The phone rang. I checked the caller ID: Evercom Systems.

"If you will accept the call, press 0."

I accepted the call.

"How are you, son?"

"Its cold up here, Mom," he replied. "They say it's just the beginning."

Our oldest son, Maunakea, was calling from Diamondback Correctional Facility in Oklahoma. Maunakea was the long-awaited, cherished son, born and raised in Hawai'i.

As 'ohana, we had gathered at his grandparents' every weekend with our potluck menu. We were 'ohana in every sense of the word: We did everything you're supposed to do with your kid. We loved fishing, so it was natural for him to find his way to fish.

He went diving, piloted the boat at a young age, caught crab. When older, he went diving with his dad and "squidding" with his uncles.

'Ohana, a very important word here. You stand for 'ohana, through thick or thin, right or wrong, the love for 'ohana brings support without question. 'Ohana means warmth.

Then came the first of many phone calls. He was caught shop-lifting at a local department store. Then the cars he borrowed without permission. The gangs. Eventually, the street drugs.

We held our breath when the phone rang in the early morning hours, or sent a prayer when the police sirens passed by. We stood by the window and watched, hoping the patrol car would not stop at our home.

First thoughts are always the blame, the internal searching. We failed. Then the emotions: anger, rage, then shame. The disappointment, and finally the questions of 'ohana.

Maunakea didn't tow his side of the 'ohana rope. It didn't have the same meaning for him that it held for us.

Years passed as we struggled with his chosen lifestyle.

"What now?" I wearily asked my husband.

I was having a problem with 'ohana.

"He's still our son. He may have changed, but we didn't. Right?"

"Right."

Again my heart broke and fell into pieces all around me. Maunakea was sentenced to four years and was sent to the Mainland prison to complete his time.

I remember the day we said our goodbyes. He hugged me and looked at me, and a strange look crossed his face. His tears welled up in his eyes. Hurried, he looked past me to his dad. Then at me again, and I knew what he saw: We had aged, our colors had changed. Right before his eyes. He never saw it until that day.

"Don't worry, I'll be here when you return," I whispered.

I sat on my bed, crying the night away, trying to make sense of what happened to our 'ohana. Then I saw it.

'Ohana wasn't about loving in the great moments, or being disappointed in the failures. It was learning to stand in every storm, every earthquake, until it passed. It was about finding who we are meant to be in 'ohana, who we are struggling to become.

We had changed, but more so on the inside than the out. 'Ohana was meant for a far greater purpose than I realized.

'Ohana is the preparation for what is outside your doorway.

A. Lee Totten, mother of 11, has adopted seven foster children.