How it Began

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How It Began
The late autumn air carried a chill, and Christmas decorations had already found their place around the house. The boys had retreated to what we called “Cactus Gulch”—a lively corner filled with gaming consoles, a pool table, and a foosball table. It was their nightly gathering place before bed. From my seat in the living room, I could hear their voices—loud, carefree, full of life.
At that time, I had adopted seven boys through the State Department of Human Resources.
I remember sitting there, listening to them, asking myself a simple question: How in the world did this happen? What had set me on this path?
The answer took me back years.
The Seed
As a young teenager, I came across a book titled The Little People by David Wilkerson. Reading was a refuge for me. Between chores on our family farm, I’d steal away with a book whenever I could. This one was different from my usual fiction—no adventure, no heroics—just the raw account of a minister working with addicts and alcoholics.
But the focus wasn’t the addicts.
It was their children.
Wilkerson described them not as carefree boys and girls, but as “little people”—children forced into adulthood far too soon. From birth, many lived in chaos—violence, addiction, instability. By the age of two or three, they had already learned to survive. Raised voices meant danger. Anger meant hide. Survival depended on vigilance.
I remember reading those pages slowly, almost skeptically, wondering if such a world could truly exist.
When I finished, I closed the book quietly and placed it back on the shelf. Then I went back to my chores, tending animals and learning responsibility on the farm.
But I never forgot.
The Moment It Became Real
Years later, in college in Springfield, Missouri, I was elected vice president of my dorm hall. As Christmas approached, we were presented with several service opportunities. After some debate—and, admittedly, a bit of motivation to impress the sister dorm—we chose to “adopt” a foster child for a day.
The plan was simple: a child would join us for the day, and we would take him Christmas shopping.
That Saturday, we gathered in the parking lot. A social worker arrived with a five-year-old boy. He wore several layers—shirts under a sweatshirt—clean but worn. In his hand was a short list of needed items. At the top: a winter coat.
My friend Rusty and I approached him gently. He had bright blue eyes and blonde hair, and though hesitant, he agreed to go with us.
We shopped first, making sure to cover every item on the list. Then we added a few toys—things every child should have at Christmas. Later, we stopped at a pizza place with games, where he began to relax. Before long, he was laughing, talking, just being a kid.
When we returned to campus, most of the group disappeared, leaving Rusty and me to wait with him for the social worker. We wandered to a nearby playground. He played on the swings, spun on the merry-go-round, and pushed a toy truck through the grass.
As we sat together, he began telling stories—about fights, broken furniture, police. We listened, assuming it was imagination at work.
When the social worker returned, we helped load his gifts—including a new bike—into her car. Proud of the day, we shared highlights, and I casually mentioned his “wild story.”
I expected a reassuring smile.
Instead, she looked at me and said, “There are no exaggerations. What he told you is exactly how he came into state care.”
His father, drunk and enraged, had beaten his mother. The children had run and hidden. The police were called. The boy had been found trembling behind a couch.
It wasn’t a story.
It was his life.
I asked what would happen to him.
She told me his parents’ rights would likely be terminated. The state would look for an adoptive home.
The Turning Point
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I thought about that little boy—where he would go, who would take him in, whether he would ever feel safe again. And suddenly, the words from that old book came rushing back.
The Little People.
Now I knew.
They were real.
The seed planted years before had taken root. What had once been an idea had become undeniable truth. And the weight of it settled heavily on my heart.
Chapter Two: The Calling
After graduation, I stepped into the world of teaching. I volunteered with Big Brothers, mentored young people, and eventually became a foster parent. Later, after a failed relationship led me to relocate, I became a Guardian ad Litem—appointed by the court to advocate for children in state care.
Case by case, story by story, the conviction grew stronger.
Eventually, I made the decision to adopt.
Over the next twenty years, I adopted eleven children.
What These Children Carry
Before I share their stories, it’s important to understand what many of these children have endured.
Abuse takes many forms: physical, emotional, sexual, neglect, domestic violence. Often, it is not just one form, but several intertwined. And much of it goes unseen or unreported until intervention becomes unavoidable.
As one counselor told me, “Abuse is damning to the victim—it interrupts the normal course of emotional development.”
These children carry burdens far beyond their years. They wrestle with rejection, insecurity, and a deep-rooted fear that stability can vanish without warning. Promises of permanence are hard to trust when life has taught them otherwise.
Some struggle to bond. Some push people away before they themselves can be abandoned. Others fall back into the patterns they’ve known—destructive, yet familiar.
And yet—some rise.
Some push through the weight of their past and cross the finish line.
Lessons Learned
For those walking this road, I’ve learned a few things.
Connection matters more than control. Activities that foster interaction—sports, music, gardening, even board games—help build relationships. Isolation, especially through excessive screen time, often works against bonding.
Traditions matter. Birthdays, holidays, shared routines—these create a sense of belonging.
Consistency matters. These children need to know what tomorrow looks like.
And words matter.
When frustration comes—and it will—hold your tongue. These children often believe relationships, once broken, cannot be repaired. Many have learned that apologies change nothing.
So as a parent, you must model something different.
You must be the one who repairs the bridge.
Every time.
This isn’t just how I came to adoption.
It’s why I stayed.
And it’s why their stories matter.

• WelcomeApril 22, 2026
  My name is David. I’ve adopted 11 boys through the years. I’ve lived through both struggles and triumphs and will share the journe

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