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Most of the calls from Denver County Human Services come late at night. All of them start the same way: “We are looking for a foster care placement for…”
I answer these calls with trepidation. I relish control, which is why these calls scare the heck out of me. Tapping the “accept” button always threatens to disrupt the predictability I so deeply cherish.
Two sisters—a feisty three-year-old and a six-week-old. A two-year-old boy with an affection for spicy Doritos. A ten-month-old boy who adored his foster brothers. A five-month-old baby boy who loved to be held.
And these are just the foster care placements we’ve said “yes” to. We’ve declined many more, for a variety of reasons. Sometimes we feel underprepared to serve the child well, due to the child’s age or unique special needs. Other times we’ve been out of town. Sometimes we’ve just been too exhausted to say yes.
But with each “yes”—for each of the five children who we’ve welcomed into our home—we learn more and more about how radically different our childhoods were from these children’s.
A few months ago, amid a swirling blizzard, we received a call about a ten-month-old baby boy who was in need of a home. His mom had gotten into trouble and she had no family nor trusted friends who could pass a background test to care for him. A few hours later, a caseworker navigating a foot of snow, arrived at the door with J. Our boys greeted him with joy, toys, and hugs. We took him into our arms and his eyes scanned the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, uncertain and scared about this new place filled with new people.
J stayed with us for a few weeks while his grandfather made arrangements to care for him. Our boys love their foster siblings and J was no exception. Abe (our 18-month-old) loved feeding him his bottle. Desmond (our six-year-old) enjoyed carrying (read: lugging) him around the house. Alli and I loved the chaos of loading all three boys in the tub for a nightly bath.

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Abe, Desmond, and J


We love being foster parents. Like a great hike, foster care is maddening, glorious, frustrating, fun, and energizing, often all at the same time.
Here’s what I’m learning: If Alli and I were to fall on hard times, the number of safe, loving homes immediately available to Abe and Desmond count in the hundreds. If we succumbed to drug addictions or were arrested or suffered a debilitating mental illness, we would need to do little more than whisper the word and friends and family would (quite literally) line up at our door, ready to help. I of course don’t say this to gloat. It’s just true.
We—and likely you—are surrounded by armies of stable, caring people in our extended family, friend circles, neighborhood, and church. For our foster children’s parents, most lack even one or two such people they can call when they’re down. This is what scholar Charles Murray discovered in researching his book Coming Apart. Put simply, my experience diverges sharply from many of my neighbors. Not by a little bit. The life our biological children experience is starkly different from the life our foster children have experienced. Drastically different.
In Strong and Weak, Andy Crouch challenges readers to “go to the land of the dead, the realm of those who have lost all capacity for action.” In descending into very hard places with these five children and their families, I’ve been forced to reckon with some very hard realities. At times, I’m paralyzed by the weight of the challenges facing these families.
In the process, I’ve discovered how much I treasure stability. And, discovered stability is something many people never experience. I’ve also learned how much I benefit from a community of influential, wealthy, and well-connected family and friends. And, learned how many families in our world live with an absence of these networks.
The calls keep coming. More children in need of homes. More moms amid chaos. More absent and incarcerated dads. With each call—and each sweet child who enters our home—I realize all the more how many wrong assumptions I’ve held about my life and about the life of my neighbors. I can’t put a bow on this thought, of course. But, knowing the depth of their pain and hardship has done important work in both exposing my fears and expanding my heart. And that’s something.