A 7-year-old boy died this week after being beaten by his father over a period of weeks. His injuries were so severe that, though sustained by machines, he was declared clinically dead.
A 4-year-old boy and his two siblings are available for adoption. The toddler has special needs due to having been scalded over 40% of his body when he was even smaller than he is now.
My husband and I adopted two children. Our very good friends—-whom we met after our children's placement—-had adopted two also. We were all the more close for having the same 'type' of adoption; we both chose that path as a result of dedication to community, to children, and to the earth. We both might have tried to have children the traditional way, but we didn't.
A few years after our children joined us, we were notified that an older sibling of our two had died, a victim of the drug trade. A few days ago, the older sibling of our friends' oldest child was presumably found, years after her disappearance, at the bottom of a well.
So this week I'm crying over the littlest things. (The 7-year-old boy's death, and the 4-year-old's scalding, I would have cried over anyway.)