Heartbreak + Holiness

I stepped into the icy pool to mark the start of summer. The older kids leapt in headfirst, squealing at the shock, but I waded in slowly — cradling a tiny, sweet, chunky four-month-old. His first time in the water. At first, he was furious, his little legs kicking against the cold, but then he stilled. His eyes searched mine. And then, a smile — small at first, then wide and sure. Delight washed over him like sunlight. My eyes filled with tears, knowing he’d be leaving my home soon and I wouldn’t get to be the one to introduce him to new things anymore. But in that moment, I soaked in the holiness of it — the way he smiled at me, the one who’d held him on my chest since he came from the hospital days after he was born. My heartbeat was the one he’d grown safe with. And my heart would break to let him go, even if I knew he’d be safe in his next home.

There is a kind of magic in being the safest place for a child — tucking them in at night and clicking on their night light, holding their sweaty hand when they’re afraid, feeling their eyes find yours in a crowd while they perform. It’s holy ground. And yet, if the world were as it should be, I wouldn’t be the one they were searching for. Those moments would belong to their biological parents — the ones who gave them life, the ones they should have been able to trust from the start. That truth hums quietly in the background, even in the middle of the beauty.

I’ve seen the wonder of introducing a child to a sibling they’ve never met — a sibling tied to them by blood, but without their mother there to witness it. I’ve helped hang ribbons and trophies on their bedroom walls so they can see themselves in their space and know they belong. I’ve cheered until my voice cracked when they achieved something they thought was impossible. And I’ve held the weight of knowing I can’t rewrite the beginning of their story — but I can fight to make the middle and the end a place where they are loved, known, and safe… even prepared. Being the safe place is both a privilege and a heartbreak. It’s living in the tension between brokenness and beauty, and learning to hold them both in the same arms.