They said thank you.

They laughed from the gut.

They held your hand without being asked.

And in that one moment, it all made sense.

The court dates.

The sleepless nights.

The pain and second-guessing.

It was all leading to this.

Because you saw it —

A spark.

A softness.

A glimpse of who they’re becoming.

And it made the cost feel small.

Because this is what love does:

It gives.

It stays.

It hopes — even on the hardest days.

And every now and then…

It gets to see the harvest.

You blew it.

Yelled too loud.

Shut down too quick.

Missed the moment you know you should’ve leaned into.

And now it’s quiet.

And you’re replaying it all in your head.

But here’s what grace says:

Tomorrow is still coming.

And with it — a fresh start.

A new chance to show up different.

To apologize.

To try again.

God doesn’t hold yesterday over your head.

He holds tomorrow in His hand.

So breathe.

Rest.

And begin again.

They won’t remember all the rules.

Or the chore charts.

Or how clean the house was.

They’ll remember:

• How you looked at them when they walked in the room.
• How you sat with them when they cried.
• How you said “I love you” even when they messed up.

That’s what sticks.

Not the structure — but the safety.

Not the systems — but the softness.

You’re not raising robots.

You’re forming hearts.

And what they remember most?

Will be how you made them feel.

The yelling.

The disobedience.

The meltdown at the grocery store.

You kept your cool — until you didn’t.

And now the shame creeps in…

“I should be better than this.”

“They deserve more patience.”

“I’m failing.”

But listen — a hard day doesn’t mean you’re a bad dad.

It means you’re human.

What matters is what you do next:

The repair.

The apology.

The grace you give yourself.

God isn’t expecting perfection.

He’s forming perseverance.

Keep going.

You’re doing better than you think.

No one told me how spiritual this would get.

How fostering would expose my fears.

Challenge my pride.

Trigger my past.

I thought I was just opening my home.

But I was walking into a battle.

Because this isn’t just parenting.

It’s kingdom ground.

And the enemy doesn’t like it.

So I suit up.

In prayer.

In Scripture.

In worship — even when I’m exhausted.

Because I’m not just fighting for behavior.

I’m fighting for souls.

And the victory?

It belongs to the Lord.

It’s not always a big moment.

Sometimes it’s a glance that lingers.

Or a laugh that escapes before they catch it.

Or the way they rest their head on your shoulder — just for a second.

And it hits you:

They’re starting to trust.

Not because you earned it.

But because you stayed.

That’s what trust needs.

Time.

Safety.

Consistency.

It’s not something you demand — it’s something you receive.

And when it shows up?

It’s holy.

Even if it disappears tomorrow…

You caught a glimpse today.

And that’s everything.

They say things like:

“I could never do what you do.”

“Aren’t you worried about getting too attached?”

“I don’t know how you handle all that.”

And you smile.

Nod.

But inside, you feel… alone.

Because they don’t get it.

They don’t see the battles.

The victories that come in whispers.

The love that shows up in chaos.

And that isolation can feel heavy.

But God sees.

He knows.

You weren’t called to be understood.

You were called to be obedient.

And even if no one claps…

Even if no one “gets it”…

He does.

The world doesn’t understand.

Even other Christians raise their eyebrows.

“Why keep doing this?”

“Why take on more trauma?”

“Why make your life harder?”

And sometimes… I wonder too.

But then I remember:

This isn’t about ease.

It’s about obedience.

This is Kingdom work.

This is fatherhood with scars.

This is standing in the gap where few will go.

And I say yes — again —

Because someone has to.

Because love is worth the mess.

Because Jesus didn’t run from our brokenness…

He moved toward it.

And so will I.

It was small.

A “thank you” unprompted.

A moment of kindness.

A deep breath before reacting.

But it stopped me cold.

Because I saw it — the healing.

Not loud.

Not flashy.

But real.

The child who once only screamed… paused.

The one who wouldn’t look me in the eyes… smiled.

And I realized:

We’re getting there.

It’s not perfect.

It’s not linear.

But it’s happening.

One sacred step at a time.

There are nights I don’t pray.

I rant.

I tell God:

• “This isn’t fair.”
• “I’m tired of hurting.”
• “Why would You allow this?”

And I’ve learned… He can handle it.

God isn’t threatened by your honesty.

He doesn’t need you to clean it up first.

He wants your heart — even when it’s raw.

David raged.

Job questioned.

Jesus wept.

So you can too.

Bring the anger.

Bring the disappointment.

Bring the “this doesn’t make sense.”

And let God meet you there — not with easy answers…

But with presence.