Have you ever had a moment where you realize you almost missed out on something incredible? That’s the feeling that washes over me each time I gaze into my son’s eyes.
About ten years ago, my husband and I had been married three years and were thinking about starting a family. One Sunday during service, we learned about the critical shortage of foster parents in our area.
The statistics were staggering. We had never thought of foster care before, but that day, something changed.
We attended an informational meeting and immediately knew we had to act. The passion to help these children was overwhelming. We worried that once we started our own family, the busyness might take over, but we decided to go for it anyway.
Over the next three years, we fostered five children long-term and adopted two beautiful baby girls. Life was chaotic, diapers, social worker visits, visits with biological parents, highs, lows, and lots of love. Then came a quiet period. One of our foster kids was placed with family, and calls for new placements slowed.
During that period, several families from our church relocated to a struggling neighborhood in South Los Angeles to launch a church and community initiatives. After spending some time there, we felt a strong pull to be part of it. So, we packed up our two daughters and traded our suburban surroundings for a new chapter in the city.
Six months after moving, we got a call that surprised us. A little boy we had fostered three years earlier had been removed from his mother again and needed a home. I was overwhelmed but said yes immediately. Within hours, our five-year-old was back in our living room.
Life became a whirlwind, raising three kids, running a summer day camp for nearly 100 underserved children (many in foster care), and managing our careers. One Friday while I was at work, our foster agency called begging us to take in a newborn just for the weekend. All other homes were full, and the baby was at risk of being left alone in the hospital.
I was hesitant; our lives were already full. But I called my husband, expecting a no. Instead, after some thought, he agreed, just for the weekend.
That night, a social worker brought a tiny African-American baby boy to our door, with no belongings but in need of love. I softly rocked him in my arms, murmuring soothing songs and quietly promising to keep him safe and cherished.
Monday came, and the baby’s case was extended longer than expected. Not long after, he fell ill and needed to be admitted to the hospital.
We feared we couldn’t manage, three kids, summer camp, jobs but our family, friends, and camp volunteers rallied around us, supporting us through every step.
During hospital visits, I grew deeply connected to this little boy. Even with the knowledge that he’d eventually go back to his birth family, I poured all my love into him without holding back.
One day, a volunteer played “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” on a ukulele while I held him, tears streaming down my face. I promised to love him for as long as I had him.
After release, the baby needed foster care for at least six months. We hesitated but said yes, ready to love him through whatever came.
I was a Caucasian woman caring for an African-American child in a predominantly African-American neighborhood. I didn’t know much about his specific hair and skin care needs, but the community stepped in. Women from our camp taught me how to care for him, brought the right products, and supported us. This little boy became OUR baby, a baby loved by many.
Months turned into years. Our family was heartbroken when reunion with his birth parents failed, but joyful when we were chosen to adopt him. In December 2015, we became his forever family.
Today, my son’s smile lights up every room. His laughter is contagious, his confidence inspiring. He’s loved and known by so many because of the village that helped grow him.
I am forever glad for saying yes, the choice that changed all our lives.
