We’ve never been strangers to the “road less traveled” lifestyle. In fact, we’ve lived with a “been there, done that” attitude ever since becoming parents to our 16-year-old son at the ages of 25 and 27. We spent a year and a half getting to know the boy who made us mom and dad before we got the call that would change our family once more: our son was going to be a big brother. Soon after, we welcomed our second son, a remarkable 14-year-old whose smile could melt the coldest heart. Life was starting to make sense. The pieces were slowly coming together. We had spent four months bonding as a family and were just a week and a half away from celebrating our first Christmas as a family of four. The personalized ornament with our names across the reindeer already hung proudly on the tree, and our bags were packed for a quick pre-Christmas getaway.
And then we got the call.
It was from our oldest son’s previous caseworker—someone we love and adore, who does not get nearly enough credit for the work she does.
“I know you’re working on adopting your second,” she said, “but I need your help.”
She began to tell us about a boy who would soon become our third son.
“I’m not going to sugarcoat it,” she warned. “His file is so big that no one will even look at it anymore.”
She danced around the facts, sharing details slowly, testing our resolve. He had run from his previous placement. He was failing all his classes. He simply didn’t “fit” anywhere, and she had nowhere else to turn.
There is nothing more earth-shattering than hearing that, in all your mess and imperfection, you are the last chance—and the best hope—for a child who has already lost everything. At that point, in our family, the only option was to pray and to continue giving, even when we thought there was nothing left to give.
I still remember the phone call to my best friend when I told her we were going to have another son. From what I hear, there were plenty of tears and blubberings of, “But it’s Christmas! We can’t leave him alone.” I don’t remember much of it myself. I knew we would be okay, but I had no idea how it would work.
We asked to FaceTime him, to let him know he had a place in our home and to prepare him for the chaos and love that is our family.
As we drove down the highway, bags packed for a weekend of fun, we saw through a screen the emptiness in his eyes—the look of a boy who didn’t even know what hope was.
Our vacation quickly turned into a whirlwind of preparations for a son and brother we had yet to meet. What did he like? What did he hate? Did he have hobbies? Would he even want to stay?
We returned home with just enough time to replace the family-of-four ornament with a fifth reindeer and a new name—Tim. Maybe just enough time to wonder if we were crazy, but by this point, a little bit of crazy is half of who we are.
When we first met him, he was pencil-thin, his eyes sunken so deeply we could hardly make out their color. A bleached-blond ponytail hung to his shoulders. He couldn’t hold eye contact for more than a second. His skin was covered in sores, and his hands trembled. He was 15 years old. And he was ours.
Almost immediately, he began telling us the worst of the worst, trying to gauge if we would reject him. He listed drugs, girls, and dangerous experiences like badges of his past. But even then, I could see the beginnings of a boy who might one day leave that past behind. His caseworker watched wide-eyed, perhaps hoping we might say no, but she knew he belonged with us, too.
Slowly, the jitters faded, the drugs left his system, and his heart began to heal. And when his eyes cleared, the truth of his past became undeniable. He was born to a meth addict and a pedophile, who cared more about their own fantasies than reality. When CPS intervened, they said, “Take them. We don’t want them.” He was just five.
He was placed with a kind family who gave him happy memories, until their home caught fire. Everyone escaped safely, but their dog didn’t survive. The father rushed back to save her and barely made it out before the roof collapsed. After that, he moved through placements: an older couple who did their best, then adoption at age eight, followed by a heartbreaking return to the state at age 13. His biological mother received him back, but the cycle of neglect and abuse continued. He spiraled into drugs, partying, and dangerous behavior—gang conflicts, fires, and eventually juvenile detention.
CPS sent him to a Residential Treatment Center, where fighting became his defense mechanism. Over time, his hope for a family disappeared, behaviors quieted, and he was placed in a foster home—but the lack of structure caused another collapse. He ran. He ended up back with his biological mother, who allowed him to stay briefly before calling the police. That’s how he found himself with us.
This was the boy sitting in our living room. He couldn’t hope that we could keep him safe, let alone love him. But he wasn’t a placement. He wasn’t a foster kid. He was our son, now and forever.
He has struggles. He carries pain behind a big, goofy smile. But surrounded by love, he is learning that the same challenges that once beat him down have tenderized his heart. He loves fiercely, chooses the forgotten, and reaches out to anyone willing to reach back. He is a fighter.
His story didn’t end how the world predicted. Instead, he is still writing it. He is a living example of redemption and hope for countless children lost in the system.
Dear Mom & Dad—“I’ve been with y’all for 1 year. And it’s been the best year ever! And… IT’S NOT OVER!!! I’m very thankful y’all accepted me when I wasn’t wanted. Love, your son, Tim Douglas.”
On October 31st, 2019, he officially became a Douglas. On December 18th, 2019, he celebrated one year clean and sober. This is our son. Tim. And we are so, so proud.
