Of my flesh they were not born
but to my soul they have been knit
born and nursed of another womb, another breast
they were not welcomed, they were not wanted, they were not loved
cast aside like debris, “she clutters my life…”
kept as a means for release, “he reminds me of him…”
again and again it come the blows–
whether to the body or to the heart
the wounds are deep, there will be scars

Of my flesh they were not born
but to my soul they have been knit
the lessons I teach fall on deaf ears
and yet their hearts are keen
A farmer knows not the outcome of his harvest at planting time–
only he is faithful to his duty whether in sowing, in tending or in reaping
they fight, they rage, they question…
they fear, they ache, they seek.

Of my flesh you were not born
but to my soul you have been knit
I fear for you–
for what I have not taught and cannot teach,
for what I have not given and cannot give.
but what I know, I teach
and what I have, I give

I wrote this poem on May 12, 2002 when I was a foster mom at a youth ranch. My girls blessed me with wildflowers picked on the walk home from church, sweet notes & cards, and grilled cheese lunch. Three days later I was sitting stunned at funerals for two of them who were killed on May 15, 2003. A few years ago I lost another, a young man who joined the army after graduating. He had become a medic and was killed serving in Iraq. He was an honorable solider, man, and friend to those around him. There are about 20 youth that I “mommed” during my two years at the ranch and they are forever in my heart, forever my children