Hope has never come easily for me.
 
I’m a natural cynic, so I’ve always believed hope was a virtue for fools. It seemed naïve, childish, indulgent. I considered myself far too much of a realist for such nonsense. Hope just seemed embarrassingly earnest, like admitting that I wanted more would just be setting myself up for failure when it didn’t happen.
 
My problem with hope was that I never expected it to actually work, so I never gave it a fair chance.
 
I never bothered with hope.
 
Until I had to.
 
The family we have created through foster care is absolutely dependent on hope. Every child we call ours has come from a hopeless place, and I have had to learn to hope for their sake. But this has its challenges. I’ll admit, I often feel ill-equipped to the task.
 
For so long, I have feared hope, because hope demands change.
 
You only need to hope when you want things to be better. In order for anything to improve, change must occur. I have never liked change. I like things in my life to be predictable, constant, safe. (I married an Eagle Scout. I have an iPhone. My car has a 200,000-mile warranty.)
 
But these kids come to us from places of total disruption and chaos. There is nothing predictable, constant, or safe about their lives when they arrive. Change is thrust upon them, and I am instantly part of their change, like it or not.
 
Change is hard, even when it is for the good. It’s uncomfortable and scary, yet in this change lies the opportunity for growth.
 
Hope requires a certain tolerance for the discomfort of change. It means looking forward with joyful anticipation as you navigate the transformation ahead. In this way, hope is equal parts dissatisfaction and optimism. Hope is the journey, never the destination. It’s a road trip virtue, a belief that you’re headed somewhere good, somewhere better, even if you aren’t entirely sure where it is or what it will look like when you get there.
 
Hope dares to ask, “What if…?” while walking confidently toward it. Hope is the relentless belief that blessings exist on the other side of change, and hope is the courage to pass through those changes like a refiner’s fire.
 
I have often been too impatient for hope. I want the harvest without the growing season.

I want to enjoy the result without enduring the change, but hope means bearing the awkward ugliness of change with patience and grace, always believing that things will improve. Hope is raising a caterpillar in a jar.
 
Or a teenager in your spare bedroom.
 
I am learning how to hope by providing these foster children with opportunities to flourish, by helping them bridge the gap between their circumstances and their dreams. Watching our foster children reach beyond their circumstances and grab hold of more is hope in action. And as I bear witness to such hope arise in them, they give me hope in return.
 
It’s a beautiful, continuous loop of possibility.

Christmas was pretty complicated at our house this year.
 
It hasn’t always been that way—at least, not for me. For me, Christmas has always been pure joy. It’s my favorite holiday, and I have nearly four decades of happy Christmas memories, all made of love and connection and celebration, of singalongs and game nights, of delicious cookies and even more delicious anticipation and, best of all, the people I love and care about most.
 
We always spend Christmas Eve with my parents and siblings, and I was thrilled to have my adopted daughter, current foster daughter, and former foster son joining us. I wanted to give them the same sort of joy and love and connection that I share with my own family. I wanted to do everything I could to give them a good Christmas. I went all out, and so did my family.
 
And it wasn’t just good. This year, it was great.
 
It was one for the ages. It was magical, filled with love and laughter and joy, with card games and too many gifts, with hugs and snuggles, with carols sung around the fire and way too much food, and the sweet, sweet comfort drawn from the simple company of those who truly love and accept you.
 
But that joy proved too sweet for some.
 
I did not think such a thing was even possible, but it happened when one of my kids broke away from the game we were playing and asked for my car keys, saying he needed to get something. I couldn't imagine what, but I gave him my keys anyway. 

He didn't come back inside.
 
After some time, I followed him out to the car. I assumed that something had set him off, that he’d gotten an upsetting phone call from one of his biological family members. But that was not the case. He was just sitting out there, in the dark, alone. I asked him what was wrong, and he could only shake his head, but we both knew what it was.

It's always the same thing, after all.

He had felt the joyful magic of Christmas, and that was exactly the problem. This joy was a glimpse into the life he’d been denied. He had retreated to my car to escape, to hide from the joy because all that sweetness was just too much.
 
Like a toothache.
 
Having these kids with us was beautiful, but any joy they experienced with us was undoubtedly tempered by the knowledge that they were not experiencing it with their biological families. No matter what I did, I would never be able to fill that void for them. I had wanted them to experience pure joy this Christmas, but the best I could give them a diluted version that we’ve learned to call happy/sad.
 
I wish I had a better word for it, but I don't. Happy/sad is a very real emotion. It's not quite the same as bittersweet. It has the same juxtaposition and contrast of pleasure and pain as bittersweet, but there’s an element of competition and confusion that happy/sad has—an internal war is waging. Sometimes, there’s a third contender, and it’s happy/sad/mad. You don’t know what to feel, what you should feel, but you feel it all, all at once, and it’s overwhelming.
 
Adoption itself is happy/sad. So is foster care. There’s always that stab of pain, that element of loss. Nearly every holiday and milestone we celebrate with the kids in our cares come with this complicated feeling. We have come to expect this, and we are doing our best to help them endure these emotional tsunamis. I spent an hour crying outside in the cold in my pajamas on Christmas Eve, apologizing through the window of my car for things that I knew were not my fault but felt bad about all the same. When happy/sad struck him, I wanted to help, but the only things I could only offer were my presence, my tears, and my reassurance.
 
It didn’t feel like enough. (It never does.)
 
My mom told me that there’s nothing worse than watching your children suffer, and I know now how true this is. Watching my kid experience happy/sad made me feel a version of the same. I did my best, but I couldn’t get him to come back inside. He just wanted to be alone. He asked--begged—me to leave, so, because he asked, I did.

I returned to the house alone, with puffy eyes and shuddering breath and a heavy heart, and when my dad asked me what was wrong, I started to cry again. I felt awful, like I’d been caught inadvertently flaunting my happiness. Dad saw my pain, put on his coat, and went out to talk to him. His efforts were successful, and they returned together and shared a hug.
 
Happy/sad—that I have a loving biological father, yet he does not.
 
My foster daughter saw my crumpled, tear-ravaged face, and she opened her arms to me. “It’s okay,” she said. “I get it.” I fell into her arms and cried into her shoulder.
 
Happy/sad—that she cared about me yet likely felt the same thing he did.
 
Happy/sad—the feeling is maddening.
 
This Christmas had been joyful, and my kids did enjoy the holiday—they told me so, all three of them. But there will always be an underlying sadness there that no amount of sweetness will ever soothe. This will likely always be the case when celebrating with children who have endured foster care, and that’s happy/sad for me, too. I love sharing the holiday with them, but I am saddened by the pain and grief that the joy of this holiday evokes.
 
Family is about finding those who will help us weather the storms of our feelings. Sometimes, you’re born surrounded by them; other times, life brings them to you. Either way, I’ve been blessed by both kinds. I know I’ve experienced my own share of emotional tornadoes, and I’ve been unconditionally sheltered by my family circle as they’ve raged. I’ve had a good, steadfast example, and I believe it is my calling to go and do likewise, to build a shelter around these kids and help them withstand their storms.
 
It’s a holy calling, even if it’s a happy/sad one.