God’s Hand in Our Foster Journey – How Divine Intervention Led a Family to Open Their Home to a Child in Need 

It was a Tuesday evening when the phone rang. I was elbow-deep in dishwater, my two biological children were arguing over a toy in the next room, and my husband was still at work. The caller ID read DHS Caseworker. My heart pounded as I dried my hands and answered.  

“We have a three-year-old boy who needs a home tonight. Can you take him?” 

I hesitated. We had just finished our foster care certification, but suddenly, the reality of it all crashed over me. Were we ready? Could we really do this? What if we weren’t enough?  

Then, as clearly as if someone had whispered it in my ear, I heard: “This is why I called you.” 

That moment—that quiet, divine assurance—was the first of many times God would make His presence undeniably clear in our foster journey.  

My husband and I had always talked about fostering. We’d heard the sermons, seen the statistics, and felt the stirring in our hearts. But like many, we hesitated. What if we get too attached? What if we’re not equipped to handle trauma? What if this disrupts our family’s stability?  

The excuses piled up: We don’t have enough space. Our kids are still young. Maybe when we’re older, wiser, more financially secure.  

But God kept nudging us.  

One Sunday, our pastor preached on James 1:27—“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress.” It wasn’t just a suggestion; it was a calling. I felt it in my bones. That afternoon, my husband turned to me and said, “I think we’re supposed to do this.”  

We took the first step, attending an informational meeting. The process was long—background checks, home studies, hours of trauma-informed training. There were moments we questioned everything. Are we really cut out for this?  

But every time doubt crept in, God sent confirmation:  

• A chance encounter with a seasoned foster mom who told us, “You won’t be perfect, but you’ll be exactly what a child needs.”  
• A sermon that felt tailor-made for our fears, reminding us that “God doesn’t call the equipped; He equips the called.” 
• A quiet moment of prayer where I sensed God saying, “I will give you the strength for what I’ve asked you to do.”  

By the time we were certified, we knew—this wasn’t just our decision. It was His plan.  

Our first placement, little “J,” arrived with nothing but the clothes on his back and a trash bag of mismatched belongings. He was scared, confused, and angry—and who could blame him? His world had been upended.  

The first few weeks were brutal.  

• Night terrors. He would wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, convinced someone was coming to hurt him.  
• Food hoarding. We’d find crackers stuffed under his pillow, half-eaten fruit hidden in his toy box.  
• Tantrums that left us all exhausted. Once, he threw himself on the floor of a grocery store, sobbing because I wouldn’t buy him a candy bar. Strangers stared. I wanted to cry too.  

There were nights I sat on the bathroom floor, praying through tears, “God, I don’t know what I’m doing. Help me.”  

One particularly hard evening, after J had screamed for hours, I collapsed on the couch and opened my Bible in desperation. My eyes landed on Isaiah 41:10— “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” 

Peace washed over me. This wasn’t just our battle—God was in it with us.  

Slowly, breakthroughs came.  

• J started calling us “Mom” and “Dad.”  
• He laughed more—real, belly-deep giggles when we played chase in the backyard.  
• He trusted us to comfort him after nightmares instead of flinching away.  
• And then—the biggest miracle of all—he began to pray with us at bedtime.  

One night, as I tucked him in, he folded his little hands and whispered, “Thank You, Jesus, for my family.”  

I wept. God was healing his heart—and mine.  

After eight months, we got the call: J’s biological mother had completed her rehab program. Reunification was happening.  

I was torn. We had fought so hard for this child—loved him, prayed over him, helped him heal. How could we just let him go?  

The night before he left, I rocked him to sleep, tears streaming down my face. “God, how do I do this? How do I say goodbye?”  

And then, the quietest assurance: “You loved him when he needed it most. That was always the point.”  

The morning of his departure, I packed his favorite stuffed animal, the blanket we’d bought him, and a photo album of our time together. His mother hugged me tightly, whispering, “Thank you for keeping him safe.” 

As they drove away, my heart shattered. But in that pain, I felt God’s presence more deeply than ever before. This was never about us. It was about obedience. It was about love.  

Fostering didn’t just change J’s life—it changed ours.  

• We learned patience we didn’t know we had.
• We saw resilience in a child who had every reason to distrust the world.  
• We witnessed firsthand how love—God’s love—could soften even the hardest wounds. 

We’ve since fostered other children, each with their own stories, each teaching us something new about grace, sacrifice, and redemption.  

One teenage girl, “M,” stayed with us for a year. She had been in seven homes before ours and believed no one would ever want her. On her 16th birthday, we threw her a surprise party. When she walked in and saw the decorations, the cake, the friends we’d invited—she burst into tears. “No one’s ever celebrated me before,” she said.  

That moment was a glimpse of heaven—a reminder that every child deserves to know they are seen, loved, and worth celebrating.  

If you’re reading this and feeling that tug on your heart—What if I said yes? —let me tell you:  

• You will be afraid. That’s okay. Courage isn’t the absence of fear; it’s moving forward despite it.  
• You will feel inadequate. You are. But God isn’t.  
• You will witness miracles. The first time a guarded child smiles at you. The first time they trust you with their story. The first time they pray with you.  

To the weary foster parent: Keep going. Your love matters, even when it feels unseen.  

To the prospective family: Take the first step. God doesn’t call the equipped—He equips the called.  

And to anyone who wonders if fostering is worth the heartache—yes. A thousand times, yes. Because in the end, it’s not just about saving children. It’s about letting God use them to save us—to make us more like Him.  

“And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.” (Galatians 6:9)  

You are not alone. His hand is in this. And that changes everything.