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In the Beginning

We always knew we wanted to adopt a child and when Liviana, our youngest daughter was born we left the idea of adoption on the table. We didn’t know how, when, or what that would look like but we were both open to the idea. In 2015, when Liv was eight, we started talking about what our future plans were for our family. I was finishing up my undergrad work and walking into one of my classes when my phone rang. It was the foster care agency returning my call.


I put in our order: we wanted a Black or Hispanic, 5-7 year-old little boy. The worker on the other end of the line had to hide her laughter when she heard my request. I didn’t know why. I mean, I watched TV and had seen movies—a child who wasn’t a baby, who wasn’t a girl, who was a minority—wasn’t I the answer to all of the foster care problems?

We did all the things: all the classes, all the trainings, all the home visits. We set up a room, bought blue polka-dot sheets, dinosaur coloring books, and all the sports balls. Finally, we were ready to meet this little guy. The problem was, we were fully focused on our own plan.

Our very first call for placement happened on a normal summer day. The girls and I were at the swimming pool when the worker called. I called my husband Adrian immediately:


“A baby was born today who will need a home in two days. It’s a little girl. I don’t have any details. I just know we are supposed to start with 'yes' and move on from there.”


“This wasn’t the plan…”


“I know.”


“Are we ready?”


“We’re ready.”


The moment we laid our eyes on her sweet little face, we knew that everything we had planned—all that we thought we were looking for—changed. We weren’t called to foster-to-adopt, a term that makes me uncomfortable now, but we were called to foster-to-foster. We had a plan, but so did the God I trust—both for the sweet little person who was then sleeping in my arms—and for my family.






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