Good Friday…

I have not grieved well

these uneasy memories are shoved aside
suppressed, subdued
impatiently I brush away tears to attend
my busy life

My Friday: This Monday

six years ago
linking arms with the sisterhood
I never would have chosen
empty womb
empty tomb

Mary!

you who know so well this
soul sword
piercing
teach me how
to lose a child
show me how to grieve well
through the darkness
clinging
Resurrection Hope

The third child…

My life is so enriched by a special community.

We are the parents, siblings, other family and friends of someone with Down syndrome.  The short and sweet explanation of this diagnosis (aka Trisomy 21) is that these folks have a bonus chromosome present in each of their millions of cells.  “Typical” humans are born with 46, people with Down syndrome have 47.  This “extra” leads to the various characteristics that are commonly associated with this condition.  However, each person with Down syndrome is a unique individual, and may have few or many of the features and/or health problems that can occur.  Additionally, though having a Down syndrome diagnosis indicates that there will be some degree of mental retardation, there is a tremendous range of variation along the IQ spectrum.  (As an aside, I’m currently reading War Against the Weak: Eugencis and America’s Campaign to Create a Master Race by Edwin Black and have just started the chapter discussing the history of the IQ test.  You need a strong stomach for this kind of history.)

So anyhow,  I have been lucky enough to join the Down syndrome family via my sweet son, now 18 months old.  And let me tell you, this family is amazing.  Not only do we get to hang with other parents/sibs/kids with Down syndrome… who are simply some of the best people I’ve ever met… we also have a crew of professionals to help us navigate this journey.  My little guy has been served by no less than three amazing surgeons, a fabulous cardiologist, an incredible pediatrician, (I’m going to edit out the superlative adjectives now, but feel free to insert your own) an audiologist, a pediatric ophthalmologist, physical therapists, speech therapists, occupational therapists, and a developmental pediatrician/pediatric neurologist.   Hmm… there’s probably more I’m missing, but I’ll stop there.  And all of these specialists have been provided for us through our private insurance, Early Intervention Services, and Medicaid.  (So no huge co-pays.)

As he gets older, services will likely increase, and he’ll go to school with his siblings, and receive appropriate support to meet the goals we will set.

We’ve come a long way in this country on many fronts when it comes to disabilities.  Kids like mine aren’t sent to institutions.  Sure, there’s still a lot of work to do, but despite the lingering stereotypes and stigma and the prevalence of the r-word, we’ve come a long way.

Not so in some other countries.  Take a peek at this, then come back.

Heartbreaking, isn’t it? These children will not have the same kind of support or opportunities that I take for granted with my son. They are facing a lifetime in an institution.
There is work being started to help educate families in these countries, starting in Ukraine and Bulgaria. See here.
Hopefully social change will come quickly. But for the children listed on Reece’s Rainbow, that change is too late. They need families now.

One of the ways I spend my (all-too-limited) on-line time is surfing adoption photolistings and praying for the orphans. I have literally prayed for thousands of children. Out of all of them, three have been laid especially heavily on my heart. I have had the privilege of praying two of those (one from Haiti and one from Texas) all the way into their forever families… and what an incredible feeling to know I was a small part of God working in that way. So now for the point of this whole post today: The third child.
This is Ian.
Ian is in an orphanage in Russia, and he is listed as being at “significant risk” of being transferred to a mental institution very soon. He has been on my mind since I saw his sparkling eyes and almost-grin. Does he capture your heart, too? I have been praying hard. And now I want to ask you: How can you help Ian? Can you pray for him? Can you contribute to his grant so someone will be more easily able to bring him home? Are you, perhaps, the Mama or Daddy he doesn’t yet know?
I’m issuing a plea… a challenge to everyone who reads these words. Please help Ian. And even if you just can’t donate a few dollars to his grant fund right now, you can forward the link on to those who can. My birthday is March 26th. I’d love to get his grant up to at least $10,000 by then. I know it can happen… please, please help Ian.
Click here.

It’ll wreck you…

A friend of mine made that comment recently.  She has served multiple times in central Africa, and described how intense the culture shock can be when returning to the US.   The whole standing in front of a full refrigerator when only days before you’d been breaking bread on the dirt floor of a mud hut kind of culture shock.   I had been expressing my state of emotional angst since the earthquake(s) in Haiti. I  follow the stories of devastation with a heavy heart and a sometimes-guilt-ridden one. I ask myself how it is that I can even *think* of complaining about my life, when I am so obviously blessed beyond measure.  I get frustrated with my children who aren’t as grateful as I think they should be.  The disparity between our consumer culture and the poverty in Haiti is striking… almost unfathomable, really.  I wonder what it is that I can do… what God would have me do~ to help.    So far, I’ve sent donations to some organizations that are doing good work there.  I’ve  signed us up to be a host family for a child who is getting medical care here.  I recognize my part in the global inequity.  I try to mitigate that as much as possible.  I pray.  I wish I could do more. I want to do more.

Here are some of the blogs I’m following:

http://haitirescuecenter.wordpress.com/

http://livesayhaiti.blogspot.com/

http://medicaladvocacyteam.blogspot.com/

Though I haven’t had the opportunity (yet) to visit Haiti or any other developing nation, I do belong to a  different kind of community that has a similar sort of paradigm-shifting effect on its members. Once you are a part of  it, it’ll wreck you, too.  More on that next time…

A Mother’s Bias…

Someone asked on a message board I frequent whether all mothers really think their children are the most beautiful…

First, the ones that I had no hand in creating: 

And then, the ones with half of my DNA:

Stunning… aren’t they?  From the chocolate skin and gorgeous lips, those deep brown almond shaped eyes and the cleft in the chin, the sparkling blue eyes, button noses, chubby thighs, rosy cheeks and gap-toothed grin…. I do, indeed, have six of the best looking children to ever grace God’s green earth.  And even if I am biased, it doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

Caps for sale…

A few days ago, my two year old asked me to “read this one, Mama,” as he brought the classic story to me.  I pulled him onto my lap and his five year old sister snuggled in beside me as I began.  You know how it starts… the peddler, who is not an ordinary peddler, stacks his wares on top of his head.  First his own checked cap, then bunches of gray, brown, blue, and red caps.  “Caps for sale!” he calls out as he walks through town.  Apparently the economy isn’t doing so hot where the peddler is, either, because he couldn’t sell a single cap.

I was reading page four when my daughter began to cry.  Big, heaving sobs, and huge tears rolling down her cheeks… I thought she was hurt.  I asked what had happened.  I looked to see where she’d injured herself.  Checked that her brother hadn’t surreptitiously pinched or hit.  Then I looked back at page four.  At the lines I had just read. My tender-hearted girl was crying because:  “[The peddler] began to feel very hungry, but he had no money for lunch.”

My storytelling paused, I gathered her up in my arms as she wailed over the sad fate of the poor cap-seller.  I held her, and agreed that it *is* very sad, and WORTH crying over… that there are those in our world who are hungry, but have no money for lunch.  And we talked about the things we might do to help ease their hunger, and how we might share our abundance.  I wonder why it can’t be as simple as she believes it is… we have much, so we can share, right?

We did get back to the story eventually, and laughed at the monkeys (How exactly *do* you pronounce “Tsz, tsz, tsz!”, anyway?)  But her empathy for the peddler has stayed with me.  I remember it when we pass the blond woman with her cardboard sign at the intersection near the school, I remember it when I read the blogs chronicling the devastation in Haiti, I remember it… and I pray that my heart is as tender towards those who hunger.  My children are my greatest teachers.

I still believe…

I lost my keys.  Like… more than 2 months ago now.  I *know* they are in the house.  (Because I drove home with them, you see.)  But so far, they have not turned up.  I  spent an ungodly amount replacing the key fob w/the automatic door openers, which I deemed necessary because of my current status as mother-of-two-in-baby-buckets.  Unfortunately, I ordered said fob (what a funny word, fob)  before I went to get a replacement key made at the local supermarket/hardware store/pharmacy and realized (after the first key wouldn’t open the doors) that the (second) key they made would not start the car.  Hmmm.  I did some quick research in my glove box (anyone actually keep gloves in there?) and discovered in the (handy) manual that I need a *special* key.  Oh yes, special.  As in, expensive.  With a fancy computer chip thingy so thieves can’t steal my car, apparently.  And so, in light of the fact that I had already spent money on the (say it with me) fob, I have chosen to live dangerously, and we now only have one key to the family-mobile.  (Formerly my husband’s key, as a matter of fact.)

If *this* key ever gets lost, heaven help us.

But you know, I’m sure mine will turn up… eventually.

On Being Vulnerable…

You may have noticed I didn’t post one. single. thing. in October. This is because in addition to the normal state of busy-ness, we have been hit by illness. And with so many members of the family, it has lasted the entire month. We’ve had fevers, coughs, aches, lethargy, lots of snot of various hues, ear infections, and pneumonia. I have been administering (and taking) elderberry syrup, vitamin D, thieve’s oil, cough drops, chicken soup, tea with honey, mullein & garlic oil, and amoxicillan. We should buy stock in the tissue company. We still are not out of the woods… though 3 or 4 are feeling better.

Since I am the mother, I can not get sick. I am the one who comforts, rocks, soothes with a cool cloth on the forehead. I hold and commiserate with the babies as I simultaneously slide the syringe past their clenched teeth to squirt in the awful tasting sludge that will fight the bacteria. I feed hungry mouths, and coax when they aren’t hungry so they at least are hydrated. I make decisions about whether we can make it to school or church. I clean dirty noses… and bottoms… and bathrooms… and kitchens. I do not get a day off. I am Super-Mom… I have the T-shirt to prove it. (And the keychain, too.)

What I have realized, though, is that because I (admittedly) put this pressure on myself, I am rather unsympathetic to other people’s sickness. Not the kids… I’m built to take care of them, after all. But my poor husband, or others who are out there feeling sick… well, let’s just say I’m not so nurturing. I’m more like “Suck it up, people! There’s work to do!! You don’t see me sitting around complaining!” Yeah, not so compassionate.

And I think somewhere along the line, way back, I decided that for me, being strong was imperative. And being sick, you see, is a sign of weakness~ of vulnerability. And THAT, dear readers, is what I’m *really* avoiding. I don’t like to ask for help… don’t like to feel needy… don’t like to cry. I wonder, though… does anyone like it? Or have those more mature in this area learned to accept, rather than rail against (or try to hide) their weakness? I think that I have much to learn about the graceful acceptance of limitations… my own, and others’.

I want to learn that “in my weakness, He is strong…”

In the meantime, I’ll try to remember that I don’t *actually* have super-powers… or a magic wand. So I ought not expect it from anyone else, either.

Sticks and stones…

Right now, I’m reading The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. It was a birthday gift to Son #1, and I immediately borrowed it and have been working through it ever since. It’s been 10 days now, which is an almost record-setting length of time for me to spend on a novel. Prior to this one, I think only Les Miserables has had me for so long. My copy of Les Mis, though, has 1463 pages, and Zusak’s work has only 550. (Just for comparison, Order of the Phoenix has 870, and I finished that in less than 3 days, if I remember correctly.)
Not only is the subject matter of Zusak’s work causing me to slow down and reflect~ the way he uses words, his phrasing and descriptions are unexpected and I end up re-reading bits to savor the imagery. Here’s the part I’ve been ruminating on today:

“Liesel could see it on her face. Blood leaked from her nose and licked at her lips. Her eyes had blackened. Cuts had opened up and a series of wounds were rising to the surface of her skin. All from the words. From Liesel’s words.”

Language is powerful. Words can, indeed, injure… often a verbal assault will wound us more deeply than a physical one, and I’d be willing to bet that all of us have memories (scars) from times that someone’s words cut like a knife.
My kids hear the reminder “Kind words, please,” and “Nice voice, please.” (Because sometimes it isn’t the words, but the tone that stings.) And a third “No name-calling, please.” (I’ve learned that though loving silly nicknames can occasionally come from me, the kids don’t like it from each other.)

It is so easily apparent, the truth of the power of our words, as I eavesdrop on the conversations of my children.

My daughter this summer began playing nearly every day with some of the other little girls in our neighborhood. When they are frustrated, though they aren’t above a shove now and then, their first line of offense is spoken: “You aren’t my friend anymore. You aren’t invited to my birthday party.” And, predictably, the recipient of this attack dissolves into tears and retaliation: “You aren’t invited to my birthday party!!!” Yep, words can hurt… just ask my 4 year old.

And here’s the thing… words have power, and words can hurt, even when they aren’t intended to. The way we use language is important, and informative. I know that there are those who get impatient with trying to keep up with what is “politically correct”… but the truth is that our language does reflect our thinking. It can shape our attitudes. And particularly when it comes to speaking to and about our fellow human beings, I think it pays enormous dividends to be careful, rather than casual, with our words.

My hope, my prayer, when it comes to the language I use:
May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, O LORD, my Rock and my Redeemer. (Psalm 19:14)

Choosing Holland…

A lot of you have read (or heard) the lovely poem “Welcome to Holland” by Emily Perl Kingsley.  She wrote it as a description of what it is like to raise a child with a disability.  The gist is that it’s like planning a trip to Italy, and ending up unexpectedly  in Holland instead.  And that though Italy is great, Holland is lovely, too.  (You can read the poem here.)

I know that sometimes people don’t understand why we “chose” Holland.  And it is a difficult thing to explain, but I am going to try.

Here’s the thing:  when you decide to add to your family through adoption, you have to choose.  It’s an inherent part of the process.  International, or domestic?  Number of children desired?  Age?  Race?  Gender?  Some of these decisions will be easier than others.  Some will be made for  you, because of the various requirements of placing agencies or countries.  Some might be crystal clear (we *knew* we wanted a daughter the first time we adopted~ thank goodness we made that choice, as the balance has tipped so far towards testosterone since!) others may be murkier (the second go-round we specified “young-ish”, open to newborn up to three years old.)

But for me the hardest part of the entire process, hands-down, was the single page listing full of possible “special needs” that we might consider.  Everything from congenital issues (Down syndrome, albinism, club foot, cleft palate, microcephaly, etc.) to infectious diseases (Hepatitis, HIV) to heritable issues present in birthparents (bi-polar disorder, diabetes, schizophrenia)  to less-than-ideal womb environment (smoking, alcohol use~ mild, moderate, severe, drug use~ mild, moderate, severe) was on the list.

And so the agonizing bit begins.  Agonizing because, with every box you do not tick with a “Yes” (As in, “Prepared to accept a child with this issue”), you are essentially saying “Sorry, kiddo, but your particular problem is too big to become my problem.”

And we all know, when you are adding to your family in the more traditional way, you don’t get to tick boxes.  You get what you get, no decision required.  (Actually now, with the fabulous advances in pre-natal testing, you do  indeed get to choose!  But that is a whole ‘nother topic.)

Though I am able to rationalize to some degree (”Children who have very intense medical needs will be better off in a smaller family…  And we can’t possibly move from our two-story home in this economy, so a child with limited mobility wouldn’t be the right fit…” etc.) in the end it is still agonizing.  And I am still a bit sad and ashamed that I didn’t just go down the list ticking every box with wild abandon and complete faith.

But we did tick quite a few.  The “healthy white newborn” wasn’t really on our radar.  We were open to Holland, or Morocco… or Spain or Russia or China or Haiti… and we trusted that the right child, the right journey, would come our way.  And it did… and we are so very glad that we said “yes” to Holland.

You know you’re a Quaker…

A week and a half ago my husband and I, along w/the kiddos, attended a mini-reunion of old college friends.  There were about ten of us that made it, and we had a good time chatting about our lives and recounting our memories of the years we spent together at our alma mater.  It is a small-ish Christian liberal arts college in SE Portland, and the denomination that the school is affiliated with is *not* Quaker.  I am sure that those of you familiar with the history and distinctives of the Society of Friends will appreciate how surprised I was to see my old college friend had a tattoo of George Fox prominently displayed on his bicep.  Now, he had other tattoos as well~ mostly the logos of the 80’s metal bands he is passionate about, as well as the insignia for Bruce Wayne’s alter ego and the once-again-rising local NBA team.  He had decorated both arms pretty fully.   Enough that when I first glanced towards him, before I had a chance to say hello, the tattoos were what I noticed.   Now, this friend is a nice guy, and a Christian, but a Quaker… um, not so much.  I’m thinking to myself, “George Fox?!  Hunh?”   So my mouth may have dropped a bit… and then I looked again.  And I laughed.  A lot.  In my head.  At myself.   Because this guy:

Is not this guy: