Pray, he is there, Speak, he is listening.

As I vacuumed the guest bedroom today, I ran across a picture of my fourth son, Brian. A moment later I found myself whistling “A Child’s Prayer”. I wouldn’t have noticed it, or recognized why, except that I saw my husband smile at me as he passed, and there was more in his expression than mere good cheer.

It was about 16 years ago.  Jeff and I were inspired by all the good-hearted people in our Black Forest Colorado ward to join the ranks of foster parents with the aim toward adoption. There was a four-year-gap between our sixth and seventh children and it seemed natural to fill that gap with a little girl.
The paper work and hoop-jumping were daunting, but after several months of studying child psychology, getting CPR certified and being psychoanalyzed through a questionnaire that asked if we believed we had no hair anywhere on our bodies, (no kidding) we finally got to be certified foster-adopt parents. And then we waited.
We waited and waited. . .six months. We’d always had the impression that there were dozens of children ready and waiting to come to a loving home, and were a little puzzled. Nobody else that we knew, (and we knew four other families that had gone through the process) had waited so long.
But we did have some specific requirements. With a whole house full of boys, (our only daughter was already soon to be off to college,) we didn’t feel prepared to handle the problems and issues that come with a little girl that has been sexually molested. The likelihood of her acting out her experiences with her new adoptive brothers was too great a risk. Add to that the tremendous amount of care a child dealing with those issues would require from her parents, it was simply a matter of hours in the day. We needed a child to fit in to the family without taking too much time away from her siblings.
At last we had an offer. There were two little girls, almost identical ages of our last two boys. They were half-sisters, though until they went into foster care, they had never lived in the same household.
The first few weeks were great. They were sweet, happy, and healthy. But our number six child was unhappy. He seemed to be dealing with more than just jealousy. He was trying to avoid his foster sister as much as he could.
As the older girl was less on guard, strange behaviors began to emerge. She was “herself”, a little sweetheart, during the day, but at night, she began to show signs of severe emotional disturbance.
We watched and wondered and continued to let ourselves fall in love with our two little mites.
But it got worse. The placement worker was unavailable and nobody at DHS claimed to have any information. The little girls were assigned at new caseworker that had never met them because the old one had switched areas of work. I called the former foster mother and asked if she’d noticed certain behaviors. The main things that we were noticing were new, but she had far more information about their background than DHS had given us, and she told us of several incidents that made it absolutely clear that both little girls had been molested probably from their earliest memories. The foster mother said she had reminded the case worker to tell me about those incidents. They were the reason she had asked that the little girls be re-placed in another foster home, even if a foster adopt home wasn’t available.
We surmised that the previous caseworker couldn’t find a suitable adoptive home for the girls and wanted (or had no choice) to place them before she changed to serving adults. She’d emptied their files of the objectionable information (or not shown it to us) and sent them to us with a wish and prayer that we’d manage. We should have been warned that the caseworker was sub-standard when she told us that the younger girl was developmentally delayed because she wasn’t using complete sentences, wasn’t potty trained. She was only 22 months old! And she also claimed that she didn’t know why the older girl was removed from her grandparents home.
 To make a long story short, the older little girl needed the undivided attention of a very diligent, watchful, patient and expert mother and father.
We already loved them both. But we owed it to the children we already had to provide a safe and happy home. From all that required research for certification, we knew how destructive keeping the older one in our home could be. It wrenched my heart to ask to have the older girl moved again.  Bouncing her around would only make her worse and she was an angel most of the time.
Looking back, I believe she had already split her personalities. Her behavior was so extreme in both sides of the spectrum that it’s almost the only explanation that makes sense. And with the evidence of what she had been through mounting, there would have been enough to precipitate it.  
When an emergency caseworker on call heard what had happened one night (I’d been trying to get help through the regular caseworkers and got no response for weeks at a time because of the transition) and determined that the older girl was an immediate threat to the family. She arranged to have her analyzed in a mental hospital.
I met their new caseworker for the first time after the older child had been in the hospital. She had never been to my home, never met the family and never even met the younger sister. But she had met the angel older girl. “And all the hospital workers said she was an angel all the time.”
She scolded me for “doing this to this poor little girl.” She told me I “had no right.” and that she was going to put in our file that we couldn’t have any child that was not Caucasian. This was out on the sidewalk in front of the facility. I corrected her as strongly as I could, trying to explain what had been going on and how she had manifested the dangerous behaviors. I told her what the foster mother had related to me and she said I was making it up.
“We’re taking both girls. You’ve done enough damage already.”
I begged to have a trial separation of the little girls. Just see how the older one got on without her half sister. It wasn’t like they had ever known each other before.
They placed both girls in a new foster adopt home.
The new mother was very sweet. She listened to the whole story and what I’d learned from the previous foster mother.
The father sat in the living room, tapping his foot, shifting in his chair and finally burst out, “Can we get on with this? Do I really have to be here for this? This is your idea, not mine.”
His wife meekly soothed his impatience. He showed no interest in meeting the children. He sat in the driver’s seat while we loaded their belongings.
The older girl went quietly away with just a few tears. It wrung my heart. I knew she was going to be worse off than ever in a hateful man’s home. How I wished I could soothe the ferocious world she’d lived in!
The baby clung to me, screaming Mama! Mama! She had to be physically torn away. She struggled to get loose from her carseat, reaching and sobbing.
The DHS caseworker didn’t come to the transfer. She still hadn’t met the younger girl.
I let myself bawl for a few minutes after the their car spewed gravel down the road as they left. My children hugged me and tried to comfort me and each other. When Jeff got home from work, he assured me over and over that it would be okay. That we’d made the right decision.  The house was very quiet that night.
After the children were tucked into bed, I went into my room to pray.
I knelt there and poured out my worries and woes to Heavenly Father. Who would protect those two little girls from that scowling, rude man? Who would get professional help for that wounded child who did nothing to deserve the nightmare that must have been her life? What would become of them?
I let myself sob out my sorrows, begging The Lord to help them. . .to help me.
Our youngest started to cry in his crib in the room next to ours.

He shared a room with Brian who was almost twelve. “Don’t cry, Thomas,” he said. “Do you want me to sing to you?” Even then, Brian had a beautiful, melodious voice.

I half-listened as I silently prayed. “Father in Heaven, wilt thou watch over and protect them? Keep them from harm and help their new parents to love and nurture them. . . Sooth this terrible pain I feel! Did we do the right thing?”
 And then Brian began to sing “A Child’s Prayer”

Heavenly Father
Are you really there?
And do you hear and answer every child’s prayer?
Some say that heaven is far away,
But I feel it close around me as I pray.
Heavenly Father, I remember now
Something that Jesus told disciples long ago: “Suffer the children to come to me:
Father, in prayer, I’m coming now to thee.

The descant or second verse is in a lower, slower melody

Pray, he is there
Speak, he is listening
You are his child
His love now surrounds you.
He hears your prayer
He loves the children
Of such is the kingdom, the kingdom of heav’n.

I cannot yet, after sixteen years, hear that song without having tears come to my eyes. I still pray for those two little girls from time to time. They’d both be young adults by now.
Nor can I hear that song without remember the feeling that penetrated my heart when I received the answer to my earnest prayer in the moment and power that I needed it most.

Pray, he is there
Speak, he is listening
You are his child
His love now surrounds you.