Her tennis shoes were perched precariously on the crumbling edge of the Mayan step. One more inch forward, and she wasn't sure if she’d find stone or sky beneath her feet. Maybe the endless rounds of chemo and radiation had drained more of her strength than she’d realized. The climb that once felt like defiance now felt like defeat. But there was no going back. She was out of options.

Her biggest mistake had been looking down.

Now vertigo clawed at her senses, and her breath came in shallow gasps. She pressed her palms flat against the rough stone, trying to will herself still. No amount of bravery could erase the fact that she had misjudged—again.

Then she heard David’s voice, sharp and urgent, cutting through the jungle's hum.

"Lift your arms!" he shouted. "I'm going to grab you and pull you up."

It should’ve sounded heroic. It should’ve filled her with relief. Instead, it struck her like the punch line of a bad joke.

She glanced upward and muttered under her breath, half in fear, half in bitter humor: “Is anyone else up there?”

I pass the same dog nearly every day on my run. He’s a beast of a creature—massive, snarling, all teeth and fury, the kind of dog you instinctively cross the street to avoid. Or at least, he would be—if not for one crucial detail: he’s tethered.

Not just any leash either. This dog is bound by a thick choker collar, attached to a heavy log chain that clinks and groans with his every lunge. The chain runs taut to a stake buried deep in the ground, reinforced with a slab of concrete as if his fury alone might otherwise rip it free.

Every day, it’s the same show. He hears me coming and charges full force toward the edge of his tiny domain. There’s even a worn rut in the dirt where his assaults always end—the outer limit of his reach. He growls, bares his teeth, and I jog past, heart racing but face calm. I’ve learned the routine. He’s all bark, no bite. A would-be menace rendered harmless by steel and cement.

But one day, everything changed.

I saw him before he saw me. Something was off. The chain hung slack. The collar was still around his neck, but the stake—his anchor—was gone. And he was standing free.

In that instant, I wasn’t a runner anymore. I was lunch. A slow-moving MRE in moisture-wicking shorts.

He lunged. I ran like I never had before. And as I sprinted for my life, I realized something: that dog had never really stopped being dangerous. I had just gotten comfortable with the illusion of safety. I mistook his leash for weakness, his restraint for defeat.

That old dog taught me a lesson I won’t forget: don’t ever confuse a lack of action with a lack of ability. Just because something can’t hurt you now doesn’t mean it won’t one day. Complacency is comfortable—right up until the chain breaks.

Maybe you can learn something from that dog too.

There were 18,371 children in foster care in 2024. Let that number sink in.

Each of those children represents a story—of loss, resilience, and hope. Behind that staggering statistic are real lives waiting for safety, for family, for love.

Becky and Jordan know this all too well. Their journey into foster care began with a calling—a desire to help. Just nine days after they were officially licensed to provide trauma foster care, their phone wouldn't stop ringing. Each call was another child in need. Each voicemail carried urgency, heartache, and the weight of decision.

Then came one call that changed everything.

Within two years, Becky and Jordan went from a quiet house to a bustling home filled with laughter, sibling squabbles, bedtime stories, and healing. Three children—a brother and sisters who might otherwise have been separated—found comfort in staying together, thanks to them. They didn’t just open their home; they opened their hearts.

And their journey was only just beginning.