My wife and I were nervous the first Sunday we attended an African-American church. Would they welcome us? Would they stare? We should have had faith.
A simple hairstyle was not so simple for a dance class full of little girls with beautiful heads of black hair.
I tell my African-American children that they are smart and beautiful because I know that the world may tell them otherwise.
Talking with Black women about adoption became a routine part of motherhood for me, alongside diapers, homework, and the warmth I feel every time I look at my son.
The 894 pages of my daughters' foster care case history described her birth mother's hard life, scarred by poverty, drug addiction, and homelessness. I never expected to meet her—much less like her.