“‘Hi, my name is Teresa, and I’m a mom of six,’ I’d like to say, like we’re sitting together in a cozy support group. I still laugh at the idea of being responsible for all these wonderfully chaotic children, because my life turned out so differently than I ever imagined. Kids were not part of my original plan. My dreams were grand but very different—earning a doctorate in Art History and moving to Europe to work as a curator. That was the plan. But over fifteen years ago, an auction changed everything.
As Ben, my now-husband, and I stood before a photograph of a little boy in Malawi praying, it was as if blinders fell from our eyes. Suddenly, our abstract ideas of a life lived differently—focused on giving rather than receiving—became tangible. Adoption. Africa. We knew this would be our path, even if we didn’t know exactly when it would happen.
After we married and experienced two surprise pregnancies in quick succession, we finally felt ready to explore which country in Africa we might be called to. Our story is long, of course, and I’d love to sit knee-to-knee with you over coffee to share every detail, but here’s the heart of it: we fell head-over-heels for Ethiopia. A few months on the Baby Waiting List shifted our hearts toward the idea of adopting a little boy between four and six years old. After inquiring with our adoption agency, we learned about a sweet boy who had captured our hearts. But because he was older than our biological oldest—a step outside our expected birth order—no friends or family supported our decision. One of the people closest to me even said plainly, ‘If you do this, you will destroy your family.’
Those words shook us. We didn’t want to hurt our family, and we worried about our eldest, our little ‘blondie,’ feeling displaced. We returned to the agency with heavy hearts, apologizing, ‘We don’t think he’s the right fit.’ We thought the door had closed.
Months later, we were overjoyed to be approved to bring home a beautiful baby girl. But then, just days before flying to Ethiopia, our agency called with news that stunned us: the little boy we had loved from afar had been moved from fifteen hours outside Addis Ababa to just fifteen minutes from our guesthouse. They asked, cautiously, if we wanted to visit him, assuring us it would be casual—just a tour of the orphanage, some gum and jump ropes, an afternoon of play.
Ben and I hung up, hearts racing. We had prayed for him every day. We realized then that the closed door had been ours alone, tied to the fears and opinions of others. This was our calling. Not theirs.
When we arrived at Resurrection Orphanage, the little boy ran toward us immediately, kicking a tattered ball to Ben’s feet, laughing as we played a makeshift game of soccer. As girls braided my hair and sang in accented English, a whisper echoed in my heart, clear and persistent: ‘This is your son.’ Tears filled my eyes. ‘This is my son. And he’s living in an orphanage…that is not okay with me.’
Four months later, Ben returned to Ethiopia to bring him home. Did he destroy our family? Not at all. He expanded it in ways we couldn’t have imagined. Parenting a child who had known trauma was challenging, yes, but he also brought a new depth of love into our lives, preparing us for the next chapters.
We weren’t planning to adopt again. We had moved from San Antonio to Denver, purchased a house deemed ‘uninhabitable’ by the bank, and were deep in renovations while helping our son heal. Yet one afternoon, scrolling through Facebook during naptime, I read about a teenage boy in need of a family. Tears streamed down my face as I realized—I knew with every part of me that he was ours.
That evening, I told Ben, who had seen the same boy’s story elsewhere. After months of paperwork and hurdles, Abreham was finally joining our family. And on Easter morning, a surprise email showed another child—a beautiful infant girl—was waiting for us, already connected to Abreham. We laughed, cried, and celebrated, suddenly a family of eight. Twice we went outside birth order, and our family wasn’t destroyed—we were stronger.
Raising six children, four of whom carry trauma, is dizzying, exhausting, and sometimes overwhelming. But we weren’t called to a life of ease. We were called to love, deeply and unconditionally. Our story is messy, full of tears and challenges, but it’s worth it. As Elisabeth Kübler-Ross reminds us, ‘The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, suffering, struggle, and loss…these persons have an appreciation, sensitivity, and understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.’”
