A week before Thanksgiving, an email went out to all Ottawa County foster families. It dropped in my inbox with a clap of thunder as I prepared to end the workday and collect my boys from school. “Ottawa DHHS needs your help and an 11-year-old boy named _____ needs a home; placement is needed by Friday.” It was Tuesday. Emails like this one are rarely sent which told me they were running out of options. I finished reading the message and clicked on the video at the bottom, recognizing him right away. He looked just like my middle child, ash blonde hair and toothy smile. His plastic-framed glasses had been broken and taped back together at the corners. He talked to the camera about sports and Pokemon and his dream for a family, those big and little things that hold a boy together.

Last November, as fall crept slowly toward winter, I was holed up in my house staring at a teacher who was holed up in her house trying to teach my kid his multiplication tables. I was defeated, and most likely in desperate need of a shower, as I straddled the line between lethargy and fits of unbridled rage. I felt disconnected from the outside world, and I knew the holidays in whatever unfamiliar form they took, would only bring further isolation. There were glimpses of normality during the bright months of summer – a drive to the South Dakota wilderness, jaunts to the beach, conversations held within the glow of a campfire. By the time fall rolled around, though, many of us had retreated back into our homes to protect those around us, no one knowing how much longer the pandemic would last or how much longer we would.

The little blonde boy hops down from his power wheel and runs to my side. He plants a kiss on my cheek and another on the top of my head, then charges back to the waiting John Deere. Landing next to my other foster son, the two race away to fight dragons and catch fairies somewhere in the backyard. Soon, they return, each presenting me with careful, cupped hands holding fairies from the woods. We talk to their captives, exchange names and pleasantries before the duo heads back toward adventure. By the fifth lap, the whine of their carriage indicates a dying battery. A little magic turns their plastic scooters into horses, and they climb aboard. I sit in my beach chair on the front pavement in awe of the transformation before me. This child with the fresh cut hair and sneaky smile hardly resembles the one brought to this driveway four short months ago. His are the same eyes, the same white blonde widow’s peak, but there are times like this one where his presence seems wholly changed. I watch the two boys play together without pinching fingers or shoving matches. They laugh and take turns. We go entire minutes without tears or anyone screaming my name. As the early sun peeks through the canopy above, they delight in one another’s company – a feat so unimaginable during the initial adjustment period. That’s not to say we aren’t still adjusting.

One Sunday every month, I tuck my laptop under my arm and trudge up the stairs to the bedroom to write. I’d rather be perched at the desk hidden away in our pantry, but my children always find me on their search for a bag of chips or crayons or toilet paper. Our pantry houses many things, my creativity amongst them. One Sunday a month, though, I escape my normal space in search of solace and (please God) some profound thought upon which to build 900 words by my column deadline for the local paper. Tonight, I am miles from profundity. With Bruno Mars blaring from my kitchen and three of four boys play-acting an episode of PJ Masks, the likelihood of crafting anything worthwhile is slim. Like an angel of mercy, my husband turns the music off; Bruno comes to a screeching halt, though my children continue to holler from the living room.

I am sitting in a room surrounded by women who are actually changing the world. They are inherent helpers, carving non-profits from nothing, building whole communities around empathy and ideas and the great need bellowing all around us as we hurry about our days. These women stop to listen. Through open ears, they ease the pain groaning in the streets. In their leggings and overcoat cardigans, they soak up cries from shattered homes throughout cities and rural dead-end roads. They take these cries and use them as fuel to burn the old ways down and start over. With their own money and time, these women birth new organizations, then erect gracious bridges with others who have done the same.

I believe in signs. I believe in Mother Earth and the Moon and God and Love and asking for what you need out loud. Someone is listening – I promise you – because last night, she answered me. It had been a day, a not so perfect day where I couldn’t shake the sadness and apathy that had taken hold. When these days come – curling my body around itself to protect my center, wrapping knees into chest, arms around knees, squeezing eyelids tight to shut out the world – I’m never quite sure what to do, how to right myself again. There was nothing I could point to and say, “Aha! That is the thing that has busted me up. That is the thing I must fix.” The thoughts just rolled in, covering me in gray fog as I fumbled through the hours until kids were tucked in beds and the responsibilities of the day were done. I had big things on my mind; it was time to shut them down and start over in the morning.