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Previous Articles Exposing Hollywood's anti-German agenda I'm not ashamed to be religious or a liberal 'Beat Me with a Stick' Elmo and other great toys Making a difference: why I do what I do Telemarketing ban has ended a great pastime I don't rule the world, and that's fine with me Making the journey from prejudice to understanding There's no comparing genocide and killing geese All that's left is an empty feeling An unrequited love for some really neat words Foster dads offer hands and hearts ... for the time being. Thanksgiving dinner and other forms of ritual madness. Zen and the art of not getting run over by a Mack truck A lifetime of regrets as another year goes down the tubes Reform Party Convention ends in shoot-out Virtual immortality isn't all it's cracked up to be Insider's look at the Republican National Convention turns up many surprises Car Repair for Dummies, Part One: This is a Car Sadness marks the passing of a beloved mattress At last, something worse than 'Jane Eyre' Every town has a story. Tombstone has a fixation. Forget the Trekkies, the real nutcases are on the Luce Chalk one up for the faceless restaurant customers Feeling sick? Maybe it's time to get a shave. Guest Writer: Toto, I don't think we're in Mayberry anymore Guest Writer: The need for speed Does this mean we won't get free popcorn anymore? Out of the way, Martha Stewart -- I'm in the kitchen now How I'm surviving my brush with 'Jane Eyre' First blizzard of the year evokes frivolous memories, no deep thoughts Isn't it time to jump on the bandwagon with the Real Thing? Forward this column and you can turn e-mail into $300! Trips to the moon, disaster figure in mildew prognostications True confessions (more or less) of a closet survivalist Who understands what dreams may come? Hey, everyone, look -- it's an elephant! Wouldn't 'Senator Learn' have a nice ring? To my little girl: while you're sleeping . . . Special Report: Entering the Baby Zone Battling the suburban white whale Wanted: Politician to tackle key issues Something else to worry about this fall Wanted: Dumber Mice and Better Mouse Traps One More Stop on the Road to Adulthood Follow the fashion leads of the journalist from Krypton This is why naming children by committee never caught on Psoriasis may be ugly, but at least it doesn't leave scars Another casualty of the ancient family curse Quest for baby names too big to handle How the seniors taught me to get down And don't forget your scarf when you go inside Guest Writer: No room for Paradise as vandals force Dew Drop Inn to close The samba of the mad Vulcan Maybe I could be directed by Spielberg The aliens in Rhode Island don't want you to read this Voice of nostalgia is a call to destruction My wife is having the baby, but I look pregnant The end of the world as we know it Run for the hills - Y2K’s a’comin’ fast What's in a name? Shakespeare had no idea Don't waste your energy on the 'gas out' Career choice leaves a lasting mark One Easter leftover, hold the ham please

All that's left is an empty feeling By David Learn I wander the house in a daze, looking for the boy who isn't there. I hear him running my way, making that peculiar humming sound he makes when he's excited, but when I turn my head to look, the hall is empty. There are no arms stretched out to grab me, no face bursting with a smile that stretches from ear to ear. At times the silence is too loud, too empty. I want to hear those songs he's nearly learned from us, the ones he where doesn't know half the words and can't pronounce the other half clearly. I listen, but his music is gone. Christian lived with us for only a short time, no more than nine months. A foster child in our care since mid-January, he's returned to his parents and I'm left dealing with the loss of a son who was never mine to keep but who will always be a part of my life. It's hard to believe it's only nine months since the day a worker with the New Jersey foster care system dropped Chris off at our house. Even though he was 23 months old, he could barely stand for five seconds without falling down, but that didn't keep him from getting into mischief. Less than five minutes after he arrived, Chris had tried to chew on the dog's bone, pulled our potted aloe plant off the shelf and fallen more times than I thought was possible. Chris was put into foster care because of neglect. His parents bathed him fastidiously and gave him food, but neglected him in nearly every other way. Other children his age are little boys; he was a big baby. As the days slipped into weeks and the weeks became months, Pinocchio gradually became a real boy. Progress came slowly at first, but it built speed steadily. We started with walking. I took him to walk the dog with me religiously, and y the end of the spring, he was walking like any other 2-year-old, although he still fell more often and more clumsily than other children. There is a reason his nickname is "Lumpy." He learned within a week how to climb stairs and within two months, he learned how to climb back down. We taught him to wait quietly for a meal instead of whining, and then we taught him to ask. He learned to eat with his fingers, and then how to do it with a fork and spoon. The boy who could sit still only for "Sesame Street" soon learned the joys of curling up with his abba or eemah and being read to. Longest in coming were his language skills. When he first arrived, Chris could say "tickle-tickle-tickle" and "gootchy-gootchy-goo," but little else that was recognizable. The day he asked for crackers by holding out his hand and saying "Some" was one of the sweetest days of my life. It meant that at some level, he finally was understanding why we use words. But as the year stretched on, there was a shadow growing over my happiness. As much as I love him, Chris is not my child. The state believes he belongs with the people who gave birth to him, and so to them he has returned. It's a decision that has filled me at times with despair, with fury and with bitterness. At times, it has left me incapable of functioning even on the most basic levels at work and at home. I'm mad. Mad at the state for putting my son back with people who don't know how to take care of a child, mad at his parents for what they've done to him, and mad at myself for not being able to keep the promise I made to Chris to keep him safe. Friends tell me to have faith, that God sees what is happening and will take care of Chris. Cold comfort there, since my faith is in a God who did nothing but sit on his hands as his own son was tortured to death. I cry at the injustice of it all, and I long for a day when this world will make sense. It's fundamentally wrong for a child to suffer as Chris has suffered, and it's wrong the way my daughter has suffered. I see it in her eyes when she asks about Chris, the way she calmly announces what he wants to watch on TV or what toys he wants to play with. She misses him. Not quite 3 years old, Eowyn has learned a lesson I would have preferred not come until she is old enough to understand it better: Loving someone is an invitation to pain. In time, I am told, the pain will lessen. The ache in my heart will dull and there may even come days when I don't think of the son I have lost. But for now, none of that matters. He's gone. You may forward this article, but please leave this notice intact. Copyright © 2000-2002 by David A. Learn.