They didn’t set out to be heroes; they just kept saying yes and brought a community with them, proving that love, backed by a village, can make a family out of impossibilities. They have five children now. The first three came the “fun way,” as Randall jokes. Adoption was always a “someday,” talked about but not understood, until they met a young mom and her baby who were homeless. She’d push the stroller to church and play worship music on a flip phone. When the baby entered foster care, this couple walked beside her through reunification. One night at their noisy dinner table, the young mom looked around and said she’d never had this. Not the pasta, the family. Later that year, they cheered as she brought her baby home.
“Someday” became a date: when they turned 35, they would pursue adoption. They also knew older pregnancies can bring higher chances of special needs, including Down syndrome. After meeting an attorney and an agency, they faced the most complex form: which medical needs would they accept? They realized that if a biological child arrived with any need, they would just figure it out. So they said yes to the child who needed a family. Driving home from a day trip, they saw an advocacy post for a little girl in China: Down syndrome, a heart defect, and neurological unknowns. International adoption was expensive and daunting. None of it mattered. She felt like their daughter. People warned they were reckless and might “ruin” their other kids’ lives. But most friends rallied, fundraisers, prayers, practical help, forming a net strong enough to catch them.
Fourteen months later, they flew to China. They were hilariously unprepared, worrying about losing a kid on the bullet train with its 120-second boarding window. After days of planes, trains, and a mountain bus, a nanny brought the little girl out. She studied each face, profound and beautiful, then reached for Mom. Randall tapped his chest: “Baba.” She whispered it back and fell asleep on Mom’s chest, feverish with what turned out to be rubella, adding extra days for medical clearance. They toured the orphanage. It was quiet in a way that hurt, babies who’d learned not to cry. In those days, they promised: we’ll adopt again.
Two years later, a baby in a Seattle NICU needed a family. She had Down syndrome and complex medical needs. Her first mom was in the U.S. on a travel visa and believed adoption was best, given the limited support back home. Five days after the call, Mom was on a plane. They hadn’t seen a photo. Walking into the NICU and seeing a pink-swaddled girl who looked just like her first mom stole her breath. Caseworkers tried every path to keep the original family together; when none remained, first mom chose adoption with love and clarity. First, mom stayed by the crib, changed diapers, pumped, and fed milk through a tube.
On discharge day, she asked to remain at the hospital a bit longer, one more day in the only home they’d shared. Leaving the entrance felt like crossing a sacred line: a handoff from one mother’s love to another’s care. Today, there’s a farm in a faraway country named after this little girl. They swap photos and late-night video calls. First mom celebrates milestones worldwide; they celebrate her new baby, too. It’s beautiful and complex, and it all feels holy.
Life isn’t tidy. Hospitals are frequent. Therapies fill calendars. Five kids and a marriage stretched thin. Travel is tough without nearby family. Social gatherings and church can be complicated. Trauma and medical crises can upend any day. But the community keeps showing up, with dinners, groceries, coffee, prayers, and night-before fundraiser prep. Some friends knew nothing about adoption or special needs; others were on the same road. Together, they made it possible.
People often say, “I could never do what you do.” The truth is, this family is ordinary. They forgot to charge the pulse oximeter. The feeding pump needs cleaning. The house is messy. They get impatient. What most people can’t imagine is doing it without a village. So they built one. Two years ago, they launched ECHO Family Care Partners, rooted in a simple belief: every child deserves a safe, steady family; every family needs a caring community; everyone can do something. They rally churches and neighbors to support biological, kinship, foster, and adoptive families, mentoring teens, tutoring survivors, stocking fridges, and saying yes. The refrain has changed from “I could never” to “If you can, I can.”
