I suppose some folks might be wondering about my last post. So I’ll briefly explain it. My wife, Kirsten, and I recently became foster parents. We have a son of our own, Samuel, who is, by all accounts, a “miracle baby.” Born at only 24 weeks and 3 days of gestation, we were told at the time (2004) that he was “right on the cusp of viability.” On his second night of life, we were told he wouldn’t live to see the next day. Four months later he came home from the hospital at right about the time he “should” have been born. Needless to say, we have a deep bond with Samuel and love him dearly. Given that experience and the likelihood that any future pregnancies would be considered “high risk,” and in light of our desire to in some way live “in community” and use the space in our pseudo-suburban home justly, we decided to pursue foster care and adoption as a way of expanding our family. Our first placement, 4 and 1 year old male siblings, proved to be very, very challenging. I won’t go into all the details here, but you can glean a lot from that last post. Suffice it to say, for lots of reasons that placement turned out to be a “failed” one and with the encouragement of our agency social worker we agreed to have the boys move on to another foster home. For those of you who know me, you know that this decision came with much guilt on my part, as we kicked the “least of these” (and hence, according to Scripture, Jesus) to the curb. I guess I thought I could save him, and somehow forgot that what I really need- again and again and again- is for him to save me. Maybe if he came as a blond-haired, blue-eyed little white suburban kid who behaved much more in keeping with my bourgeois sensibilities I would have let him.