Sharon pulled me aside after church one Sunday. She spoke softly about my daughter as she said, “I noticed that Allison didn’t hug me this morning.” We made eye contact and smiled. Sharon, a pillar of my small-town church, stood proudly and shared a significant moment with me. I put my hand on her arm and replied, “That is wonderful news! Thank you for loving her so well.”

Years before this private celebration, my little church in Iowa hired a single, childless pastor. They had all my time and energy, knowing that little existed to compete with last-minute calls and meetings. When I decided to become a mother, I changed the rules. I began speaking to them about adoption and children a year before taking my first foster care class. They needed plenty of time to prepare for the changes.

The decision to adopt was not difficult. At 38 years old, I was still single with no man in sight. I wanted to be a mother more than I wanted to be a wife. I knew that I was not up for the difficulties of pregnancy and childbirth as a single woman. This left me looking into adoption, specifically adoption through foster care. 

The average person in the pew does not understand the experience of foster parenting and adoption. There are parenting classes, visits from DHS, and waiting for a phone call. Foster-to-adopt offers none of the miraculous celebration that comes with childbirth. It does, however, offer plenty of messiness and heartbreak. I needed to bring my church family on my journey toward motherhood.

I began educating church folks as much as possible about the pressing need for foster parents and the nature of loving someone else’s children. Our Wednesday knitting group got regular updates from foster care classes. I was open about my doubts and fears, my limitations as a single mother, and the heartbreak that accompanies childhood trauma. I told the Church Council that foster care always has a goal of reunifying children with their family of origin. I spoke at Friday night supper clubs about how our church will fall in love with children only to say goodbye. 

On top of this, I wrote and preached about foster care. I preached about the difficulty of selfless love and our call to care for the least of these. My church members were in a meeting with me when I got the first call to pick up a baby with less than an hour’s notice. They were also with me when I got the call to return the baby with even less time to say goodbye. They saw me sob. 

My daughters were my second foster placement. They were sisters, ages 8 years old and 10 months, who were in the foster-to-adopt process. These little girls would not be reunited with birth parents. My older daughter, Allison, seemed to be made for the role of a pastor’s kid. From her first day at church, she worked the crowd. Allison made it to every single person in worship on a Sunday morning. Every person, familiar or stranger, received a hello and a hug. 

Sharon, my wise church leader, listened carefully during knitting when I explained that foster kids often seek out hugs and love from everyone. Some of them try to be cheerful all the time. This is a delight for church people. Who doesn’t love a little girl with a big smile and a hug? 

Sharon listened when I shared my heartbreak about Allison. Allison was trying to earn love. She came from a childhood wherein keeping adults happy kept her from being abused. Sharon heard me when I said that my biggest triumph as Allison’s mother occurred when she was genuinely grumpy with me. A grumpy child trusts that you will love her even in imperfection. She trusts that she is safe to be fully human in your presence.

Sharon heard me. She loved my daughter well. She celebrated the first Sunday that Allison did not offer her an obligatory hug and a fake smile. Months of trust-building and consistency paid off. My daughter felt safe.

My journey toward motherhood opened the door for church folks to love in ways they never knew to love before. It was every bit as heartbreaking and messy as promised. 

The day that I adopted my girls, the church packed the benches of our tiny courtroom to stand witness to the celebration. They cried with me and loved my children well. The next Sunday, they surprised us by officially welcoming Allison and Megan into the church as members. They explained that they missed out on baptizing my girls as babies and they wanted to make Allison and Megan’s place in our church official. I’m proud to say that Allison hugged very few people that day. She was safe. She was loved.

Rev. Jenny Davant pastors in Texas, having served previously in Iowa and North Carolina.