The Story of a Birthmother...And Every Mother.

She crumbled beneath the weight of her realization. In waves it washed over her, the reality of her commitment.

In heaving sobs, her head buried in my legs, this woman once a stranger wailed through bitter tears of no more second chances, not here, not ever.

The lawyer stared at me, looking questioningly. I suppose he thought I was his kind, in his polished suit and dapper bow tie. Together we stood against the over-crowded masses of family court.

A jolting difference between us and the woman I rocked.

Behind me Jamie nodded. And with one fell swoop it was finished.

With a common signature, she had released the son she rejoiced over when she learned he was growing inside of her. She surrendered ever feeling the hands that once traced her womb, cleaning the feet that had kicked her in the late night hours.

From the tears of pain mingled with joy that had birthed him into this world, it was her same tears that placed him in the arms of another just three years earlier.

She had caught whispers of child welfare eyeing her through the lines of betrayal.

But it wasn’t her; it was her man.

The one whose hand she had held since the moment she noticed the hands of boys. In the dawning days of her teens, it was love. Crazy, irresistible, infatuated love. So who would give it a second thought when she ran from the staunch boundaries of home, to the freedom of a court house altar? The birth of a family, dreams, innocent longings established. Just a hall over from where today she signed its death.

It had worked. He made good money for being a high school dropout.

She went to beauty school and made her fortune.

They saved and bought the trailer they had been spying.

But when you’re a 18-year-old boy, you’re riveted with unceasing worlds to conquer, adventures to be explored.

She never once questioned. He was her existence.

When the unusual tools began crowding the kitchen, and the strangers’ faces began looking to her for lunch, then dinner; then stepping over people lining the floor, breakfast.

Day in and day out, and he whispered, If you love me, you’ll stand by me.

She silently served. Grasping for the dreams she birthed in that little court room.

But the days passed.

A baby girl came, and with it his work hours seemed to grow longer. His days ran together.

But she never questioned. Ever loyal, always faithful.

Aren’t those the words they muttered through their anticipation of the future?

She recited and meditated on their promise through the traces of her dreams, the juggle of her duties.

And her heart soared when he wandered home, high, but longing to claim her once again.

They would be forever imprinted by that night with a son.

She rejoiced in thinking, Now he will want to be ever faithful, ever loyal.

Yet, even as the young form developed in her womb, the meth became the already birthed second child in their home.

And He would kiss her neck the way that melted her, whispering, If you love me.

He wasn’t by her side when she labored in the hospital.

As they placed the baby on her chest, her mother whispered, They came to clean out your house today. They’re going to test him.

She held her child of hope tighter. Closed her eyes to wish away the horrors that seemed to be peering in the shadows.

But she knew then, as she knew in that stuffy meeting room, Her story was never one meant for hope.

And the only way to grace that child of her womb with hope would be to do as they told her, for hadn't they said that education and money can buy success...all in the name of Jesus.

Hadn't these people who God loves said to her, "He's an orphan who needs a family."


Friend, hear my heart. See my tears.

Her story is so similar to the thousands upon thousands written through the introductions of our children coming into care.

Their mamas and papas are not the enemies.

But there is an enemy that has set his mark to kill and destroy, to whisper the death of lies, the haunting words, It's the end of your story. You were never meant for hope.

You know this is true because you heard those words once upon a time.

Before the Light shattered the darkness...

You were one step away from destruction, desolation...

Until the Lover of your Soul drew you to the desert and spoke tenderly towards you...

What if your call to foster care {and all ministry} is His tender whisper to the ones He has drawn into the desert?

What if you are His mercy to the broken? 

The hand that lifts the head and whispers, See the light. You were made for more. This is not the end of the Story. You were made for Hope, and Hope does not disappoint.

My Friend, in that desert you were thirsty. Anguishing for the water of life. And into you He poured streams of living water...

Not only for your thirst, but so that those waters of Hope might flow from the well abiding deep within you...

What if this was the way we approached foster care?

Not judging by the descriptions on a court report, but by the way the Father allows us to see His image bearers.

Because He is Worthy ~