In my logbook of regrets, this one tops the list: I have no children.

My own mother was, like all mothers, imperfect. But unlike most daughters, I assumed her maternal shortcomings were etched into my DNA, disqualifying me as a nurturer.

By my late 30s, maturity and experience had exposed the flaws in my thinking and I married the man with whom I would have felt blessed to share parenthood. Short version: I survived a tearful interlude of baby hunger and went on to accept the realities of my life. Right guy, too late. Chin up, get on with things.

Stoicism aside, childlessness can be a lonely club—even more so on certain occasions. Baby showers are awkward. Mother's Day advertisements, unavoidable. You feel like a penniless child with your nose pressed against the candy store window. An outsider, peering in longingly.

But then God swooped in to fill the child-shaped void in my life.

I was inspired to write letters to young, out-of-state relatives, host dinners for extended family, and initiate birthday lunches out with nieces and nephews. To share gifts, homemade cookies, and outings with neighborhood children.

And sometimes the Lord's intervening hand fashioned unique "customized" relationships.

One Sunday morning in the late 90s, our then-pastor's wife decided to separate her youngest child from his visiting buddy to ensure proper decorum during the church service. "One of you needs to go sit with the Kirkhams," she suggested. "I'll go," volunteered seven-year-old Jesse.

Thus began a Sunday morning practice that lasted four years. My husband, Jack, and I started taking Jesse to Sam's Club with us after church, trying not to spoil him. (Actually, he assured us, I don't think it would spoil me to have a second small item placed in the cart just for him.) We laughed our way through many trips to Taco Bell and lunches at Baker's Square, where our young guest would sometimes order French fries for "dessert."

Jesse was the last of nine siblings to sit in his mother's lap, and these were his final years of childhood. Yet this generous lady was willing to share him with us in a loving gesture of empathy.

After Jesse's family moved, I volunteered at our church school, which planted the seeds for a relationship with sweet Naomi. She became my pen pal after Jack and I retired to Texas. Now that I'm widowed and back in Minnesota, I correspond with six children I met down south, and my renewed friendship with Naomi has blossomed. This precious girl sits with me every Sunday morning, filling the empty pew space to my left. Grace surrounds me from week to week, as I watch her grow and share important milestones.

The youngsters I've corresponded with all have loving parents. Jesse wasn't lacking family. And Naomi is richly blessed with female relatives. They didn't need me, but I needed them.

And through them I've been welcomed into the candy store to sample the sweetness, with thanks to the Lord for his tender mercies.