Photo by Colin Davis on Unsplash It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. It was the age of coronavirus; it was the epoch of pandemic. We had dementia before us; we had faith behind us.  And through it all, we had a God who loved us and provided for our every need.  We moved to our new home in the upstate of South Carolina in late November of 2019, right as the first echoes of COVID-19 sounded in far-off countries. We had only just started to settle in when the lockdown came, and especially because of Tom’s dementia, we exercised what many describe as “an abundance of caution.”   “You don’t want him in the hospital without you,” our primary care doctor told me. “And that’s exactly what would happen.”   So we watched church services online. We visited with faraway family members on the phone and online. Our local daughter and her husband did our grocery shopping. And for many months, we saw few people other than medical professionals—and family.  We were then—and are now—so thankful for family. Yes, we could have quarantined from them as well—but without that at least weekly connection with our daughter, son-in-love, and preschool-age grandson, I’m not sure what would have happened. We needed those hugs, that laughter, that break from our increasingly quiet routine.   Tom needed that. I needed that.  As the lockdown wore on, a temporary family member joined us: a teenage foster grandson, a former student of our daughter’s. Arriving in November 2020, he would only live with her family for the rest of that school year.  You might not think a fifteen-year-old special education student who had lived his entire life in South Carolina and a sixty-five-year-old man living with dementia who had traveled the world as a professional musician and pastor would have much in common. But in this case, you’d be wrong.   We figured it out the first time “H” came to visit. Our daughter often taught from home, and sometimes H had school from home as well. But he didn’t always have to log in during the day, so he sometimes came to us instead.   “I have to work, so he’ll be spending most of the day with Daddy,” I told our daughter the first time she asked if H could visit.  “I know, Mom. They can just hang out.”  And hang out they did. Turns out they had simple board games (Uno, Yahtzee, Sorry!, even Candyland) in common. H showed incredible patience when he had to remind Tom whose turn it was or when Tom argued about a roll of the die, which was often. He only chuckled when Tom got...

Many years ago and in a far-off land, a young couple celebrated their marriage. God had given them both the idea to adopt a child, and they looked forward to the day when that would happen. “We’ll have children first, and then adopt,” they told each other. So, after about a year of marriage, they asked God to grant them a child. They waited. And prayed. And waited. And visited doctors. And prayed. And waited some more. Because God had a story to write. And then, through an amazing series of events, He brought them just the right daughter at just the right time. She was born in a hospital a few miles from their home, and they were able to hold her when she was only hours old. They brought her home from the hospital the next day. A few months later, they finalized her adoption. Ten months later, after more prayers and waiting, God, like all good writers, added a twist to the story. He gave the couple another little girl, but not through adoption. The two sisters grew up as best friends. And they both rejoiced when first one, then two, then three more siblings were born into the family. The oldest daughter always knew she was adopted. She always knew she was special, too, and that God had chosen her for the family who loved her so much. They celebrated “Adoption Day” every year, when she received special presents, including her favorite, the one she called “’doption Mickey Mouse.” As that daughter grew, she developed a love for anyone who felt left out or abandoned. As a twelve-year-old, she raised more than $1200 for a local crisis pregnancy center, wanting to help others give the gift she and her parents had received. Even during her time in college, she considered adopting a teen but decided to wait. Not so many years ago, that grown-up daughter celebrated her own marriage. Like her parents, she and her husband also dreamed of adopting one day, although they didn’t know how or when. After almost six years of marriage, they began the process to become foster parents. “We’ll get a sibling group,” they told their parents. “And we’ll only get children who are available to adopt.” They waited. And prayed. And went through training. And waited. And prayed some more. Several months later, God, like all good writers, added a twist to their story, too. One special girl was already a part of their lives. A student at the school where the grown-up little girl taught, she wasn’t available for adoption. She wasn’t part of a sibling group. But she did have a need—several of them, in fact. As the young couple...

Dear Grandchild-to-be, What can I say? What can I say to you who have endured pain I can’t begin to imagine and lived a life I can’t possibly understand? What do I say to you for whom we wait? I want to hold you close, to call you my very own grandson or granddaughter. You’re the first one (and firsts are always special). I want to see you taken away from wherever it is you need to leave. I want to promise you safety. I want to say you’ll never hurt again. But I can’t do or promise any of those things. I’m a different kind of grandma, and this is our story. Yours and mine. More than 400,000 children throughout the United States wait in foster care, some of them (for all sorts of reasons) ineligible for adoption. Many have suffered abuse. Many have PTSD or other types of emotional trauma because of the life they’ve endured. Sweet grandchild, you know you’re in this group. But you’re so much more. You’re a person. You’re someone with hopes and dreams and needs and desires. You care about the people in your past—even (and maybe especially) the ones who have hurt you. You don’t know what to expect from the future, but you press toward it anyway. You accept help from many who want to give it and some who don’t. You push against rules even when you know they’re right. You don’t always understand what you do or how you feel. And, deep down inside, you wait. You wait for that moment when you know you’re home. You’re right. I’m not your grandma yet, and you may never choose to call me that anyway. But I can tell you this: you are loved. Your almost-parents have endured paperwork and more paperwork and red tape and training and inspections and lectures and self-doubt and more paperwork and more red tape and awkwardness and questions and paperwork and more paperwork and more red tape, all in pursuit of you. I hear the longing in their voices. They can’t wait to bring you home. They know the road ahead will have plenty of bumps, maybe huge potholes or lengthy detours. But they want to travel it with you. For you, they don’t want to be just one more stop, one more waystation. For you, they want to be Mom and Dad—no matter what the legal system calls them. As your almost-mom, my precious daughter, told me, “Even if we can only have this child at home a few years, at least we’ll give them a family to come home to.” That family is ours. And we’re waiting—   with so much love,...