Our life felt full and complete—the picture I had always dreamed of—but somewhere deep inside, I knew there was more waiting for us. We could either stay in the comfort of the life we knew, or step out into something no one around us had ever dared to do. At the time, I was able to stay home with our three boys while working part-time for a creative outlet. My husband’s career was flourishing, and we had a supportive circle of friends who loved and encouraged us. I cherished our family and felt grateful for the life we had built.
But my hope for our children went beyond good grades or popularity. I wanted them to grow up being kind, authentic, and inclusive. I wanted them to understand that our small town in Alabama was just one corner of a vast, diverse world. I knew there was something significant waiting for us to be a part of—it just wasn’t clear yet what form that calling would take.
One afternoon, as I sat in my car outside our children’s school, I turned on the radio. A segment about foster care caught my attention. They spoke about the staggering need for support for children in foster care, for families who care for them, and for advocacy for those still waiting for permanent homes. I had heard these statistics before, but on that day, it felt different. It struck something deep within me, and I knew I had to act.
Questions flooded my mind: “Where were these kids in my town?” “Why were they invisible to most people?” “How could I help—volunteer, donate, anything?” I realized that doing nothing was no longer an option. I began calling local churches to see if they had a foster care or adoption ministry. To my surprise, none did. Confused but determined, my husband and I decided our next step would be foster parent training classes.
To everyone else—and even to ourselves—it probably looked crazy. We were warned that fostering could hurt my husband’s practice, that we were making a mistake. We wondered how caring for a child in need could negatively affect our lives. Yet deep down, we knew it was right. We completed the training with a simple goal: to care for a child in their time of need, honor their birth family, and teach our sons what it means to love sacrificially, even when it’s uncomfortable, heartbreaking, or unpopular.
After navigating countless obstacles, we finally received our license. We didn’t request a child of a particular race or gender—we trusted that whoever came to us was exactly the child God intended us to love, just as He had guided our hands and hearts with our biological children.
A few months later, on a holiday weekend, we got a call:
“A baby boy is in the hospital in another part of the state and needs a home.”
Fear gripped me at first. There were so many unknowns. But ultimately, I trusted a good God, who loved this child and had made a way for us to meet him. This was also a moment to live out my pro-life convictions, to welcome a child who might not have had a chance otherwise. Our three sons eagerly agreed to open their hearts and home, understanding that this would be a sacrifice—whether for one day, one year, or forever. I couldn’t have been prouder of the brothers they would become.
Just three hours later, a car pulled into our driveway carrying a 6-pound, 3-day-old baby boy. I texted my husband, who was out running, “He’s here!!” Through the kitchen window, I watched him sprint home. In that moment, time seemed to pause—a child born into uncertainty and brokenness now had a safe place to land, and a father running full-speed to meet him. The caseworker handed me the baby, two Walmart bags of random items, some paperwork, and a quiet blessing. We had no idea what the future held, but it already felt miraculous.
Settling into life as a foster family was both exhausting and humbling. Navigating the silos of the system and the brokenness of human nature tested me daily. But I held onto hope, knowing that Jesus calls us into the hard things, not away from them. When whispers arose—questions about whether he had been a “drug baby” or why his birth family hadn’t kept him—I reminded myself that if God approved, nothing else mattered. Hard didn’t mean bad.
For every challenge, there were countless blessings. Strangers stepped up to love, advocate, and support. I witnessed God’s redemption in the foster care system and His goodness through acts of generosity, unity, and care. I learned that proximity is key to understanding—when we open our hearts and homes, love grows, biases fade, and hope blooms.
Eventually, it became clear that this foster son was meant to be ours forever. Joy and gratitude filled our hearts, though there was still heartbreak too. I love his birth mother and treasure her wish that he always knows her love. Adoption isn’t only Plan B for infertility—it can be a beautiful, intentional plan to give a child a family, regardless of circumstances.
Inspired by our journey, we started the very Foster Care and Adoption ministry we had once searched for in vain. Since then, more families have opened their homes, and countless children have found love and stability. The organization continues to impact children, families, and volunteers in profound ways, sowing seeds of compassion that will bloom for years to come.
Our youngest son officially joined our family 900 days after his birth. Alongside us, his three older brothers raised their right hands before the judge and vowed to love and protect him forever. In our little town—once marked by division and struggle—we celebrated a day of family, love, and hope. And now I see our home and community as a place brimming with opportunity to love, serve, and witness the harvest of God’s goodness.
