They weren’t supposed to be mine. No plan. No warning. Just two newborns 👶👶 — and a loss I couldn’t outrun 💔.

The day my sister went home to God was the same day Bram and Elara took their first breath. Grief and life arrived together, tangled and overwhelming. I didn’t hear thunder. I didn’t see signs in the sky. I just felt God speak quietly to my heart: Stay 🙏 So I stayed.

I stayed for the late-night bottles 🍼 when exhaustion burned my eyes. I stayed for the early mornings ☀️ when the world felt too heavy. I stayed for scraped knees, school worries, fevers, and whispered prayers in the dark. They started calling me “Uncle Dad” 🤍 — and without realizing it, I had already accepted the calling.

People saw the tattoos. The oil-stained hands. The rough edges of a man who didn’t look like the picture of a perfect parent. Some judged. Even a court doubted me.

But God never did ✨. And neither did those kids.

I learned as I went. I failed sometimes. I prayed constantly. I loved fiercely. I showed up — every single day — even when I was scared I wasn’t enough. Especially then.

Time passed. Grief softened. Love grew stronger.

One of them grew up to heal others as a doctor 🩺. The other now serves and protects as a police officer 🚓.

I didn’t raise perfect children. I raised good people — by God’s grace alone 🤍.

This story isn’t about being extraordinary.
It’s about obedience. About staying when it would’ve been easier to run. About believing that God works through ordinary people who simply refuse to walk away.

If you believe in a God who steps into broken moments and builds something beautiful from them, please leave a prayer — or a quiet amen 🙏🤍.