The other day, my niece started saying the boys’ names. The last kids that were in my home long term.
Pointing at something random — a blanket, a toy, something baby-related — and saying little brother’s name. Then a toy truck, and big brother’s name.
To us, it almost felt sudden. Like it came out of nowhere.
But it didn’t.
She’s growing so fast, and her language is catching up to what her brain and body have known for a long time. For months she’s been storing it all away — the rhythms, the faces she sees in photos, the names mentioned in conversations, of the two boys that bookend her in age.
It wasn’t new information.
It was new words.
And it stops me in my tracks. I’m sure it stops my family in theirs too at times.
Because it’s proof of something I think we forget.
Kids remember.
Even when they’re little-little.
Even when they can’t talk.
Even when we think they’re too young to “really” know what’s going on.
Their brains may not form long-term, story-shaped memories yet. But their bodies? Their nervous systems? They are recording everything.
Who comes when I cry.
Who feeds me when I’m hungry.
Who rocks me when I’m tired.
Who feels safe.
Who knows me.
That wiring happens long before words do.
And lately, that truth has been hitting me pretty heavy.
It’s been over six months since there have been kids in my home.
Except for one sweet little girl who stayed four nights.
Over six months of quiet.
Over six months of “almosts.”
Phone calls that could have been.
Placements that looked possible.
Most of them ending the way we hope they do — with kinship stepping up.
And that is worth celebrating. It really is.
But I’d be lying if I said the quiet hasn’t made me ask questions.
Okay, God.
Was that it?
Were the boys it?
Is that the whole story?
There’s been a lot shifting in me during this season. Some of it will probably stay behind the scenes. Growth usually does.
But the questions are real.
And then there are the tears.
Playing bubbles in the backyard with my niece the other day — just like I did with big brother. Watching her love being outside the same way he did. Finding a Mickey Mouse plush that looks almost identical to the one I sent with him — the one he slept with at night.
Grief doesn’t always come in dramatic waves. Sometimes it shows up in soft, ordinary moments.
A stuffed animal.
A backyard.
A toddler voice saying a name.
And every tear lately feels like proof of something too.
Proof that we loved them deeply.
Proof that they were known & seen.
Protected.
Adored.
Fought for.
Cared for in the middle of the waiting and advocating and exhausting system navigation.
Foster care is hard. It is frustrating. It can make you want to quit.
It is paperwork and phone calls and unknown timelines and holding your breath. And doing all the work to take care of and meet the kids’ needs but not actually getting a say in things.
But it is also rocking babies in the middle of the night.
It is cheering for first steps.
It is memorizing favorite snacks.
It is knowing exactly how they like to be held and what each cry means.
And here’s what I keep coming back to:
Even if they don’t remember me, their bodies will remember being loved.
Even if they never recall my house.
Even if they don’t remember my name.
Even if our time together becomes just a blur in their minds.
Their nervous systems will carry the imprint of safety.
Their developing brains will carry the imprint of someone showing up.
Being responded to.
Being soothed.
Being delighted in.
Research tells us that early attachment shapes the architecture of the brain long before conscious memory forms. Long before a child can tell you their story, their body already knows it.
So no, they may not have a clear mental picture of our backyard or our dog or our routines.
But their bodies will remember what it felt like to be held when they cried.
And that matters.
It matters more than we can see.
I don’t know what the next chapter holds.
I don’t know if the quiet will continue.
I don’t know if a call will come tomorrow.
I don’t know if my season of fostering is expanding, shifting, or closing.
It has felt like a long winter in some ways.
But I keep coming back to this:
Nothing is wasted.
Not the sleepless nights.
Not the court dates.
Not the tears.
Not the bubble-filled afternoons.
Not the Mickey Mouse plush tucked under a tiny arm.
Not the empty beds. Not the pacifiers, clothes, strollers, and car seats being stored.
Love is never wasted. Love offered in obedience to God is never wasted.
And even if their minds don’t hold specific memories of us, their bodies will carry the imprint of being loved.
And maybe that is enough.
For today, that is enough.
Because before words, there is presence.
Before memory, there is imprint.
Before understanding, there is love.
And before any of us knew how the story would unfold, God already did.
Scripture tells us that He is near to the brokenhearted. That He sees the sparrow. That He knits each life together with intention. That nothing done in His name is ever in vain.
So I believe He saw the boys in my home (and still does).
He saw the late nights and the goodbyes.
He sees the waiting now.
He sees the empty beds of a journey I was so sure He led me to.
The stored car seats.
The quiet house.
And just like their bodies remember being held, I’m learning to let my own heart remember this:
I am held too.
Even in the quiet.
Even in the questions.
Even before the next chapter has words.
I am held by God.