It was five years ago this week that I had that phone call. It had been a very long four months of having no foster placement, the longest gap we’d had since we first opened our home four years before. Those quiet months brought so many emotions – of course we were delighted to not be needed. Who could complain that there weren’t many little ones in need of foster families? It was respite from the busyness of fostering life, and gave us precious family time with Megan, Maisie and Toby, who had ridden the wild roller coaster of the previous four years with us.

But I never cope particularly well without plans, and it was the uncertainty that was the challenge. Not just the uncertainty of when a child might come, but the frequent phone calls asking if we could take one, only to have another call a few hours later with a change of plan. We had even got to the point of having a time of day one that one little one would be arriving, with freshly washed baby clothes in the cupboard, only for an hour before she arrived to be told there was another change of plan and she’d be going elsewhere, a decision that, to me, seemed to have no real logic behind it.

Then there was the financial aspect. We didn’t foster for the money, but at the same time, it was my job for those years, and it was difficult to know how to handle that uncertainty for that length of time. I reluctantly made enquiries and booked onto a child minding course, but my heart wasn’t in it. My heart was always to offer a home and family to those in the most need. It just seemed that it was the responsible thing to do to be proactive in doing something in the waiting, just in case.

And of course the quietness gave time to ponder on the little ones we’d said goodbye to, the lives we’d been privileged to be a part of for a time. To celebrate their stories and also to grieve the loss we feel too. To remember why we chose to do it, and to pray for the ones who’d left and the ones who would come.

And then that week came. With Liam’s birthday cake still half eaten, the children home on half term, and a few more days of uncertainty with numerous phone calls about these little ones. They came, they left again. I was phoned and asked to take another placement, but as I sat in the car park of the shopping centre, something in my gut told me to say no. To wait for these two.

It seemed ridiculous after all those months, to hold off despite having only a vague idea of what might happen with them, and absolutely no certainties that we’d be asked to have them. But it was one of those few times where I know the strength of that feeling was no coincidence or fanciful hoping. It was more than a gut feeling, it was a prompting from heaven. There was a bigger plan going on here than I could have imagined.

And after a couple more days of uncertainty, of phone calls, of changes of plans, they arrived.

And they never left.

Our lives are a small piece in the enormous worldwide history-spanning jigsaw of stories, all connecting, separate yet intertwined. And when I face the nostalgia on these anniversaries, I am acutely aware that there were other pieces going on elsewhere that surrounded those moments we were living in. And the different stories that were happening in different homes over those months that led to that day. As we grieved foster babies that had left, and waited quietly for the cot to fill again, adoptive families were opening their hearts and arms to their forever babies, years of hopes and dreams coming true. And at the same time, birth families were grieving and wrestling the finality of decisions made, the lifelong consequences to face of hard stories and choices that filtered through generations and left a legacy of pain.

And for these two, in a parallel story until our lives entwined, those months tell a story that isn’t easy to know, let alone imagine them living through. Our gain was part of much loss. Loss for their birth family, a just and right decision for their safety, but the mother in me cannot fathom the depths of heartache, or shame, or anger that come from stories like these. Loss for them, the life they knew was all they knew. The blood connection was their flesh and blood. The voices, the smells, the sounds, no matter how broken, were the only ones they knew. The loss of the start to life they should have had, and the innocence and safety that should be part of their childhood, the security and acceptance of their future that should be unquestionable.

And yet. Yes, so much loss. But yes, so much hope.

I don’t think it was coincidence that none of the placements we were offered in those months didn’t pan out.

I don’t think it was coincidence my gut said no – we’ll wait – on that wet Wednesday.

I don’t think it was coincidence that they fit so beautifully from the start.

I don’t think it was coincidence that they are here and they are together and they are ours.

And as I was thinking about it all this week it encouraged me that surrounding all the uncertainty of the world and the life we’re living, whatever that looks or feels like, there’s a bigger picture than the one I see. The story doesn’t go the way I expect, but that doesn’t mean it’s unwritten. Even the hard things along the way can have a purpose beyond what my eyes can – or may ever – see.

Of course I wish from the bottom of my heart that their lives had begun differently. That they didn’t have to live with loss. That the impact of that didn’t follow them – and now us – through life. But I am also so grateful that we get to be part of their future. That in the chaos and disorder and brokenness of the world we live in, God shows care and mercy and orchestrates good. ‘He sets the lonely in families.’ (Psalm 68:6)

It provokes me two ways – to remember that outside of my comfortable home and loving family are so many other stories going on – so many thousands of people, lonely, hurting, afraid. How can I look outward and love, to share what I’ve been given? To be family to those who feel lost? To care, and to raise children that care?

And it reminds me to remember that when things feel hard and look hopeless, when there seems to be heartbreak everywhere or even just when the news update is disappointing and I want to complain that we are STILL in this bleak situation, to remember that good is still happening. Maybe I can’t see it. Maybe it’s not how I’d expect. Maybe it even involves loss and heartache along the way. But that doesn’t mean it’s not there. There is a bigger picture being formed by the hands that created the world, that were pierced for the world, and that hold the world.

‘Every experience God gives us, every person He puts in our lives is the perfect preparation for the future that only He can see.’ (Corrie Ten Boom)