She Wouldn’t Take the Bag

The same thing that breaks my heart and makes me want to quit being a foster parent… fuels my fire to keep going.

My fingers moved as quickly as they could on my phone as I sat in the car line for my food. I had just dropped off the kids to kinship for a weekend overnight—the first of two before they move in full-time.

I’m already a mess of emotions as I load them up, drive there, and hand them over. But then she does something I’m not ready for. Something I wasn’t expecting. I’m pretty good at running through a million scenarios in my head of what will or won’t happen, and this wasn’t on the list.

She wouldn’t take the bag.

You might be thinking, “Okay. It’s just a bag.” Oh, but it’s not.

It wasn’t the diapers or the spare outfits I was most concerned about. It was the plush. The blanket. The books. The things that feel like home to a toddler. I tried to explain. She declined again.

Of course, it’s her right to not take it. To say they won’t be needed. But in my heart—they were.

It was needed for a toddler who has never stayed overnight there. Who hasn’t seen her in weeks. Who won’t understand why they’re not in their familiar bed, in their familiar PJs, surrounded by the four walls they’ve come to know, with their familiar person, plush, blanket, and routine.

Yes, in a couple of weeks, this will all shift long-term. But isn’t the transition supposed to be for the kids? Shouldn’t it matter that they carry pieces of comfort with them?

Almost two years old is old enough to feel that something is off. That everything is changing. These little ones are intelligent. Observant. Far more than we give them credit for.

But she wouldn’t take the bag. And as I drove away—I bawled.

An evening and weekend I already knew would be heavy became even more heartbreaking. I wept for the added confusion the boys would carry. For the ache they wouldn’t have words to express.

And this? This is what fired me up.

Because even an infant and toddler know trauma. Their bodies know it. Their bodies remember it. Being removed from their biological parents is trauma. The reasons for that removal—trauma. Moving from a long-term foster home to kinship placement—trauma. And likely moving again to a biological parent—trauma. That’s far more disruption, far more confusion than any not-quite-two-year-old should ever have to carry.

So yes—the same thing that breaks my heart and makes me want to quit being a foster parent… fuels my fire to keep going.

To keep saying yes.

Yes to the heartache.

Yes to the frustrations.

Yes to the unknowns.

Yes to living in the gray.

Yes to the email, the call, the letter that changes everything.

Yes to welcoming a child in.

Yes to grieving when they leave.

Yes to fighting for the kids.

Yes to fighting for bio families when it’s right.

Yes to speaking up when others stay silent.

Yes to pushing back when the system forgets who it’s supposed to serve.

Because the system is broken. And the kids deserve better.

Sometimes the loudest advocates are the ones living in the smallest homes. Foster parents, caseworkers, guardians—some fight with you. Some don’t. Some care deeply. Others are numb. Some are just exhausted.

But I refuse to stop speaking up.

It feels hopeless trying to fight against a system this big. But I remind myself: it’s about this child. The ones under my roof. The ones I can love and protect today.

So I’m learning. I’m learning how to advocate. How to get loud—respectfully. How lonely this work can be. How exhausting it is—not just caring for the kids—but managing visits, court dates, meetings, and appointments. I’m learning how to document everything. Every little thing. I’m learning that I am their loudest and best advocate while they are in my home.

And I’m learning to pray more deeply than I ever have. I’m praying over their days and their nights. Over the transitions. Over the trauma. Over the case team, the decisions, the reunifications. Over my own heart—that I would stay soft, faithful, obedient, and open-handed. Because foster care has shown me just how much I don’t control. And how much I have to surrender.

So let’s make some noise.

This isn’t just my story. It’s not just my state or city. It’s everywhere.

So who will speak up? Who will question what doesn’t make sense? Who will push for accountability? Who will fight for the kids?

I will.

Not because it’s easy. Not because I’m strong. But because it’s right. Because I know God’s heart is for the vulnerable. Because He sees, even when I feel unseen. And because love—real, gospel-shaped love—doesn’t quit when it gets hard. It digs in.

The same thing that breaks my heart… fills me with fire to keep going.

Because this isn’t just child welfare work. This is kingdom work. This is holy work. And He is with me—even when they don’t take the bag.