The phone doesn’t ring at convenient times.
It rings during dinner, just as spaghetti hits the plate.
It rings during bedtime, when the house is finally quiet.
It rings in the middle of a morning jog. Or at midnight. Or in the small hours before dawn.
And every time, it carries the same kind of weight:
“We have a child who needs you. Can you say yes?”
Like the time a DHS supervisor called just before midnight:
A 3-year-old girl sat alone in a hospital room. Her mother had been shot—wasn’t expected to survive. Her father had been arrested. Domestic violence. Her clothes were taken as evidence. All she had left was fear. And the need for a blanket.
The answer: Yes.
Or the time a CPS worker called while dinner was bubbling on the stove:
A 4-year-old boy, soaked in urine, sat in the back of a police car. His mother, battling mental illness, couldn’t care for him. He might have lice. He hadn’t bathed. But under all the grime was a child who needed a place to land.
The answer: Yes.
Or when a two-year-old girl, injured and sleepy, waited at a DHS office. Her mother was too high to speak, to function, to hold her. The worker just needed someone—anyone—to take her for the night.
The answer: Yes.
Even for a 10-day-old baby boy—brand new to the world, already bounced from one home to the next. The placement wasn’t working. Did they have a car seat? Did they have space? Did they have room in their hearts?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Because that’s the rhythm of life in a foster family.
A thousand tiny yeses.
Each one bringing a new name. A new face. A new beginning.
Each one rewriting the story of a child who has known far too much pain for their few years on earth.
And the truth is, those yeses are just as much for the foster parents as they are for the kids.
“We thought we were giving them what they needed,” the mother explains. “But they’ve given us more than we ever imagined.”
Yes, it’s hard. Gut-wrenchingly, heart-breakingly hard.
There are tantrums and trauma, meetings and misunderstandings, nights spent in tears and mornings filled with uncertainty.
But these kids do the hard things every single day.
They lose parents.
They lose homes.
They lose safety.
And through it all, they keep going.
So when the call comes, this family says yes.
Not because they’re heroes. Not because they’re fearless. Not because they don’t cry when goodbyes come.
They say yes because someone needs to.
They say yes because the system is overflowing with children who have nowhere to go.
They say yes because sometimes, a child doesn’t need perfection—they just need someone to stay.
To hold them.
To teach them.
To love them, fiercely, fully, even if just for a little while.
And when the time comes to let go, they do.
With tears. With love. With peace.
And without regret.
Because every yes was worth it.
“By God’s grace, we will figure this out together.”
That’s the promise.
That’s the calling.
And that’s what makes the yes matter. 🧸💛
— Story shared with gratitude to the Made to Mother Project
