The Tension of Reopening
Can I be honest? Part of me has been preparing physically and mentally to reopen my home after a season away—making sure bottles are washed, car seats are ready, and a few diapers are stocked. And yet part of me still hesitates to reopen, because foster care grief is real.
I think it’s the part of me that wants to protect myself (and my family)—from the next goodbye, from the next heartbreak, from the frustration of the system, from all the unknowns and uncertainties. Some of that stems from difficult experiences with how things were handled. And of course, the ache remains from little ones who were woven into everyday life for a long season.
It’s just another nuance of foster care. On one hand, I want to jump back in—to fill the gap for a family, for a child. On the other, I want to protect my own heart. But then I remind myself:
A life of safety, a life on the sidelines, a life spent guarding myself is not the life God created me for.
I could choose not to foster anymore, and that would be okay. There are so many other ways to support children in foster care, their families, and foster parents without being a foster parent. Honestly, that would probably be easier. It might make life simpler, less stressful. But I don’t want to choose comfort if it means missing what God is calling me to do. I want the heartbreak and the beauty of saying yes. First and foremost, yes to God. And then yes to these kids.
Yes, it will break my heart open again and again. It will stretch me, it will challenge me. But in all of that, God is teaching me. Teaching me to lean on Him. To trust Him. To find my people and not isolate myself into thinking I have to do it all alone. Teaching me how to be a mom—even if only for a season. Not to replace their biological mom, but to stand in the gap as another support—an extra mom for that season.
Reopening my home for another “yes” will never replace the children who were in my care. Nothing ever could. I’m not expecting this journey to become easier, but just as I’ve learned so much in the last two years, I know I’ll gain even more—more knowledge, more tools, and most importantly, more of Jesus walking—sometimes carrying— me through this.
We’re not promised tomorrow, and I could sit in the comfort of my own home, watching others make an impact, or I can get up, step off the sidelines, and say yes to something bigger than myself. Because foster care is not about me. It’s not about my comfort. It’s about the kids and their families. And yes—boundaries are good, boundaries are healthy, boundaries are necessary to continue. But the invitation is still there—to step forward in faith, even when it costs me.
Grief That Lingers
Grief shows up in so many forms.
Loss has marked different seasons of my life, each with its own weight. But foster care has introduced me to a depth of grief I hadn’t known before.
It was the pacifiers I couldn’t bring myself to put away. The tears that came as I took apart the bouncer both kids loved. The way I couldn’t quite do that last load of laundry, because it means folding the last clothes they wore. It took time.
It was in the little things: putting away one toy at a time. Washing the final dishes—tiny cups and bottles I used to rinse a dozen times a day. Standing too long in the aisle over a simple Mickey Mouse water bottle, debating whether to buy it. Finding a new picture frame because I still wanted their faces on my walls. Sitting in their rooms, surrounded by silence. Seeing my dog wander into their spaces, looking for them.
It was those first quiet nights, longer than they’d ever been away before. It’s the photo of the toddler sitting beside their cousin at supper the evening I dropped them off with family, knowing this time I wouldn’t be coming back. Too little to understand, but old enough to know something big was happening.
Grief is the memory of the toddler’s cry—different, deeper—that I will never forget. The way the toddler reached for me, saying “Mom.”
Grief is the tension of wanting them both to forget enough so the pain is lighter—while also wanting them to always remember how deeply they were loved. Are loved.
It’s in all the reminders scattered throughout my day, after nearly two years of pouring my life into theirs. And yet, I don’t regret it. Not one bit.
I keep praying—for myself, for my family, for the kids, for their biological family, for their case. Life moves forward, but the ache lingers.
Where Grief and Calling Meet
Foster care holds both: the ache of grief and the courage to reopen. The heartbreak and the yes. The loss and the love.
I think of the song “I Remind Myself” by LO Worship, where the words declare, “You’re acquainted with grief.” That truth anchors me in this season—because my grief isn’t foreign to Him. He knows it, He holds it, and He walks with me in it. This journey often feels like exactly that: reminding myself who God is, even in the ache, and letting that steady me as I step into the yes.
And somewhere in between, I’m learning to trust that God holds it all—my grief, my yes, and each child who comes through my door.
He is faithful in the ache, and He is faithful in the yes. Maybe you’re holding both ache and calling in your own life, too. Be encouraged—you’re not alone, and God meets us right there—in the ache and in the yes.
If you’d like to read more of the prayers I hold onto in this journey, you can find them here: “Prayers and Hopes for the Little Ones Who Enter My Home”.