From Fear to Family: How Faith Led Us to Foster

The phone rang at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday, shattering the quiet of our ordinary evening. “We have a sibling set—a 3-year-old girl and her 5-year-old brother. They need a home tonight.” My hands trembled as I clutched the receiver, my throat tightening. Just months earlier, my husband, Mark, and I had sat across from our licensing worker and said, “We’re not ready yet.” But here we were, staring at two empty car seats in our back seats, our hearts pounding with equal parts terror and holy conviction.  

That night, as two wide-eyed children walked into our home clutching trash bags holding everything they owned, I realized: God doesn’t call the equipped; He equips the called. The little girl’s shoes were on the wrong feet. The boy’s jacket was two sizes too small. And in that moment, our carefully constructed excuses—We don’t have enough space. We’re not patient enough. What if we fail them?—melted into insignificance. This was the beginning of a journey that would stretch our faith beyond what we thought possible, break our hearts in ways we didn’t know they could break, and ultimately redefine everything we believed about love, family, and God’s faithfulness.  

For years, foster care was something we admired—from a safe distance. We’d hear sermons about caring for orphans and feel that familiar ache, that nudge from the Holy Spirit. But fear always drowned out the call. “We’re not superheroes,” I’d tell Mark. “What if we get too attached and get our hearts broken?” “Our house isn’t big enough,” he’d counter. “And what about our biological kids? Would this be fair to them?”

Then one Sunday, our pastor preached from Isaiah 6:8 (“Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?’ And I said, ‘Here am I. Send me!'”). The words landed like a lightning strike. Over coffee the next morning, Mark stared into his mug and said quietly, “What if ‘someday’ is now?” That began months of prayer that felt more like wrestling, of training classes that equal parts inspired and terrified us, of late-night conversations where we laid bare our deepest fears.  

We learned about trauma, about behaviors that might surface, about the broken system we were stepping into. Some nights, I’d lie awake thinking, We can’t do this. But then I’d remember the statistics—over 400,000 children in U.S. foster care, many sleeping in offices because there aren’t enough homes. And God kept whispering the same truth: “I’m not asking you to save anyone. Just love like I do.”  

Our first placement—those two siblings, Jake and Lily—wrecked us in the best and hardest ways. Jake, the 5-year-old, had nightmares so violent he’d wake up screaming, kicking at invisible threats. Lily, just 3, would freeze like a statue at raised voices, her big eyes filling with silent tears. We fumbled through tantrums that lasted hours, through caseworker visits that felt invasive, through the exquisite ache of loving children who might leave tomorrow.  

One night, after a particularly brutal meltdown that ended with Jake throwing a toy that shattered our picture window, I locked myself in the bathroom and slid to the floor, sobbing. “God, I can’t do this! I’m not cut out for this!” In the silence that followed, a verse surfaced like a lifeline: “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9). I wiped my face, took a shuddering breath, and walked back out—not because I was strong, but because He was.  

Then came the small miracles, the moments that carried us through:  

The first morning Jake crawled into our bed at dawn, his small body curling trustingly against Mark’s side. 

• Lily’s first unprompted hug, her tiny arms squeezing my neck like she’d never let go.  
• The way our biological children, once hesitant about sharing their parents, became fierce protectors—teaching Jake to ride a bike, braiding Lily’s hair before school.  
• The Sunday Lily stood in front of our church congregation, belting out “Jesus 

Loves Me” with off-key abandon, her face alight with joy.  

Yet the hardest moment came eight months in, when the caseworker sat at our kitchen table and said the word we’d dreaded: reunification. We’d known this was the goal, had prayed for their birth mom’s healing—but the pain was visceral. The night before the kids left, I rocked Lily to sleep, memorizing the weight of her in my arms, the smell of her strawberry shampoo. Mark found me crying in the nursery and just held me. “This is the cost of love,” he whispered. “But it’s worth it.”  

Foster care didn’t just change the children we welcomed—it shattered and rebuilt us. Through the grief of goodbyes and the joy of new placements, we learned:  

• Love isn’t a guarantee—it’s a daily choice. We could pour out love without conditions, even when it hurt.  
• Faith grows in the waiting. God never promised ease, but He promised His presence—in the court hearings, the tearful goodbyes, the quiet moments of healing.  
• Family is built, not just born. When we adopted our daughter, Mia, from foster care two years later, we marveled at how God had expanded our capacity to love beyond what we’d imagined.  

One of my most sacred memories is of Mia’s adoption day. As the judge declared her legally ours, our 7-year-old biological son tugged my sleeve and whispered, “Mom, now she’s stuck with us forever!” Mia, then 4, threw her arms around him and giggled, “I like being stuck!” In that moment, I thought of the brokenness that had brought her to us—the neglect, the loss—and the redemption that had made her ours.  

If you’re reading this with a tug in your spirit but fear in your throat, let me say this: I get it. Foster care isn’t easy—but it’s holy ground. You don’t need a perfect home or a superhero heart. You just need a willing spirit and the courage to say, “Here am I.” 

To the weary foster parent: Your labor is not in vain. Every bedtime story, every tear wiped, every prayer whispered over a child who may never remember you— it matters. You are living out the gospel in diapers and court reports and sibling squabbles.  

To the caseworkers and advocates: Thank you for fighting for these kids when no one else would.  

And to the child waiting in the system: You are seen. You are loved. There’s a God who fights for you—and He might just use imperfect people like us to remind you.  

“Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Take up the cause of the fatherless; plead the case of the widow” (Isaiah 1:17).  

The journey from fear to family begins with one step. Will you take it?