Around July of 2016, my husband Mike and I were sitting together in a church service when our pastor began preaching about waiting for the “right” time to do things. He asked the question, What really is the right time? Like many people, we wanted our lives neatly in order before stepping out in faith. But as we listened, Mike and I looked at each other and instantly knew—this was it. We were going to adopt.
Adoption had lived quietly on our hearts for a long time. During the first half of my pregnancy with our fourth biological child, we had fostered two little boys, and our hearts were forever changed. We carried a deep ache for orphans and often talked about how one day we would adopt. But in our minds, that day came later—when our youngest was older, when our finances looked better, when we had a bigger house. We wanted to be “ready” on our timeline. God had other plans. That afternoon, after we got home, Mike and I agreed that if we were truly starting this process, we needed half of the adoption cost—$5,000—saved before moving forward with a home study. The very next Monday morning, we checked our bank account. Sitting there was exactly $5,000. No explanation. No delay. Just confirmation. We knew this was our neon sign to begin.
From the very beginning, we felt strongly led to adopt a child with special needs. As we talked through what that might look like, one thing kept rising to the surface: Down Syndrome. We both felt it clearly in our hearts. When we learned that the abortion rate for babies diagnosed with Down Syndrome was over 90%, it shook us deeply. We immersed ourselves in research, reading everything we could about Down Syndrome and what life might look like raising a child with those needs. A few weeks later, we connected with an adoption agency. During our first conversation, the coordinator casually asked, “Would you be interested in an 11-year-old child?” We hesitated for half a second, then thought, Yes… we think so.
At that point, we had no home study, no applications submitted, nothing officially completed—but we knew that whatever child God placed in front of us, we would say yes. We jumped headfirst into paperwork, fingerprinting, reading, training, and completing our home study. We also joined the Down Syndrome registry, which connects children with Down Syndrome to waiting families. Through the registry, we were introduced to an 11-year-old girl named J. She lived with her biological mother, who loved her deeply but felt overwhelmed and unable to continue parenting. After weeks of emails, we met in person and spent two emotionally exhausting days with J. and her mom. At the end of that visit, with heavy hearts, we realized this situation was not right for us. Telling our children was devastating—they had already begun to love her as their sister. We held each other close, grieving what could have been, and trusted that our child was still out there.
Then came the waiting. Months passed with no word from our agency. We inquired about nearly ten children across the country through the Down Syndrome registry and were told no every single time. Hope began to feel fragile. We explored international adoption through China and applied to a foster care program matching families with children with special needs. Shortly after, we were matched with a sweet little boy named K., who had cerebral palsy and severe special needs. We said yes immediately, and his caseworker loved us. Things finally felt like they were moving—until, during that same time, we were contacted about a baby girl with Down Syndrome due in April 2017 and, unbelievably, twin boys with Shaken Baby Syndrome. It was overwhelming. But the moment we saw the twins’ photo, we knew.
Though we thought Down Syndrome was our destination, we realized it wasn’t the final chapter. We declined the other matches and stepped forward in faith for the twins, knowing almost nothing about them. What we later learned was heartbreaking: they had been shaken at just four months old. Both were injured, but one had suffered a traumatic brain injury. Despite the unknowns, our hearts were already theirs. Within a week, their caseworker told us we were chosen to be their family.
After hearing “no” so many times, we were stunned by a yes. We chose the name Zane—meaning God is gracious—for the twin with a traumatic brain injury. His brother was named Malakai, meaning my angel, a name that would come to carry far deeper meaning than we ever imagined. Everything fell into place with impossible timing. Mandatory training—held only quarterly—happened to be scheduled just weeks later, and family stepped in to care for our children. After training came more paperwork and over 3,000 pages of case files. A full week of reading later, we were preparing to meet the boys.
Before that visit, I spoke with their foster mother, nervously bracing myself for the conversation. Instead, I found a woman who loved them fiercely but knew God wasn’t calling her to adopt. That phone call turned into a two-hour conversation and the beginning of a friendship. When we finally met in person, the meeting with CPS and our agency went smoothly. Then came the moment we had been waiting for—meeting the boys.
My heart was pounding as we walked up to the door. Zane was sitting on the kitchen floor, babbling happily. It felt unreal. After months of waiting, there he was—my child. When Malakai appeared from the hallway, shy and cautious, my heart broke and swelled all at once. We spent hours playing together, and I wished the day would never end.
The next morning, we met at Chick-fil-A with their siblings—six in total. Their adoptive mom welcomed us with open arms, and we left that breakfast as one extended family. Then came more waiting, paperwork hiccups, and disappointment when our hoped-for pickup date of April 10 seemed impossible. On a Friday, we got the call—we could pick them up Tuesday. April 11. One day later than our prayer.
That Tuesday was stormy, chaotic, and unforgettable. We met halfway at a small-town McDonald’s, tears flowing freely. Joy and grief intertwined as we hugged goodbye. We drove home with Chick-fil-A in hand and our hearts full. Zane and Malakai were finally home.
The early days were exhausting and overwhelming. Zane barely slept. Malakai was terrified, struggling to trust us after losing the only home he’d known. I leaned heavily on their foster mom, calling daily. Slowly, bonds formed. Court day came, and in October 2017, we officially adopted the twins alongside their siblings. We became one family.
Life settled into a rhythm. Malakai attached himself to Mike, while Zane surprised everyone by walking—something doctors said would never happen. Our biological children bonded deeply with the twins, especially Rowan and Malakai, who were inseparable. Chaos filled our home, but so did contentment.
Then, in February 2019, our world shattered. Malakai had a seizure. His brain was bleeding. He was airlifted for emergency surgery that saved him just long enough for us to say goodbye. Less than six hours later, he was gone.
Losing our son broke us. Zane lost his twin. Our family lost a piece of itself. Life felt painfully unfair. And yet, knowing what we know now, we would still drive through that storm to that tiny town, just to bring our boys home—even if only for a short while.
