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The plastic bags of clean, used clothing were piling up at the doorway leading to the church’s office.  I always noticed the baby clothes first; the little footed pajamas and tiny knit hats, neatly folded into matching sets.  Every time I passed by, it made me think I should finally drag my daughter, Chloe’s old baby clothes out from under my bed.   Surely, now that she was nearly 8 years old, it was time to let go.

But I couldn’t.  Not yet.   

Nor can I quite put my finger on what I was waiting for.  Another baby?  No. Chloe’s biological father, Will died from cancer two months after Chloe was born. I will never know how many children we would have had together.  She was my gift from God, the one true light when every day was as dark as midnight.

But as Fate would have it, I do have another child in my life. (To protect her privacy, I’ll call her “Clara.”)

Clara is 11 years old. Her father is an illegal immigrant from Mexico and her mother is a former gang member, trying as best she can under the weight of poverty and addiction, to go straight.  Most of the time, it is a losing battle that involves drunken rages and beating Clara almost senseless with a coat hanger.  Yet, in the mean streets of gang-riddled South Los Angeles, Clara is one of the lucky ones.  She is bright, vivacious and her parents are at least married—and for a brief time, they were both employed. But they, like millions of American families, live right at the poverty line. One accident, one injury and their fragile world shatters. In Clara’s case, her mother broke her leg and subsequently lost her job.

Two weeks ago, Clara’s mother disappeared, and the founder of the charity that works with my church to help families in need let it be known that county social workers were going to take Clara away. I know there are many success stories when it comes to the scenario of social service involvement but there are just as many horror stories too—of children in group homes, abused, raped, starved or barely supervised.

Before I could even think through the consequences, the words came tumbling out of my mouth: “What if we took Clara. Would that be possible?”  

“Yes. I believe that’s possible, Carol,” said the volunteer liaison between Clara, her dysfunctional family and county social services. 

The distinction between what is possible and what is impossible is hard to discern when our hearts are vested in the “right thing to do.” For Clara, anyone with half a brain would conclude that the right thing would be for her to be taken away from her parents and placed in a loving home that could provide warm clothes, the best schools, the right influences. Would that family be mine?

Right then and there, I was driven by an overwhelming desire to take Clara away from yes, all she’s known but clearly all that has hurt her.   I wanted to take control and go into fix-it mode for a problem that seemed obviously solvable.

For the last eight years, I have been a caregiver to cancer patients—first my husband, Will and now, my mother—fighting an enemy I cannot see, except on some murky MRI scan. Even then, I was helpless to do much other than pray, help find the right specialists and hope they would survive. 

With Clara, I knew I could make a difference. I could save this child.

I called the principal at Chloe’s elementary school. Was there room for Clara in the fourth grade class? I researched requirements to become a foster care family. The volunteer liaison put the word out on “the street” to get a message to Clara’s mother, asking if she was willing to surrender her rights to her child? Clara has a family who wants her.

I started telling the other mothers in my neighborhood that Clara might make a great big sister for Chloe. One of my friends, who deeply familiar with my single-minded, pig-headed nature, asked the obvious question: “Does Mike know?”

“Mike?” I replied, realizing I hadn’t mentioned any of this to my second husband, Mike.  “Uh. No. Not yet.”

“Carol!!” Ranae teased. “You’ve got to ask him first!”

Mike was traveling for work. I called and tentatively broached the subject, explaining the circumstances, the absolute, urgent need to take Clara as soon as possible. (Again, that tricky word).  Mike was hesitant.

“Carol, are we financially prepared to send Clara to college in seven short years? What about our little girl? What about our plans to retire early?” he asked.   

But how could we not take Clara?

As it turned out, it wouldn’t be my choice.  Clara’s mother re-appeared. She was sober and contrite. Social services’ 21^st century approach is to keep families, no matter how dysfunctional, intact.  Clara’s mother agreed to submit to regular drug testing and twice a week home visits by the social worker. The carrot on the stick was $2400 a month for living expenses to support her family while her broken leg healed and she could go back to work again.

Clara, who had been staying at our house, was going to go home no matter if I approved or not.  I would save no one.

Before driving Clara back to her mother, we took her to church, where Clara asked to take communion. She knelt at the altar and crossed her slender hands to receive the bread wafer.  The priest asked if she would like to say a prayer to which Clara softly replied, “Yes. I’d like to pray for my Mama.” Clara’s large brown eyes were luminous and her gentle smile was sincere.  “I pray that she finds peace.”

Clara was not looking to fix what was broken.  She was accepting life as it unfolded.

I can’t fix what is wrong in Clara’s life, nor will I have the big family I once dreamed about.  I can’t cure cancer, either.  But I can be available for someone in need. I can be there the next time Clara needs that safe place to go.

Former CNN anchor, Carol Lin is the mother of one daughter and the co-founder of TulaHealth.  She is a regular ShareWIK.com contributor.  Visit her on the web at CarolLinReporting.com.

More Carol Lin articles, click here. 

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