There’s something about swimming pools that turns strangers into friends and casual conversation into something holy. Maybe it’s the vulnerability of being shirtless in public, or maybe it’s just the way summer sun softens our defenses—but there I was, on a Monday, wading through the shallow end with my boys when another dad struck up a conversation.
Now according to my kids, this isn’t unusual. “Dad, you just have one of those faces people *have* to talk to,” they said. I’m still deciding if that’s a compliment or a sign that I need to work on my resting expression.
As we chatted about the chaos and joy of parenting boys, the dad asked me a question I never quite know how to answer quickly:
“So how old were you when you became a dad?”
I paused. Because my answer isn’t a simple number. I didn’t become a dad in a delivery room. I became a dad in a courtroom, in a conference room, in quiet middle-of-the-night prayers hoping a child would stay, and then daring to hope I’d be called “dad” at all. My sons weren’t born to me—they came through foster care and then adoption.
So I gave him the longer version. Told him about the road that led me to three boys who now call me Dad. He blinked, processing it all, and then looked over at Lucas, one of my sons, and asked—genuinely but awkwardly—“Wait, he’s not yours?”
Cue the deep breath. The slow internal count to three. Because while I get where he was coming from, the phrasing hit a nerve.
I smiled, and with maybe a touch too much intensity said, “Yes. He’s *mine*.”
He quickly corrected himself. “Oh—I know, I know he’s yours. It’s just… wow. He looks so much like you. You’re telling me he’s not your blood?”
And you know what? We do hear that a lot. People who don’t know our story are always surprised by how much my boys “look like me.” And my boys? They love it. They *want* to be mine—every bit of them. That kind of belonging? That kind of joy? It’s priceless.
But here’s the thing. It’s not just about whether they look like me. It’s about who they’re becoming.
Because just a few minutes earlier, before that conversation started, I watched something that made me see myself in Lucas—not in his face, but in his heart.
A little girl had lost her bracelet at the bottom of the pool. Without a second thought, Lucas dove down, found it, and brought it back up. No hesitation. No complaint. Just this quiet instinct to help someone in need. I told him I was proud of him. He shrugged like it was no big deal.
“Dad, it was easy,” he said.
But I saw it. That reflexive compassion, that servant-heartedness? That’s *my* DNA. Not the kind you inherit through blood, but the kind you catch through life lived together. Through prayers, and pancakes, and hard conversations. Through showing up over and over again.
It’s the kind of heart that runs deep in the Kral family. A heart for people. And in that moment, I didn’t just feel like his dad. I saw myself *in* him.
And sure, he also cusses a little too much like me (and I’m a pastor who already pushes that envelope). But hey—pastors who cuss are cooler and, let’s be honest, probably a little more honest too.
The next day at LEGOLAND (yes, we're still going strong with that dad and boys Florida trip), I overheard another dad talking about his adoption journey. His kids came from different parts of the world, and his love for them was just as fierce and tender as mine. And it reminded me that God gives us different pulls. Some are called to foster or adopt here at home. Some across the globe. But all of us—every single one of us who calls ourselves the Church—are called to something.
Because Scripture doesn’t stutter when it says this:
“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress...” — James 1:27
Look after. Care for. Show up.
And yet… if we’re honest, how often do we get caught doing everything *but* that? We’re caught up in the infighting. The church drama. The politics. The fear. The comparisons. The performances. We’re chasing the “better show,” the louder microphone, the shinier platform. Meanwhile, real kids are wondering if anyone will choose them.
Here’s the wildest stat I’ve heard—and it haunts me in the best way: If just one family from every church in America adopted or fostered one child, the entire foster care system would be empty. (400,000 kids in care, 400,000 churches)
Gone. No need for it.
Can you imagine? Fewer overworked caseworkers. Fewer kids aging out alone. Fewer government dollars spent trying to patch up what we could be the solution to.
It’s messy, yes. The system is broken. But so is the world. And the Church? We were never called to be the audience; we were called to be the answer.
So maybe today—maybe June 18th, not a national day on any calendar, but one that could matter—maybe this is your day. Your wake-up call. Your holy nudge. Your permission slip to say, “We can do something about this.”
And if you’re someone just trying to figure it all out—whether you’re deep in faith, far from it, or somewhere in the messy middle—can I ask you to consider something?
What if God is inviting you to give a child your DNA, even if they don’t carry your blood?
What if the thing you're afraid you're not equipped to do is actually the very thing God wants to equip you for?
What if the love you're meant to share is less about where someone came from and more about where you’re willing to walk with them?
My boys may not share my blood, but they've claimed every corner of my heart.
So whether you're a family, a friend, a church leader, or someone with a face people can’t help but talk to—don’t wait.
Be the one to say: “You may not be my blood… but you’ll always have my DNA.”
And I promise you—there’s no greater legacy than that.
If this stirred something in you, share it. Send it to someone wondering if they should foster. Bring it to your church leadership. Let’s be the Church that actually looks like Jesus—one adoption, one heart, one child at a time.