As I sit down after a long, exhausting day, my eyes wander over the chaos that surrounds me. Toys are scattered across the floor, dirty dishes piled carefully by the sink, and a mountain of freshly washed laundry—baby blankets, onesies, and tiny pajamas—waiting to be folded and tucked into their rightful places. The mess is overwhelming, yet it’s the kind of chaos that carries a story, a life filled with love, laughter, and little hearts that depend on me.
My life didn’t always look like this. There was a long stretch—years, in fact—when everything felt orderly, predictable, and controlled. I meticulously filled out day planners, stayed on top of paperwork, and kept our home immaculate. Bills were paid on time, closets were organized, and spare moments were devoted to small pleasures, like arranging my shelves or planning our next adventure. It’s almost impossible to compare that life to this one, where messes and unpredictability have become a symbol of something far more meaningful.
For years, I longed for motherhood. I longed for the beautiful chaos of raising children, for tiny hands holding mine, for the quiet moments of bedtime stories, and the noisy moments of first words and first steps. We spent seven years trying to become a family. Months and years passed in doctors’ offices, waiting rooms, and hospital halls, clinging to hope even when hope felt impossible. We endured loss after loss, invasive procedures, countless tests, and medication regimens that seemed endless. And then, one day, we walked away from it all. We chose each other. I was married to my best friend, my partner, my heart. Couldn’t that be enough?
One night, lying together in bed, Philip whispered, “You were made to be a mother. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.” And maybe it wasn’t all I’d ever wanted, but it was the greatest dream I had ever imagined. “But I have you. I have Jesus, and we have a good life,” I replied. And it was true. Life went on. We traveled, we remodeled homes, we laughed and loved with a joy that only deep friendship and partnership can bring.
Then, one night, driving home with soft music playing and our hands entwined, Philip squeezed my hand anxiously. “I have to tell you something, and I don’t want you to be upset.” My mind raced—was it his job? A move? Something I couldn’t imagine?
After a long, heavy silence, he finally spoke: “I think we should become foster parents. I know we said we never would, but I think we need to think about foster care.” I was shocked, half wanting to laugh at the dramatic lead-up and half thinking he was joking. Friends and family had suggested it before. We had even researched it, talked to a recruitment worker—but we had decided we had endured enough loss and sorrow. We didn’t need to invite more into our lives. Looking back, I realize we were thinking only of ourselves then.
Philip’s words rushed out in a stream of urgency and hope. “I know we said foster care isn’t for us. But we have love, so much love, and there are children who need safety, stability, and care. We have it to give. Maybe we need to stop thinking about what this would do for us and think about how we can support a child who needs us.”
That was all it took. In that moment, clarity washed over me. I believe in perfect timing, in God’s calling, in purpose in every hardship and every victory. Every step we had taken—every heartbreak, every tear, every triumph—had brought us to that quiet road, that life-changing conversation. The very next day, I called the recruitment officer, and eight months later, we were licensed foster parents. Weeks after that, we brought home our son.
We didn’t know he would be our forever child; all we knew was that this 23-month-old little boy, charming, hilarious, and full of life, needed us—and we needed him. The moment our eyes met, a connection formed that I cannot fully put into words. Our lives entwined. Whether he stayed for a season or forever, he had already made me a mother. Eighteen months later, he legally became part of our family, but the truth is, he became our family the instant we first held him, heard his story, and felt his little heart in ours. A story nothing short of miraculous.
Four years have passed since that sweet boy came home. Four years of parenting, of holding children in our arms, of welcoming 15 incredible little souls into our lives for love, protection, and a sense of family. Each child has left their mark on our hearts. I never imagined, back in the years of longing and heartache, that my days would be filled with court hearings, hospital visits for rare illnesses, nights of tube feedings, or months of testing for repeated seizures. I could not have imagined loving not only the children who came to us but fiercely advocating for their families too, celebrating triumphs that often felt like bittersweet losses.
I believe God’s plan unfolds one step at a time. He does not show us the full journey because we could not bear it—the beauty and the pain, all at once. He asks us only to trust Him fully. In my season of longing, I could not have imagined this life. Today, five little boys call me Mama, through foster care, adoption, and love.
So as I sit amid the chaos, smiling at the evidence of little lives that fill my home and heart, I do not wish for my past life of order and predictability. I cherish the messes, the exhaustion, the sticky kisses, and the overflowing calendar. Every heartbreak, every tear, every long night was worth it. From this vantage point, I have a front-row seat to love, miracles, and restoration I never knew were possible. This view—the noisy, messy, chaotic, beautiful life—is worth the wait.
