking an older child. She opened her mouth as wide as she could and sound poured out. She was amazed and delighted as she soaked up the encouragement of her small audience. Katie came alive that night, and has been growing by leaps and bounds ever since. She is making great gains and has recently started crawling. When she arrived in foster care at age thirteen months, professionals diagnosed her development at age four months.

I've heard foster parents talk about when their foster babies "woke up." It seems one day, after a considerable amount of love, stability and plenty of nurturing, abused or neglected babies decide that just maybe the world is worth engaging. They start to interact with their caregivers and begin exploring their surroundings and their own abilities. However, I've never had the joy of seeing this unfold. Until now.

Kids like Katie are the ones saved by foster care and by selfless, loving people who put their hearts on the line and open their homes to children who need a safe place to land in the middle of the night. I can't imagine a more fulfilling or more potentially heartbreaking role than one of a foster parent. Little Katie was fortunate enough to be placed in a safe foster home with a foster mother completely devoted to her. She is a lucky little girl, no doubt. Those of us who have come to love her are lucky too.

If you are not in a position to foster, there are many other ways to help our most vulnerable children. Foster parents are so grateful for the support they receive from a wider community. If you know a foster parent who is doing a great job, please thank them. They are saving childhoods everyday.

I wish I could post a picture of Katie with her bright eyes and wide grin, but again, confidentiality is necessary. I wish you could see how her face lights up or hear how she babbles non-stop now. I also wish I'd taken her picture the first night she was placed in foster care. What a difference! No matter what the future holds for Katie, today she is showered with love and affection coupled with services like physical and speech therapy to help her catch up. She is finding her voice and her place in this world. And for today, that is all that matters.

*name has been changed to protect her identity.

Amy Baker Outrage

Amy Baker is considered a household name in Greater Cincinnati. When the story of murdered foster child Marcus Fiesel took the area by storm, Amy Baker was front and center in a twisted nightmare that seemed to belong on an episode of Jerry Springer instead of on the front pages of our local paper.

She and her three kids were living in Marcus' foster home at the time of his death. Amy was the live-in girlfriend of foster parents Liz and David Carroll. During Liz Carroll’s murder trial, Amy testified that she and David had burned the remains of Marcus’ body and dumped them into the Ohio River. For those of you just tuning in and wanting to know the full story, click here.

Amy never served prison time for her participation in the death of Marcus. She was offered immunity in exchange for giving prosecutors information about Marcus’ disappearance. I interviewed Hamilton County Prosecutor Mark Piepmeier for my book, Invisible Kids. Over coffee he seemed thoughtful and chose his words carefully when the subject came to Amy. He believed we might still be looking for Marcus if not for her confession.

Say what you want about Amy. People in Clermont County put signs in their front yards telling her to leave their community. That’s fine. They are entitled to their opinions and their outrage. But perhaps their time and energy could be better spent by putting up signs encouraging foster parenting. Maybe the signs could read, “Four thousand kids in Ohio will go to bed tonight awaiting adoption. No one has stepped up to love them forever.”

I digress. Amy Baker was back in court recently regarding the custody of her own three children, two girls and a boy. They were 6, 5 and 3 respectively in August 2006 when Marcus died and they were placed in foster care. Ten months later, in June 2007, they had changed foster homes three times.

It has been two years since then. How have they fared? Are they together? Have they been safe in foster care? And why does it take our judicial system so painfully long to make decisions about permanency for children who’ve experienced abuse, neglect and significant trauma? And more importantly, when are we as a community going to figure out better systems for protecting our children? If we wait for the government to fix itself or come up with something better, we’ll be waiting a long time.

On August 29, 2009 Amy Baker and her estranged husband, Brian, signed permanent surrenders on each of their three children. This means their parental rights have been severed and the kids can be placed adoptively. They are 9, 8 and 6 now. Who will adopt them? Will they be adopted together or will they lose each other forever? What kind of emotional needs will they have after enduring early childhood trauma?

In Hamilton County, Ohio, adoption subsidies that help adoptive parents with the care and cost of raising adopted children have just been reduced due to budget cuts. Post adoption services, such as therapy, have been eliminated. Who is going to step up and have the financial means and community support to adopt three innocent, blameless children? I hope and pray someone does.

If and when that happens, I hope the rest of us can get past our anger and outrage and find ways to support the loving foster and adoptive parents who are brave and kind enough to do what the rest of us won’t.

Back To School

It's back to school time at my house, and three kids equal three different buses each 45 minutes apart. Looking for a positive spin on this, I thought it be great to have time with each child individually every morning. I hadn't thought about what would happen if we missed a bus, particularly the first one.

However, this is exactly what happened on the first day of school. As the back of the bus grew smaller and smaller until it vanished, all I could see was this nightmare domino effect wreaking havoc on the rest of the morning. It played out in my mind in slow motion as my oldest daughter and I stared at each other. How does Kid Number Two make Bus Number Two if I drive Kid Number One to school? And what about Kid Number Three still asleep? He's too little to stay home alone. Panic set in. Note to self: make sure husband does not leave for work early on the first day of school.

For eight years, school buses retrieving the Schlaack kids have picked up at the same corner. I never considered this might change some day. Sure enough, the bus pass had the new location right on the front. I was so entrenched in the way it had been that I didn't even see what was written in black and white.

So as I stood on the corner wondering what in the world we were going to do, one thought flashed through my mind so fast I'm a little surprised it even registered. "Is this what it is like for foster kids?" Things change in their lives constantly with no warning. And unlike for me, it is not even written down for them where they can see it, if only they would read it.

Many foster children enter up to three different schools during the course of one school year because they move around so much. Foster parents aren't required to attend parent-teacher conferences or participate in the educational process for foster children. Some foster parents do these things and more. Far too many don't.

Can you imagine not laying eyes on the school your preschooler attends each day? Four-year-old Trey was placed in foster care after his mother overdosed on heroin. His foster mother had never been to his school, had never seen his classroom or met his teacher. As his Guardian Ad Litem, I never felt right about this. Still, Trey stayed in this foster home because his basic needs were being met and we had no reason to move him and no guarantee he would land somewhere better.

If your kids are back in school and you have some time on your hands, think about how you might give some of it to help a foster child. Tutoring or volunteering at schools or non-profits are all good ways to give back to children who really need you in their corner. You might even consider giving the greatest gift of all: opening your heart and home to a child who desperately needs someone to love and protect him or her, and attend parent-teacher conferences. To learn more about fostering, click here.

As for our first day of school, we got lucky. Our wonderful neighbor who works at the middle school was heading out the door just as we were coming around the corner. Disaster avoided. The kindness of a neighbor in my small community put our morning back on track. I think that is exactly what will put our foster kids back on track too.