Growing Up in a Fostering Family

Standing behind her mom at the front door, Kara watched a stranger put her baby brother’s car seat in the back of a tiny sedan. Tears stung her eyes, but she held them back. Her mother had warned her that this adorable, doll-like presence might not stay for long. But Kara had gotten to dress, snuggle and hold the bottle for a real, starry-eyed baby for a few good months. It was sad to see a car too small to hold Kara’s large family drive away with such a sweet piece of it. But it was a normal kind of sad. It was part of fostering, her mother had said.

Her mother knew. Kara looked up to see tears filling her mom’s eyes as she shut the front door, a small smile on her lips. Somehow, this part could be happy and sad. At five years old, Kara didn’t fully understand, but she didn’t need to. Her mom was sure that the sad was temporary and the good was forever. Though still learning to read herself, Kara believed what her mom told her was in the Bible. Her family had obeyed its commands to love others and care for the orphan, which meant blessings would surely come. Maybe even another baby.

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Emmy looked down at her daughter, hand still pressed to the front door. Through the tears clouding her own eyes, she smiled down at the curious little face looking to her for cues about how to react to the loss of her little brother.

“Should we go print off a picture of him for you to hang in your room?”

Kara nodded. “That will help us remember to pray for him.”

Emmy’s smile broadened as she wiped the tears spilling over.

In the living room, Emmy looked around at the rest of her somber family. Her older boys were on the couch, abnormally subdued. She remembered the day they had brought that sweet baby home from the hospital. The boys had wanted to help, but the baby had been so fragile. Kara alone had been brave and gentle enough to hold the frail little stranger, leaving her brothers to find other ways to help — like debating who got the honor of carrying the baby’s heavy oxygen pack when the family went out.

“I’m really going to miss him,” one brother said quietly from the couch now. “But at least I get my room back.”

“No!” Kara said with a firm stomp of her foot. “It has to stay empty for the next one.”

Pride swelled Emmy’s heart. She knew her daughter must be hurting, or certainly would be tonight when she had no baby to rock at bedtime. Yet, little Kara was looking forward, preparing a space in her heart and home for another child who might leave too.

Despite the family’s long history of serving children through various ministries, Emmy hadn’t been sure what to expect from her own kids when they first stepped into foster care. She and her husband did their best to prepare them, sharing honestly the big challenges and great purpose that lay ahead of them.

But as she watched Kara pin the baby’s photo to her bulletin board, she felt such reassurance in God’s plans for their family. What was there to fear with Him at the helm?

Outside Kara’s bedroom, a storm raged. Her foster sister’s frantic voice echoed down the hall, accompanied by her mom’s muffled, soothing voice.

“Don't worry,” Kara said to the doll in her lap, “She’s just having a hard time. Mom says healing takes a while.” Now 10 years old, she busied herself rearranging the doll furniture around her bedroom, while her older brothers did homework in their shared room next door. She smoothed the doll’s hair where it stuck up awkwardly on one side.  

A former foster sibling had snipped several blond locks off the doll after coming home from her first haircut. The poor girl had hated it, all of it — the plastic cape around her neck, the sound of the scissors next to her ear, the difference she saw in the mirror. Kara didn’t understand why she was so angry, not really. But she had tried to help, explaining that everyone had to get a haircut eventually.

The girl had decided that “everyone” included Kara’s beloved doll. Kara had screamed when she found the hair floating in the toilet, pulling her mom away from the stove to show her the crime scene. Her mother had knelt down and pulled Kara into her arms.

“I’m so sorry this happened, Kara. Your sister hasn't learned how to handle her own hurt, so she tries to make the people around her feel the same. I’ll talk to her. It’s not okay for her to ruin your things, but if you can find it in your heart to forgive her, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Of course, Kara had forgiven her. She even gave her foster sister a lesson in proper doll cosmetology, letting her brush the doll’s remaining hair. Kara hadn’t been able to hold back her tears when that sister left. They had fought a lot — but oh how she loved her.

Now, a heavy thunk came from the living room. Kara put down the doll, stood and hit play on her CD player, turning up the volume to drown the voices outside. She raised her arms above her head and began the familiar dance routine her troupe would be performing at her next recital.

As the song faded out, she curtsied and listened. The din had died down. She peeked out of her door. The hallway and living room were empty, which meant her parents were likely helping her sister calm down in the kitchen. She surveyed the living room — the rumpled couch cushions, the sheet music strewn across the floor and the piano bench tipped on its side.

She began methodically gathering the scattered pages, placing them neatly back on the music stand. Her mother walked in as she was righting the piano bench.

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Emmy locked eyes with her daughter. Her head ached from the strain of the last two hours, but she half smiled. Kara smiled back, her eyes flicking over to the rumpled couch. Emmy knew her other children heard the commotion of their sister's breakdowns but hoped they could also hear her careful, calm responses. She encouraged empathy but also nudged them toward their rooms whenever their foster siblings’ pain and fear boiled over. Hoping to shield them from behaviors they might not understand, she tried to put things right again before they emerged.

But Kara often beat her to it. Following the storm of a foster sibling’s meltdown, Emmy usually found Kara silently folding laundry or putting away the leftovers from dinner. Such small acts of kindness were a balm to Emmy’s roiling heart in those moments. The compassion Kara felt for both her foster siblings and her parents was so evident in the way she took care of everyone around her. But Emmy sometimes worried about the weight her daughter quietly shouldered for the sake of peace.

Kara threw her dance bag in the backseat and flopped into the front next to her mom. Through the front window of her dance studio, she could see her friends still chatting and laughing. They hadn’t offered her a ride with them.

“How was dance?” her mom asked.

“Fine,” Kara said, fumbling with her seatbelt. It wasn’t fine. Finally 16, she had been so excited to practice the first solo she’d earned. But her friends hadn’t been so enthusiastic, smirking and mimicking her movements clumsily from the corner. It hadn’t been her best, Kara told herself. She couldn’t focus. Her mind was so filled with what was happening at home in her absence.

Her dad was likely wrangling all six of her siblings by himself while her mom hurriedly made dinner before coming to pick her up. Had someone remembered to thaw the chicken for her? Did her brother have to skip basketball practice so Mom could take the car? And why, despite all her care and concern, did she want nothing more than to get to her room and lock them all out?

“Hey,” Emmy said, interrupting Kara’s thoughts. “Where’d you go?”

“Sorry,” Kara mumbled, swiping at a tear she hadn’t felt. Dance was her break from the noise and responsibilities at home, a chance to focus on something she loved. But what she enjoyed most were these quiet rides with her mom or dad to and from the studio. For these blessed minutes each week, she didn’t have to share them. She didn’t have to talk over anyone to be heard. She felt important and seen. It was time they took out of their day just for her — something too precious to spoil. And yet...

Kara had been fighting with herself for weeks. She desperately didn’t want to add her own problems to her parents’ plate, but she was losing her fight against a darkening cloud of thoughts stealing into her mind. The storm wasn’t just outside her bedroom door anymore. It was inside her. But she was supposed to be the easy one, the reliable one. Could she really tell her mom she wasn’t as strong as everyone thought she was?

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Something was wrong; Emmy could tell. She’d noticed a change in Kara these last few months. She’d been spending more time alone in her room, talking less and less about her friends or school or even dance. Even now she could sense that her daughter was fighting a battle within herself. As a tear slipped down her sweet girl’s cheek, Emmy pulled the car over.

“Kara,” she began tenderly, “I can tell you’re carrying something heavy. Would you let me help you with it?” Kara was quiet for several moments, brushing away more tears before taking a deep breath.

“I don’t feel...right. I think — I’m afraid I might — ” The tears finally came undammed as she looked across at her mom. “I love our family. I love that we foster! But —”

“But you matter too. And you’re not okay,” Emmy finished, pulling her daughter close. “It’s alright, Kara. You’re allowed to ask for help too.”

As her daughter poured out her exhaustion, her depression, her loneliness, Emmy felt a similar weight tugging at her own heart. Hadn’t she too been trying to hold herself and the family together with her own grit and sweat? There in the front seat, Emmy began to recognize the symptoms of self-reliance she and her daughter shared.

It was time they both acknowledged the truth — the path they were on was pitted with hardship, and they couldn’t push through the pits by sheer willpower. The mission they’d both poured their hearts into was never meant to be carried alone; God had not called them to sacrifice themselves on the altar of foster care. His desire was for their own healing and hope as well as for the children and the family they both loved. It was time they both learned to ask for help.

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Just over a year later, tears of joy welled in Emmy’s eyes as Kara crossed the front lawn of her high school donning her cap and gown. She approached with one hand clasped in her sweetheart’s, her face alight with pride and excitement. As Kara’s boyfriend shook her dad’s hand, Emmy pulled her daughter into a tight embrace. She watched Kara snap photos with her friends, unrushed and undistracted, praising Jesus for how far they’d both come.

Kara looked around as she hugged her mom. Her siblings weren’t there. They were at home with a respite provider, allowing her to relax and enjoy her day without guilt or distraction. It had taken time to adjust to the shocking realization she’d made after a few months of therapy — she could love her family and want to care for her siblings without neglecting herself.

As she’d opened to the possibility that the people around her loved her, not for what she could give them but for who she was, she had found the freedom to explore new friendships — and even romance. She glanced over at her boyfriend who winked at her. The friend beside her poked her playfully before asking if she had decided what to study next year at college.

Kara wasn’t sure what career she wanted to pursue just yet. She wanted to help people — people like her foster siblings who needed someone to understand them. Maybe she would study child psychology or trauma care or special education. Kara caught her mom’s eye, smiling — a full, genuine smile.

She knew at least two things. First, she would stay close to home to be near her family. And second, she would let God lead, trusting in His plans to give her hope and a future all her own.

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Foster care didn’t break Kara, despite her parents’ (and many potential foster parents’) fears in the beginning. Instead, it grew her, slowly and at times painfully, into a young woman of compassion, courage, love and faith. Fostering didn’t steal Kara’s childhood, but rather, it gave her opportunities to witness God’s heart for His children in action. And today, she’s quick to tell anyone who asks that she would never change the story that has shaped her.

Want to learn more about the impact foster care can have on your biological kids? Check out the Roach Family’s Story.

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