It was a typical summer night. We’d spent the entire day outside, soaking up the warmth, and I had finally tucked my kids into bed. I remember sinking into the couch beside my husband, grateful for a quiet moment in front of the television. Then my phone rang. I answered, never imagining how completely our lives were about to change.
“We have a baby here who needs a home. Would you be willing to take him?”
A million thoughts raced through my mind all at once. How old was he? Was he healthy? How long would he be with us? I didn’t let myself linger on any of it. I pushed every fear aside and said yes. Without hesitation, I agreed to come get him.
My husband and I hurried into the car while my mom pulled into our driveway to stay with our sleeping kids. My heart was pounding. Although we had completed our foster care classes months earlier, this was our very first placement. We were wildly unprepared. We had no bassinet, no bottles, no baby clothes—nothing. We had slowly gathered things for a toddler, never once considering that our first call might bring a newborn into our home.
The moment we walked into the Cabinet and I saw that tiny baby placed in my arms, it was all over for me. I was completely undone. I was in love. As a mom, I know the depth of a mother’s love, but I never expected to feel it so instantly and so fiercely for a complete stranger. He was so small, barely six pounds, just shy of six weeks old, and incredibly quiet. He didn’t make a sound as we waited for the judge’s orders that would allow him to come home with us. His fingers curled around mine, as if he somehow already knew I was his safe place.
When we finally left with our baby in tow, we drove straight to the store. I nervously filled the cart with everything I thought we might need in the coming days. It wasn’t until we reached the car that I realized, in my frazzled state, I had forgotten bottles. My husband ran back inside while I climbed into the backseat of our truck, completely captivated by the tiny passenger beside me. I couldn’t stop staring at him.
Once we were home, I decided to give him a bath, hoping it would help him settle into his new surroundings. I was very wrong. His cries echoed through the house, waking my sleeping children, who wandered into the kitchen to see what was happening. Their shock quickly turned into excitement when they saw him. I told them we had a new family member, and that he would be their brother for however long he was with us. They were overjoyed. They had been eagerly waiting for the day we received our first foster call.
As I fed him, we all sat together—my mom included—just taking him in. The love that filled the room was overwhelming, unmistakable. I know it was God giving us a love for him that went far beyond anything we could have mustered on our own. I knew the road ahead would be hard. I knew there would be uncertainty, confusion, and maybe even deep grief. But I also knew, without a doubt, that we were exactly where we were supposed to be.
After everyone was settled back into bed, I held him close and prayed over him—over his life, his future, and whatever path lay ahead. That night was nearly three years ago. It’s a night I will never forget. And yet, our story is still unfolding. We continue to live with uncertainty and unanswered questions. Every court date fills my children with fear that their brother might be taken from them. I understand that the goal of fostering is reunification, but try telling that to a heart that has fully claimed a child. In my heart, he is my baby. I am his momma. He knows nothing else.
Fostering has been one of the hardest things I have ever done. I wake up every morning thanking the Lord that he is still with us, and I go to bed each night praying he’ll stay one more day. Without my faith in God, I wouldn’t survive this journey. It is the only thing that carries me through the hardest moments. And I’m not walking this road alone.
Over the past three years, my son has struggled with anxiety, rooted in the fear that one day his little brother may no longer be his brother. Some nights he wakes me in tears, unable to quiet those thoughts, especially as court dates approach. My daughter has taken on a nurturing role, worrying about his future as if she were a little momma herself. One of my lowest moments came when I was a sobbing mess on the floor, terrified of what lay ahead, and my twelve-year-old daughter was the one comforting me, reminding me to trust in the Lord’s plan. It was humbling in the most profound way.
People often tell me they could never be foster parents because they would get too attached. The truth is, I am attached. We all are. How could we not be? When you rock a child to sleep every night, attachment is inevitable. Watching him reach milestones—first steps, first words, first everything—has been bittersweet in a way I never experienced with my own children. I never wondered if it would be the last time I rocked them to sleep. I never questioned whether it might be the last time I’d hear them call me “Momma.”
Because this has been our normal for so long, I don’t dwell on the uncertainty every day anymore. Still, it’s always there, lingering beneath the surface. Sometimes a wave of grief hits so hard it nearly knocks me over. Will I teach him to read? Will I watch him ride a bike for the first time? How long will he call me Momma? Will he bring me backyard treasures like his brother once did? How long will he be mine? The thought of my child living his life somewhere without me in it shakes me to my core. And even as I wrestle with these emotions, I’m also guiding my children through them.
It’s a unique way to live. The joy is overwhelming—tenfold. This child has filled our home with laughter. We smile watching him play ball with his brother, celebrating like he just won a championship. When he reaches for his daddy, wanting to go wherever he goes, it melts our hearts. When my oldest daughter comes home and they pick up right where they left off, it reminds me how deeply connected we all are. And yet, woven into that joy is a quiet sadness. Sweet and salty, always together.
I cling to the verse in Proverbs that says, “She laughs without fear of the future.” Most days, laughter comes easily. Loving this child is never hard. Even on the days when fear creeps in, I speak this promise over my life and my children. We trust Christ with our future and with this precious boy we adore, knowing He loves him even more than we do. Learning to trust without control has been a daily practice over the past few years. I’m learning to fight my fears—and teaching my kids how to do the same. It’s a battle, but one we are winning.
Recently, a friend asked me if I would do it all again, knowing how hard it would be. Knowing how deeply we would love him, how heavy the fear could become, how uncertain the ending still is. I didn’t hesitate. I said yes—without question. A million times yes. Even knowing my heart could break at any moment. Because he is worth it. Hearing him call me Momma is worth it. Holding his hand as we walk down the path to our creek is worth it. Every single moment has been worth it.
