Just Because It’s Hard Doesn’t Mean It’s Wrong #top10ofalltime

“But I will rejoice even if I lose my life, pouring it out like a liquid offering to God.” Phil 2:17

This fostering journey has taken it’s toll on me emotionally and physically but it has grown me spiritually. My natural tendency is to think that when it is hard or when I see myself or my kids being affected that we shouldn’t have done this. But, that’s simply not true. We know that we are right where we are supposed to be. We didn’t make a mistake.

Somehow, we have this notion in our heads that if we’re in God’s will, life will be easy and uncomplicated. Things will make sense but that is just not the case. If it were, where would faith come in? Why would we need to be dependent on Him?

I’ve been pondering the story of Jesus’s birth – The Story. Mary was pregnant with the Son of God. The King. The Savior Himself. And yet Mary and Joseph went from Inn to Inn looking for a place to rest. They had to question what in the world was going on. “God, you want this baby to be born healthy don’t you? We need a place to stop. Why are there no rooms? I thought this was Your plan but it doesn’t make sense to us. It hurts.”

In our own waiting seasons, don’t we find ourselves asking the same types of questions? Mary’s situation was not easy or uncomplicated. It was definitely not comfortable. She was affected in many ways and yet through her obedience, she received the greatest gift imaginable. She held Jesus in her very arms. She cared for the King of Kings. I cannot grasp this really.

In our situation, I have come to realize that I need more help. I have always been full of emotion but with the added stress that six kids brings (and oh they do!), my lows have been lower, and I need some help with steadying out my hormone levels. I’ve talked with my Dr. and we have a plan to try out some medication.

This is not really fun for me to share but I do so because I want you to know the realities. I know there are differing opinions on this whole issue but we believe that this is the right next step for me.

Even so, I struggled with this. One of my biggest fears going into fostering was that I would “wither up like an old dead flower” and let me tell you, Satan has been throwing that back in my face. “Look, Jami. You have failed, you can’t handle it. You are losing.” But I am not accepting his lies nor his evil whispers. I will choose to listen to the Voice of Truth. He tells me “You don’t need to handle it. I am in control. I have given doctors the ability to help you. This is My provision right now.

When I am weak, He is strong. His strength is made perfect in my weakness. He doesn’t call us to pull up our bootstraps and work harder for Him, He knows our weaknesses. He just wants us to look to Him and be led by Him. He calls us to obedience, no matter what the cost. Even if that means the decline of health. Even if that means pain. He died for us. Why should we not suffer for Him? In our situation, my “suffering” pales in comparison to what the three little ones in our care have experienced. They are worth it.

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Jami Kaeb is wife to Clint and together they have six children (four of whom were adopted). After having her eyes opened to the overwhelming needs of those in the foster care system, she began a journey that ultimately led her to found The Forgotten Initiative (TFI). TFI equips and supports “Forgotten Advocates” to bridge the gap between Agencies and the Church, bringing joy and purpose to the foster care community. Learn more at www.theforgotteninitiative.org. Jami loves coffee. A lot. And connecting with others. When the two are mixed, she is especially happy! You can get to know her better through her blog at www.lifewithapersonalgod.org.

December 12, 2014December 12, 2014

This Day

How do you do it?

This is what everyone asks.

How do you hold Little One close knowing that his days in your arms are

so fleeting, so uncertain?

How do you scramble to make it work at a moment’s notice?

How do you shuttle him to doctor’s appointments, nursing him back to health so that he can leave again?

Friends, this is how I do it.

I go out each day and gather enough for that day (Exodus 16:4).

I make plans for this day.

I figure out childcare, transportation, food for this day.

I hold and rock and snuggle and sing on this day.

And by the provision of a gracious Father, I do it again tomorrow.

My eyes have only two focuses.

Eternity. My promised land where I believe that all will be set right.

All will be well.

And this day.

I cannot think about the in-between.

It wrecks me. Just the thought of going there makes it a little hard to breathe.

And so, again, I hand the in-between back to the One who isn’t wrecked by it.

And I mix up formula in this day.

I make salt dough ornaments in this day.

I pray and love and hold and bless in this day.

Sometimes it feels like a little, and sometimes it feels like a lot, but it always works out to be just as much as I need (Exodus 16:18).

In this day, I gather enough.

And by the provision of a gracious Father, I will do it again tomorrow.

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Shannon is mom to an amazing seven year old. She is a Christian, a licensed foster parent, a kindergarten teacher and a huge advocate of connecting church people and little people in need of forever families. She blogs at A Little Bit of Everything.

September 29, 2014September 29, 2014

Weight

I promised a blog detailing the wonderful, joy-filled adoption of our daughters. It is coming. I promise. But today, I have heavier things on my heart and I wanted to share in the moment.

There is a little baby boy sleeping soundly on my chest as I write this. He doesn’t weigh much. Only a smidge over 9 lbs. However, one would think – judging from the heaviness of my heart – that he weighed a couple tons.

I have only known Mr “I” for 7 days. I firmly believe in love at first sight. It’s happened to me a couple times in my life and last Wednesday morning was no exception. The adoption of our daughters had been finalized only a week and a day when we got “the call.” Fellow foster parents know what call I’m referring to.

“…baby boy…almost 2 months old…dropped off at our office…adorable…needs a bath…length of placement is guessed to be short-term…adorable…baby boy…”

We hadn’t really planned on being ready that fast, but there is nothing quite like a call like this. In my years of reading as a teenager and young adult, I always loved the stories of foundling babies. Babies who appeared on your doorstep or young ones left on church steps. There is something inside the heart of a mother (whether she is already a mother or not!) that aches and longs for the idea of a little one that needy. Someone unable to care for themselves who needs you to love them. Love them, snuggle them, care for them. A little one who has experienced the opposite of this kind of care creates a cry for love that you simply cannot resist. These calls from DCS are the modern day equivalent to that. And you fall in love. Hopelessly, fully, completely in love. Maybe because you know its right. Maybe because you can’t help it. Maybe because you know that every child – no matter how long they will be in your care – deserves to be loved with the unconditional, secure, unending love of parents. Of a daddy. A mommy.

I am writing this just an hour after receiving another call. This was the call letting me know that we would be saying goodbye to Mr “I” today.

Now you may be reading and saying to yourself, “Oh, this is the reason for the weight on her heart.”

I’ve just gotta be real with you all. I started writing this blog in my head (yes, I write them in my head first) when I was up on the couch feeding little man in the wee hours of the morning during that very first night. That weight really comes from the very first moment you feel the responsibility. From the moment you fall in love. So…instantly.

I believe that the special love of a parent to a child always comes with weight. That ache deep in your heart that is hard to describe. However (without having experienced the weight of love for a biological child personally), I believe that the weight of loving a foster child is very different. The weight of the deep, instantaneous, embedded in your heart forever love is tied together with a pain that is equally as strong. And, those two emotions are tied so closely together it is hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. It touches each aspect of your life as you care for these precious children.

When you count the fingers and toes, reveling in their tinyness, there is the weight of wondering – how did it feel for biological mommy to count them during those first hours of life.
When you hear the tiny snores and feel the weight of a soundly sleeping body, there is the weight of pain – not yours, but the pain felt by a biological parent not experiencing these moments – not even knowing where their child is.
When you are awakened with cries of night terrors or devise special feeding plans to provide nourishment that was lacking, there is the weight of anger – anger directed towards whoever could treat a precious child in such a way.
When the smile directed at you is a result of your voice and face, there is the weight of loss – knowing that this little one does not belong to you.
There is the weight of moments lost to you that you will never know, the weight of responsibility to cherish the moment you are in now – not knowing how many you will have, and there is the weight of handing the child back to another person – probably forever.
There is the weight of knowing that you have given this child a place in your heart. Forever. And the weight of knowing that you will not always be there. You won’t always get to heal the hurts, or calm the fears. They will probably have to experience those again and your arms will not be there to hold them.

And, as a believer in Christ, there is the weight of trust. Trust in the all-sovereign Savior. This weight must be the heaviest because He is the only one who sees and knows all things. He knows the desperate longing of my heart to see this child again. For eternity. He hears the fervent, tear-filled prayers that the introduction to His love received in our home – no matter how brief – would be a seed. He sees the path of this precious little one – things that have been, are, and will be. And He loves. So much more perfectly than I ever could. He is good. And He is the one we must cling to. He is the one who called us to this kind of love for others and He is the one who will hold our hearts in His love as the weight breaks them over and over again.

And there is the settled weight of peace. There is peace in resting in the care of our loving Father who knows the weight. Who has experienced the weight. Who will bring justice, right the wrongs, and wipe away our tears. In His time. In his perfect plan.

We love you, little man!

________________________________

Lydia Brownfield lives in Indiana with her husband Justin and their three daughters. They have been foster parents since 2011 and were thrilled to finalize the adoption of their daughters this year. They hope to continue to show God’s love to the many precious kiddos God will bring through their home – for whatever length of time He sees fit to leave them there. You can follow their journey on her blog, After All.

September 12, 2014September 10, 2014

Not My Dream

Is this really my life?

I fought hard against this calling.

This is not what I really wanted.

I wanted a simple life.

Holding a child in my arms who is thrashing against all my efforts to love is not what I dreamed for motherhood.

Continual disruptions of birth family visits, social workers, and court dates.

I signed up for this?

A child slipping into an infantile state and wailing for anyone else to come hold her besides me.

Anyone but me.

Muffled sobs against my shoulder that she wants her brothers who live with another foster family on the other side of town.

And I rock and struggle to draw her flailing form into my arms. She shrieks foreign gutteral sounds.

After returning from a visit with birth family. This is what happens. Last time it was projectile vomiting.

And I rock and whisper…

I know you are confused. I know you are angry. Mommy loves you. Will you be my baby and let me rock you?

Over and over we do this. My chest heaving with hers, our tears mixing a salty stream between us.

I hear it all the time: I could never be a foster parent. I just couldn’t let them go.

Really? Maybe God is calling you to foster care.

Seriously.

You want to know a secret?

I said the exact.same.thing.

Do you think we do this because our hearts are stone hard and we have a special gift in letting go? Or that we’re not fearful?

We’ve wrestled with every fear and reason why we shouldn’t do this. For years.

Even when we signed up for ten weeks of intensive training, we still questioned: Is this what we’re supposed to be doing?

We walked the tough road of watching my daughter’s best friend and her foster family. After three years, she went home to her mama.

Difficult circumstances. Gut-wrenching pain.

He pricked our hearts a long time ago. And in His perfect timing and plan, we jumped in. He used a friendship in my Kindergarten daughter’s life, along with our broken past to draw us in.

We decided we would start slowly by trying respite care- ministering to foster families when they needed a break.

We got a call before we were licensed. To take a seven-year-old boy for a week. That week rocked my world.

He was the same age as our middle son.

He endlessly spoke of his losses, his words permeating every quiet space. My ears burned with stories of his past– his mama’s choices, his grief.

My kids were carefree, laughing and talking about superheroes. An empty gap in the conversation erupted as this dear boy attempted to connect by sharing his stories of drugs, police, and guns.

Talk about a real-life superheroes. These kids that endure the worst of life and still keep going. Continuing to hope. They are the superheroes.

My boys fought like tigers all that week. The extra testosterone in the mix pressing against their comforts– their stuff (specifically Legos).

My chest was a cavity of shards every night I knelt down with him. He was a bundle of blankets and tears asking why. Every.single.night. Anguish and prayers for his mama.

I thought I would die. I didn’t know how to handle this.

Was this really where He was calling us?

His mama’s addiction was the same that caught my husband and our family in a net and almost destroyed our lives four years beforehand.

No mistake this sweet boy was our first placement. A ripping away of our comforts. A reminder of our rescue- what our lives could have been.

A bursting of our children’s comforts is not a bad thing. They are called to more, just as we are.

I am repeatedly caught off-guard by how children love with pure hearts. No agenda or to-do list.

My kids are big sinners, like us, but they are unencumbered by life or worries. A freedom to love without bounds that I don’t have.

Babies seemed to rain from the sky last summer. My kids spent the months of June and July bouncing fussy babies, feeding hungry ones, and bringing joy to little faces.

While this mama breathed into a paper bag, trying to regulate my oxygen level. Because it was hard.

Deeply loving other people’s kids. Adjusting to different schedules and stages of babies.

As my kids begged for more babies, my heart was doubtful. Unsure if I could handle and manage this calling.

So, we detoured–pursued adoption for six months, while we continued to serve as a respite foster family.

We thought adoption seemed safer, you know? Ha! Insane thinking- my adoption friends can tes.ti.fy to that…adoption bears it’s own heavy grief and uncertainties.

The Lord shut the door on adoption for us. We ran after every country and adoption agency known to man. He slammed that door tight.

I grieved all last summer. The realization set in– He was cementing our feet in foster care.

We couldn’t run from our calling, our passion. We couldn’t unloosen what He had sealed in our hearts.

And the phone call came in October.

Would we take the little bitty girl we loved with all our hearts?

The one that had us all wrapped around her tiny brown fingers.

She had occupied our crib more than any other child, spending countless hours in our home as respite.

Full-time foster care frightened us and kept me up at night, but we knew without a doubt.

We said yes to Little Bitty, jumping in with both feet and all our doubts and fears. Holding out empty hands to the Father. Knowing this was our calling.

We are not extraordinary.

We are normal, fearful, questioning, struggling, people.

Doing what He has called us to do.

Often with anger at injustice and shaking fists.

Much of the time with fear and trembling.

We are still standing.

Because He strengthens the weak-kneed.

Gives hope to the weary.

This is not the dream I had. His plans are bigger and better.

Because we serve an extraordinary God.

________________________________

Melanie and her husband, Kevin, have been foster parents for two years. During this time, they have had twelve children in their home. Foster care has challenged their family to look inward at their own brokenness as they seek their Savior to serve the *least of these*. Only by His strength. You can follow their journey on her blog Running to the Father.

August 28, 2014August 28, 2014

The Beauty and Brokenness of Foster Care {Summer Rewind}

It was a Wednesday. We received a call from our foster care agency at 3:30 in the afternoon – a newborn baby girl had been taken into custody by Child Protective Services at the hospital and was in need of placement. “Are you interested?”, they asked. Of course we are.

By 7:30 that evening they were at our front door, holding a tragically fragile little girl who needed a home to live in and a family to love her.

It was the best and worst day of her life.

She was wholly unaware of all that had transpired in her short 3-day life. Tragedy, abuse and brokenness brought her to our front door. Hope, love and healing welcomed her in. While we celebrated the opportunity to care for her, we also ached over the reality that someone had put her in a position of needing to be protected in the first place. Two years later, it’s now our joy to call her our daughter and to hear her call us her Momma and Dadda; it’s also our heartache that any of this ever had to happen in the first place.

EQUAL PARTS GOOD AND BAD

Everything…everything about foster care is equal parts good and bad, joy and sorrow, beauty and brokenness. It’s a good day when a child is placed in your home. It represents safety, security and an opportunity for a child to be loved and cared for in a way they likely would not have had available to them otherwise. It’s indeed a good day when a child is placed in your home – it’s also a really bad day. It’s a day marked by hurt and brokenness, that while so much gain has been made available to a child, it’s ultimately loss that has led them to that point. Generational cycles of brokenness within families have perpetuated themselves now into the lives of the next generation – abuse, neglect and abandonment have become a part of their stories. They didn’t ask for this, it was unjustly handed to them by those who were most responsible to protect them from the very things they’ve now been harmed by.

While the opportunity to love these kids is good, no doubt the circumstances that brought them to us are probably very, very bad. This is where the call to foster care begins, what it exposes us to and the perspective it demands we keep in order to rightly and lovingly care for vulnerable kids.

THEIR TRAGEDY OVER OUR EAGERNESS

As excited as we may be about fostering kids, they certainly aren’t excited about being foster kids. Our personal sense of excitement does not drive our efforts. Their personal tragedy does. Heartache does. A desire to see good come out of bad does. A willingness to embrace what is broken and do whatever it takes to bring healing does.

Celebrate the opportunity to open your homes to kids in need, knowing that if it be for just a few days or an entire lifetime, you’ve been given the unique opportunity to offer them something special – love. Yet at the same time, never let your excitement about being involved in foster care be separated from the heartache you feel over the tragic reality that something like foster care even has to exist in the first place.

_____________________________

Jason Johnson is the husband to Emily, a dad to four girls (youngest adopted in 2013), a pastor for 13 years, a former church planter and now the Church Engagement Officer and creator of the ALL IN Orphan Care Church & Ministry Campaign with the Arrow Foundation—an organization committed to equipping, resourcing, and mobilizing the Church to help kids and strengthen families around the country. You can follow his ministry at Jasonjohnsonblog.com and find this post originally published on that blog here.

April 30, 2014May 4, 2014

The Beauty and Brokenness of Foster Care

By 7:30 that evening they were at our front door, holding a tragically fragile little girl who needed a home to live in and a family to love her.

It was the best and worst day of her life.

EQUAL PARTS GOOD AND BAD

THEIR TRAGEDY OVER OUR EAGERNESS

_____________________________

January 2, 2014

waiting

He started making eye contact a few days ago and when that happens, it’s impossible to not fall in love with the little boy whose big eyes stare at me over the bottle day after night after day. I tell him that he’s perfect, that someone is praying for him right now, begging that the next phone call will bring the news that their baby is ready. He grabs my finger and I tell him he’s so strong and that one day, maybe he’ll use that strength to fight for the ones who are waiting for families.

Waiting.

It’s impossible to hold one of these waiting ones or to look into the eyes of the ones I love across the ocean and not think, “Are there children out there waiting – right now – for me?” My friends walk off those airplanes with sons and daughters, beautiful and tall, whose eyes tell a story of long years spent waiting. And I’ve been there – lived there – long enough to witness their waiting. I know the ones who have watched friend after friend walk away with their new family and one of them scoots up next to me and says, “Will my family come next?”

So to keep my heart from breaking and theirs from growing hard, I take their faces in my hands and say it over and over and over. You’re beautiful. You’re loved. You were created on purpose. I tell her that she is loved – that this God she reads stories about is real and He’s a Father to us all, but especially to the ones who wait. I tell him that there are things in life that hurt us and if they hurt us they hurt Him, too. They can talk to Him like a Father.

On Mother’s Day this year, I tiptoed into the hospital nursery and scooped up one of the tiniest ones who was waiting. Just a few weeks later, I got to tell her forever mommy and daddy that I held her that day, told her they were coming, and prayed she would feel safe.

And I pray almost daily that there is someone doing the same for my children who might be waiting out there. I pray that someone is tucking them into a bed at night and kissing their foreheads and treating them with respect. I pray that when they look into the eyes of their caregivers, they see delight and safety reflected there. I pray that if they are alone, He would fill them with an unexplainable confidence that this is not their forever – that someone will come for them.

Isn’t that what our Father did for us? While we were waiting, He made a way for us to know that this is not out forever.

So while they wait for me and I wait for them and this little boy in my arms is waiting for someone else and I’m sure you’re waiting for something, too, let’s cling to the truth that this waiting is not forever and that the Father who planned our lives is good even when the minutes and hours aren’t. He promised.

Maybe your waiting looks different. Maybe you’re waiting for a new job or for a spouse to come home from deployment or for school to start or for your child to attach to you fully or maybe just for the baby to finally fall asleep. If, like me, you just need to be reminded over and over that He is good, pop on over to this littleInstagram space where my friend posts daily lifelines to the Father who keeps His promises.

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Mandie Joy is a foster parent and in-process adoptive mama of two beautiful little girls in Africa. She blogs at www.seeingjoy.com.

November 18, 2013November 17, 2013

Overthinking Foster Care

Rewind 7 years.

We’re going to do foster care.

My sister and her husband shared the news. And, I shared my thoughts, which really were a number of reasons why foster care was not a good idea.

Eloquent argument #1: It is a lot of work. There’s paperwork and training and meetings and appointments just to get permission to foster in the first place. After you have a child in your home, those meetings and appointments won’t end. Then, add in the normal care-for-a-child stuff inherent to caring for a child. That’s a lot of work for a child who isn’t your own. Wouldn’t it be so much easier to just avoid it altogether?

And…

They have worked hard. A lot of training. A lot of meetings. A lot of teacher conferences and doctor appointments and social worker visits. It hasn’t been easy. But, you know what? It’s been worth it. They’ve been developed individually and as parents together. But, greater than that, they’ve experienced the blessing of getting to play a significant part in a child’s life and getting a front row seat to witnessing every child they’ve served grow and learn and experience healing in part or in whole. I admit that it’s been pretty amazing to watch from the sidelines.

Eloquent argument #2: You have to face hard stuff. If a kid needs a foster home, something has broken that should not have been broken. And, when you start foster parenting, you step into that brokenness. Simply acknowledging the messyness can be hard. But, when you step into that mess, you have to not only recognize that that mess exists, you get messy too. Hard stuff. Wouldn’t it be so much more comfortable to just avoid it altogether?

And…

They have faced hard stuff—a toddler found walking on the highway, a teenage girl given only a few clothes she could fit in a backpack and enough money for a one-way bus ride, and children having children. But, you know what? They can do hard stuff. They have been changed as they have come face to face with brokenness in their own neighborhood. They’ve gotten messy as those caring for children from hard places inevitably do, but they also know the God who is right there in the mess and, because of Him, they know how to wash the feet of the children in their home, bringing restoration into broken lives. And, that is what it’s all about.

Eloquent argument #3: Your heart may get broken. The goal of foster care is not adoption. While there are adoptions out of foster care, fostering isn’t designed as a way to grow a new family; family reunification is the goal. That means you are likely going to give and give to a child only to see him or her go to another family long term. Wouldn’t it be so much safer to just avoid it altogether?

And…

Their hearts have more texture than they had 7 years ago. Some newborns stayed for only a few days. Some children stayed for over a year. We’ve watched them open gifts on Christmas morning. We’ve clapped when they’ve blown out birthday candles. My mother made a teenage girl jump up and down with pure joy when she gave her a pair of big-girl footie pajamas after she said she had always wanted a pair and never had them as a little girl. They have braided hair, left quarters under pillows from the tooth fairy, helped with homework, read bedtime stories, and taught them how to pray. The family celebrated when the first child they fostered became their son. But, we’ve said goodbye to many more. All of our hearts have more texture today than they did before we knew these children. If you took an x-ray of my sister’s heart, you’d see a lot of cracks and craters of stories in there, stories of children they loved and served for a time. But, that heart is also bigger than it was before, capable of even more love than it was before they took that step to become foster parents and stand in the gap for the children who need it the most.

Somewhere along the way, my eloquent arguments seemed to lose steam and the reality of foster parenting became a bit more real to me. When Mark and I spoke last month to a group of foster parents about connecting with the children in their care, it became even more real to me. My textured heart was stirred.

Foster care. It’s all about life. Life giving all around. Life changing all around. For children. For those ordinary heroes we call “foster parents.” It’s not easy or comfortable or safe. But, the best things in life simply aren’t.

______________________________________

Forever changed by their experience of being adopted and adopting, Kelly is a stay-at-home mom/manager to 4 children and a professional juggler, juggling her calling as wife and mother with her secondary callings (editing and serving adoptive families through The Sparrow Fund). You can learn more about their adoption story, how they’ve been changed, and what life for them looks like on their personal blog.

November 11, 2013November 10, 2013

how to love in uncertainty

When you decide to say yes to a child who might only be in your life for a few days, there’s a choice to be made.

How much will I love? Where will I draw the line of investing in this child’s emotional, spiritual, and physical wellbeing? How much of myself will I allow to be vulnerable so that this vulnerable child can feel safe?

When that baby is placed in your arms – when that child slips her hand into yours – you hope they will feel safe. But how much safety can I expect to exude if my own heart is guarded by so-called wisdom and held back by fear of letting go one day? It’s well known that I advocate a deep heart-giving in these kinds of situations. There are too many days when a particular child is hard to love, nights when someone wakes up just.too.many.times. On those occasions, I need to be fully invested. I need the attachment even more than they do on those days.

[photo by Morgan Perry]

Of course, this kind of commitment – this emotional and spiritual connection – leaves room for a deep sense of something missing when the child moves on. In fact, Rachel and I have found that when we’re honest about missing our Ugandan kiddos, it makes people uncomfortable. It’s as if the intensity or prolonged existence of the pain somehow calls into question the legitimacy of our grief. A few people have said that we should, “get over it already.” But somehow I don’t think it’s inconsistent to say that you miss someone while still rejoicing and profoundly approving of God’s plan for them to move on. Of course, choosing a heart posture that honors God in that grief is necessary. Maybe the rejoicing brings all the more glory to God because of the place of pain from which it comes.

But this post is not a discussion of how much to attach or how much to grieve. It’s about what to do when you attach all the way and then need to let go. I’m learning that there’s a healthy tension of loving fully, guarding my heart, and allowing myself to miss and it can only be maintained if I remember two things: who I am and who God is.

Let me tell you what I mean:

Everyone has their own style of attachment. Mine is to jump in no holds barred and love each child right nowbelieving, at the same time, that they might be in my life forever and they might be gone tomorrow. Those two very real possibilities call out the same level of commitment, intensity, steadfastness, and purpose in me. If this baby in my arms is my daughter, would I want to remember that I held back from her in our first months together? If she’s someone else’s daughter, loving her someone else means I lay down my life for them by caring for this child as if she were my own, ready to humbly return her to Jesus and allow him to place her in that someone else’s arms when the time comes.

There’s no profound revelation behind this heart stance. It’s simply what I’ve learned from the way Jesus loves me.He chose me before I loved him and he loves me whether or not I choose him. He loves me today with the same passion as tomorrow and yesterday, whether I’m walking close to him or turning by back to him in fear. His love is constant, consistent, sure. It’s this love I’m drawing on most days. There are days when I’m drawing from my own leaky bucket and on those days, he scoots in closer than ever and whispers, “Remember where you started this day? Come back.” It’s his consistent love that compels me to joy even when my circumstances (or those of the children I’ve loved) are not what I think they should be.

Trusting God’s goodness for the children I cared for in Uganda is not difficult at all. They are each living in homes where they are adored, where they are learning love, where they will grow up knowing God’s goodness on every level. But I still miss them, because when you dive in wholeheartedly in love towards a child who suddenly moves on, that place in your heart is left empty. The great thing about having empty places that no one understands and no one else can fill is that Jesus moves into them – if we ask him to.

In the case of several of my foster children (from long ago), the someone else who I was standing-in for turned out to be someone I didn’t trust. When it came time for them to go, I didn’t agree. Seven years later, I still don’t know where they are. This is not ideal, obviously, but sometimes it’s reality and my only salvation in a situation like that is to remember that the God who committed them to me for a season has committed Himself to them for a lifetime. That’s the promise.

My perspective of God’s goodness is too limited for me to attempt to tell him what that everlasting covenant should look like today – for me, for my family, for anyone I love. The fact that I don’t understand his timing is not a reflection on God’s goodness. It is a reflection of my struggle to trust his goodness. I can as soon fully understand the goodness of God as a baby can understand why her loving parents allow the doctor to give her a life saving, but painful, surgery. But whether or not I can fully understand him, I have him. And he is good.

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The moments of missing are few and far between these days. They’re limited to anniversaries and the times when Rachel and I let ourselves reminisce about the improbabilities and chaos of that year in Uganda. But, when they do surface, my go-to phrase for Jesus is, “OK, I feel lonely here and I miss so-and-so today. What do you want to show me about yourself in this? Where are you for me right now?”

And let me just say, that little series of questions is like a key that unlocks things I didn’t know about Jesus and me. It turns the areas of my life that I don’t understand into spaces where I can go deep with Jesus. It turns fear into the most trusting friendship. It turns shame into the deepest acceptance. It turns loneliness into the sweetest communion with my truest Friend. And I’ll take that over avoiding pain any day.

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Mandie Joy is a foster parent and soon-to-be adoptive mama of two beautiful little girls who are waiting in Africa. She blogs at www.seeingjoy.com.

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