Last week, a text arrived from an old friend. “Thank you for your forgiveness,” it began.

Radical change doesn’t always happen in a flash. It can arrive as a whisper, dropping hints over the years of something new to come.

When I was in college, I studied in Spain for a year. Arriving back on campus, I needed a place to live. Luckily, one of my besties from high school offered me space in her apartment, along with three of her friends.

The space between false hope and false hopelessness is a chasm.

When I worked to find adoptive and permanent families for teens in foster care, I’d often hear from other child welfare workers, “You’re giving the kids false hope.”

It was always said as a bad thing, as if carefully involving teens in their own permanency planning was unhelpful, unreasonable, or in some way detrimental to their mental health.

Although Rex died in November of 2019, his heart still beats.

My 17-year-old nephew loved helping people, so after his unexpected and tragic passing, arrangements were made for organ and tissue recovery. My brother and Rex’s mom and siblings wanted to take their devastating loss and create something meaningful; the hope was that their decision would help dozens of people go on living.

It was one last contribution from the boy who was, fittingly, a Life Scout – the second-highest rank, a step below Eagle Scout – and it was offered, without hesitation, to the collective.