A few nights ago, our youngest mama at Village of Hope—a 12-year-old child herself—brought her baby boy into the world.

After years of standing in delivery rooms, there’s one sound I’ll never grow numb to: the anguished cry of a girl calling for her own mother.
A mother who, more often than not, betrayed her or failed to protect her.

Those cries stay with me. They echo long after the moment has passed, because a mother is meant to be a child’s first defender—the one they trust most, the one they expect to keep them safe. When that bond is broken, the wound cuts deep.

And yet, no matter how painful the history, I’ve seen one constant over these 13 years: every child still longs for her mother.

Then I see their newborns, tiny voices instinctively crying out for the one who carried them. And I watch these young girls—still children themselves—holding their babies close. Something shifts in their eyes. A quiet determination. An unspoken vow that the cycle will stop with them. That they will fight to become the safe place their own mothers never were.

It is in that deep longing, in that ache for love they never received, that another cry rises—a cry to Jesus.

To the One who never abandons. Who never betrays. Who never fails.
And He comes.

He enters the delivery room. He meets them in their trauma. He is there in the dark hours when fear is suffocating. He comes with arms wide open, offering the refuge every child needs.

And it’s there—in His presence—that broken stories begin to mend and turn into testimonies of hope. Because where earthly parents fall short, our Savior never does.