Looking for the source of the cry

I left the office a little late today. Which means it was a little quieter than normal as I walked down the hallway from my office to the back door. Quiet enough that I heard the sobs before I saw the reason for them. 

It’s not unusual to hear crying at the CPS office. I often go looking for the source of the cry. 

That distinctive mewling cry that only a newborn makes tells me that there’s a parent there visiting their child that was recently born, very likely exposed to methamphetamine, or heroin, or something else their little body should’ve never known.  

Sometimes it’s the angry cry of a toddler who is incensed because they didn’t get their way or because it’s the only way they know how to communicate their frustration with life and circumstances. 

Sometimes it’s the happy cry of a child who is glad to see their parent, or their siblings, for the first time in a week or more. Sometimes it’s the broken-hearted cry of that same child when that visit ends. 

So when I heard crying today, I did what I almost always do. I looked to find out why. 

And what I saw broke me just a little. Four young children, sitting on the couch in our foster parent waiting room. One of the little boys was sobbing as if his heart was breaking. Because it probably was. Because earlier today, I approved the removal of these children from their parents. It’s the 8th child I’ve made that call on in the last 5 days. Those numbers are ridiculous, and heartbreaking, and in all the cases, unavoidable. 

Regardless of what you read in the news or on hate-spewing blogs to the contrary, CPS workers don’t get their jollies from ripping kids out of perfectly good homes. Removal is a last resort. It’s one all of us hate. I ask all the questions I can think to ask when my workers staff removals with me. I think of every outside of the box solution I can come up with. We don’t make the choice to remove children unless there is absolutely no other alternative. 

Because I don’t like to see little boys on strange couches in unfamiliar rooms in office buildings. Little boys sobbing their eyes out in heartbreak while their pillow and their trash bag of clothes sits on the floor by their feet. 

I’m not going to like it if when I go into the office before court tomorrow, there’s a sign on the door that says please be quiet, child sleeping, because the child placing unit couldn’t find a foster home for four little kids on such short notice and so they had to sleep on that strange couch and on uncomfortable air mattresses with no adult they know to kiss them goodnight. 

I’m not going to like going to court and hearing the pitiful stories of addiction and histories of abuse that their parents share. I’m not going to like doing my best to remain kind in the face of bad attitudes, misplaced blame, unearned sense of outrage, and downright hatefulness. 

People ask me sometimes if I like my job. That’s a hard question to answer really. I love the people I work with. I love the opportunity to feel like I am making a positive difference most of the time. But I hate the frustration of bureaucracy and policy and idiocy that harms children. I get overwhelmed by the weight and responsibilities of the work that I do. I have my heart broken by the stories of hurt and broken children, over and over again.

I know without a doubt that God is leading me in a new direction. In a new way to help people. There is great excitement at those possibilities. But until that door fully opens, until God makes it clear to me that this door is fully closing, I will bloom here where God has planted me.

And I will never stop going to look for the source of the cry.