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If someone had told me years ago my future children wouldn't inherit their grandfather's red hair, or look a bit like my husband, Kevin, or I do, I would have been stunned. After all, the thought I couldn't have Kevin, Jr. or little Brenda never entered my mind.
But six years into our marriage, when I hadn't gotten pregnant, I suffered bouts of anxiety and self-doubt. We were more than ready—Kevin had a solid job as an accounting manager, while I worked in marketing for an electrical contractor. What were we doing wrong? It seemed as though everyone else had a baby!
I have to admit, patience has never been one of my virtues. I've burned my mouth on pizza count less times because I'm unable to wait for the cheese to cool down. So when we decided to start a family and it wasn't happening, my impatience kicked in. I had to have a baby, any baby—and soon!
A local newspaper article about crack babies taken into protective custody while their mothers underwent treatment caught my eye—and the idea of foster parenting was born. I felt those children were orphans, and, as Christians, we should heed James 1:27 and look after them—at least temporarily. Kevin, however, worried about becoming attached to a baby we'd later have to give up. It took him a month to consider the idea, plus a special Sunday school lesson about unwanted children, before he agreed foster parenting was something we could do.
After we spent three months filling out personal history forms, financial statements, and taking child development classes, we were licensed by the Department of Social Services for one child, either sex, any race, from newborn to age three. Before a month went by, we got the call: A foster family was needed for an African-American baby boy born addicted to drugs. He was waiting for us at the hospital.
We went to the hospital for CPR training, something all foster parents are required to have before they can leave the premises with a newborn. Like two kids at Christmas, Kevin and I asked if we could please peek at "our" baby. The nurse led us into a room where the babies lay sleeping in a row. All, that is, except a curly-headed infant at the far end, whose liquid brown eyes were wide open.
"Would you like to hold him?" the nurse asked me.
I could scarcely breathe. I trembled with excitement as she gently picked him up and placed him in my arms. It was amazing. The baby trusted me completely. He didn't cry!
It didn't take long for me to fall in love with Barron, my bouncing, brown-skinned boy. I was finally somebody's mom! It was a wonderful, scary, exhausting, delightful feeling.
Assuming the birth family was taking the necessary steps to reclaim Barron, I cried every time I imagined giving him up. I prayed God would always protect Barron and allow him to be raised in a Christian family. I thought it would be selfish to ask for more.
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