“We celebrate today, and we carry yesterday with us, quietly, faithfully, and forever.”
Celebrate the small victories…
There are small joys in foster care that don’t make headlines.
They live in the quiet moments.
The ordinary ones.
The ones that feel sacred because you know nothing about this journey is guaranteed.
This baby came home with us straight from the hospital. We carried him through our front door still learning how to breathe outside a hospital rhythm, still brand new to the world. He’s eight months old now. He has his first tooth. The tiniest sharp reminder that time is moving whether we’re ready or not.
We celebrate the milestones anyway.
The tooth.
The giggles.
The way he reaches for familiar arms.
We celebrate because that’s what love does — even when it’s fragile.
This time, we are walking through adoption again. And if you’ve ever done that in foster care, you know it’s not a straight line. It’s a roller-coaster built on court dates, continuances, and decisions made behind closed doors by people who don’t see bedtime routines or middle-of-the-night feedings. People who don’t see how a baby settles when they hear your voice, feel your heart beat.
And yet, everyone asks.
At church.
At work.
In passing conversations.
“How’s it going?”
“We’re praying he gets to stay.”
“We’re praying for your family.”
And you smile. You nod. You say thank you.
Because what else can you say when your heart is wearing its feelings on the outside?
The truth is, we’ve been here before.
A year ago, we lost a baby we had from birth until nine months old, 18/ days in the NICU. One day he was ours to tuck in, and the next he was gone. No goodbye. No visits. No updates. We’ve never seen him again.
And yet… he’s everywhere.
In the handprints still on our walls.
In the portraits that never came down.
In the photos that pop up unexpectedly on our phones.
In the tiny baptism outfit that still hangs in his closet, untouched, more than a year later.
Not a day goes by that our family doesn’t talk about him or think about who he might be becoming. Grief doesn’t leave just because time passes. It just learns how to sit quietly inside you.
Since losing him, we’ve cared for five other foster children. Five. We kept going even after promising ourselves we wouldn’t. Even after telling our hearts—and our children—that we would never put ourselves through that again.
And yet… here we are.
Because when a child needs care, logic doesn’t always get the final say, your heart does.
There’s excitement now, too. Hope. The possibility of a chapter closing with this sweet little one. The dream of permanence. Of not packing up another life in garbage bags.
But it’s complicated.
Joy and grief coexist here.
Hope walks hand-in-hand with fear.
Love comes with a cost you pay daily.
Foster care takes a toll on the whole family. On marriages. On biological children who love deeply and grieve loudly. On parents who promise themselves “never again” and mean it—until a baby shows up needing a safe place to stay.
The small joys keep us going.
A tooth.
A giggle.
A morning cuddle.
And the grief reminds us just how deeply we are capable of loving.
This is foster care.
Not easy.
Not clean.
But full of meaning — even when it hurts.
And for now, we hold this baby close.
We celebrate today.
And we carry yesterday with us, quietly, faithfully, and forever.