We wave goodbye and watch as the van pulls away from the curb, our son’s temporary foster mother at the wheel. We have been strong long enough. We hold each other on the empty sidewalk and cry. We eventually make our way back to the hotel room where, for one more night, I dream strange dreams in a strange bed. That room, so full of promise and hope just two days ago, now feels vacant, even while we are still in it. Or maybe that’s just my heart.

Our precious son, our beautiful boy is once again living in a far away place, being “parented” by relative strangers. We tried hard to make life work at home following the last program. We survived six months — six whole months! And those six months are a win for us. Put ‘em in the “W” column! But they were not going to stay in the win column for long, and the truth is, we found the next placement just in time. We checked in to a program in Denver at the beginning of June and now it’s September and we are finally getting our first visit.

The reality of parenting a child with these types of struggles is pain: pain that comes in lots of different packages. Ironically, one of the toughest of these packages is called The Visit. Wow, there’s a lot jammed into that one. First of all, it’s a visit! Hooray!!! It’s supposed to be exciting and happy! We haven’t gotten to hug him and kiss him for over three months now, and I’m just about climbing out of my skin with anticipation! I want to wrap my arms around him and never let him go! Oh. Okay. Yeah, that’s where the hard part comes in: the letting go. Cause it’s a weekend, not a homecoming. It’s just a visit. And it will feel like it’s over before it really gets started.

Another hard part is, well, let’s face it – it’s awkward. We’ve picked him up and hugged the stuffings out of him. (That felt so good!) Now we are off to find some dinner in an attempt to pretend for a moment that we are a normal family, out to eat on a Friday night. Reality intrudes, however, as we fumble our way through uncomfortable questions from the chatty waitress. “No we don’t have any hail damage from the recent storm –we don’t live locally. We’re just here visiting our son. No, he’s not in college. Yes, he’s in high school here, but … can you see me silently pleading with you to just drop it and take our order?”

The next day we try our hand at the adventure of zip lining, attempting to build some positive memories together. We arrive to find that the other group slated for this time slot has re-scheduled and we now have the guides all to ourselves. Oh goodie. My hope for blending in with the crowd whimpers in the background. I cling to the thought that maybe we can just focus on the adventure at hand, but no such luck. It must be part of their zip-line-guide-training-manual to ask personal questions — “to get to know us” — as we’re stuck together on the side of a Colorado mountain for the next two hours. After providing about six different, vague, non-answers, the female guide is just not taking the hint and I finally just have to say, “It’s complicated, okay?” Talk about awkward! Now they’re afraid to look at us! Good grief, can we just zip line?!

Sunday afternoon has now arrived. We’ve made it through four hours of therapy sessions, several strained conversations, and have actually even managed to have some fun together over the past two days. But now we sit in relative silence, renting space at yet another restaurant table. We don’t have enough time to start another activity, but we have too much time for the small talk that sometimes turns dangerous at this point of the visit. There’s much to be said, but every topic feels laden with potential disaster areas, fraught with possible hurt. We sit instead, nibbling at the last bits of lunch. It’s nearly time to say our painful goodbyes once again. We have been doing it this way for years, but it never seems to get any easier.

“Well, I guess it’s time to get going,” my husband finally says. We all know we have more than enough time until check in, but a circuitous route on the way back feels like the least painful way to spend our last 45 minutes together.

Now we have come full-circle and are crying in the rain on the empty sidewalk as our boy rides away. Now we are home, the wound re-opened, the void once again, acute. Now we are trying to re-acclimate to “normal life.” My heart is hurting and it’s hard to find someone who can even understand, let alone relate. It’s a weird situation, and that’s nobody’s fault, but I find myself alone in my pain, nonetheless. The sadness and isolation turns to a weary depression, or worse to a hardened bitterness. The many years of hoping, waiting, and praying wear thin. You’re God of the universe, right? So you could change this, right? So why haven’t you?!

Nope. Back it up. I’m not going there. This is not my fault, God, but it’s not Yours either. I have been here before and it’s a dead end road. Those are honest questions, but the accusations lurking behind them simply don’t serve me well. Ask me how I know. I desperately cast about for a way out of this place that is quickly turning soft tears into hard acid rain.

I find my solace in the familiar lines of Psalm 25. This Psalm has actually been my mainstay over the past summer, so much so that I have put a few of it’s verses to a tune that I play over and over, both on the piano and in my mind. I knew I needed it when we said goodbye in June. I didn’t realize how much I would still need it at the end of September.

So that’s where I am. I’ve put my hope in You and some days it doesn’t feel like it’s working out. I echo the psalmist. “Don’t let me be ashamed! Don’t let my enemies triumph over me — ‘cause it feels like they’ve got the upper hand right now. Not to mention, I feel lost! Teach me, lead me, show me.”

And that’s the most beautiful part of interacting with the Word. It’s not just interacting with the ancient psalmist; it’s somehow also interacting with the Ancient of Days. He’s here with me in my pain. I know, because He literally pulls me out of this dark place, again and again, when I have absolutely nothing left. Even more miraculous, He renews my love and restores my hope. Did I mention the word miraculous?!

So I’m still waiting. But I wait with hope because I wait with Him. I don’t know these paths, but He does, and He walks with me. “Oh my God, I wait on You…”