To say that starting a family was an uphill climb for my wife and I is like saying Mt. Everest is quite a hill. While blessed with two living children, we have lived through the loss of another 15 pregnancies during the course of our 17-year marriage. 

While many might have stopped with two and been grateful, we felt a calling to do more. That calling led us to become foster parents because we were, and are, lucky enough to be in a position to share with others some of the material comforts it is our good fortune to have. Our kids don’t worry about going hungry and they will always have a roof over their heads. But other kids are not as lucky. 

We were foster parents for about five months to Jewish six year- old twins, a boy and a girl, who were in the middle of a custody fight between their parents. While painful for the family, the chance to help was an honor for us. 

The chance to teach them some of the beauty of our religion and in the process perhaps instill a spark that could someday be rekindled was also an honor. To learn the warmth and love that surrounds the mitzvah of lighting the candles on Friday night and to develop positive feelings about going to synagogue on Shabbat were gifts we felt we gave these kids. 

We took great pride when the little girl learned to recite the prayer for washing her hands before I said the hamotzi over the challah and in the smile on the little boy’s face as he proudly wore the kippah we bought for him. 

To be blessed with the chance to have a positive impact on such beautiful, innocent Jewish souls is one that we were humbled to have and I only pray that we brought some sunshine into the difficult world they fell into through no fault of their own. 

It was a powerful lesson for us and for our two boys, aged 11 and 13. 

We wanted to show our boys what tzedekah really is — more than dropping dimes in a pushka — it is giving of yourself. It is giving up your bedroom for six months at a time, or more importantly, letting someone else take the last slice of pizza. It is learning to share your parents, even though our kids, like all others, have their own pressing issues. Again we pray these lessons are internalized and will exhibit themselves in later years. 

Our current charge, Baby C, is another story of falling into painful circumstances through no fault of her own. I am easily brought to tears each time I gaze into her face — she is the epitome of innocence. 

The bottle seems to dwarf her five-day-old features as I caress her silk-like hair and cheeks. Occasionally, she will pause and share with me the beauty of her rich brown eyes. As the world stands still, I try to decipher the plethora of emotions inundating my heart. 

Because I am lucky enough to have had two babies in my arms before, this séance with Baby C is not a totally foreign experience to me. However, neither of my children was born with a cocaine addiction from a mother who received no prenatal care. Her trembling is a reminder of the toxins in her tiny system, but I take solace in the words of her doctor, who assures us these will pass with time. 

It is hard not to be filled with rage at her mother for unnecessarily traumatizing and jeopardizing the health of this gift of pure heaven. I am repulsed at the neglect and selfish disregard her mother displayed toward her unborn daughter. 

But with further reflection, my anger turns to sorrow and pity. I am reminded of the teachings of our ancestors, that one must not judge the behavior of others until one has stood in their shoes. Born and raised into a loving home, I never battled with substance abuse nor have others who surrounded me. Though by no means a carefree existence, my challenges have largely been emotional and not a struggle for mere survival. 

I begin to view Baby C as collateral damage — just the byproduct inflicted on innocents by the wrath of narcotics. My heart reels in despair as I speculate on the fate of other infants of similar circumstances who must live in fear and squalor. I feel for their parents as well, living in such an emotional abyss, with the inability to conquer their addictions even at the expense of their own offspring. 

Our puppy’s curiosity provides some comic relief and changes my train of thought. Baby C’s arrival, in the words of Yogi Berra, is "déjà vu all over again" and I remember the same sleepless nights with my own boys — the endless evenings, followed by disoriented days, garbed in formula-stained clothes. 

But much has changed since last time. With thanks to my wife and God, I am more rounded in girth and mind than the last time around. The pressures of growing your own, small business are constant and sometimes acute. Rarely, however, are they so overwhelming as to take precedence over helping cram for a math exam, a quick tutorial on the virtues of a zone defense, or the need to change a diaper. 

The yearning to leave a financial legacy is now balanced with the dream of developing in our children’s minds the true understanding of tzedekah. While understanding that profits and mutual funds and tax liabilities are important, so too is shalom bayit (peace in the home) and honoring the Sabbath. 

Baby C is not Jewish — yet. If, God willing, we are granted the honor of adopting her, we will convert her. 

Unable to see the future, I am content now as I rock our baby and say more prayers. I pray for her uncertain future, as the courts will decide the length of time we will be honored to have her. I further pray for her precious soul and the strength she will need to overcome the adversity she inherited. I also add a prayer of thanks for receiving the privilege to nurture and care for this child for as long as she is in our home. 

We have kept the author of this story and pertinent details out for the protection of the children involved, but we felt this was an important topic for our readers to hear about and discuss. Not everyone is willing to be or capable of being a foster parent but we should all be aware of the need for Jewish foster parents and should be aware of the role being a foster parent plays in our society.

From the Mouths of Babes… 

One day my daughter was watching the video "Arthur’s Perfect Christmas." In it is a scene where Arthur’s uncle’s truck needs to be repaired so he can return to Florida. 

One of the characters says, "It’s a miracle! I didn’t think any mechanics worked on Christmas", to which my daughter replied back to the television," That’s not a miracle. The mechanic is probably Jewish." 

Joan Brazas, Flossmoor, IL 

When my son, Ben, was in kindergarten, an Irish student’s mom brought little green baskets filled with gold coins for St. Patrick’s Day. 

"Look, Mom!" cried Ben excitedly,"St. Patrick’s Day gelt!" 

Stephanie Landers, San Jose, CA 

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