Patches

(Disclaimer: This is a fictional account written through the lens of a  foster child. These are recollections that a foster child might say if they were able to grasp words at their young age. Although this is fiction I believe many of the emotions and actions are very true. )

Pieces. What's left when your world falls apart. As a child it's hard to grasp that chaos isn't commonplace if chaos is all you've known. So I have pieces. Each encounter with someone new leaves more pieces as they enter and as they leave or as I am shuffled from one home to another. I have pieces. I'm not complete. A part of me is here and there. I feel broken but my pieces are scattered.

I get the look. Unfortunately I'm old enough to understand pity. It comes wrapped neatly packaged in hugs and kisses and consolations. I still see it though. It's there in every interaction. The underlying pulse of pity. It makes me mad so I have anger.

I hear the talk. I may be in the next room but I still hear as my fate like a dice is rolled. It's always tentative and based on my behavior. If I have been good it means one thing, but if I have been bad it means another. I am never allowed to have age appropriate behaviors. Everything I do is seen through the lens of my status as a ward of the state. All I do is based on a past I can't recall and a family I have had little interaction. But they talk about me as if I am invisible. That's how I feel most of the time... invisible.

Time doesn't heal all wounds. I am not allowed the luxury of working through my problems with time. If I become inconvenient I become dispensable. My family didn't want me or couldn't take care of me so I became a number in a system that dehumanizes the humans it services. I'm worthless although I carry a price tag and a monthly stipend. There's a cost benefit analysis that occurs and if my cost is too high I may not benefit the 'family' I am a part of. They may not have time to give me time.

All of that wraps into me. I'm a person full of patches. I have a doll who is made of patchwork fabric. It's full of pieces from here and there. I don't know who made it but I feel like that doll. I was given it several years ago and with each place I sleep I take it with me. It's mine.

The room I sleep isn't mine. The clothes I wear are not mine. Most of the toys I play with are not mine but Patches is mine. She is always good. She never acts out. She doesn't hit or fight. She never bites. She listens without comment and she holds all of my hurts inside her. I hug her each night and kiss her. I need her because I need to feel needed. I need to feel wanted. She wants me. It's me and Patches against the world.

Mom. Such a small word with huge meaning. Patches and I haven't had a mom in several years. The family I'm with are nice but they are not my family. The lady is not my mom. The man is not my dad. I tell Patches that I heard that we may be moving again. They are tired of my behavior. I have disappointed them ... again. They don't understand what's wrong with me. I hug Patches a little tighter.

I really want to be good. I tell Patches how I don't try to be bad. I have this spotlight on me all day and when I do something that other kids do too I'm the one that gets in trouble. Then comes the look and the talk and the punishment. They even take Patches away from me sometimes. I promise to be good but...

So here I sit in a room full of other kids with moms and dads who bring them and pick them up with hugs and kisses and the way they look at them isn't the same as how my mom and dad look at me when I am picked up. They have so much more than I do. I want more. Patches and I deserve the more too. Can someone please give me ... more.

jamie ...

(dad to a soon to be adopted foster child.)

Just As I Am

Just As I Am

A short story written by: Jamie Tanner

I grew up here. 

The faces have changed. The building is a little more modern but it still has that same starched white appearance on the outside. It's too bad the inside isn't the same color as the white washed wood on the outside. I have a great memory. I remember the good times, sad and bad times. I remember the things we celebrated and also the things that were covered up with smiles and lies or better yet non-admittance to any wrongdoing. Things that should have 'come to light' but due to circumstance or personal stature they were put to rest like a body out in the graveyard. Unfortunately like those bodies things tend to decay, rot, smell and like the resurrection morn things covered up rise again as well.

I remember the affairs, conspiracies, and gossip. I learned most of the details over Sunday lunch following morning services. My mother served a piping hot bowl of 'did you see' and 'I heard' along side the mashed potatoes and gravy. The more scandalous the discussion the more we seemed to salivate at the thought of who to tell next. Yes I have heard my share of destructive tales. At no point during the conversations were there thoughts of maybe we shouldn't be talking about our 'friends' or rather 'brothers and sisters'. It was a smorgasbord and we all tried to tell the biggest story. Most of the time dad kept quiet and listened but even he wasn't immune to the occasional chuckle at someone else's expense. Eventually it was common place to cut into the Pastor as easily as carving a turkey... and we were all oblivious to the destruction of trust and faith of these comments.

I don't know when I become immune to the negative effects of these stories but after a while it didn't see like we were talking about people. We were simply sharing 'facts' and some of those facts were not very pleasant. As a child and as a teenager these negative round tables destroyed the trust I had in these people both the ones in the stories and the ones relaying the stories. The exact day and time of my demise can probably be pinpointed to one of these family meals where we cannibalized our congregation over roast beef and potatoes. I was never the same.

I grew up here.

Mom and dad taught all of us kids right from wrong on these pews. Not all of my experiences were tainted and sour. There were plenty of good times as well. There were times of celebration when the smiles were addictive and the good nature of congregants was all that mattered. Yes this building has seen its share of both good and bad.

I remember the Easter celebrations where we had a huge Egg hunt and everyone stayed and ate together. We were all a part of a great collective family and it felt great. We would have a huge lunch and everyone had a great time together. In these type of events is where I learned to love people. I learned that despite our differences there were times where you laid aside differences and for the good of everyone you agreed to appreciate the things you had in common. It's during these moments when I felt that God was looking down and smiling. All of his 'kids' playing well together. Looking back over my life I think God would have been happy with me if I could have figured out how to stay in that mindset of collaboration, love and respect for one another. But I didn't.

I don't know when it happened. I can't tell you the exact day and time when I drifted. It didn't happen overnight either. Yes I grew up here but I didn't stay.

I became my own undertaker. I buried my own lies, sins and indiscretions and just like I stated earlier they have started to stink. I left this place years ago. I traveled far away and did many things that I am neither proud nor would like to admit but they are a part of who I am now.  These experiences hang on me like a cloak and like grave clothes they threaten to engulf me. 

I've seen my share of success. I left this small church with its small and often closed minded people and struck out for bigger, loftier goals. I didn't look back until those times where I needed an anchor. Life has a way of pulling you further out to sea and with all of its flaws this building was my lighthouse. I would catch a glimpse of the celebrations we had and it would bring me back in. It's funny how in times of trouble I never recalled the moments where I and others would tear someone down. When I was in trouble thinking about negative events only threatened to pull me further down.

I became a successful nomad. While in my pursuit of success I changed jobs a lot. I felt restless. There was something chasing me. In fact there were two things chasing me. My destruction and my salvation were both hot on my trail and I didn't want either to catch me. I looked for bigger and better opportunities for change simply for change sake.

I came back here because I have nowhere left to run. I have no money to take me either. In truth I've been running and I'm exhausted. I am so tired of trying to escape the one person who is inescapable...God. He pursues me. Even in my worst sin He pursues me. I can't think of one reason why. I know all the cliches of church about the love of God. God knows I have tried my best to escape it.  I tried to commit sin to purposefully cause Him to shun me, but He doesn't. In each situation He draws me and I push away.

I grew up here and I'm tired. 

Did they notice me sitting here in my car when they arrived. In their Sunday best .. I was that and as much as I don't want it. I want it. I yearn for the closeness I felt once to God. The certainty of faith beats the uncertainty of sin but I've gone too far. I look at myself and see a shattered image of who I was. All I see is damaged. The rags I wear are not worthy of entering the front door. Maybe I could slide in the back or through some side entrance.

Thank goodness my mom and dad are not living. I'm sure their pew still has their name engraved on it. I remember them telling me about the building project and the pride that they had in helping to purchase pews for this sanctuary.  I didn't make it to either of their funerals. I claimed that I had other obligations but that excuse was laced with guilt and shame. Even in a casket I didn't want them to see who I was.

I remember the funeral dates more than their death. I did try to make it back home to visit them both in their last few days but I persuaded myself that they were senile. The dementia had wrecked their brains and they wouldn't know me if I was there. They died years before their actual death so my absence wouldn't be felt. Unfortunately my absence was very visible to me. I regret not having the time to say goodbye. The absence eats at me even now as I look into the cemetery where they lie in rest. Truthfully this is the first time I have been physically close to them in years.  I have kept up with them and they have visited me but coming home is very bittersweet.

So here I sit... Where I grew up.

Mom and Dad are buried in the cemetery there and somehow I'm sure they know I'm here. All I can say is I'm sorry. As I sit here and weep I feel it again. It's like a small nudge. 'I'm here, I'm waiting, come home.' For the first time in years I feel a stirring inside. It's like receiving a postcard from home after being gone for years. A quiet recognition.

I was close to God once. I let ambition and the hunger for success drive me away. I went off to college and never looked back. I rose to positions of authority both in my work and community. I married, divorced, married again only to divorce again. I had two kids and in my pursuit of my career I never knew my children other than the occasional holiday or birthday where it was more obligation to interact than an actual heartfelt memory to make. In fact I can't recall any memories with my kids where I enjoyed being with them. What a terrible father I was to them. Now that they are adults I rarely see them myself and the occasional phone calls are few and far between. I should have been a dad and not just a biological father.

I timidly open my car door and hear the hymns from inside. The emotions at the sound of an organ being played draws me back to childhood. I make my way to the door and reach for the door knob and gently pull it open. Here I am in my best business suit. Clean shaven with the best smelling aftershave money can buy. I have made a good living always putting myself above others. Here I stand an upstanding citizen in this community. Who would have known the things I carried all of these years.

I get the nods and smiles of former friends and acquaintances. They think I have it all. They think I have it all together. What a joke I am. If they could see the me I hide. They would see a destitute soul. I'm void. I sit in a pew in the middle. I have this sea of people around me and I've never felt so alone. I sit here and let it go. I give a long sigh and know that I can let it all go. All of my emotional baggage and all the years of struggling with life I can stop. I can stop running.

I'm home and my mind is racing.

I learned how to hide within a shell of confidence. I learned how to push aside everyone and live for me. But it wasn't enough. The money ran out, prestige diminished, and what do I have left. Just me. In the end all I have is me and to God that's enough.