Cracks in the Glass

Thirteen years ago, I graduated from college with a degree in Social Work. Back then, I was still an INFP (for all you Myers Briggs folks), destined to change the world, or at least hopeful to make it better. I was 22 years old when I applied to the Oklahoma City Department of Human Services, and was hired on as a Child Welfare Specialist. I would become the glue that would try to piece together broken families.

My training was extensive and horrific. We learned of parents who "disciplined" their potty-training children by lowering their bare bottoms into pots of boiling water if they had had an accident. I sat in training, mouth agape and eyes wide. I was a baby myself, really, who had lived my entire life up to that point cozily inside my perfectly insulated bubble. What did I know about abuse, abandonment and neglect? My only reference points for those atrocities was in their total absence from my life.

Before I was eligible to inherit my own case load, I endured weeks of paper pushing. I was a governmental peon who reported to work just to make copies and run menial errands. But one day I was asked to go pick up a child from a youth shelter in Northern Oklahoma and transfer him to a similar residence in Oklahoma City. The task would take nearly 5 hours round-trip. I would have done anything to get out of the office. So off I went.

My drive north was long, albeit uneventful. I mentally reviewed the details of the boy I would be transporting: Isaiah, age 12, numerous siblings, ward of the state. I learned that he had been in protective services for most his life, bouncing from youth home to youth home. I didn't really know what to expect, as this world was still very foreign to me. I arrived and went inside to fetch my precious cargo. He stood carrying his worldly possessions: a grocery bag full of odds and ends and a ratty duffle bag. Despite the genuine warmth of the staff as they said their goodbyes, Isaiah stood numb and detached.

We climbed into my beat up Honda and strapped in for a long drive. I tried to start up conversation, but Isaiah said nothing. I worked every angle I could. OU football was booming and I was well-versed in Josh Heupel stats. I tried talking about Nintendo, music, TV, sports, books. Nothing. The boy was silent. So I just drove. About an hour into our drive, with plains and fields stretching for miles in all directions, a bird collided into my windshield. It truly came out of nowhere and it made the loudest SMACK you've ever heard. I screamed and swerved and looked at Isaiah and his eyes were wide open and he also shrieked a bit. And then we laughed. We laughed so hard we could barely breathe. We were hysterical. We went on and on about that poor bird (and my poor, cracked windshield).

We stopped off at a 7-Eleven for gas. I told Isaiah to get whatever he wanted. He spent his time combing over his options and finally brought his meager candy bar to the cashier. I said, "Isaiah, I told you to get ANYTHING!" His eyes lit up as he went back for chips and Gatorade and an assortment of gas station junk food. We got back in my car like we were old buddies. We sipped our drinks and munched our Cheetos. We chatted comfortably for the remainder of the drive. He could tell by the changing scenery and my deliberate street sign reading that we must have been getting close to the youth home. He went quiet again. He said, "Excuse me, Ma'am? Do you think there is any way I could come live with you?" My heart sunk. I was thankful my sunglasses were hiding the tears in my eyes. I cleared my throat. "You know what, kiddo, I wish you could. I really wish you could."

I couldn't tell him that "everything would be OK" or that "things will get better." He has probably heard those empty promises from well-meaning adults his whole life. I left him at the check-in counter of his new home clutching all he had to show for his life plus a few extra candy bars. That was the first night of many that I cried myself to sleep. God sent a bird to crack my windshield and also to crack open my heart. He made room inside of me for the possibility of fostering or adopting one day. He continues to send birds my way-- fluttering reminders of the human experience. I have never, nor will I ever forget Isaiah. I pray for discernment and direction and clarity so the next time someone knocks on my door, I might be ready to let him in.