She smashed the jar of expensive perfume, giving her best, anointing her Savior’s feet. They scoffed, the religious ones. What a waste. And she looked away in shame.
But her faithful Savior knew better. No, no, he spoke gently, taking her chin in his hands. It’s not wasted, my beloved daughter. It’s not wasted. It’s beautiful.
Those are the words that came as I said yes to fostering a newborn. My first adoption from foster care, though not easy by any definition of the word, was just about as uncomplicated and straightforward as such things can be. I knew when I saw her picture that this sweet girl was my daughter. She moved in and six months later, a judge made our little family official.
This was different. I welcomed this tiny one into our home, into our family with a future much less certain to everyone– myself included.
I mixed his bottles. I changed his diapers. I sang songs about Jesus to him at all hours of the night. I loved him fiercely.
Four months later, I buckled him into his carseat and kissed his head as the social worker carried him off into the arms of another mama who loved him. A mama who was trying hard to break heavy chains and do right by her baby.
People ask me if deep down somewhere, I knew he would be back. That he was my son. The truth is that, though I hoped he would be back forever, I also prayed desperately– as passionately as I’ve ever prayed for anything– that Jesus would help his mama break those heavy chains so she could parent him safely. Foster care is complicated like that.
The next two years brought a whirlwind of emotions that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Little One moved in and out of my home three more times in a case that seemed like it couldn’t get any more complicated. The twists and turns were frustrating. The wait for permanence was agonizing. I wore high heels to court and outlasted four social workers and the big boss. I screamed at Jesus in my car, crying hot tears that splashed on the steering wheel. I wondered if I was a bad mom for putting my daughter through all this drama when her life had been hard enough already. I was a wreck. And my God was faithful.
I knew his faithfulness in the words of his people who whispered hope and healing into my ears on the days when my arms ached to hold a baby. In the verses they wrote on cards that I read again and again when it all felt like a waste. In the moments that we sat together and, words failing, just cried.
I knew his faithfulness in the times his people chose to just show up and do something… to bring me food, to watch my daughter, to walk beside me into court, to boldly ask, “hey… do you want to talk about the baby or do you not want to talk about the baby?”
I knew his faithfulness in the prayers bombarding heaven on my behalf. I remember one morning I felt like I literally couldn’t even get off the floor, stumbling under the heaviness of what felt like a never-ending fight. And two sisters came right alongside me, approaching the throne of grace with confidence that I couldn’t manage, holding up my arms when I was so exhausted I wasn’t sure how I could fight any more.
I knew his faithfulness in financial provision. Because this case was so complicated, I paid my lawyer to do a few adoption related things that weren’t reimbursed by my agency. I wasn’t worried about it and nobody else knew how much I had paid… but one day soon after, sweet friends handed me an envelope full of encouraging words and cash in that exact amount. Extravagant provision by a faithful God.
I know his faithfulness in the relationships that I’ve been able to build with Little One’s birth family. In the moments that I’ve been able to look into his other mama’s eyes and tell her the truth about herself… that she is loved. That she is worthy.
I know his faithfulness in the unruly tribe that foster care has brought me. Several of Little One’s siblings were adopted by other families in our town. We are able to get together regularly and watching all of our kids interact is one of the great joys of my life. Some connected by genes, others by commitment, onlookers can never quite pick out which is which.
And, of course, I know his faithfulness in the everyday moments, the mornings that I wake up and can’t believe that I actually get to parent these two incredible human beings. The nights I collapse exhausted because being a single parent is just plain hard.
Nothing wasted. I can say it with certainty now, with conviction.
And it’s true for you too. Don’t look away in shame, sister. Others might scoff, but your faithful Savior knows better. No, no, he’s speaking gently. It’s not wasted, my beloved one. It’s not wasted. It’s beautiful.