The call came a few weeks after my husband’s memorial service. The night before, the Division of Family Services had removed my wayward niece’s three children from her careless care.
That did not surprise me but what came next did.
The DFS was searching for a relative who would take the four-month-old baby and her four- and nine-year-old brothers, so the children might stay together. I didn’t ask nearly enough questions before opening my newly empty home to those little ones—just until their mother straightened out her life.
Then, I would straighten out my own.
I knew nothing about the foster care system but was about to learn. I did my part, in courses and classes and weekly visitations. I rocked the baby and read bedtime stories while the “mother” of these sweet children did nothing at all. Days turned into months, and my house and heart were full.
Still, every night my prayers were laced with worry. I watched these remarkable children adapt, change, grow, and thrive and heard the whisperings deep inside me. These three deserved more than me.
I was not enough.
This had no chance of ending soon, and the caring workers at DFS had no quick solutions. They reluctantly admitted that the system favors the badly behaved parents over the children they are supposed to protect. I was not going to give these children back; we had come too far for that. What I wanted to do was find them a permanent home, somewhere close, somewhere stable, somewhere with two parents who would love three children and put up with me.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
The DFS was skeptical when I created a list of requirements for potential parents. The future family had to have a support system—grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles who would stand beside them. The potential parents had to have faith, be steady role models, and do what they needed to do to protect these three children.
Was that too much to pray for?
I can’t explain why my mind kept going back to an earlier conversation with the only schoolteacher who called to check on the children. This hometown girl was newly married and according to my potential parents list, checked off all the boxes. Finally, I worked up the gumption to call her and bluntly asked if she and her husband had ever considered having a large family.
She didn’t say no.
Other than kissing my husband goodbye when he died, handing these children to someone else was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. That four-month-old baby was no longer a baby, and the boys had outgrown all their clothes … twice. Adoption was the true purpose for my checklist, while the ultimate goal of the foster care system is parent reunification.
We all knew that wasn’t going to happen.
All this time, I’ve carried the weight of the unsettled future of these children. Then this year, I sat in a courtroom and witnessed each child change their name and claim their forever home. While the new family posed for photos in the sun, I stood in the shadows wiping away unashamed tears. The children were surrounded by grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles, like it was meant to be. On the lawn of the courthouse, I finally laid down that burden of worry, and when the new mother of my children made room for me in their family photo, my checklist was checked off. Standing there, surrounded by such joy, I felt lighter.
Maybe I was enough.
This article was originally published in the November/December 2024 issue of Missouri Life.
