A Lost Sheep

Luke 15

The Parable of the Lost Sheep

  Then Jesus told them this parable:  “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders  and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ 

This post is in appreciation, and in memory, of
Jan Evans.

If you have read my testimony, this particular blog will serve to highlight the years

from age 8 to approximately age 15.

Many of the links do not reflect the services provided at the time, but have changed.

It is going to be very difficult to write.



When I was five, I was reunited with my dad, who had moved to Chicago, Illinois.  About a year later,  I was removed (rescued) from his home, after a number of abuses occured. 
During that year, I ran away from home on a number of occasions.  I slept outside, in the prairie.  I asked strangers for money to eat so I wouldn't have to go home.  I went to sleep at night terrified of how I might be hurt.  On the school bus each day, knots would fill my stomach and make me literally dizzy as I wondered if my dad would be nice or hurtful that night.  After a number of outbursts and behavior problems at school, I finally had the courage to tell my school counselor that I was afraid of home.  She told me that she would keep it a secret, but when I got home that day, my step-mom already knew.  I sat in my room, terrified, waiting for my dad to come home. 
My dad told me that I was only remembering things my real mom had done to me when I was a baby, and that I knew about things like sex early, and said that I provoked and wanted the sexual abuse.  He told me to pack all of my favorite things.  I did.  He took the sack of my belongings out to the backyard and burned it.  Then the police came.  I remember my dad telling me that they were sending me to a place for bad kids and liars.  I believed him.

I arrived at Hartgrove Hospital, suspicious, terrified, and, relieved. 
I wasn't home.

They asked me to talk about my life, but I was too scared to.  They said if I didn't have anything to say, they would have to believe my dad.  They kept talking about fixing the family and going back home.  I was so scared of that.  I wanted to go anywhere but home.

After Hartgrove Hospital, I was sent to Paulina House, a couple therapeutic foster homes, and then to Maryville Academy. I was eight.  At that time, Maryville Farm Campus was for both boys and girls, who were undergoing therapeutic treatment for abuses of different natures, as well as general behavioral therapy.

Each child was put on a point system, had a daily "point card" in which both positive and negative behaviors were noted and reviewed, and most children were medicated.  I was put on Prozac and Pamelor.  I was told I would begin working on reuniting with my family. 

It was while at Maryville that I began to really write about what was going on in my life.  I may publish a post at a later time with a couple of the poems I still remember.

While I was at Maryville, there was a large Halloween party.  Children from many different Maryville locations were present.  I would easily guess that there were at least 300 children there in a very large auditorium.  I think I was Pippy Longstocking.  As I moved forward in the long line of kids to get refreshments from the tables, I saw a large cake with a plastic spider on it, and I remember saying something about it.  The volunteer lady gave me my cookies and juice, or whatever the snack was, and I returned to my seat.  Some time later, that volunteer lady found me, out of the hundreds of children, and placed that plastic spider next to my plate.  The lady was Jan Evans.

Months passed, and back at the Farm Campus, a large van pulled in, which was not uncommon.  A lady entered, along with dozens of small cakes, pounds of frosting, and dozens of decorating tools.  Each of us, there were about 10 girls in my unit, we all got to sit down and decorate our very own cakes.  The lady who brought all of those wonderful things, was Jan Evans.

I soon started having visits with Jan, going to her home.  She had a beautiful home.  I can still see so many details: the large, wrap-around, grey couch that you could sink into, the bright white lights in her kitchen, where we were always baking something up.  I remember how luxurious and safe it felt to be, snuggled warm in her guest bedroom (which was one of her daughter's old rooms, I think).  I remember her friend, maybe Tom?  I remember wishing they'd get married.  

She gave me my first makeup.  It was a bag from one of her daughters. I treasured it.

She had a dog named Scruffy.

One time, I had to share one of my precious visits with another girl, named Elizabeth.  Elizabeth and I were rivals, perhaps because we were close in age.  I think we were both a little jealous of each other.  On that occasion, Jan told each of us to go downstairs and select one thing to take home, back to the Farm Campus, with us.  I don't remember what Elizabeth picked.  I picked a fiber optic light that played music.  I felt proud as I saw Jan's look of approval; it was so special.

Reconciliation with my family was not going to happen.  The plan changed to foster care.  My first foster home after Maryville was with a very old woman.  I felt lonely, so I ran away.  I moved a lot after that.  I quickly realized that foster homes have one of two primary functions: to "test drive" foster kids for potential adoption, and in some circumstances, to just gain a few extra dollars or a little company.  Most of my problem was with the first function: I wasn't adoptable, because both of my parents' rights hadn't been terminated, although one sat in a drug-addicted, abusive stupor, while the other was in- or freshly out of- prison.

One time, Jan took me to WGN studios, and I got to see the set for the Bozo show.

At one point, I secretly wanted Jan to adopt me.  I quickly let that pass, though, and never mentioned it to her.  I didn't want her special friendship to be ruined, the way all of my foster families had been.

I would guess that I moved to a new location every six months (often, more than that), until I was 15.  That means, a new school system, a new family, a new community.   

My name was Harley.

I didn't have any friends.

Every time I moved, I lost some of my things.  Foster siblings that I left behind would steal my things, or foster parents would take back what were at one point gifts to me.  I quickly learned to sense the end of a foster time, and I would throw away my own things so that they wouldn't be left with permission to hurt me further.

But, each time I moved, Jan would find me. 

I don't know how she did it.

Out of nowhere, she'd just show up.  And, I'd get to go with her.

It was as if she just trumped all other rules and regulations.  She'd come, and scoop me up, and take me away to a place of love and true respite.  My shepherdess.

She was the only consistant thing in my entire childhood.

She let me drive her brand new car.

She once shared her family Christmas with me.

She gave me her daughter's satin bed set.  I brought it to the Mill and for days, didn't even use the sheets.  I didn't want the other girls to get jealous and ruin them.  But, then, I couldn't resist.  I cherished bedtime after that!

When I was 15, I was transferred to The Mill's TLC program, which was designed to equip teens for adulthood as they "maxed" or aged out of the "system."  Life skills like cooking and filling out employment applications were combined with a bizarre mix of rules that included asking permission to use the restroom, and, for most of the residents, an inability to join the public school.  I was allowed to attend public school, but that was the very extent of a normal social experience.

One of my roommates and I ran away.  She got caught, but I stayed in hiding, until months later, when I reunited with my dad.  Thinking things were different, and feeling guilty for running away,(after years of medications, therapies, and institutionalized living) I was disallusioned about the abuses that took place; I was hopeful that I could establish a normal relationship with him. 

For running away from "the system", I lost all of my belongings.  I lost my personal pictures and all memorabilia.  My high school transcript was kept from me. 

I lost contact with Jan.

I lived with my dad for a couple of months, before everything old stirred up new again.  I got an apartment (I was a couple weeks shy of 16, getting my first apartment).  I worked.  Later, I got my GED and started college. Then, I began my own family. 

My normal family.

I accepted the Lord the year you died. 

I talked to your daughter Tracy today, and found out that your birthday is the same as my littlest one, the one I just miscarried only a few weeks ago.  That news is just so amazingly special and overwhelming to me.

Jan, I wish I could have told you how you rescued me.  You were always finding the one lost sheep.  Always bringing me back to a place of love and safety.  You valued me.  You saw me as a real person, a real little girl.  You saved my life.  Quite literally.

(push play)

Thank you, Jan, for always finding me.  For never letting me go.  For finding beauty, hope, and life, in what I never thought possible...me. 

Then Jesus told them this parable:  “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders  and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’   (Luke 15:3-6)