Sometimes I get confused. I see friends my age—empty nesters—traveling the world or earning promotions or devoting themselves to hobbies, and my excitement for them breeds a little discontent in me or even some resentment. I think—momentarily—that I am missing out. But then I remember that I could do and have all those things and more—most anything I wanted really—if I didn’t have the very extraordinary life I do have—the one I chose almost ten years ago and would choose again tomorrow…and the next day…and the next…

Unbeknownst to us, exactly ten days after we buried our son in Albert G. Horton, Jr. Memorial Veterans Cemetery in Suffolk, Virginia, a surrogate mom halfway across the country was enduring a health crisis that resulted in the premature birth of the babies she carried. I once heard it said that every adoption begins with a tragedy, and I suppose that’s one way to look at it. It may be tempting to focus on the tragedies that comprise the parallel stories of Timothy and the twins, but I prefer to focus on the eventual intersection of those stories as something extraordinary.

Titus and Tess celebrate their birthday today. They have lived a decade of life, and I have shared all but two months of it with them—the two months they weren’t even supposed to be out of the womb. Nothing about their lives has been easy—premature births, brain bleeds, adoption, neurodivergent challenges, divorce. An outsider watching their celebration today will see friends, family, cupcakes, pizza, a playground, some gifts, possibly some rain, and a multitude of sequins. They won’t know that Tess had 63 surgical procedures before her ninth birthday, that a doctor didn’t want to prescribe her glasses because “they wouldn’t make a difference,” or that a surgeon looked at her infant brain MRI and asked me, “Why would anyone want to adopt these babies?” They won’t know how long it took Titus to learn his colors or his letters or how agonizing it is for him to read. They won’t know how many times he has asked me why he has to have a “short memory” or a cerebral shunt that keeps him from enjoying contact sports and trampolines with neighborhood kids. They won’t know that I almost didn’t even know he existed—and that if I hadn’t known, Tess wouldn’t either.

If we could play a highlight reel of this tenth year of their lives, we would see things that may look ordinary for kids of this age…a boy dancing at his brother’s wedding, acting in a play, getting baptized, playing Minecraft with his sister-in-law, solving grade-level math problems, standing at a podium reading aloud in front of a room full of people…a girl writing her name, playing piano, going under water voluntarily, reciting memorized lines in a dramatic performance, drinking water with a straw. But none of these things are the least bit ordinary. They are the culmination of hours and hours of effort that Titus and Tess put in day after day to overcome the challenges caused by the bursting of fragile blood vessels in their tiny premature brains. They are the culmination of hours and hours of diligence from care attendants, siblings, doctors, therapists, grandparents, coaches, teachers, and friends who have believed in them, challenged them, and seen potential where others saw a void. They are like the cards at the top of this post…deceptively sweet and ordinary childhood creations that represent a decade of extraordinary effort and love.

Sometimes I get confused. I am tempted to lament my lack of freedom. I think about the jobs I haven’t held, the books I haven’t written, the places I have never visited. I wonder what it would be like to take an impulse trip or even a planned vacation that doesn’t require the coordination of a multitude of people. But then I remember that anyone with time and money can do those things. My life cannot be bought or replicated. I have the privilege of witnessing the transformation of the ordinary into something extraordinary every single day.

Others may view our lives and see limitation or lack of freedom, and I suppose that’s one perspective. It can be tempting to focus on the things we cannot do—to dwell in the negative space. But like most of life, there are multiple facets to everything, and a slight tilt of the head or turn of the hand can direct the light in such a way that color bursts forth where there was only darkness before.

Ten years ago today, Esther “Tess” Moriah and Titus Asher Barnes were born emergently, a birth day fraught with crisis. Ten days earlier, a little world changer named Timothy José had gone to heaven for his healing, leaving a shocked and grief-stricken family. In the intersection of their stories, God transformed the negative void of Timothy’s death into a space in that family for a brave, strong, incredibly smart little girl and her perceptive, loving, thoughtful twin brother.

Today, I celebrate Titus and Tess’s first decade of life–a decade that has often been unpredictable, hilarious, challenging, hopeful, tragic, and joyful—but always full of love. A decade of shattering barriers, defying expectations, and overcoming adversities. A decade of countless small moments with big significance. And if you tip your head slightly and turn your hand so that the light hits the darkness, you are sure to see that it has been a decade of extraordinary.