Loving & Letting Go – A Foster Parent’s Emotional Journey of Saying Goodbye with Faith and Love

I didn’t know a heart could shatter and still somehow keep loving until the day I carried her suitcase to the door.

She was only five years old — wild curls, shy smile, the tiniest freckle by her right eye. She had entered our home full of uncertainty and fear, and over time, she had filled every corner of it with laughter and light.

And now, I was supposed to say goodbye.
Not because I wanted to.
Not because she wanted to.
But because it was time — a reunification plan finalized, a new chapter unfolding.

I thought loving her would be the hardest part.
But it turns out, letting go with love required a whole different kind of courage.

Background & Personal Journey

Our journey into foster care didn’t begin with a grand plan.
It began with a quiet, aching prayer whispered on a sleepless night:
“Lord, if there’s a child who needs a safe place, let us be that place.”

For years, my husband and I had carried the silent grief of infertility — a grief too deep for words, a pain we buried under busy schedules and polite smiles.

But God has a way of taking broken dreams and planting seeds of something unexpected, something even more beautiful.

One Sunday morning, 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…” (NIV)

The words didn’t just touch us. They undid us.

We enrolled in foster parent training classes that very month. I remember sitting in that crowded room, listening to stories of trauma, resilience, and brokenness, wondering if we were strong enough.

We weren’t.
But God was.

In time, we were licensed. And just weeks later, the call came:
A little girl needed a home — tonight.

We said yes.

I will never forget the moment she walked through our door, clutching a battered stuffed bunny and wearing a jacket two sizes too big.

She didn’t say a word.
She just looked at me with eyes that asked a thousand questions.
Can I trust you? Will you hurt me? Will you leave too?

We knelt down, smiled gently, and whispered the first of many promises:
“You’re safe here.”

Key Struggles & Moments of Faith

Nothing about the foster care journey is easy.
Nothing prepares you for the emotional whiplash of loving a child like your own while knowing, from day one, that goodbye is not a possibility — it’s a probability.

The first few weeks were a whirlwind of court dates, therapy appointments, visitations with biological family members, and endless paperwork.

There were nights when she woke up crying, so afraid she couldn’t find the words to tell us what scared her.
There were days when her fear showed up as defiance, as if pushing us away would somehow protect her little heart.

There were times I locked myself in the bathroom just to weep before the Lord — not because I was angry, but because loving a hurting child brings you face to face with your own limitations.

One night after a particularly rough day, I sat in the dark living room, emotionally spent, and prayed a desperate, one-line prayer:

“Jesus, love her through me, because I don’t have enough love on my own.”

And somehow, He did.
His love came in the patience I didn’t know I had.
In the small victories — like the first time she laughed without fear.
In the tiny moments — when she reached for my hand at the grocery store or fell asleep curled up against my chest.

Still, the reminder was always there:
She wasn’t mine to keep.

Each court date, each caseworker update reminded me that the goal was reunification — not ownership.
My role was to stand in the gap, to love fully without clutching tightly.

And that was both the hardest and holiest part.

Breakthrough & Transformation

The day they told us her mother had completed her reunification plan, I felt two emotions at once: joy…and grief.

Joy because her mother had fought hard for her.
Grief because I knew the goodbye was coming.

We were given two weeks to prepare.
Two weeks to savor every giggle, every bedtime snuggle, every whispered “I love you.”

One evening, as I tucked her into bed, she looked at me with those deep brown eyes and said,
“Mama, will you still love me when I go?”

I bit back tears and pulled her close.

“Sweet girl,” I whispered, “I will love you every day of my life, no matter where you are. God’s love is bigger than any distance.”

That night, after she fell asleep, I sat on the floor by her bed and surrendered her, once again, to the only One who could hold her heart better than I ever could.

The morning of her departure, we packed her things — carefully tucking notes into her suitcase, each one with a simple truth:
“You are loved.”
“You are brave.”
“God has a good plan for you.”

When the social worker arrived, she clung to me for a long moment.
I kissed her forehead, whispered a blessing over her, and watched as she walked away — head high, bunny in one hand, suitcase in the other.

And though my heart cracked wide open, peace came rushing in.

Because love, real love, is never about possession.
It’s about empowering someone to walk into the life God has for them — even if that life takes them away from you.

If you are a foster parent, adoptive parent, or someone considering stepping into this world of heart-stretching love, let me tell you something:

It’s worth it.

Every tear.
Every fear.
Every goodbye.

It’s all worth it because love never fails. (1 Corinthians 13:8)

You are not just babysitting.
You are not just filling a temporary role.

You are planting seeds of security, identity, and hope that will outlive your goodbye.

Even if a child only stays in your home for a short season, your love becomes part of the soil God uses to grow their future.

Love anyway.
Even when it costs you everything.
Even when it hurts more than you thought you could bear.

Because our Savior modeled a love that gave everything, held nothing back, and trusted the Father with the outcome.

As Jesus said in John 15:13:

“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.“

Foster care and adoption are not about heroism.
They’re about humility.
About learning to love the way Christ loves us — fiercely, tenderly, sacrificially.

So if you find yourself today at the edge of a goodbye —
If your arms feel too empty and your heart too broken —
Remember: God sees. God knows. God holds.

And love never leaves a life unchanged.

A Closing Prayer

Father, strengthen every heart that has dared to love a child not born to them. Comfort those who grieve goodbyes. Remind them that You are the Author of every story, the Keeper of every tear, and the Healer of every broken heart. Help us to trust You with the endings we don’t understand and to rejoice in the seeds of love that will bear fruit in Your perfect timing. Amen.