Somewhere in the Christmas light-illuminated dark of the above photo, five kids with snow shovels are joyfully clearing a half-inch of fluff from driveways and sidewalks up and down our block. As someone who takes snow shoveling very seriously, this made me very happy. I walked to the end of the cul-de-sac and marveled approvingly at how my children and the children in our care embraced the first real snow fall of the year. This is very Dad of me, but shoveling your neighbors’ walks is what the Bible means when it talks about training up your kids in the way they should go. Cold and the snow are doorways. Beginnings. Opportunities. Each flake a glory. Each moment in sub-freezing temperatures a sanctifying experience. As Garrison Keillor said, “God is aware of the cold and is hoping it will make you a better person, which God knows it should.”

It’s important to note that this outing in the snow was not planned. We did not boot the kids out of the house to burn off excess energy before bedtime; I did not ask them to and/or make them go shovel. It was an organic response to being home together.

After 10 nights apart from the little pilgrims we’ve been fostering, we picked them up from their mom’s place that evening and brought them back to ours. When we pulled into the garage, all five kids spilled out of the van and found a snow shovel. They started with our driveway and sidewalk—then our neighbors’ driveways and sidewalks, like a kind of progressive dinner party. Even the 2-year-old participated. (She ate more snow than she shoveled.) Everyone felt at home. Everyone felt safe and free to play. Despite the cold (or maybe because of the cold). Despite the fact that it was already past bedtime. Despite the fact that the days we have together as a household were and are quickly coming to an end.

And this is where I feel a little lost. Not because I don’t know the details but because there are too many. Not because I don’t know what’s about to happen but because I do—and the speed at which everything is happening can feel disorienting. I’ve made this comparison before, but in The Hobbit, Bilbo’s life changed in an instant with strange, unexpected visitors that compelled him to go on strange, unexpected adventures. Our family had less than a day’s notice from the time a county intake worker marked our door with a strange symbol (so to speak) and the guests arrived at our front door. Yet Bilbo had a long and slow return journey back to Bag End after his adventures concluded. With us, with the Littles, things are coming to an end about as soon and swiftly as they began.

The ending began the week of Christmas. Since Christmas Eve, there has been a lot of ping-ponging of the Littles between us and their mom / bio family. This is all part of transition plan. They were with us for most of Christmas Eve, then went to be with their family until noon on Christmas Day, and we had them until December 27. Then they went back to their mom for the aforementioned 10 days. We had them for four nights last week—starting the night of the snow shoveling party. As of this writing, they are in the middle of a stretch of days with their mom before coming back to our home later this week for two more nights. Then, after that, the trial return home truly begins. They’ll be out of our care and back home with their mom 24/7. The county will retain custody and monitor things for the foreseeable future. Everyone has entered a whole new phase.

Linds and I were a little concerned that all the back-and-forth would cause some existential whiplash. And it probably has but not to the degree we thought. The 7-year-old, for example, has been in a better mood overall and seemed to have had a positive first week back at school. He seems relieved to be back home, or nearing home’s orbit, and I think it’s been reassuring to his heart to see his mom as stable she’s been. Lindsey made him a Return Home calendar, and he marks off each day he’s with us, counting down until the day they’re fully home, like an Advent calendar leading to Christmas Day.

Over the weekend, we took the 2-year-old’s crib and the rest of their personal effects that were at our place to their apartment. And just like that, their room was no longer their room. Maybe this is what it feels like to drop off your kids at college? You’re reeling from the passage of time and then praying their roommates will be a good influence. And in some very real ways, we remain unsettled about what these two kiddos are going back to. Their road will be long and uphill—it always is when you’re dealing with generational trauma and brokenness. We have some rough plans in place for regular contact moving forward, and we’re praying that we can be salt and light in the days and years ahead, but their future cannot be covered with enough prayers.

As for us—for me, Lindsey, and our three kids—our eyes are adjusting to the clear light of “normal life.” We’re a mix of relieved and grieved, and we are optimistic and thankful about returning to something resembling normalcy. But what is normal? And is it even possible for things to return to as they were before walking the road we’ve walked the last seven months? What things do we need to attend to in fuller ways than we were able to over the last several months? What have we learned? How ought we to use the apparent surplus of capacity and energy?

Bilbo was never the same hobbit after he went there and back again. The whole trajectory and tenor of his life changed. I don’t know what will be different about us after all this. I hope something is different. I hope some kind of eternal course-change has occurred, some sort of cold-infused sanctification has transpired, and the Lord bears some kind of lasting fruit in his time.

The forecast for this weekend—the weekend the Littles return to their home for good—is supposed to be colder and snowier than last weekend. Sub-zero, bitter cold. God is aware. And that has to be enough.