Man in the Gap

You offer closeness.

They resist.

You offer safety.

They sabotage it.

And it’s not because they don’t want to attach.

It’s because they’ve been trained — by pain — not to.

So connection feels dangerous.

Love feels risky.

You… feel like a threat.

And that’s hard to swallow.

But here’s the assignment:

Be a soft place, even when they’re pushing you away.

Because behind that resistance is a scared kid wondering:

“Will you give up on me too?”

So no — you don’t force connection.

You model consistency.

You plant safety.

You water trust.

And one day… they might choose to lean in.

You tuck them in.

They roll away.

You say, “I love you.”

They say nothing back.

And every day you give… feels like another day of being invisible.

That wears on a man.

It chips away at your heart.

You start wondering if it’s even making a difference.

But here’s the truth:

Love that waits is powerful.

Love that stays is transformational.

God’s love is often unreciprocated too.

But He never withholds it.

He keeps pouring.

Keeps pursuing.

And you can too.

Not because of how they respond — but because of Who sent you.

You sit in a courtroom.

You hear a ruling.

And everything in you screams, “This isn’t right.”

But you can’t change it.

You can’t control it.

You can only trust God… when the system doesn’t make sense.

And that’s brutal.

Because you’ve loved this child like your own.

Prayed over them.

Lost sleep over them.

Watched them heal — only to feel like the rug was pulled out from under them.

But hear me: God is not limited by the court.

He is still good.

Still sovereign.

Still writing redemption in the middle of broken processes.

And even if it feels like the end — it isn’t.

Because God’s justice never misses.

Foster care has cost me things.

Time. Energy. Sleep. Control.

It’s stretched every part of me.

But ask me if it’s worth it?

Absolutely.

Because this isn’t just parenting — it’s legacy.

It’s breaking cycles.

It’s telling a child: “Your story doesn’t end in chaos.”

It’s spiritual warfare.

It’s kingdom work.

It’s hard… but it’s holy.

And on the other side of every meltdown, every court date, every goodbye…

There’s purpose.

So yes — it’s worth it.

Not because it’s easy.

But because God is in it.

And anything He’s in… is always worth it.

Grace is easy to preach.

Harder to practice.

Especially when a child is lying to your face.

Or breaking something you love.

Or rejecting the love you’re trying to give.

But that’s where grace lives — not in perfection, but in tension.

Grace says, “You don’t have to earn this.”

Grace says, “You belong before you behave.”

Grace says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

I’ve learned that grace isn’t weakness.

It’s strength under control.

It’s choosing mercy without compromising truth.

And every time I extend grace, I remember how much I’ve needed it.

From God.

From others.

From my kids.

And it keeps me soft — even in hard places.

There are days I open my Bible and feel… nothing.

Days when worship feels dry.

When prayer feels like shouting into the wind.

But the kids still need breakfast.

Still need structure.

Still need love.

So I pour out — even when I feel empty.

And somehow… God fills me in the pouring.

Not always instantly.

Not always with emotion.

But always with enough.

Enough patience.

Enough grace.

Enough strength to make it one more day.

Ministry doesn’t stop when we’re tired.

And parenting is ministry.

So I show up — weak, weary, but willing.

And God meets me there.

Every single time.

You won’t always get thank-you’s.

You won’t always see fruit.

But every now and then, something happens…

A child comes to you instead of hiding.

They quote something you said — even when you thought they weren’t listening.

They laugh again.

Those are the signs.

Small. Quiet. Easy to miss.

But they’re evidence.

Because healing doesn’t happen in headlines.

It happens in micro-moments.

And if you’re showing up…

If you’re staying soft in hard situations…

If you’re still praying and loving and holding space…

Then yes — you’re making a difference.

Even if no one ever says it.

“Don’t get too attached.”

They warned me.

And I ignored them.

And I got attached anyway.

And yes — it hurt.

But you know what would’ve hurt more?

Keeping my heart guarded.

Withholding love.

Treating a child like a project instead of a person.

Attachment is painful.

But detachment is devastating.

Because these kids aren’t looking for temporary care.

They’re looking for someone who sees them.

Chooses them.

Feels with them.

Yes — I’ll cry when they leave.

But that grief is holy.

Because it means I loved well.

And that’s the whole point.

There are days I literally don’t know what to say.

When emotions are high.

When behaviors don’t make sense.

When my own heart is reacting before I can think.

And in those moments, I stop.

Even for two seconds.

And I ask: “Holy Spirit… help me see.”

And somehow — He does.

He shows me what’s under the anger.

He slows my speech.

He reminds me that this isn’t a battle to win — it’s a heart to reach.

I don’t need more parenting hacks.

I need more discernment.

More fruit of the Spirit: peace, patience, self-control.

The Holy Spirit is not a parenting accessory.

He’s the anchor.

And the more I listen to Him, the more I parent like Jesus — full of truth, but drenched in grace.

You see it in their eyes.

The fear. The panic. The flinch that tells you someone hurt them before you ever showed up.

And something in you breaks.

Because you want to fix it.

You want to reach inside and pull that pain out.

But you can’t.

That’s the part no one tells you:

Sometimes love can’t fix — it can only stay.

And that’s what I’ve learned to do.

I stay.

In the room.

In the silence.

In the tension.

Because that’s where healing begins — not in fixing, but in faithfulness.

And every time I stay, I’m telling them:

“You’re worth it. Even when I can’t take the pain away — I won’t run from it.”

That’s fatherhood.

That’s Jesus.