I am lucky enough to know one of Julius’ sons.

Julius himself is sort of a legend. He was the oldest of a large group of siblings that were raised in a government run orphanage. Somehow he made it through those years determined to keep his brothers and sisters together.

In spite of the fact that institutions separated siblings in order to house the children by age groups — regardless of the fact that they had different bed times and day time routines — despite residing in separate cottages that were far apart on a large and lonely campus, Julius never let this little cluster of children forget that they were a family.

They all grew up. Julius became a well known, all-American type softball umpire – the kind that created stories for the players to tell for years. And there are now children and grandchildren. When Julius died, he was a great grandfather. Even though he is gone, he left a large, sometimes boisterous extended family who go to church, have important careers, raised their own children, and enjoy big reunions with an annual golf tournament.

The son I know became a mental health professional and a child welfare supervisor. He is a father and grandfather through birth and through foster care adoption.

We enjoy a healthier community because a boy in an orphanage … a mere boy … knew the power of family.

Barbara loves order. She is always neatly dressed, and you’d swear she just came from the hairdresser. When she worked at The Adoption Exchange, her office was always clean. I still find files with her beautiful handwritten notes.

But Barbara says that families don’t have to be just like each other (and they certainly don’t have to be like her) to be perfect parents for the children.

She remembers the couple who asked to adopt Paul. They lived in a tiny house in a very ordinary neighborhood. They liked to run barefoot in the summer. They weren’t joggers or dieters. Their little house was pretty cluttered, and they didn’t work out in the gym.

When she visited them after Paul came into their family, she was moved. It was impossible to tell which of their children was the adopted child. No one seemed crowded by the size of the house. There was a lot of healthy hugging, and she could see Paul was drinking in their affection.

Paul’s parents are grateful that he is in their lives. And Barbara says he got just what he needed.

Those are the words she wrote. But it didn’t begin that way. Shanté came into foster care when she was eight years old. But she blossomed with the care and love of her adoptive mom. They met at school, where her mom-to be was a social worker.

“On August 28, 1991 we went down to the courtroom and everything was finalized. I was finally in a home to call my own. That’s where I stand now – in a blessed family and with friends.”

“I enjoy my family. I am a blessed child and it shows in everything I do, If there is anything in life that a child needs, it is a family. I think o child is to be lonely in these days. It only leads to destruction of a child’s life.”

Shanté is grown now, and a mother herself.

The children and youth are often our best teachers. One such teacher materialized at an awards ceremony in Chicago.

Martin looked very handsome and a little nervous. He was dressed in a suit and tie and stood next to his mom at the podium. They had been asked to say a few words about their adoption and to assist in the presentation of a couple of awards.

Adoption professionals in the audience beamed as they spoke. Everyone was proud, and the pride was well deserved.

After the fanfare was over, Martin turned to me and asked, “Can I look at the picture book?” Of course the answer was yes. He was referring to the photo album filled with pictures and profiles of children who were waiting for families.

I guess the time to gloat was over. Enough of that – let’s get to work!

Martin went straight to the “D” section of the alphabetically organized book. He was looking for someone in particular. “I want to know if DeShawn is still in the picture book,” he said.

Martin was a good teacher. He kept my focus where it needed to be.

I asked him to tell me about DeShawn. “He was my foster brother, and he still needs to be adopted.”

Marcia’s birth parents loved each other and loved her as well. But cultural circumstances were stacked against them. Perhaps in today’s society they’d be able to get married and raise their little girl as a family. But thirty-three years ago that wasn’t an option for them.

They made adoption plans, and they let their precious baby go.

Every year since then during the December holidays I get out a nativity scene that they gave to me. I remember them and think of Marcia. When they gave me this gift, I appreciated it. But it took some time for me to fully grasp that a nativity scene is the perfect symbol. There are all of the figures: a mother and father welcoming a baby under impossible circumstances.

Today I boxed up the nativity scene, and I’m mailing it to Marcia. I think it belongs to her. When she uses it, she’ll remember that she has always been loved.