The home Devin and I opened
We opened our home to young people who needed steady adults.
I was twenty-four and Devin was twenty-two, still kids ourselves, when we married in October 2018. By December, before our first Christmas as husbands, our first placement arrived. From December 2018 until COVID brought placements to a halt in spring 2020, we opened our home to six foster children. Every single child was a Level 5 placement: young people carrying severe trauma, whom the state system struggled to place with families prepared for the weight of that care.
The work was raw, tender, and deeply demanding. When our first two girls arrived, we spent our initial evenings sitting together on the bedroom floor, patiently combing and picking lice out of their hair, washing clean clothes, and proving through quiet consistency that our house was a safe sanctuary. We took them to the park, watched them sprint toward the playground fire truck, and watched fear give way to bright, honest laughter. They were finally allowed to be children.
For our teenage foster daughter, protecting her meant entering a military courtroom. She was scheduled to testify against her sexually abusive father in the armed forces. As foster parents, our physical presence in that hearing was completely optional. As a young gay married couple, showing up meant stepping directly into unfamiliar and intimidating territory. The military court initially questioned why we were even in the room; foster parents appearing at such proceedings was virtually unheard of, let alone two young gay husbands. Standing up in that courtroom was terrifying and traumatic. We insisted on being there because we loved her, making certain that whenever she looked across that room, she saw two steady adults standing firmly in her corner. We held the line for her, and we got through it together.
My stepdad adopted my brother and me and became our dad. He chose us, on paper and in every action. I also had Mom beside me through the hardest parts of growing up. Devin and I wanted to offer that same presence to young people carrying uncertainty and pain. When COVID closed the world down, the placements ended. The love and the grief both stayed with us.
Ballentine Day / December 3, 2007
His own words, spoken aloud. ◆Dad keeps meeting me at the next door.
My dad was Russell Ballentine. He entered my life as my stepdad after Mom fought to get my brother and me away from my biological father, whose abuse we had survived. Russell met two terrified boys with patience, dignity, and an open heart. He gave us a safe home, taught me by example, and treated us as his own sons long before any legal proceeding. On December 3, 2007, he made that devotion permanent: he officially adopted both of us in court. Our family celebrates that date every year as Ballentine Day. He chose us, on paper and in every single action of his life.
Standing in that courtroom at thirteen, stepping completely away from my biological father's shadow, felt like stepping into the light. The judge asked why I wanted the name change. I told him I wanted Russell's family name, wanted to correct the spelling of my first name, and chose 'Drake' as a distinct name of my own. The judge smiled, chuckled, and said, "Well that is a good enough reason for me. Granted." It was the best day of my life.
For eleven years, from age thirteen through college and graduate research until marrying Devin in October 2018, I proudly carried his surname as Michael Drake Ballentine. Every degree, every scientific paper, and every early milestone bears that name. Ballentine marks the father who chose me. When Devin and I married, I took Stapleton to mark the family and life we chose to build together.
Dad was a teacher who led by showing. He taught me discipline, patience, what it means to be a man, and how to love family. He showed me how to work hard for what you earn, remain patient, and allow rewards to arrive in their own time. He taught me that everything truly worth having requires deep, patient labor. He was the kind of man who commuted from Bethpage through Gallatin out to Clarksville, spending nearly two hours each way on the road just to provide for his family. He had choices closer to home, yet he drove that distance because he loved his craft and took deep pride in his trade.
He was a gifted carpenter, building with precision, and served our church as a junior preacher. The senior ministers gave him the pulpit during evening services, especially on Wednesday nights, where he shared practical, heartfelt messages. He loved the Bible and Jesus, and he taught me to love every single person I encounter. He showed me that our highest duty on this earth is to give back to humanity: to love our neighbors as ourselves, serve one another with gladness, and always go out of our way to help anyone in need. His handwritten sermons and notebooks of quiet wisdom still speak to me. I built Atlas around memory, truth, dignity, and the questions he taught me to ask.
Dad passed away in 2019. Devin and Dad share a February 13 birthday. On that date in 2024, I received the offer that brought me to 3M as a manufacturing engineer. Two years later, on February 13, 2026, another call offered me the product engineer role I hold today. The dates have ordinary explanations. They still carry extraordinary meaning for me.
I believe Dad has stayed with me as a guardian angel through every new door. I miss him, I am grateful for every lesson he put into me, and I still want to make him proud. I think he would want me to feel proud of myself too.
My dad was my rock. This is his memorial.
