Before we became a foster family, I thought I had a general idea of what to expect. We had prayed. We had talked. We had counted the cost, or at least we thought we had. What I did not anticipate was how deeply foster care would stretch us, humble us, and reveal both our limits and our dependence on others.
The process alone was more intense than I imagined. Only about a third of those who began the certification classes finished them. The training was long, emotionally heavy, and demanding in both good and hard ways. It forced us to confront trauma, loss, and broken systems long before a child ever entered our home.
What surprised me most was how much it truly took a village. Not figuratively. Literally. Our entire community group stepped in week after week to care for our girls so we could attend the required classes. Meals were shared. Schedules were rearranged. People said yes again and again. Foster care was never something we carried alone, even in the beginning.
Welcoming a new child into our home shifted the rhythm of our family. The noise level changed. The emotional climate shifted. Our girls had to learn how to share space, attention, and us. We all had to relearn one another in the presence of someone new. Love came quickly, but not without adjustment.
And then there was the reality of goodbyes, both the one we lived and the ones we feared. During the years we were open as a foster care family, we only had to say goodbye once. That goodbye was to one sweet little love, and it was a decision we made after recognizing how deeply our daughters were being impacted. Making that choice was incredibly hard.
Even when our now adopted son was in our care long term, the possibility of goodbye remained until adoption was finalized. That uncertainty never fully left. It lingered in the background, shaping how we loved, hoped, and held our hearts. The weight of potential loss stays with you.
Some goodbyes in foster care are marked by relief and hope. The goal is always reunification, and those moments are meant to be celebrated. Other goodbyes are layered with uncertainty and heartbreak, filled with concern for a child’s safety and future. Loving children who are not yours, knowing they may leave, is both the calling and the cost of foster care.
One of the hardest parts was witnessing the pain of biological families. Nothing prepared me for the heartbreak of watching parents say goodbye to children they birthed and loved, often in the midst of their own brokenness. Foster care is not a story of villains and heroes. It is a story of wounded people on every side, longing for healing, stability, and redemption.
There was so much hard. Exhaustion. Grief. Disruption. Questions without clear answers. And that remains true in our home today, even after adopting our son in 2017.
And there was so much beauty.
There was laughter. Connections formed quickly and deeply. Small victories that felt monumental. The privilege of being a safe place, even temporarily. The reminder that love given freely is never wasted, even when the ending hurts.
Foster care became one of the clearest pictures of the gospel I have ever lived. Loving without ownership. Giving without guarantees. Opening your home and heart knowing it may cost you dearly. Standing in the gap when things are broken, not to fix everything, but to reflect the love of a God who enters our mess and stays present.
Life as a foster family was nothing like I expected. It was harder, holier, and never something we did alone. More heartbreaking. More beautiful.
And somehow, all of it felt like sacred ground.
Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. —1 Corinthians 13:7
Grace in the Disarray 