Ancient Church

He was a man with impressive tattoos. He came as close as I have ever seen to being a walking canvas. I had known him for several years, having represented him on a few odds and ends of court appointed cases. Nothing particularly serious, but he had a knack for getting caught when others would probably just slide by. Even then, the pride of his life was his wife and their three kids. Not exactly the most functional family you ever saw, but they managed to hold things together well enough. There had been some previous trouble with Social Services, but I had gotten the kids sent back home, and everything seemed to be settling down.

This time was different. He was in prison — taking the rap for his wife, he said — and the the wife had disappeared, leaving the kids back in foster care. There was no patience left among the authorities. They almost immediately got an order excusing them from making reasonable efforts to reunite the family. It would have been hard to anyway, what with Dad in the Department of Corrections. He finally got out in the summer of 2003, one month after the Department filed a petition to terminate his parental rights in the kids. That’s when I was appointed to represent him in the termination case.

As I said, my guy had always loved the kids. He had not made very good choices, but he always loved them, and in prison some things had happened which helped open his eyes. He enrolled in some parenting classes there, as well as some classes through the local community college in ethics, and how to make good choices. When he was released, he was more focused than I had ever seen him, and when he came into my office, his first words were: “I want to get them back.”

“It will be an uphill battle,” I told him. I make it a point to never sugarcoat anything with the people I represent. “I’ll do the best I can, but there is a lot you need to do.” We talked about it. Even though the Department was not going to let him see the kids, he needed to keep asking, or else they would testify at trial that he never said anything about seeing them. He had to pay support for them. He needed to write them cards and letters, and get them gifts for birthdays and holidays. “But what if they don’t give the presents to them?” he asked. “Makes no difference,” I told him. “For right now the important thing will be that you did it.”

He sighed deeply. “OK,” he said, and got up to leave. I stopped him. “Here’s the most important thing: never give up. It will be a long, long road, but if you won’t gve up, I won’t give up.” He shook my hand. “I won’t,” he said, “and God bless you, man.”

Almost immediately a terrible thing happened. Prompted by something the Mom had said, the Department obtained DNA samples to test for the paternity of the children. My guy just laughed. He knew his wife, and he knew his kids. He had no doubt he was the dad.

He was wrong. The DNA test said he was not the dad for two of the three kids, incuding the one that bore his name. Only the youngest one was his. After he was told, he came and saw me. I had never seen him looking so bad.

“I don’t know who she was with,” he said, “although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care. But I’m the kids’ dad. I still want them.”

“Then I’ll keep working,” I told him. “Hang in there.”

“I will,” he said, the hurt still evident in his voice. “God bless you, man.”

My guy remarried, this time to a kind, stable woman, and they proved a good match. Everytime there was court or a meeting or anything having to do with the case, she was with him, not saying a lot, but holding his hand tightly. He held down a job, and he and his wife started attending one of the little Baptist churches around here. They were there every time the door opened. He called the social workers every week, asking to see his children, and every week they turned him down. Every birthday, every Christmas, every Easter, every Valentine’s Day, every time a gift was called for, he took gifts for the children to the Department, where they were put in a closet. The case dragged. I kept noticing it in for hearing, and it kept getting continued. It was a stalemate.

Then the middle child began exhibiting severe behavioral problems, so bad that he was moved to a therapeutic group home several hours from here. The therapist at the group home called the Department, and told them that the boy was lost, that they could do nothing for him…except. “He needs his dad,” the therapist said. “we have to get the Dad involved.” “But he’s not the dad,” the worker said. “I don’t care,” said the therapist, “if he’s the King of Siam. He’s the boy’s only hope.”

The Department called me. “He doesn’t care about genetics,” I told them. “Tell him when to be there and he’ll be there.”

So my guy started driving to the group home once, sometimes twice a week to see the boy that carried his name, but not his genes. The very first time, they told him that he had to tell the boy that he was not his father. The kids had not been told. Later the therapist from the group home told me it was one of the hardest things she had ever seen, that the boy and the man just held each other and cried. Then they started talking, and the dad told the boy he loved him and would always love him, and would always be there.

For three months my guy ran the roads between here and there, and finally the boy was stable. A miracle, said the people at the group home. They wanted the boy to go home to his dad, right then.

The Department refused. They did allow some visits, and then the next bad thing happened. My guy got into an argument with his stepdaughter, and the police were called. No charges were filed, but it was enough for the Department. No more visits.

I talked to my guy. I told him that we were not yet dead, if he hung in there. I told him to go take anger management classes and get a substance abuse assessment. “We know what they are going to say,” I told him. “Go and fix any possible problem now, so it won’t be an issue later. I know you don’t do drugs or drink anymore, but go get all of that done.”

“OK,” he said. “I’ll do it as soon as I get home. God bless you, man.”

He continued to send presents, write cards and letters, make phone calls. He saw just about every counsellor in three counties, and they all gave him a clean bill of health. He waited and waited, and the pile of presents in the Department closet kept getting bigger and bigger. I managed to get the termination petition dismissed, and then was appointed to replace his lawyer in the underlying juvenile cases, who had been hurt in an accident. There was still no visitation. We needed one more hearing, a permanency planning hearing, to force the Department to start visitation and reunification.

Then the youngest child, the only one that was really his, began acting out badly, and was kicked out of his foster home. The worker called to tell me. “He needs his dad,” I said. “You know that he does.” The boy’s therapist agreed, and again my guy began the painful process of reconnecting with a son who thought that his dad had just disappeared off the face of the earth. They met in the therapist’s office, and they cried and cried. When it was time to go, I was told, they walked hand in hand to the parking lot, and people watching thought they would never let go of each other.

Today we finally got the hearing. Last night, when I was about to go home, my guy came by the office. He was frightened. He knew that this hearing was the last one. Everything hinged on what happened there. If we lost it, he would never see the kids again. We also talked about the oldest boy, a teenager. He had bonded deeply with his foster family, and said in no uncertain terms that he wanted to be adopted by them. My guy said he understood that, and would respect his wishes, but that he hoped that all the boys could maintain contact with each other.

This morning, we showed up for the hearing. The judge asked for a pretrial conference, and asked the lawyers what the case was about. Nobody spoke for a moment, and then I took the plunge.

I told her about cards and letters, about phone calls. I told her about presents gathering dust in closets and about nights spent in prayer. I told her about long drives to group homes, and tearful reunions with desperate children. I told her about a wife’s unfaithfulness and a dad’s faithfulness. I told her that the older boy didn’t want to come, and we respected his maturity and his decision. I told her that the two younger boys had to go home, that their dad desperately wanted them, and that I believed that if we wanted them to grow up as decent and respectful young men, then they needed their dad more than any of us could ever put into words. I told her that those two boys were sitting in the Department across the street, that I had obtained an order for the Department to produce them, and that the boys would tell her how much they wanted to go home to their dad.

I finished and all was silent. “Is there a problem with what Seraphim says?” she asked. Someone spoke up. “He’s not the father of one of the boys.” The judge exploded. “What, you mean he’s not the sperm donor! By God, that’s not a Dad. A dad is the one who stays around after that. Are you telling me he’s not that dad?”

No one told her that.

I walked into the courtroom and gestured to my client to meet me in the back. He and his wife came back, still holding hands. He was almost distraught from worry and fear.

“They’re coming home,” I said.

My guy dissolved in tears and grabbed me in a bear hug, and for several minutes we stood there, me slapping his back, him sobbing, and — to be honest - me not completely dry eyed. Finally we broke, and I told him the plan. Visitation in his home starts on Saturday, and if all goes well, they will move in full time with him when Christmas break starts. He said he understood.

I shook his hand, and he grabbed me again. “God bless you, man. God bless you,” he said. I stopped him. “I want to thank you for your prayers over these years,” I told him. “But your prayers have gotten you this: God has blessed you.”