Katie Graduates

My dearest Katie, the first time I ever saw you, you were a bright eyed little girl in a photograph.  Your hair was full of baubles and twists, and you sat up very straight and looked directly into the camera.  You were posed with your sisters, and you were not yet nine years old.  I carried that picture with me for months, until I met you in person.  It was the fall of 2006, and you had just turned nine, a little girl with a mouth full of too big teeth and a sweet smile that reached up to your eyes.  I wonder sometimes about that little girl, who you were then, and who you are now.

Several months later you came to live with us, and it was then we discovered that Katie had superpowers.  It's true.  Katie was capable of moving so quickly, she actually became invisible to the naked eye.  One morning as she was doing her usual hygiene and grooming, Katie realized she had forgotten something in the living room.  A hairbrush I think, and she decided she could run fast enough to get it, even though she was only wearing bright orange underwear.  It was like that hairbrush just disappeared into thin air, and if you were watching closely, you might have seen a flash of brown and orange.

Um no.  Not really.  And of course these sorts of things become part of family legend...remember when Katie thought she could run fast enough to be invisible?

When Katie first came to us she hated to read.  She was a smart girl, who had always done well in school, but reading for fun was a new idea, and she did not like it.  Another family memory is of Katie sitting in a living room chair, holding a book, wailing.  I was making her sit and read, and it was torturous...for all of us.  And again, we often will say something like "Remember when Katie hated to read?  Remember when she used to cry if you gave her a book?"...because we all know that Katie loves to read, and can bury herself in a good book for hours on end. 

Katie was always a girl of few words, and yet for a girl of few words, she was always trying out new ones, and not always successfully.  Once, several years ago, Mrs. Frantz required Katie to write a research paper.  She went through steps like gathering notes on cards, and making an outline.  One night she came home and sighed as she dropped her piles of papers and books onto the table.  I asked what she needed to work on, and she fussed about needing to work on her paper, and not understanding exactly what she was supposed to be doing.  I told her to pull out her work and we would chat.

When she pulled out her paper, I stared at it for a long time, and then I began to laugh.  In spite of Katie's injured look and inquiries as to why I was holding my sides, I laughed and laughed.  On the top of her paper were two words.  Ruff.  R-U-F-F.  Giraffe.  G-I-R-A-F-F-E.  In my mind I pictured a giraffe with a ruffled collar, and I understood Katie's confusion.  Mrs. Frantz of course wanted her to write a rough draft, but Katie had no experience with the phrase.  And so Katie was our girl of few words that was brave enough to try on new words and get them wrong...brave enough to deal with the ribbing of a large family and many older sibling, who still remind her of run ins with words like metabolism and pork loin.

Katie, I will stop here, teasing and telling tales.  Instead I will tell you what came to mind as I sorted pictures for the yearbook, and sorted memories for this speech.  Recently we were talking about your plans for the future, and what different people thought of them.  You sighed and said to me, "I guess I'm just a late bloomer."  It was such an old fashioned thing to say, and it made me think.

You were nine years old when first we met, eleven when you were adopted.  In a short while you will turn eighteen, and so nearly half your life you have been running around with the Vietri clan.  I think about who you were then, and who you are now, and it makes me reflect on the fact that none of us are ever quite finished, not in this world.  When you were nine, you ran faster than the speed of light, but now that you are nearly eighteen, you tell me you are a late bloomer.  The girl who wanted to move fast finds that she has learned the value of going slow too.  You were a girl of few words, yet you mastered so many new ones, and now you might just find that you have something to say.  You were quiet little girl, but some of you may have discovered that Katie likes to make a little noise now and then.

We talked about how it's easy to feel pressured to take a certain course of action.  Now you are all grown up and graduated.  What are your plans?  What are you going to do?  It feels like you have to know, and nail it all down.  But you don't.  I was thinking about the old "choose your own adventure" books that Katie and all of my children read.  I read them too.  I always approached each choice with anxiety.  Do I search for hidden treasure or climb the mountain?  Do I run from the bear or stand and fight?  But the thing is this, it wasn't like a video game where if I chose wrong I would die and the game would be over.  You got to a choosing place, and you picked.  Then you turned to page 63 to find out what came next.  And so you wound your way through the story, having adventures and setbacks and victories.  The funniest thing of all was that sometimes even after making a whole series of different choices, you still ended up with the exact same ending.  I think life is like that.  We come to the end of one chapter and we get to choose.  It isn't the end of the story if you choose wrongly.  It's just a different page number to turn to.  And if you decided not to search for buried treasure this chapter, you could probably do it some other time.

None of us are who we are, The End.  The story twists and turns, and we get to be faster than the speed of light and late blooming too.  We get to be quiet people who are full of words and noise.  We get to be scared and brave all at the same time.  We get to say "no", and then "I changed my mind", and then "yes". 

One of my favorite hymns says "Great is thy faithfulness oh God my Father, there is no shadow of turning with Thee.  Thou changest not, They compassions they fail not.  As Thou hast been, Thou forever will be."

God is faithful and compassionate without fail.  There isn't even a hint or shadow of change in that.  That's the only part of the story that stays constant really.  We are not God.  We are not eternally perfect, and so we change.  We are all light and shadow, and turning.  We move fast, and we sit very still.  Often we do both things at the same time.  It's a hard complicated thing to be happy and sad at the same time.  To want to strike out, but to also want to stay safe at home.  We are tempted to look here and there, for someone who will tell us what to do.  But you are the one that must answer for yourself, and live with the choices you make, and live inside your own skin.  So look here and there for the people who prove they love you, and listen to what they say.  Take the help they offer and be thankful for it.  But choose your own adventure.

 

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This speech was delivered this past June, at Katie's graduation from Faith Mountain Christian Academy.  We celebrated in typical fashion, with a big mess and a whole lot of noise, in September, after a busy season of camp concluded

Bella-bration

I delivered this speech nearly a year ago, at the celebration of marriage, home, and family given for our Bella and her new husband.  Baby bear was only about ten days away from making his entrance into the world.  It's hard to believe he will celebrate a birthday soon, and welcome a new sister or brother in the spring. (Photo credit to our dear friend Allyson Willson.)

 

In recent years, people would sometimes say to me, "I give you so much credit for adopting Shani."  I always laugh and assure them that Shani is my easiest child, and to make my case I point out that she's always just where I left her, she never gets into my stuff, she never gives me any back talk, and she is ALWAYS happy to see me, no matter what time of the day or night.  Somewhere deep inside my head, this thought always comes to me.  "If you want to give me any credit, give me credit for Bella."

Beautiful, beautiful Bella.  This girl is the whole package with a bow.  Smart, driven, and beautiful.  And impulsive, fiery, and sassy as the day is long.  And so you can see the contrast here, between my oldest and youngest brown girls.  Bella was never where I left her and rarely where she was supposed to be.  She was always into everybody's stuff and business.  She gave me back talk as often as she disagreed with me, and that was a LOT.  And she was often not very happy to see me anywhere in her line of vision.

But these days things have changed a bit, and so I will finally take a shot at throwing Bella a party of celebration, and sending her off into the big wide world with a word of blessing from her father and me...something she would not allowed us to do even one year ago.  Of course it helps that she's learned a lot from Shani regarding being a good child.  These days she is pretty much always where I left her...and that's beached in a comfortable chair, trying to coax baby Grey into making an appearance.  She doesn't move all that fast, so I can chase her down pretty easily.  And she almost never gives me any back talk, and seems happy to see me coming, though I wonder if there might be food involved in that equation.  Regardless, Bella and Shani have become fixtures in my days, always close at hand, sometimes a little fretful when they are uncomfortable, but usually cheerful and smiling.

A week or two ago, Bella asked me this question.  "Mom?  Do you think I can be a good mother?"  It was a sweet time of just talking openly about parenting children.  How the bitter is mixed with the sweet.  How very hard it is.  How perfection is an impossible goal.  I said some things then, and I hope they were an encouragement to Bella, both in our ongoing relationship, and in her relationship with her children in the future.  Given time to gather my thoughts, this is what I would say today:  The most valuable lessons about parenting and perhaps life, I have learned from Shani. 

Shani does not speak, so she cannot lie to me or back talk, it's true.  But she cannot say sweet words like "I love you mama."  Shani cannot use her feet, so she cannot go where I tell her not to, but she cannot run and fetch for me, or dance on a stage and delight my mother's heart.  Shani cannot use her hands, so she cannot get into my things or make messes for me to clean up, but she cannot write, or draw, or hug me.  If you measure worth and love by what a person can do for you, then Shani is pretty worthless.  She is messy and smelly, and a huge drain on our time and resources.

And yet we know this could not be further from the truth.  Shani teaches me every day, how to be a better mother and a better person.  Her needs are simple, and her complaints are few.  If she is awake, she is watching the world around her, always looking for something or someone she loves, and registering delight when she finds that.  Her life is fragile, and it reminds me that all life is fragile, and the time we have with all of our loved ones is fleeting.  And if I get it wrong...if I am snappish and impatient, or demanding and unkind, Shani always forgives and forgets.  Shani always gives me a do over.

Remember these things as you move into adulthood, marriage, motherhood.  Keep it simple.  Look for love, and be delighted whenever you find it.  Love fiercely, the time is short. And say you are sorry and keep showing up.  Ask for do overs.

And by the way, just so you know, today you are my favorite.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Dear friends from the adoption world, I don't post much about adoption anymore.  Life has changed, and what used to be front and center, is now a little more peripheral.  Life with my children...bio and adopted both, is now just life.  It is hectic and hard, wonderful and wearing.  Issues related to adoption still impact us tremendously, but they are less obvious.  Like a mammoth underwater structure that everything must flow around, it influences the currents of our lives, though it may not be visible at the surface.

In light of this, I have struggled recently with the thoughts in my head, uncertain where to put them.  I have questioned the wisdom of putting them here.  I have tried to steer this blog along a course that is gentle and positive.  For the most part, life is just that.  But Christmas is approaching and with it comes a flood of raw emotion that is hard to ignore.

I have always loved Christmas.  As a small child I delighted in every single part of the holiday season.  I loved the cheesy store displays, the music and decorations.  I loved the special foods, and church services, and school programs.  As soon as I was old enough to craft and create, I was busily making gifts for everyone I knew.

When I got married, I devoted huge amounts of time and energy to the Christmas season.  I cooked and baked elaborate feasts and platters of baked goods.  I decorated every nook and cranny.  I played Christmas music day and night, and never grew tired of it.  I sewed matching Christmas outfits for the children, and had them photographed.  We caroled, and sang in cantatas, and dressed up as angels and wise men.  Gifts were made and purchased, and carefully wrapped and adorned.  To me, it truly was "the most wonderful time of the year".

And now I dread Christmas.  At best, the thought of it wearies me.  At worst, it causes a sense of anxiety and panic to rise.

I have lots of friends in the adoption world, and there is something they have named a traumaversary.  Which is to say, that even if we don't mark it on the calendar, trauma marks itself on the "calendar" of us.  The mind and body somehow know that special time of year when they were thrown into chaos, and they will let us know, even if we don't register it on a cognitive level.

Several years ago, four little girls came to live with us, five days before Christmas.  It seemed so right, to get them home before the holiday, and so we pushed so hard it hurt, and we made it happen.  I still remember that first Christmas morning.  I felt shell shocked.  I had barely slept for a week, juggling the unfathomable needs of the six children and trying to prepare for a most special Christmas.

We sat together in the living room, and the contrast was stark.  Four little girls screamed and squealed as they mowed through piles of gifts, often trampling one gift to get to the next.  But so many people had lovingly contributed to making this time special for them.  There was something so magical about four little girls finding their home at Christmas.  At the same time, two little boys sat quietly and watched.  Almost no one had remembered that they were the exact same ages as the little girls, and enjoyed presents as well.

That same day I remember feeling a foreshadowing of what was to be.  As the children swam through masses of gifts, I felt the disapproval of visiting relatives watching the proceeding.  Unspoken words hung in the air, and they said, "What sort of savages are these?  They will require firm discipline."  At the same time, dozens of absent gift givers also crowded the room.  They had strong opinions as well, and mouthed the words, "If only you love them enough, they will be just fine."

For the next year we dangled from that wildly swinging pendulum of strong discipline and strong love, and like every other year, at the end of it, the holiday season came round again.  This  second Christmas came with one less little girl, and a deep deep sense of failure.  The house was scarcely decorated, with just a lighted creche in the fireplace and stockings lining the mantle.  Dinner was plain shepherd's pie made with gifted venison.  There were no visitors.  The pile of gifts surrounding the fireplace was modest.

Every child exclaimed over the perfectness of their gifts, the deliciousness of the meal, the beauty of the creche when the lights were low.  But over the quiet voices of the children, I could still hear the voices of the uninvited guests in that room.  Voices that said I had not been consistent enough in discipline, committed enough in love.  And I found that although the chaos had quieted, I still felt shell shocked.  Because the days leading up to that very special day had been fraught with every sort of crazy-making I could imagine, with the efforts of my children to destroy the very thing they so longed for and looked forward to.

The following year we finalized adoptions just before the holidays...sealed with a once in a lifetime family trip.  And so my children set about trying to destroy something even bigger than the holiday season.  They determined to destroy the bonds of family.  In an attempt to prove that nothing was forever, and most especially a family's love, they ramped up the crazy-making to unimaginable levels.  Shell shocked was the order of the day...and of the entire holiday season, and of many months to follow.

And somehow in my mind, the backdrop for all of this is sparkling lights and decked halls.  In my mind, the soundtrack for all of this is carols and Christmas movies.  The smells of ginger cookies and roasting turkey make my anxiety rise.  The thought of getting everyone dressed in holiday best and loaded into the car for the drive to Christmas Eve service, makes me want to crawl into my bed and pull the covers over my head.

Years have come and gone.  Christmas isn't the crazy-making time it once was.  It's actually pretty peaceful and pleasant for the most part.  The family has expectations of comfort and joy, and I work hard to deliver.  We all do.  But the holidays are not the same as they once were, and neither are any of us.  Life is, most days, gentle and positive, but there is still that mammoth beneath the surface, and at certain seasons it can cause ripples if one knows where and when to look.

Love God, Love Others...Simple Right?

"Perfection in outward conduct consists not in extraordinary things; but in doing common things extraordinarily well.  Neglect nothing; the most trivial action may be performed to ourselves, or performed to God.  If love be in your heart, your whole life may be one continual exercise of it.  Oh, if we did but love others!  How easily the least thing, the shutting of a door gently, the walking softly, speaking low, not making a noise, the choice of a seat, so as to leave the most convenient to others, might become occasions of its exercise."  ~Mere Angelique Arnauld

When we are out among people, it is often easy to hide our true selves.  When we live together, sharing everything, it is much harder to hide.  Every day is filled with thousands of "trivial actions", and those closest to us know if we generally perform them to ourselves or to God.  Those who share our spaces, and tables, and hours know if we move quietly, speak low, choose to wait patiently for our portion, or push forward to get our share.  Those who clean up our messes know if we are attentive and grateful for their service and sacrifice.

Of course children almost never engender these qualities.  Patient instruction and growing maturity will eventually produce this fruit.  Every day gives a thousand opportunities to practice.

All of us may improve by practice, from the cradle to the grave.  All of us may influence the spirit within the home by asking ourselves "Is love in my heart?  And if love be in my heart can there be a complaint on my lips?  If love be in my heart, can I leave this mess for another tired person to clean up?  If love be in my heart, can I insistently demand what I want?"

And what if we are living elbow to elbow with a person who has not love in their heart?  What if our closest companion always pushes forward to get the best portion, and then complains loudly that it is not enough.  For this I do not have all the answers.  I know what I ought to do, but still it stings bitterly.  In theory, all that we do is performed to ourselves or to God.  In practice, that which is performed to God is frequently played out in the arena of loving others.  And "others" can be so uncooperative, so ungrateful, so unkind.  I am often crushed by hard angry heels pounding across floors, doors slammed, angry complaining voices.  I am often angered by the jostling and jockeying for position to get the largest portion, the pouting when another manages to get it instead.  I nearly always simmer when I see laziness devouring the fruit of hard work and sacrifice.  I am infuriated when laziness picks its teeth and belches, and then critiques the menu.

I have no easy answers, but I suspect it has more to do with me than my companions.  This is not the answer that I want, and so I often reject it.  I am intolerably unhappy, and still I reject it.

"It is one thing to go on the lonely way with dignified heroism, but quite another thing if the line mapped out for you by God means being a door-mat for other people's feet.  Suppose God wants to teach you to say, 'I know how to be abased'--are you ready to be offered up like that?  Are you ready to be not so much a drop in a bucket--to be so hopelessly insignificant that you are never thought of again in connection with the life you served?  Are you willing to spend and be spent; not seeking to be ministered unto, but to minister?  Some saints cannot do menial work and remain saints because it is beneath their dignity."  ~Oswald Chambers

Failed Adoptions and Clanging Cymbals

Today I was checking my personal messages, and for a moment I drifted off into territory I am trying to avoid.  This was mainly because a friend had posted a link to a story about something that resonates with me.  Something from my own personal experience.  So I granted myself permission to read the article.  It was about a failed adoption by a public figure.  I don't know the figure.  I don't know any of the details.  I just know the story because it is written into my bones.

My friend had noted that she thought the comments were scary.  And they were.  They ranged from ignorant opinion, to mean spirited judgment, to well thought out drivel from people who have nothing but the thoughts inside their own head and no experience with the topic at hand.

The thing is this:  There is nothing surprising about those comments.  They are precisely what I would expect to see.  They are precisely what I would have expected to write, if my life had not taken some of the twists it has taken.  And it is a sobering lesson to me, with my strong opinions and flapping mouth.  How many times have I opined on subjects of which I have no firsthand knowledge?  How many times have I forced my well thought out opinions on someone whose heart is breaking?  And how many times have I congratulated myself for doing my duty, being the voice of reason, providing support....when all I have been is a clanging cymbal in the ear of someone who needed quiet rest?

A Day in the Life of Baby S, aka Cake Walk

Enjoying some kitty love

I realized lately, that I haven't updated on, or even mentioned our newest addition for quite some time.  This is probably because in many ways, she is my easiest, least complicated child.  And that's saying a lot, when you consider how complex her care can be.  I thought I'd give you a little "day in the life" of Baby S, and you can decide for yourself.

When Little S came to us in June last year, she was taking three heavy duty anticonvulsants for seizures twice daily, a muscle relaxant for spasms three times daily, and anti-drool med to help her not drown in her own spit three times daily, a reflux med, a laxative, and sometimes a sedative for inability to sleep or soothe.  She was also exclusively fed a highly specialized synthetic formula for children who are allergic to EVERYTHING via a feeding pump through her G-tube.  

Baby S is in diapers, and for the most part is easy enough to care for in that respect, when she's relaxed and in a good mood.  When she's stressed or grumpy, it's another story, with legs that stiffen into rock hard positions, pulled up against her torso, or straightened out stiffly with her ankles and knees locked tightly against each other.  Dressing and undressing her is like a combination of trying to dress a Barbie doll and a rubber chicken. 

She is non-mobile, so she must be carried and moved about all day, changing her locations and positions often to avoid damage to her skin and boredom.  She cannot sit up or hold her head up well (think wobbly newborn), so holding her is a challenge.  She's both stiff and floppy at the same time.  And she bites.

She is nonverbal, yet she is packed full of emotions, and frustrations, and opinions.  She is easily bored, and has very little means to soothe or entertain herself.  This means she is frequently irritable and fussy.  She's easy to redirect and cheer up, but nothing holds her for very long.

She is cortically blind, which does not mean she can't see, but that her sight is limited by abnormal brain function.  We know she does not see well at distances or in low light.  She also seems to prefer certain things to be in certain spots in her field of vision.  So again, she gets easily bored when things don't line up just so for her.

For the first several months, Baby S screamed and raged every.single.day.  This was because she is a human being, and no matter how delayed she may be, she knew she had been removed from her home, and placed into a strange place.  She missed her Mama, and of course she would.  She is not a goldfish or a piece of furniture.  All day long we struggled to keep up on the endless round of meds, feedings, exercises, diaper changes, doctor visits.  All night long we listened to S fret, and fuss, and scream.  Her brain is by no means normal, and it did not seem to process the need for sleep.  The only time she slept was when she would be knocked out cold by her potent cocktail of drugs.  This gave us a few hours of respite in the mornings and evenings, but that was generally it.  The rest of the day she fussed and raged.  The rest of the night she fussed and raged.

And then things began to change.  The very first big change was that Little S began to sleep more.  Some nights she actually slept right through.  For every good night, we could be sure of a bad day.  With a full night's sleep in her tank, she had plenty of energy to fight us all day.  For every bad night, we could expect a quiet day, as she lay back in her chair, dazed and dopey.  But over time it began to smooth out.  Most nights she slept, and when she was well rested, her mood improved during waking hours.

More things began to change.  We began taking her wherever we went.  We included her in the family activities.  We let her taste bits of food.  We made her sit up and be engaged with the world around her.  We reprimanded her sternly when she had hissy fits.  Or when she bit someone.  In short, we began to see and treat her as a little girl.  

Lately the changes have been huge.  She is no longer pump fed her funky formula.  Instead, she is fed plain old normal food that I puree and squirt into her G-tube with a large syringe.  She gets tastes by mouth if she wants them.  She has grown about five inches and gained about ten pounds.  She is being weaned off her cocktail of meds.  Currently she gets two anticonvulsants, but another one is soon on its way out.  She is taking about 60% less muscle relaxant with no noticeable problems.  Her anti-drool and reflux meds are gone.  Her laxative is reduced by about half.  She never takes sedatives.

And it has been crazy lately.  This poor little tyke needs kiddie rehab.  It's shades of the first few months, with no sleeping, and constant misery and anger.  Learning to live outside the strange little boxes these drugs make of her days, is very hard on her.  But if we can do it and keep her healthy, we want to.  The drugs have massive effects on the quality of her life, her ability to learn, and her physical health.

Next on the horizon is major orthopedic surgery to reconstruct her malformed hip joints.  It's pretty typical stuff for kids with CP, but scary new territory for us.  So if you think of us and Little S, throw up a prayer.  We so want her to be able to reach her full potential, and to be a happy contented little girl.  Pray that we will have the diligence and wisdom needed to care for her.

As for whether she is the easiest of my kiddos?  Well I will say this much.  She can't get up out of her chair or bed and hurt anyone or break anything while she rages.  She can't form words, so she can't cuss me out or lie to me.  She keeps her refuse neatly in her diaper.  Yes.  Absolutely she has many of the same trauma issues that many adopted children have.  But she is confined to glowering at me, crying and screeching, and a bit of intentional drooling.  After what I see in this game, I say, "You, Baby S, are a cake walk."  An absolutely adorable, sassy, little cake walk.

Ungrateful Children

Lately I've been meditating on the concept of thankfulness, particularly on how it pertains to our teens and young adults.  So often I hear parents, myself included, launch off into a tirade of how ungrateful their children can be.  It seems to come to a head in the teen years, because as parents, we find ourselves living with these huge, able bodied people that demand so much from us, every hour of the day.  We thought babyhood and the toddler years were hard.  No one warned us about this.  And through it all, they seem to take for granted most of the things we do for love, all the endless sacrifices we make for them.  It's enough to make a person crazy, and my children have seen more than a little bit of my crazy side over this matter.

As aggravating, and disappointing, and heartbreaking as this stage may be, I submit to you (gentle reader), that this may be proof that we are doing our job well.

In my experience, there are three sorts of children.  Two of these types come from hard places...children of trauma if you will.  They are exactly identical in that they are raised up in trauma, neglect, abandonment, deprivation.  They learn that parents and other caregivers are not willing or able to meet their basic needs, or protect them from the harshness of a cruel world.  

The first child never escapes in childhood.  They suffer all through their youth, and no one ever plucks them from their situation and teaches them that this is not how things were meant to be.  They may sense it, and resolve to be different themselves when they are the parent raising children of their own, but they never experience it for themselves.  Any gratitude they may feel for the tiny scraps they were thrown is a perverted version of true thankfulness.

The second child begins the same, but somewhere in their youth, someone intervenes.  They provide stability, support, and nurture.  The child experiences something different, and when they are able to receive it, they also experience gratitude.  They know the contrast, and they are thankful that their life is not what it once was.

The third child is not a child of trauma.  They have received attentive care all their lives.  They feel nurtured and safe.  Every opportunity that can be purchased by sacrifice and hard work, has been bought and paid for on their behalf.  They breathe this like air, and drink it like cool water.  The thought that life could be very different only skitters across their brain on rare occasions.

It makes me sad that some adults are struggling to raise their own children differently than they were raised.  I know daily they dig down deep into empty places, and try to find what their babies need.  They allow their children to feed off their own lives, and find themselves scraped clean of everything good and nourishing.  In the end, they end up starving both their children and themselves, like a woman in a famine zone, with a skeletal baby suckling at an empty breast.

It makes me sad that some children are so very grateful for basic necessities of body and soul, because they have experienced such hunger.  It may look pretty, to see a child behave thus...but I don't like to think of how this pretty picture came to be.  It certainly does not gratify me as a parent.

As we teach and model the virtue of a grateful heart to our children, may we pray that they continue to be a little bit ignorant and annoying.  May they breathe and drink our love and provision, so that they truly only realize how we have laid down our lives for them, when they lay down their own lives for others.  May they appreciate our marriages when they sacrifice for their own spouses.  May they appreciate our parenting, as they raise up their own children.  May they be so well nurtured and nourished that they have deep wells from which to draw.  And may they have a house full of ungrateful teens of their own some day.  It will make me deeply happy, and grateful, and a tiny bit entertained.

The Pursuit of Happiness (Among Other things)

A friend recently posted a link to this article over on F*acebook, and I highly recommend taking the time to read it.  It's a bit long, and has a bit of language, but still well worth your time.  I'm posting about this article here today, because it's a topic I've been ruminating on for awhile.  I've read other blog posts and articles on the subject too, but this one really does a good job of tying up all the loose ends.

The quote that resonates with me days later is this: “Happiness as a byproduct of living your life is a great thing, but happiness as a goal is a recipe for disaster.” (Barry Schwartz, a professor of social theory at Swarthmore College)  I guess I had never thought of it in exactly that way before, but it's so true, and on so many levels.

Personally I can comment on the folly of making happiness my life goal.  But isn't it what every child of trauma does?  "When I grow up I'm going to do things differently.  Then I'll be happy.  How will I do things differently?  Well, I don't know, but I'm going to be happy.  You'll see."  Happy is like a sore tooth.  Every morning you wake up and thrust your tongue into the sore spot to see how much it hurts.  All day long you poke at it and suck on it, testing to see if it's better or worse.  Every morning you wake up and poke the holes in your life to see if they still hurt, and if they do, then you know you are still not happy.  This of course makes you even more unhappy.

As a parent I can also testify to the folly of making a happy family your idol.  Mainly because it just doesn't work.  You can't make everyone happy all the time, and you'll kill yourself trying.  Or you'll make your kids happy, and feel unhappy because you rather suspect you should have made them unhappy, at least for a little while.

Another line of thought this article brings to my mind, is how this commonly accepted method of child rearing flies in the face of parenting children of trauma...forget parenting children with full blown RAD.  And most of us fall into that trap.  We go to our adoption classes and we think, "Sure things will be crazy for a little while.  But once the kids adjust a bit, I can get down to the business of being the parent I always dreamed I would be."  Never mind that it apparently screws up emotionally healthy kids.

And then we feel like failures because it's never.going.to.happen.  And we get this new, big hole to probe every morning, to inform us that we definitely aren't happy.  

The paradox in my life, is that when I stopped chasing happiness, I got happier.  When I stopped trying to make my kids happy, or even worrying about whether they were happy...well, I can't speak for their internal emotional states, but they seem reasonably contented.  The less I poke at the sore spots, the more I realize how much time I used to spend poking, and prodding, and fretting.  It's not like I've gotten numb or apathetic.  Far from it.  It's just that I've come to expect the sore spots, and perceive them as part of normal.  Pain, fatigue, frustration, anxiety...there's nothing wrong with them.  You don't ignore them, because they have their own purposes, but you don't let them rule over your life.  I'm convinced that growing up healthy means that you learn this early in life.

I was a late bloomer, but still I am blessed to stumble over the truth in my old age.  I am an old, stubborn dog learning a new trick, and that my friends, makes me happy.

Baby News

I blogged here.

Fruit and Nuts

A few days ago I read my dear friend Christine's blog post about Mother's day, and as I read my head was bobbling up and down in agreement and complete empathy.  You should definitely go read it, if you haven't already, but I'll sum up.  She says that this Mother's Day was bittersweet for her.  That her children still have difficulty dealing with a day to honor someone else.  Sure, they can hold their stuff together, at least until the day after.  Maybe even completely.  But why?  Well, because they know what happens when they trash a special day.  There are consequences, and they have to make repairs.  They have stuff they want to do this week.  Restitution and repair aren't on their short list.  So though it is a victory of sorts, it still has little to do with loving and honoring Mom. 

I submit that it is.  Love your neighbor as yourself.  What does that even mean?

I think about emergencies, crises, chaotic times.  These are the times that love is most necessary, yet so often absent.  We kick it into overdrive.  We do what we have to do to get through.  Sometimes survival is all we can muster the energy for. 

So what happens when you live in survival mode from the day you are born.  Children are naturally self centered, even cherished, nourished children.  They have to be taught to look beyond themselves.  It takes time and patience, and when we see it happening, we know that our children are growing to maturity. 

My first reaction to my traumatized child's survival mode is to say they are completely self centered.  They look out for number one.  They make sure they get their share.  They fight for it if need be.  But this is a superficial understanding of the situation.  My child is not loving their self, because they battle against that same self, at the same time they battle everyone else. 

My child is trapped in a place where they can only fight for themself in this very moment.  It's an emergency, a crisis.  Adrenaline is flooding, fear is consuming.  There is no tomorrow, there was no yesterday.  They cannot even have empathy for their own future self.  They do not care if their actions in this moment will cost their self dearly.  They have no compassion for their own future tears or regrets.  They don't give a damn about the loss that child of tomorrow may suffer.  I have seen them weep for their own stupidity, and cry out how much they hate that child of an hour ago, that made such a mess for them to have to deal with.

Part of growing up, part of learning to love ourselves, is learning to discipline ourselves in the moment.  The child learns to predict an outcome.  They learn to empathize with their future self, understanding how they may feel with that outcome.  They make their choices based on that understanding and empathy. 

Their world begins to expand.  Love your neighbor as yourself.  Life is not an emergency.  I am not in crisis.  I can have compassion on myself.  How might it feel to have compassion on another?  I experience kindness.  Can I share it as well?  Reach inside and find that there is something there, other than fear and adrenaline.  The fruit of mature self discipline is sweet, and there is enough for myself, and plenty to share.

Learning to discipline our self for our self, is the budding of the virtue of self discipline.  Learning to discipline our self so that we may properly love others is the mature fruit.  And so while the immature, hard little fruits are still bitter in our mouths, they are there.  Given a full summer of sun and rain, I have hope that they will grow and ripen.

Of course Christine knows this as well as I do.  I am truly preaching to the choir here.  That's what we do.  We speak the truth of our situation, and our heads bobble up and down in agreement.  I know how you feel, I feel that way too.  Then we go our way, thinking about it, turning it over in our mind, probing it for more than our own emotional reaction, probing it for the truth.  My emotions tell me the fruit is a little bitter and hard yet.  I feel the urge to spit it out.  Wait a minute...what am I saying here?  That's fruit mama, that's FRUIT!

Ode to the Queen Bee

I was suffering through enjoying a snow day with my children, when my phone chanced to ring.  It was a dear friend, who lives far enough away, that she was surprised to hear about my snow.  They were having rain.  Later I hung up the phone, and Baby Boy remarked that I had been on the phone for A LONG TIME.  Yeah so.  And it was a long time, but not nearly as long as we've talked before.  I couldn't begin to number the hours we have whiled away typing emails, chatting on the phone, talking in person, deep into the night.  We haven't known one another since we were girls, but it seems as though we should have.  Memories of childhood birthdays and slumber parties seem built in.  The fact that we grew up in different states and graduated ten years apart makes no difference.

Last year, when I went to Orlando, I wasn't sure why I was going.  Of course now I know how incredibly important my Orlando gals are to me, and how they enrich my life.  I guess I could say, I didn't know what I was missing.  But so many of them (both last year, and this year too) were doing this thing solo.  They felt so alone, isolated, craving one other person to reach out to that would understand their unconventional life.  Part of going to Orlando for me I realized, was to understand how good I had it.  I already had that one person, and they had me.  And even more amazing, we had a history that went back farther than adoption.  We had begun our adoption journeys at roughly the same time, taking different yet similar paths.  Still we knew one another before, and now in the midst, and someday we plan to be old ladies together...no children allowed.

For many years we had been friends turned to sisters.  Our children were born, one after the other, and grew together like cousins.  Our husbands were friends, often brother-like, snoozing on opposite ends of a couch, like mirror images.  We moved, they moved, we moved again.  Sometimes we have lived close together, now spread apart.  Nine or ten years ago we began our adoption journey.  Had they not begun theirs as well, no doubt ours would be a tale of yet another close friendship lost, as lives diverged and drifted apart.  I have always been grateful for this, not fully comprehending the miraculousness of it.  My Orlando girls helped me to see it for the treasure it is.  Such is true friendship.  C.S. Lewis describes this in his book "The Four Loves", and I would not presume to try and say it better.

One knows nobody so well as one's "fellow."  Every step of the common journey tests his metal; and the tests are tests we fully understand because we are undergoing them ourselves.  Hence, as he rings true time after time, our reliance, our respect, and our admiration blossom into an Appreciative love of a singularly robust and well-informed kind.  If, at the outset, we had attended more to him and less to the thing which our Friendship is "about," we should not have come to know or love him so well. You will not find the warrior, the poet, the philosopher or the Christian by staring in his eyes as if he were your mistress: better fight beside him, read with him, argue with him, pray with him. 

In a perfect friendship this Appreciative love is, I think, often so great and so firmly based that each member feels, in his secret heart, humbled before all the rest.  Sometimes he wonders what he is doing there among his betters.  He is lucky beyond desert to be in such company.  Especially when the whole group is together, each bringing out that is best, wisest, or funniest in all the others....Life, natural life, has no better gift to give.  Who could have deserved it?

Baby Post

I blogged here.

I Need a Shower...Among Other things

When you have children, no matter how you "have" them, you have ideas about how it will go. Your body has ideas about how it will go. For instance, babies start sleeping more and fussing less, just as you think you are at your breaking point. Nursing hurts so, so bad...and then it hurts a little bit less, and then you can do it in your sleep. Really. Preschoolers cry about everything. Some preschoolers lose their bones when they cry (about everything), and they drop to the ground in a great boneless pile. And then one day, you realize that no one has cried for days. Weird.

When my homegrown children were small, I had a hard time taking showers. I often ate bowls of cold cereal instead of meals. When children napped, I scrambled around the house just trying to get caught up, bracing myself for when that sleepy, fussy voice would alert me to baby's wakefulness.

It wasn't that I didn't like to be clean. It wasn't that I didn't like to eat hot food. It was just that I was always on high alert, watching and listening for my child's need. If I went into the shower, I could not easily stop what I was doing for a moment, to soothe a child or avert a disaster. In fact, I might not hear that a child needed soothing, or that disaster needed averting. Similarly, a bowl or cereal can be put down and taken up again, over and over. Yes, it gets soggy, but no mommy ever died from soggy cereal.

And just when I thought I would never get a shower before four in the afternoon, or sit down to eat an attractive lunch, I began to have those things happen now and then. This is because children grow, and change, and mature. My two month old was not my two year old, was not my four year old, and so it goes.

Then I adopted traumatized children. I went back on high alert. I went back to no showers, and cereal bowls, and scrambling to get housework done when the children were asleep. I was exhausted and bleary-eyed, and chronically under the weather. Nothing about this surprised me. I had planned for it and expected it. My mommy rhythm told me this is how it would be. But then some time went by, and I began to expect the shift, where things slowly got easier. My body seemed to expect it. To be quite honest, it didn't happen for a long time. Long, long past any of my expectations, and even to this day, some of the "easier" is because I have become accustomed to the strain, and not because it has disappeared.

When we have babies, we plan for the hardship...or we do if we're wise. We set our expectations in a place that is reasonable. We cut ourselves some slack. We set up good support systems. And we know that all of it is temporary. Newborns seem like they will be tiny forever, but in the blink of a tired eye...they're off and running.

When we adopt children of trauma, we do all of these things. For a time. And then we begin to despair. We are tired and worn, and we don't know what is reasonable anymore. Temporary stretches out endlessly. Maybe we thought we had supports, and then we realized they weren't supporting us anymore. What then?

We need a Plan B, or C, or D. We need to find other parents who have been stretched beyond that which is natural. We need to have people in our lives who understand the great depth and width of our struggle. We need to love one another, and hold each other accountable, and slowly go crazy together. That is why I am going to Orlando again this year. I am going to see some incredible people I love with all my heart. And I am going to say to anyone there who will listen, "You need to get a little piece of this, and take it home with you. Keep it safe, and treasure it. It will help you to be a better wife and mommy. It will help you to be a better you."

Special K

I'm going to make a departure today, from my series on getting organized, and my usual homey posts, and talk about something dear to my heart. Our three teen girls came from foster care, in another state, which I later discovered, is a rather rare occurrence. It's not that it never happens, but I guess it doesn't happen a lot. So when you begin to inquire about adopting children from other states, often you will get a bit of resistance from the professionals, because they just aren't used to doing it. Or if they have done it, they know that it's one huge pain in the hind quarters, and they would rather not discuss it with you.

My girls were so very fortunate in some ways. More than eight years bouncing around in foster care is no picnic, but they had a handful of people that were consistently involved with them. Their GAL was with them from the time they came into care as toddlers, to this very day. She keeps in touch, sends lovely boxes of fruit during the holidays, and is rather like an extra grandma that lives far away. The adoption worker assigned to their case, also had an ongoing history with the girls. It wasn't as long as that of the GAL, but it encompassed years.

When I first began to communicate with K, via email and phone calls, I had no idea how unique she really was, consequently I did not properly appreciate her. All I knew was that I liked her. We both hailed originally from the same area, so we both kind of spoke the same language. She always seemed to be shooting straight from the hip. She never seemed to be keeping information from me. She told me stuff, even stuff I didn't necessarily want to hear. When she didn't know, she always said "I don't know! Let me see if I can find out!" and she always said it with total humility and enthusiasm. She never made me feel like she was being put upon.

After the girls were placed, and we sometimes found ourselves struggling, she always made herself available. Sometimes she could offer assistance, sometimes advice, but more often than not, she just listened and made the right sort of noises. And it kept me from jumping off a bridge. When Soapy had to leave us, I know that K grieved right along with our family, and somehow that made it easier to bear. Ironic, because I am quite sure it didn't make her life any easier.

Now K has moved up to a more administrative position, and though she is supervising our next adoption, she does not handle it directly. Sometimes I forget that we have a professional relationship, because she has become such a dear, dear friend. Once in a great while, we connect by phone, and we talk and talk, about life and the price of tea in China. I always hang up the phone with a smile on my face, and never without thanking her for being such a powerful, positive force in my life. And then I think, "Oh my gosh! What am I thinking, talking about THAT (insert random inappropriate thing) with her?! She's my adoption worker...what must she think?!" And I have a little heart attack, until I remind myself that there isn't much K hasn't seen or heard about us, at one time or another since my girls came home.

She's seen me riding high, and she's heard the ugly cry, more than a few times. I am so very blessed, because I know this is a precious rarity. Foreign adoptions often end when the child is collected, and there is no one to call ever again. Even in foster adoptions, where there are allegedly helps in place, many people find themselves leaving countless messages that go unreturned. There is no human connection, and everyone suffers. Or even worse, they fear the connection, because they have been judged and undercut by the people that should be upholding them.

Yesterday I had one of those long rambling conversations with K. I had called to check on her mailing address, because I had photos to send. But we ended up talking about the girls, the boys, her life and mine. We laughed and told silly stories, and made plans to get together when I visit other friends in her area. We talked about the upcoming adoption, not like worker and adoptive parent, but friend to friend. I complained a little, but not to her, like I expected her to fix it, but as one person who knows how this goes, to another equally frustrated person who knows how it goes. As always, I hung up the phone with a smile on my face, and a lighter step...a lighter heart. Some friends just have that effect.

I Know What I Know...

The last few days we've been working on locs. Vacation is a good time to get them tightened up and washed. Everyone will go back to school tomorrow with great hair. One of my daughters has had locs since about six months after she came to live with us. The other has had them for nearly two years less. The older locs are shorter because the hair was shorter when they were begun, but the locs are more mature and uniform. They are on the thinner side, and very tubular. We started out with neat parts and lines, but the natural way of her head has caused them to migrate where they will, so like me, her natural part is cocked off to one side of center. Her younger sister's locs are longer, but still retain the shape of the microbraids which began them. They are slowly disappearing, but you can find them still. Her hair is also looser and finer than her sister's hair, which means it locks more slowly and creates lots of messy fuzz that I must work into the locs each time I tighten them.

I was working at this the other day, and thinking how long it had been since I had worked on her sister's locs. This younger daughter never does anything with her hair unless I prompt her to do so. When I say that it's time to work on hair, she sits down submissively, with much sighing and complaints of a "numb butt". But she never initiates caring for her locs on her own. In contrast, her older sister has wanted to learn how to wash and tighten her own locs from the day I put them in. She was like a house afire, begging and pestering me to teach her to do every single bit of their care. I was kind of learning as I went, so I made her wait until I felt they were well established. Then I watched over her as she took on their care, making sure she wasn't doing any damage. In an instant, she was proficient enough to take over.

At first blush, I put this off to her typical teen desire to be independent. What teen really wants mom to have to do their hair? I would occasionally offer help, but she would politely turn me down. For long hours she would sit perched on a stool in front of the mirror, working away. She would sigh, and complain of tired arms and shoulders, but still she would keep on. Sometimes she would pay her sister to do the hard-to-reach section in the very back, but only if she had a little extra cash. Most times she would do her whole head alone. Even when her sister trashed her locs last year, and she was intensely grateful for the hours I spent saving them, I could still feel her impatience over having to sit as I carefully restored each damaged loc.

As I stood laboring over her sister's head, it came to me in a moment of quiet clarity. She wasn't displaying independence...she was displaying fear. I believe she has loved her locs from the day one, but she was also afraid. What if I leave this place, and the next place doesn't "do" locs? How would I keep them if no one knows how to care for them? I've seen the pictures and heard the stories. Foster care is a black girl's hair crap shoot. Sometimes you get lucky and they take great care of your hair. Sometimes you end up looking like Don King.

As if on cue, she appeared by my elbow. For a moment she stood watching me twist the strands of her sister's hair. "You know Mom," she said, "I really, really like my locs. I like my hair the best like this. I always want to have locs, and grow them really long." With this she tossed her head back and forth.

I smiled and said, "I know."

Adoption Sunday

This is the speech that we were privileged to share with our congregation today.

Dear Brothers and Sisters,
We are honored to speak to you today, about a subject that is very dear to our hearts. This month, November, is set aside as National Adoption Month, and many churches will recognize this today by observing Orphan Sunday. Many of you have supported our family in our adoption journey, and for that we are very grateful. Today we wish to challenge each of you to think about how God may be calling you to minister to orphans. Scripture teaches that each of us is required to minister to the weak and the fatherless, in their need. It is not optional, and it is not easy.

It would be very easy to make this time into an advertisement for adoption. We could tell you many heart warming and inspiring stories, and most of them would be true. Instead, we want to talk about some of the hard truths concerning orphans. Worldwide it is estimated that there are between 140 and 210 million orphans, but it is hard to tell, because only a fraction are being counted or cared for. I have read that less than one percent of these children have the hope of being adopted.

In America, if you are a healthy infant, you will certainly be adopted. There are waiting lists of qualified folks wanting to adopt these children. This is a necessary and worthy endeavor, which has its own joys and challenges, but we are not here to speak of these children today. In America we have orphans as well. They are the 114,000 foster children who are legally freed for adoption. Their family ties have been severed , and they are wards of the state. The average child in foster care is not an infant, and there is no waiting list to adopt him. He is eight, maybe nine or ten years old, a boy, African American. He may have siblings that need to be adopted with him, or that he wishes to remain close to. He will wait, on average, four and a half years to be adopted. He has suffered trauma and loss, and his attitudes and behaviors reflect this.

You will encounter this child's face in books of child profiles, or on photolistings on the internet. He will smile out at you and grab your heart. His profile will tell you that he loves fried chicken and football. That he works hard in school, and enjoys drawing and listening to music. It will probably not even hint at the truth about this child. This child was removed from his birth family because of horrible tragedy. No suitable family member or person acquainted with this child stepped forward to take him in. He is probably living in a different home than his brothers and sisters, and is lucky to see them once every few months. While in care, he has probably moved several times, having to adjust to new caregivers, homes, and schools. It is a certainty that he has experienced more trauma and abuse since he entered the system. Now he is being marketed to waiting adoptive families.

Russell D. Moore says: "As much as we might not want to admit it, many of us don’t think much about orphans because, frankly, we’re scared of them. Orphans are unpredictable. Often we don’t know where they’ve come from, what kind of genetic maladies and urges lie dormant somewhere in those genes. Moreover, in virtually every situation of fatherlessness, there is some kind of tragedy: a divorce, a suicide, a rape, a drug overdose, a disease, a drought, a civil war, and on and on. We’d rather not think about such things, and we’re afraid often of what kind of lasting mark they leave on their victims."

Many of us don't think much about orphans. Even when people do think about orphans, they often think wrongly about them. People want heart warming stories about families being formed, but adoption of orphans is also about heart wrenching stories of families being torn apart. We want to celebrate adoption because it is a win/win situation. Children without families are being given homes and families. But adoption of orphans is also about tremendous loss. The children already know this, but if the adoptive families don't know it, they'll be finding out soon.

When children are very young, even before they are born, the groundwork for who they will become is being laid. Each time a child is cared for, soothed, kept safe from harm, they are being shaped. When children are cared for consistently through childhood by the same one or two people, they are being shaped. When they are held, sung to, played with, read to...their brains are being shaped. They are receiving messages that the world is a good place, that they are valued, that they are safe. Without any thought at all, trust is formed and cemented.

When children are very young, even before they are born, and their environment is chaotic and unpredictable, likewise a foundation is being laid. When children are neglected and ignored, they are being shaped. When they are surrounded by violence and anger, they are being shaped. When they have changing caregivers, and cannot attach to any one person, their brains are being shaped. They are receiving messages that the world is a scary place, that they are unimportant, and that they must keep themselves safe at any cost.

Children, even children of trauma, are smart and adaptive. Over time, most children will develop a highly effective set of coping skills to help them navigate and survive foster care, orphanages, tent cities, the streets. It is not enough to want to help. You cannot transplant this child into your loving home, give them a cute bedroom and a closet full of toys and clothes, and tell them they are safe and loved. There are dozens of ways different children react, but almost certainly it will not be with gratitude, and reciprocal love and mutual respect.

You might find it surprising to know that no matter how awful a place this child might come from, they will miss it. They will miss their absent parents, and past caregivers. It does not matter if they can remember them. It does not matter if they were ignored by them. It does not matter if they were abused by them. They may be angry at you for taking them away from that place and those people, even if it happened long before they met you.

You might find it surprising to know that this child will be afraid of you. In the beginning you won't know, because you won't know what afraid looks like in your child. But later, much later, you will look at photos of the early days, and you'll see it. The photos will be of celebration, and you will realize your child was afraid.

The fact is, many things will surprise you, even if you read lots of books, and take classes, and pick the brains of every adoptive parent you know. Knowing what may happen, knowing what will happen, is not the same as having it happen to you and your family. Planning out how you think you will react and feel, is not the same as living through it. You may be ashamed to discover you are not half the person you thought you were. You may be shocked to discover how much you need to change to make this new relationship work.

Orphans are hurting people. The world is full of hurting people, and being an instrument of healing is something we should pray to be. When we pray, we should know how much it may cost us. My dear friend, and fellow adoptive parent, Christine Moers writes "I ask you to converse with God and determine if you are ready right now to parent one of these children. If not, what will it take for you to get to that point? How does God need to work you over?" If you feel God pulling you toward older child adoption, I would say, why not let Him start working you over right now?

Not everyone is called to adoption. Many will sincerely think it through, and come to the conclusion that God has not equipped their family to adopt. But you can support families who do choose this path. Above all else, adoptive families need to be upheld in your prayers. From the moment a family begins to fill out the paperwork, adoption is a stressful, costly, invasive process. If you have ever welcomed a child through birth, think of a long hard pregnancy with no due date in sight. Pray these children home, as there are endless obstacles and setbacks along the way.

Rejoice with adoptive families as they prepare to welcome children into their homes. Observe the same rituals that you would observe if a family was expecting a child by birth. Parties and showers are wonderful ways to celebrate, and help families provide for the needs of their new child or children. Let the family take the lead about how this is best done. Children from institutional care need simple, small lives when they arrive in a family. This may mean that showering the family with lots of material goods is not actually a good thing. Combining monetary gifts to buy one or two larger items, or to purchase a gift card for future use, may be a better plan. It is hard for families to know in advance, all that their child may need in the early months at home. Do not give in to the temptation to wait until the child is home to have a party, so that they can be included in the festivities. This celebration is for the waiting family, and will likely be difficult for a newly placed child to process. Likewise, do not create public welcome ceremonies for older adopted children. This puts already stressed children on the spot. Instead, wait for quiet, appropriate times to say, "Hello. I'm glad you're here."

When the children finally do come home, allow families to take a period of time away. I realize that people are naturally curious and excited to meet the new child, but adoptive families need weeks, even months of quiet family time to allow their new family to begin to bond and adjust. Families may come into church late, and leave during the last hymn, because they realize this is all their child can handle for a time. Realize that much like the parents cooped up at home with a newborn, this family misses their church family. They are isolated, and often exhausted. They need for you to keep up contact. Call on the telephone, send emails and cards. Set up a rotation of meals, and have them delivered by someone who won't be tempted to stay and visit. Ask if the family would appreciate a visit after the children are in bed asleep, or offer to come stay with sleeping children so Dad and Mom can slip out for a late night cup of coffee.

It is natural that this feels strange. So often, when a young couple is expecting a child, our reaction is to say, "Oh, I just can't wait to get my hands on that baby." All the focus is on the beautiful new baby. With older child adoption, it is easy to see the beautiful baby, and the first reaction is to want to shower the child with affection and attention. The child may seem chatty and affectionate...may even run to you and hug you, or climb into your lap. This is an unhealthy behavior of an unattached child. Children learn quickly that the cutest, most charming child, often gets the lion's share of everything. If you do not have an intimate relationship with the child, it is best to gently redirect them back to the parents. Always direct them back to their parents.

These are just a few suggestions of simple things that can be done before and shortly after a child arrives. Truly, books could be written on the subject. But if I would leave you with any enduring message today, it would be this. Adoptive families of older, traumatized children are not like the other families in your parish, and these families are committing to a lifetime of being very, very different. It would be easy to understand this in terms of troubled children struggling to integrate into families, of weary adoptive parents dealing with years of rejection and difficult behaviors... and at times it can look exactly like this. But that would be unfair, and would not properly honor our children.

Every day we ask our children to move mountains to achieve healing. Our mental hospitals and prisons are filled with adults whose histories mirror that of our children, and yet we demand that they rise up out of their apathy, overcome their fear, and let go of their very justifiable anger. We ask them to make themselves vulnerable, when they have been hurt so many times before. We ask them to trust, when they have been let down time and again. It boggles the mind, to consider what we are asking of them, and in the light of this our sacrifices and struggles must also be very great. This is why God must work us over to prepare us. You must be willing to ask yourself, What am I unwilling to give? and know that it will be required of you.

Many of you may say today, "I didn't know this, then. Now it is too late. Your family is moving beyond this stage of need, and I didn't know then how to help." Don't worry. In this room, I am confident that there are other families, who God has already begun to work over. In time, they will adopt orphans, and we will all have the privilege of supporting them in their ministry. Even a few of us, who move well beyond the years of child bearing age, may realize that God calls us to be adoptive parents to young orphans nearing adulthood. Children aging out of foster care at 17 and 18 years of age, are still placing themselves on photolistings, hoping against hope that they will find a family for life. How cold is the world for an 18 year old, with no one to advise them, no home to return to for holidays, no grandparent to hold their babies? This is the sad reality for 30 thousand young people who will age out of the foster care system this year in this country.

We can only speak for our own family, but I believe in this Godly community, that it must be so, that good Christian men and women will rise to the occasion. That being said, let us be the first to announce the adoption of the next member of our family. Her name is "S" (for bloggy purposes), and she will be five years old this month. Right now she is in a wonderful medical foster home, and we have been caught in a waiting pattern for several months. The wheels of the adoption bureaucracy move very slowly. We ask that you please pray our new family member home. Pray that the appropriate approvals and paperwork come through. Pray that the money comes through. Pray that her health remains stable, and that we are able to line up excellent health care in advance of her arrival. Pray for our family, as we prepare to take on this new challenge. And pray that this is only the first such announcement in our parish.

Comfort in Words

There is great comfort in words, whether it be the kind words of a friend, the lyrics of a song that stay within you and resonate, or the words of an excellent story. I am a person who loves words. I would rather have a word to carry with me into the dark night, than pretty much anything else. Words are like food, and I hunger for them, and search them out like choice morsels. So often, words form a chain, from the lips of a friend, to a song we heard, to the written page... all the same necessary message.

A few years ago I decided to read Tolkien's Lord of the Rings Trilogy. I had started it several times, always stalling in the first hundred pages or so. This time I would persevere, and read the entire story. I remember reading passages, and feeling the story crawl under my skin. It describes a time, early in Frodo's journey, when he begins to realize what he has undertaken, and the horrible danger of it. It goes:

They stood for awhile silent on the hill-top, near its southward edge. In that lonely place Frodo for the first time fully realized his homelessness and danger. He wished bitterly that his fortune had left him in the quiet and beloved Shire. He stared down at the hateful Road, leading back westward--to his home. Suddenly he was aware that two black specks were moving slowly along it, going westward; and looking again he saw that three others were creeping eastward to meet them.

Those black specks were of course the black riders, out to seek his life and to end his mission. There was of course, no safe road home. The words of this passage resonated in me, at a time when I realized that I had chosen a road that was fraught with danger and difficulty. One day, like Frodo, I had found myself looking back on the road I had recently traveled, and I realized that I found the sight of that road hateful to me. I hated the road for bringing me so far from all I held dear, and familiar, and comfortable. As I gazed backward from my imaginary high ground, I saw that the road home was fraught with danger, and that going backward was no longer a safe option. I knew that my only option was to press forward, though it seemed unlikely that this option would prove safe either. In that instant, I truly did hate the road for carrying me anywhere at all, and for making me so weary and worn. Perhaps I am a bit hobbit-like at heart.

Recently I came upon a song, in a rather roundabout way. A friend posted a link to a video, that touched my heart, but also made me search for this album. I actually purchased it, something I have not done in years. When it arrived in the mail, I put it into my CD player, and lay down on the floor, and listened to the songs. I still found that I loved the original song I had first heard, and liked all of the others. But one song spoke to me at a fundamental level. It is a song called "The Long Defeat", and if I could send you to a link of it, I would. I can only find it in its entirety in one place, and it's set as background music to a home made TV show trailer, and the video really detracts from the song.

OK. I promise I'm going somewhere on this rabbit trail. I was reading the info about the song, and I saw that its title had come from a quote by Paul Farmer. In his biography written by Tracy Kidder, he is quoted as saying:

I have fought the long defeat and brought other people on to fight the long defeat, and I am not going to stop because we keep losing. Now I actually think sometimes we may win. I don't dislike victory.... You know, people from our background-- like you, like most PIH-ers (Partners In Health-ers), like me--we're used to being on a victory team, and actually what we're trying to do in PIH is to make common cause with the losers. Those are two very different things. We want to be on the winning team, but at the risk of turning our backs on the losers, no, it's not worth it. So you fight the long defeat.

It's an amazing quote really, and made me go do a little internet research about Paul Farmer. It also made me want to read the book, which I am going to try and order from the library next time I go there. But I wondered where he had come up with this vaguely familiar concept of the long defeat. There seemed to be a bit of disagreement, but I came to the conclusion that it was likely he was quoting from one of his favorite books, The Lord of the Rings. It seems that Galadriel says to the weary Frodo, "Through the ages of the world we have fought the long defeat."

For days, and weeks, the phrase "the long defeat" has echoed in my ears. What in the world is the "long defeat"? And why in the world would anyone in their right mind want to fight it? I am all for choosing the winning side and planning and working toward victory. I see almost everything as a win or a loss, and I am not accustomed to losing. I have been known to carefully weigh odds, and choose not to participate, based on the assumption that I could not win, and was therefore wasting my time.

For the last few years, I have been fighting the uphill battle, desperate to wring wins out of the excruciating effort. As time rolls on, and I am able to see the writing on the wall, I must acknowledge that I am likely fighting the "long defeat" in many areas of my life. Here are the lyrics that grab me, and wring something out of my soul:

I have joined the long defeat that falling set in motion.
All my strength and energy are raindrops in the ocean.

So conditioned for the win, to share in victors' stories,
but in the place of ambition's din, I've heard of other glories.

I pray for an idea, and a way I cannot see.
It's too heavy to carry, and impossible to leave.

I can't just fight when I think I'll win, that's the end of all belief;
and nothing has provoked it more than a possible defeat.

I pray for an idea, and a way I cannot see.
It's too heavy to carry, and impossible to leave.

We walk awhile, we sit and rest, we lay it on the altar.
I won't pretend to know what's next, but what I have I've offered.

I pray for a vision, and a way I cannot see.
It's too heavy to carry, and impossible to leave.
I pray for inspiration, and a way I cannot see.
It's too heavy to carry, and impossible to leave.

(The Long Defeat by Sara Groves)

Up to this point in my life I never really had to pray for an idea, vision, inspiration. I have always been full of ideas. Up until now, I had never found myself in the middle of the road, facing the dilemma that my burden was too heavy to carry, but too precious to abandon. I am not acquainted with "the way I cannot see". I was always too smart to choose the losing side.

Coming to Peace...

I am slowly coming to peace with some choices we have had to make. From my viewpoint, we were presented with several options, none of which I liked. The only option I did actually like, is not an option. No go, off the table. Nothing I can do will make it an option at this point. So I sat down with my other options, and weighed out the pros and cons of each. The problem is, that most of the options I felt I could live with, had huge cons for myself and beloved husband. Probably the kind of cons that would have us checking into a double occupancy rubber room. The options that "worked" in any way for us and the family as a whole, seemed to not work for one of our especially challenging children. I have been circling, and researching, and filling out forms, and scratching my head. I have had endless emails and phone calls. Every night I have gone to bed discouraged and restless, but each morning I have awoken full of resolve to make the right choice, regardless of the cost.

The funny thing is this. Every time I would get going in a track, and would be getting excited about the possibilities, something would come to light regarding this challenging child. Something that would stop me in my tracks, and make me question the track I was currently on. Again and again it has happened, to the point that I am able to predict that if I get an energizing phone call or email, I will also get news of some wonky behavior within the hour. It might be new wonky behavior, or just old stuff coming to light. But invariably, the new awareness always seems to put the current proposed course of action in serious question.

The other morning we were dealing with wonky, and it just came over me, that we should not change anything at all. That we were to just stay the current course, even though it has all the earmarks of failure. That's the thing...no matter what we try, once the novelty has been wrung out of it, it always begins to look like failure. And like any parent, adoptive or otherwise, I start to put things under the microscope and look for alternatives. What am I doing wrong? What do I need to change? How can I rally the resources to make the needed change?

The other day I was visiting with a missionary friend, who is currently contemplating change, and had been really unsettled about what course she should take. She was so afraid that she would go her own way, and miss God's will, that she was actually propelling herself toward that which was hardest, and even most distasteful to her, in fear of shirking the difficult call. In a time of intense prayer, a friend told her they felt impressed by God to ask her, "What do you want to do?" This was so shocking to her system, that her reaction was actually physical.

I felt, the other morning, in the midst of chaos, that same impression. "What do you want to do?" I realized I didn't want to do anything at all. I wanted to stay the course we had begun, in spite of the fact that on many levels it appears to have failed. I realized that I was willing to make a change, even a change that would cost me dearly, but that my willingness was not confirmation that change should occur. I also realized that every bit of what appeared to be failure, had nothing to do with me or my choices. It had nothing to do with me shirking hard work, or my willingness to love or serve my daughter, or the rest of my family.

Most, if not all, of the failure results from my daughter's inability to make good choices for herself. It isn't even for me to try and sort out how much blame should sit on her shoulders, or how much of it she is led to by her traumatic history. I just know it doesn't rest on my shoulders. Not that I don't feel the weight of it. I do. And I am willing to continue helping to carry that weight, as any mother, adoptive or otherwise, would.

And anyhow, I'm getting used to this looking like failure gig. I realize that what looks like success in so many young people is just smoke and mirrors, and what looks like failure is often the building blocks for something real and good. I'm willing to bet on that, even though at times it's hard to believe in.