A Foster Mom’s Prayer Answered

It was 9:37 PM on a rainy Tuesday evening when my phone shattered the quiet of our modest suburban home. As I sat curled on the couch in my worn flannel pajamas, chamomile tea steaming in my favorite mug, the shrill ringtone sent my heart into my throat. The caller ID showed “DHS – Child Welfare.” 

“Mrs. Johnson?” The caseworker’s voice carried that particular blend of exhaustion and urgency I’d come to recognize. “We have a sibling set removed tonight – a four-year-old girl and her two-year-old brother. They’re currently at the precinct with a social worker. There’s… there’s nowhere else to place them tonight. Can you take them?”

My hands began trembling so violently I nearly dropped the phone. The tea mug clattered against the coffee table as I set it down. Tonight? Right now? My training had prepared me for this moment, yet nothing could have steeled me for the avalanche of emotions that followed that simple question.

I glanced around our carefully prepared foster room – the twin beds with their cheerful dinosaur sheets, the alphabet posters on the walls, the neatly arranged storybooks on the shelf. Everything was ready… except me. 

“What… what are their names?” I managed to ask, stalling for time as my mind raced through a hundred what-ifs. What if I couldn’t handle two traumatized children? What if my husband wasn’t home in time to help? What if they hated me on sight?

“Mia and Jaden,” the caseworker replied, her voice softening. “They’re scared. They’ve been through a lot tonight. We really need a yes.”

In that suspended moment, the verse I’d clung to during our licensing process floated through my mind: “For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you” (Isaiah 41:13). 

I took the deepest breath of my life. “Yes. Bring them.”

Our journey to becoming foster parents didn’t begin with heroic intentions. Like many couples, we’d dreamed of a traditional path to parenthood – positive pregnancy tests, gender reveal parties, decorating a nursery. But after five years of infertility treatments, heartbreaking losses, and mounting medical bills, we found ourselves sitting in a church support group for couples struggling to conceive.

That’s where we first heard about foster care. A woman named Sarah shared how she and her husband had welcomed twelve foster children over six years, adopting two of them. “It’s not the family we planned,” she said, tears glistening in her eyes, “but it’s the family God meant for us.”

Her words haunted me for weeks. Every time I passed the empty bedroom down the hall, I imagined children’s laughter filling it. Yet fear held me back with iron claws. What if we got attached and had to say goodbye? What if we weren’t equipped to handle children from hard places? What if we failed them?

The turning point came during a particularly dark night of the soul. I’d just received yet another negative pregnancy test and found myself sobbing on the bathroom floor. In my despair, I randomly opened my Bible to James 1:27: “Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress.”

The words struck me with physical force. Was this God’s answer to our prayers for children? Not through biology, but through broken systems and hurting hearts?

Over the next six months, we completed the licensing process – background checks, home studies, endless training sessions. We learned about trauma responses, attachment disorders, and the complex legal system. With each step, my anxiety grew alongside my conviction that this was where God was leading us.

When Mia and Jaden arrived at 11:23 PM that rainy night, they looked nothing like the angelic children I’d imagined fostering. Mia clutched a stained teddy bear in one hand and her little brother’s wrist in the other, her eyes wide with a wariness no four-year-old should possess. Jaden, clad in pajamas two sizes too small, hid behind his sister, thumb firmly planted in his mouth.

They came with two trash bags containing everything they owned – mismatched clothes, a few broken toys, and a photo album with most of the pictures missing. The social worker handed me a folder of paperwork and hurried out the door after a quick rundown of their immediate needs.

That first night remains etched in my memory like a series of snapshots:

• Mia refusing to get in the bathtub until I promised not to close the door
• Jaden screaming when I tried to change his diaper, his tiny body flailing against my touch
• Finding Mia at 3 AM methodically stuffing goldfish crackers into her pillowcase
• The way they both froze when I said “I love you” before tucking them in

As I collapsed into bed near dawn, I whispered the first of many desperate prayers: “God, I have no idea what I’m doing. Please show up where I’m failing.”

The weeks that followed tested every ounce of my patience, faith, and emotional resilience. Mia woke screaming from nightmares nearly every night. Jaden didn’t speak – just pointed and grunted, flying into rages when we couldn’t understand him. Mealtimes became battlegrounds as they gorged themselves, then hid food in their rooms.

I read every parenting book I could find, attended every therapy session, implemented every behavioral chart and reward system. Nothing seemed to make a difference. The breaking point came one particularly horrific evening when Jaden bit me hard enough to draw blood during a tantrum, while Mia locked herself in a closet screaming that she wanted her “real mom.”

Sobbing in the bathroom (which quickly became my crisis room), I called my husband at work. “I can’t do this,” I choked out. “We made a mistake. We’re not cut out for this.”

That night, after finally getting the children to sleep, I opened my Bible to Psalm 68:5-6: “A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling. God sets the lonely in families.”

The words washed over me with new meaning. This wasn’t about my ability to parent perfectly. It was about being willing to love imperfectly, to stand in the gap for these children when no one else would.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, things began to change. The breakthroughs came in fleeting moments:

• The first time Jaden voluntarily climbed into my lap during storytime
• When Mia drew me a picture labeled “My New Mommy” (then quickly scribbled it out)
• The morning they both slept through the night without nightmares
• When Jaden finally spoke his first sentence: “Mama, up please”

Each small victory felt like a miracle, a tangible reminder that love – patient, persistent, unconditional love – really could heal broken places.

Then came the call we’d been dreading. After six months with us, the court had approved reunification with their birth mother, who had completed her treatment program. The social worker explained they’d transition home over the next thirty days.

I hung up the phone and wept. How could I let them go after pouring my heart into healing theirs? That night, as I rocked a sleeping Jaden, God whispered to my heart: “You weren’t called to keep them forever. You were called to love them for now.”

The goodbye was every bit as painful as I’d feared. On their last night with us, Mia clung to me fiercely. “Will you forget me?” she whispered.

“Never,” I promised, pressing a locket with our picture into her small hand. “You carry my heart with you always.”

As I watched their caseworker buckle them into her car the next morning, a profound truth settled in my spirit: This pain was sacred. It meant I’d loved well, loved deeply, loved without holding back.

That was three years ago. Since then, we’ve fostered seven more children, each with their own heartbreaking stories and beautiful resilience. Some stayed weeks; others, months. One remarkable teenager, Tiana, became our forever daughter through adoption last year.

Through it all, I’ve learned:

1. Love isn’t measured in time but in surrender

2. God’s grace fills the gaps where our abilities end

3. These children aren’t lucky to have us – we’re blessed to know them

4. Family isn’t defined by blood but by commitment

If you’re standing where I once stood – equal parts called and terrified – let me say this: You will doubt yourself. You will feel inadequate. You will cry in your bathroom more times than you can count.

But you will also witness miracles. You will experience love in its purest form. You will see God move in ways you never imagined.

As Isaiah 58:10-11 promises, “If you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed… The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs and strengthen your frame.”

This isn’t an easy road, but it’s a sacred one. And when those midnight calls come, when you’re trembling on the edge of yes, remember: You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be willing.

God will handle the rest.