Where's the Kaboom?

Interview Tips for Athletes Christians

One of the talking points in the recent Duck Dynasty brouhaha was whether the GQ interviewer "set up" Phil Robertson, whether he "baited" him to say something controversial.

OF COURSE HE DID! That's journalism 101, people! Maybe not so much explicitly stated in journalism school, but certainly understood by any successful cable news network - controversy sells, controversy skyrockets ratings. So long as you walk the fine line of not utterly offending your advertisers, the more drama the better.

It reminds me of a certain little brother, poking and prodding and pushing buttons until… KABOOM!

Professional athletes and coaches come to understand this (or get lambasted by the media). They learn how to talk to reporters. They learn what to say and not to say when interviewed by the press. Christians need similar training. Listen, Jesus's message of love, grace, forgiveness doesn't translate well in a ten-second soundbite. Love comes from relationship. The media doesn't do relationship. The media does divisiveness and partisanship. How can Christians manage the soundbite so they can get on to the important business of being like Jesus?

I looked to the world of sports to give believers some tips on how to respond to the hostile interview.

Q: Why are you so outspoken about your religious beliefs?
A: The best defense is a good offense. And defense wins championships.

Q: In your opinion, what is sin?
A: Well, sin is definitely a difficult opponent. They're not going to pull any punches. I have the utmost respect for them, but I'm trained and ready for the match-up.

Q: But specifically, what is sin? Do you consider (current controversial subject) sin?
A: You know, I just have to play my game, not get caught up in the situation, worrying what the opposition is going to do.

Q: So, what are you saying? Do you sin?
A: I prefer not to dwell on the past. It's a marathon, not a sprint, you know. It will come back to haunt you.

Q: Haunt you? In what way? Are you talking about Hell?
A: This game, it's all mental. I'm working to keep my focus on the goal, my eye on the prize.

Q: Focus on what? Are you talking about Heaven?
A: I just need to take it one game at a time. If I make it to the championship, I owe it all to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Q: So tell me about Jesus. Do you consider Him the only way to salvation?
A: Jesus and me, we're a team. And there's no I in team. He's managing this ball club, and I plan to follow His playbook every step of the way.

Jesus was no stranger to the hostile interviewer. His critics attempted to trap him on a number of occasions.

Q: This woman was caught in sin. The law says she be put to death. What do you say?
A: Let him without sin cast the first stone.

Q: What about taxation? What's your position on the current tax rate versus charitable giving?
A: Give the government what belongs to the government, and to God what belongs to God.

Q: Which ONE of the ten commandments is the greatest?
A: Love. Love God, love others.

If Christians want to be outspoken, then by all means be outspoken. But know that divisiveness, hurt and misunderstanding may follow in its wake. We'd do well to keep our soundbites short and our relationships long. Love God, love others.

Haters to the Left; Haters to the Right

Two things I love about Facebook: 1) Connecting with far-away friends because I hate phone calls and I'm too lazy to remember to email and 2) perusing everyone's different views on current flashpoint issues.

Case in point: Duck Dynasty versus GLAAD. (To our friends in Africa who don't know that this is a thing - CAN I JOIN YOU?!? Google it, if you dare.)

This is big news! So big that it usurped the white Santa, black Santa debate. So big that it made the homepage of CNN.com, which is where I go when I want to learn what might actually be going on in the world. So big that I'm blogging about it at 6:28 am. (My son has been awake since 4:45 am, so he has long been ready for school with spelling words written and is content to watch the iPad.)

Christian friends whom I love and respect are firmly on the side of the Robertson family on this one. Links to blogs and articles supporting the Robertson family and their right to their Biblical beliefs/free speech popped up on Facebook almost immediately. These arguments make a lot of sense.

Christian friends whom I love and respect are firmly on the side of GLAAD on this one. Links to blogs and articles clarifying the fact that free speech has consequences and that Jesus loved the disenfranchised popped up on Facebook. These arguments make a lot of sense.

The comments and the vitriol have exploded on both sides. If you support Phil Robertson's comments, you are a right-wing hater. If you support A&E's decision to suspend him from the show, you are a left-wing hater.

We so easily and categorically put people's differing beliefs and opinions in a box marked IDIOT and ship it away without taking time to listen, to understand. You would think the 24-hour news cycle would allow for some reflective listening and conflict resolution. (It doesn't take that long. My elementary schoolers practice this.) But it is outrage and BIG OPINIONS that jack-ratings, not seeking to understand why one person might believe this way, why another might feel hurt by this belief, how we can find common ground.

And it's just easier, isn't it, to decide that the person who disagrees with you is a hater. To feel personally attacked by differing opinions, and so surround yourself with those who think like you.

I find it fascinating that Jesus had both a zealot (right-wing oppose-the-government hater) and a tax-collector (left-wing work-for-the-government hater) in his close circle of friends. Clearly, he wasn't bothered by differing opinions. My friend Scott Newland, a pastor with a monkey on his head (I'm not speaking metaphorically), wrote, "I think that a lot of people who disagree with teachings from the Bible would actually think Jesus was the coolest. After all, Jesus didn't condemn the people who did wrong things like X, Y and Z; he loved them. However he did condemn the religious snobs who rejected and looked down on those who did X, Y and Z.
 "I need to remind myself often not to just learn what he taught, but even more so to live how he lived."

It's hard to be holy. It's much easier to latch onto a list of rules.

It's hard to love your enemies. It's much easier to label.

Remember the Chick-fil-A, gay marriage kerfuffle that was all the news darling in 2012? Did you hear the rest of the story, in which Dan Cathy and LGBT activist Shane Windmeyer actually spoke to one another, IN PERSON? In which they BECAME FRIENDS?

I wouldn't be surprised if something similar happened with the Robertson family. If they met and dialogued with someone like Sarah Kate Ellis, GLAAD president.

The next time we find ourselves all fired on one side of a position or another, before immediately labeling the other side as bigoted, intolerant, agenda-seeking haters, let's first sit down and talk. Find out what they believe and why. Seek to understand. We may discover we have more in common than we thought.

One of my son's tutoring assignments is to write us a note everyday to improve his written fluency. (You'll see why in a minute.) Mostly the notes center around Spiderman. Today, this is what he wrote:

Translation: Jesus loves everybody how ever.
Jesus likes people how ever (their) skin
white, brown

Jesus transforms. Relationships transform. Vitriol and hatred enslave.

P.S. If you still have outrage and energy you need to expend, then by all means, jump on board: Stop Child Slavery, Pray for the Persecuted, Sponsor an Orphan in the War Zone…

Happy Birthday

Today is a day I thank God for your birth (SO!) many years ago. The circumstances were such that there might not have been a you had God not intervened. But God knew that this world needed a Trent - needed a son and a friend and a husband and a father just like you - and He was gracious in giving us exactly what we needed.

Today is a day that I thank your mom and your dad for pouring love and discipline and respect and a strong work ethic and a sense of humor into you. They were just what you needed to grow you into the man that God had in mind for you to become.

Today is a day that I thank God for crossing our paths, that He allowed the shy, skinny, (slightly) nerdy drama geek to connect with the popular, athletic baseball star. Thank you for walking beside me and growing with me, for listening and trying to understand and for always making me laugh when I want to fight.

Today is a day that I thank you for giving and sacrificing and laughing and loving. Thank you that you will spend your birthday refereeing our kids' dinner conversation and presiding over homework and administering Mr. Scratchy Beard instead of on the golf course or watching football. Thank you for teaching our children that the world is a bigger place than them, bigger than the east end of Louisville, and that they are kind enough and brave enough to make a difference in this big, brutal, beautiful world. Thank you for showing them everyday what it means to live with integrity.

Thank you for playing with your son in the snow
even though you hate all things cold.
Happy Birthday!

Failing Advent

I have grand plans. I read others' Christ-focused, Be Still, Make Memories Christmas blogs and I think, "Yes! This is the year!" The is the year we are going to be still and joyful and Christ-centered, but this is also the year we will make a lot of Christmas memories doing a lot of Christmas memory-making things that are sugar- and red-dye- and anxiety- and sensory-overload free because decorating the tree is not an excuse to argue with your sister! A DYSREGULATED DEFIANT MELTDOWN IS NOT BEING STILL! IT IS NOT!

This year Amor Ministries sent us an Advent Calendar with the challenge to cultivate a mission-focused life during this time of preparation. We love Amor. Amor has helped to build our family as we have helped to build its homes. So I thought, "Yes! This is the year we disrupt the Christmas craziness with amor, with love."

Night one we lit the Hope candle in our Advent wreath. Hope for the promise. "For you will have a son, and you will give him ---" Whoosh. The Hope candle lasted all of three seconds. We consider it a success that nothing else caught fire.

We tried a couple of "Disrupt Advent" challenges, in random order, because in our family disruption needs advance preparation. The best yet most difficult, ironically, was the "night without electricity," which we shortened to the "after I finish cooking we will eat dinner by candlelight." Again with the candles, chaos and dysregulation, but after, AFTER we turned the lights back on we turned them off again - HE turned them off again - to snuggle on the top bunk with flashlights and storybooks and remembrances.

Sometimes I forget. I forget that a night without electricity for me is an exciting challenge of trying to empathize with daily life a world away. But for my son, a night without electricity is to be thrust into early memories of the very real terrors that roam the dark. I forget that anything different - Christmas trees and snow days and Christmas pageants and Santa Claus and presents and parties and Advent candles - has the threatening power, in his mind, to turn his whole world upside down yet again. It takes practice and try agains and the felt safety of controlling the light to turn hard into healing.

So I have grand plans. This is the year we won't "Disrupt Advent". This is the year we will fail Advent. This is the year we will stick to our regularly scheduled programming as much as possible. Homework after school and VERY ACTIVE playtime before a 6:15 pm dinner then bath and stories and bed. When we must veer away for parties and presents and candles and cookies we will hug tight to each other, to the felt safety of family, to try agains, to the peace and patience of a Savior who came so we could take heart. For in a messy stable surrounded by the chaos of a world in trouble, He came. He overcame. And this year, that is our Advent.

He was an adorable Roman soldier. And he did sing this year.
He only looked murderous part of the time. He was a Roman soldier, after all.

Christmas Card

We are not sending out Christmas cards this year. My daughter is quite upset about this. And I would, if I could. But I have decided it's in the best interest of my family to better manage my stress level, and right now my stress level is hovering just under "RUN FOR THE HILLS! THE WISE MEN ARE ATTACKING!" So instead of designing, organizing, printing, picking up, addressing, going to the store to buy stamps, stamping and mailing cards, I'm going to take a yoga class. At the YMCA. Where they love my Paul and give him heart stamps for having such a great heart.

In spite of my inability to mail cards (seems a little thing, no?), please know that we love you and appreciate you and are thinking about you this holiday season. Feel free to swing by and visit us. The house won't be clean (that's another thing I'm letting go. The stress, you see), but there is always coffee and conversation.

Sam WILL be sending out letters about her upcoming mission trip Ghana. She, and we, would appreciate your prayers.

My mom took fabulous pictures on our trip to Hilton Head this summer, and these were planned for the Christmas card. (These are the ones in which we look happy and having fun. I will exclude the ones in which we were crying.) Please take a moment to imagine these pictures surrounded by our well wishes and holiday greetings.

Namaste.

Each Child

After a lengthy orientation process (a good thing), Sam and I finally met the Somali refugee family with whom we will work on English language learning and schoolwork during the next year. Four children ranging in age from six to eleven, with bright eyes and quick smiles and sing-song voices chirruping utterly incomprehensible stories. I don't speak any Somali (yet). They don't speak much English. Which creates a bit of a tricky situation when it comes to helping them meet the requirements of common core educational standards.

When Sam was entering second grade the public school system where we lived shuffled school boundary lines, so we were assigned to a different public school. We had loved her public school for all of Kindergarten and first grade. Bloomington, IN, tends to have wonderful schools, due in part to the university's provision of student teachers, educational aides and extensive best-practices research (Go IU!), as well as a solid tax-base that provides necessary funding. We used the reshuffling as an opportunity to explore school options, which included visiting schools, reviewing curriculum, meeting teachers and evaluating test scores.

I remember wondering about those standardized test scores as we visited. The administration of the various schools presented the test scores as though comparing apples to apples. But I was working for Child Protective Services at the time. And I knew that a child who is hungry and homeless does not learn as well, let alone test as well, as his well-fed and sheltered classmate across town. A child who was barely spoken to let alone read to in their first years of life does not have the same foundational cognitive skills as their born-to-caring-and-well-educated-parents peer. What about children who learn differently? Does a standardized test score truly show their potential or, even more important, how to empower that potential?

We ended up enrolling Sam in a small Christian school for second grade. Their standardized test scores weren't as good as the public school from which we came nor the public school to which we were assigned, but I knew this was due, in part, to several children with difficult backgrounds and learning differences whose parents chose the school for the personalized and caring attention their children received. It was at this school that the teacher alerted us to the potential underlying cause of Sam's struggles with reading, and we were able to provide interventions. The transformation when those auditory connections were made and when phonics suddenly made sense, when reading became FUN, still makes me smile.

Our Somali students are attending a public school on the south side of Louisville. I met the principal of this school several years ago at a book talk I gave on Jericho Walls. He was exuberant and passionate and seemed enamored with my work (which was undoubtedly appealing). We worked together to arrange funding for every fifth grader to receive an autographed copy of Jericho Walls to correlate with a unit on the civil rights movement. It was evident he loved his students and he cared about their success. I'm thrilled our Somali students are attending this school.

It is a school with poor comparative test scores. It is considered a "near-to-failing" school.

It is a school with a large percentage of refugee students, students for whom English is their second, third, even fourth language. Students who were born into poverty, without access to books, education, food, shelter.

I know, from our extensive orientation training, that refugee children in Kentucky comprise a large number of high school drop outs. The struggles to acclimate to, let alone succeed in, our educational process is too great. Their families need them to spend that study time working to provide enough to make ends meet. If they are failing to meet standards, anyway, why not just get a job?

When I hear a news report on United States students' academic ranking worldwide I'm always curious about averages versus range. Because I know many US students at the top of international standardized testing. I know because many of these students attend Sam's current school - they are brilliant and hard working and creative and academically gifted. I also know there are many more students across Louisville who spent their early childhoods fleeing war and homelessness and devastation. They are brilliant and hard working and creative and have no idea how to complete the sentence: There is no doubt that Larry is a genuine ------- : he excels at telling stories that fascinate his listeners.

I don't know the answers. (To the overarching questions, that is. The answer to the question above is raconteur. I know that because I was born to well-educated, upper income parents who read to me and  supported my learning.) Teachers are overworked and underpaid and under appreciated as it is. Curriculum and educational practices are normed to the middle, to averages. Meeting the needs of the exceptionally gifted as well as those who struggle outside that bell curve requires individualized assessment that isn't possible with standardized testing; it requires individualized attention that just isn't feasible in the majority of educational environments. 

But Sam and I will do our best to stand in the gap for each of our four. Guul ayaan kuu rajaynayaa!

Correct Diagnosis

Two weeks ago, just before we ventured to Atlanta to meet up with good friends from long ago and far away, P had a couple of tiny bumps in the middle of his back. He tends toward dry, itchy skin if we don't moisturize well (Eucerin Aquaphor, we thank you) and perhaps I had neglected the upper middle back.

By the end of the emotionally-charged but fabulous weekend, the rash had grown, spreading toward the shoulder blades. It looked, to me, suspiciously like a case of ringworm. *Note to gentle readers: ringworm is not caused by a worm. It is caused by a fungus, which, admittedly, does not sound any less gross. But it is prevalent in about 20% of the population, especially children, at any one time. And easily treatable. So, meh, a quick trip to the doc for clortimazole (or something like that) should clear that right up. But our doctor could not accommodate an appointment in the two 15-minute windows I offered on Monday. So we swung by the Little Clinic on the way home.

The doctor thought ringworm, but also maybe eczema, as the rash had a mix of itchy bumps. We got the prescription, picked up more aquaphor, and slathered away.

A week later the medicine is gone, but the rash is worse, much worse. No one else in the family had even the mildest case of ringworm, which made me say, "Hmmm," as it is quite contagious. I had a bit more of a window on Tuesday, and our pediatrician could squeeze us in after lunch.

I love our pediatrician. Love, love. She is thorough and caring and has experience working with homegrown teenagers like our S as well as with international adoptees and developmental trauma. She moves carefully and talks softly and respects his space and calms his fears. We are blessed. (And also that we have a high-deductible HSA, so whether the practice stays in-network or moves out-of-network we plan to continue with them, paying as we go.) She checked him thoroughly. "I don't think it's ringworm," she said. She pointed out the similarities and the differences. Then, "Has he had strep or complained of a sore throat?"

He had gone through a period of visiting the school nurse several weeks before, complaining of a sore throat, but no fever and no redness and no swelling. We thought it was maybe anxiety because the complaints generally came during phonics and reading time.

"I think it's guttate psoriasis," she said, "but let me do a little more research." A few minutes later she came back with pictures and symptomology. Sure enough. *Note to gentle readers: guttate psoriasis sounds creepy, but it's kinda fascinating. It's a rash caused by the body's immune system responding to the streptococcal bacteria. By the time the rash appears (and in many people during the initial sore throat/respiratory strep infection stage) the strep test is negative and the person is not contagious. But without treatment the rash can last three months or more - very itchy - which can lead to other difficulties.

A couple of days on antibiotics and hydrocortisol cream and the rash is quickly disappearing.

Which made me feel grateful for a correct diagnosis and the appropriate treatment. It makes all the difference.

Sometimes in my school counseling job our best laid guidance and classroom clinical interventions don't seem to help. We want students to feel successful emotionally, socially and behaviorally as well as academically. But what will best help this particular student, with his particular strengths, difficulties, family life and experiences? Psychological and educational diagnosis are admittedly more difficult than, say, a strep test. The brain is so amazing and complicated, and is impacted by so many variables. But the incredible strides in brain-based research over the last decade, shedding light on neurodevelopmental complications such as the autism spectum, fetal alcohol effects, ADHD, developmental trauma, post-traumatic stress, anxiety, depression gives me hope for the healing benefits of a correct diagnosis and insight into interventions that provide opportunities for every student to learn and engage and look forward to a future filled with hope. 

Uplifters

I'm having one of those down days. Maybe you know the one - kind of headachy and run down, nothing seriously major enough to warrant the weepy breakdown this morning all day long, but a lot of little things from a lot of different areas in life all circling like vultures.

I needed a good cry, I surely did. Ad Vingerhoets, a leading expert on crying (yes, there is such a thing), notes that "situations that induce crying are always related to loss or separation." Today happens to be the birthday of my longtime boss and mentor, Gary Rowe. Even after I moved several times and changed jobs several times he was my go-to guy, one of the few people I could call when work in the counseling world felt too heavy. By nature counseling is a private profession; we tend to hold others' hurts silent and close to our hearts, but he was my load sharer. He had a wit and wisdom that put my role in even the most difficult of situations into a hopeful perspective. Gary passed away six months before we got Paul (oh, he would have loved Paul!) after a six year battle with cancer.

I'm really pissed at cancer.

I suppose my crying jag is fitting because I cried a lot with Gary. In retrospect, that probably wasn't very professional of me. This was my first grownup job. He was my boss. But he was the kind of person who made it okay, who helped you through the cry and out the other side a better counselor and a better person.

One thing about Gary - he really enjoyed life. He savored it. I grew up with the impression that Christians ought turn up their noses at the pleasures of this world - in the world but not of it, that sort of thing - but Gary held the opposite stance. He figured that Jesus got accused of being a glutton and a drunk, and so he should walk VERY closely in His footsteps. He was that kind of fun.

He nurtured and maintained my addiction to very good, very expensive coffee. So today I drank one two three cups of Joybean Coffee in his honor. (Because really, where's the fun in moderation?) Sam brought me a bag of Joybean Coffee from her mission trip to Nicaragua, JUST after my Lenten coffee fast. (I have since purchased three more bags.) Everything about this coffee makes me smile - high-altitude Arabica coffee grown organically, bought at fair- and living-wage prices, roasted and sold to benefit the children at Metanoia Children's Home in Nicaragua. It's uplifting, just like Gary.

Is It Still Dark at MIS?

Paul loves to know what time it is at MIS, the care center where he used to live. The six hour time diffence is both puzzling and fascinating. (To me, also.) Yesterday afternoon we were driving from school to the offices of Kentucky Refugee Ministry. (That detail seemed relevant to me at the time. Maybe it is. I'm not sure.) "Is it dark at MIS?" Paul asked.

I looked at the clock. 3:45 pm Kentucky time = 9:45 pm Lesotho time. "Yeah, buddy, it's dark in Lesotho. The kids are probably all sleeping."

"Not the big kids," Paul said. "They's having a campfire for a little bit."

I stayed quiet, although I was curious. A campfire? Sometimes, if I don't press, these remembrances continue. And sometimes, not always, I can ferret out true happenings in his past from fantasy wish fulfillment. He didn't elaborate, though, but continued to draw in his journal.

"Will all the kids get 'dopted?" he asked after a few minutes.

Interestingly, we had just gotten an email from a friend in Lesotho updating the lastest match meeting. Eleven children (out of approximately 200,000 orphans in the entire country) were matched. Which is wonderful, yes, but fewer than the possible 16 allowed per match meeting. (Four children per adopting country.) "Well, we can pray that all the kids will be adopted into a family that loves them," I said.

"But will they?" (He's my realist.)

"Probably not," I answered truthfully.

"Will the big kids get 'dopted?" he asked.

"I don't know, buddy." By now my eyes are prickling and I'm trying not to cry. The faces of two particular big kids are etched in my mind. One, a boy with a soccer ball tucked under his arm and a megawatt smile, is Paul's abuti, the brother figure who looked out for him at the care center. Another, a tall, thin girl with shy eyes is Paul's best friend's sister. As David Platt said, "Orphans are easier to ignore before you know their names."

"What they gonna do with no famb'ly?"

"I don't know." I thought of the street kids we'd met in Lesotho. What are they gonna do?

"Some kids won't get 'dopted," he said. "Retsedesie died. Why?"

Now I'm crying and I'm realizing in just a few minutes I have to convince the KRM youth director that Sam and I are emotionally stable enough to tutor refugee children, who are also from hard places. "He got really sick, buddy. But he was with M'e Mamonyane and Miss Nancy and his sister and KB, and they all really loved him."

"At MIS, if a kid got a big hurt, he just laid down. Sometimes a M'e helped, but sometimes they's busy. We didn't have a doctor. Some kids went to hospital, but then they stayed there."

Sometimes the world is a terrible place. "It's really hard, isn't it?"

He was quiet for a minute. "Is it still dark at MIS?"

"Yeah, buddy. It's still dark."

P.S - If you feel called to support children from hard places, many of whom won't get 'dopted, I encourage you to visit Ministry of Hope, working in Malawi and Lesotho to provide feeding centers, educational scholarships, and support for single mothers. Or check out Orphan Care Alliance and their work with vulnerable children in Louisville and around the world.

P.P.S - MIS, the care center where Paul lived, was shut down in March. Many of those children went to Beautiful Gate, Ministry of Hope and other locations (including the street) throughout the country.

I Am From

I am from cornfields stretching green toward the end of earth;
watching Daddy hatch speckled brown eggs into living yellow peeps
and a Mama who could crack a chicken-thieving gopher between the eyes.

I am from a big small town
with Friday night football
and state championship basketball dreams that fall just short.

I am from padded pews and basement youth groups, old hymns and camp songs;
unworthy and afraid of a God of judgment, rules and thou shalt nots
until He met me in that dark insecurity with the blazing light of beloved.

I am from feeling just outside the inside
longing for ease of carefree laughter in the midst of admiring crowd;
finding peace in a quiet room of books, prayers, intimate conversation.

I am from Narnia and Middle Earth;
Terabithia and Maycomb, Alabama, and the road to Damascus;
from words that weave hope, bring truth.

I am from high school sweethearts growing up together
toward stained glass pronouncements of to love and to cherish;
twenty years grateful for his integrity, laughter, strength melding into me.

I am from Mom, what's for dinner, I need a ride, where's my homework,
hurry, we're going to be late and I don't wanna go and why do we hafta leave so early.
From hugs in shades of skin intertwined into hearts that beat forever love.

Kimberly Brubaker Bradley's beautiful "I Am From" blog linked me to the South African Heritage Day Synchroblog from SheLoves. Which was actually on Tuesday but I am from a heritage of promptness hijacked by the bossiness of too busy.

Parent Meeting

On Tuesday evening the head coach of the mighty mites football team called a parent meeting. He didn't say why, but I had a hunch it had something to do with the sideline parents who were yelling so disrespectfully during a game that security needed to be called to calm things down. Just a hunch.

If you're not familiar with the world of American-style youth tackle football (I wasn't), the mighty mites are ages five to seven. So, kindergarten, first and second graders. This is the level of play in which coaches must focus primarily on reminding kids which DIRECTION to run. The team has eight coaches - two played in the NFL, half-a-dozen played D1 college football, and a couple are police officers. They channel their vast football knowledge into a group of fidgety, excitable, attention-deficient - "squirrel!" - hyperactive little boys. But on Saturday several parents were frustrated with our passing game (OMG - how do six year olds even HAVE a passing game?) - so, yes, security was called.

The head coach is amazing. I'm overlooking the fact that he played for University of Kentucky because 1) his offensive line coach played for IU and 2) he is a man of integrity and character who desires nothing more than to instill integrity and character into the lives of each of the little boys that he coaches. And to respect each parent right where they are. Football is his mission field.

Most of the parents respect him right back, and are grateful for the structure, discipline, work ethic, character and fun these coaches are instilling into the lives of these baby ballers. Most of the parents entered the season the way Trent and I entered the season, I think, hoping the coaches would teach our kids some football fundamentals and also run them enough to take a bit of the edge off their energy. The "yes, sirs!" and touchdown thrills are bonus.

But there's fear and longing in the hearts of many of the parents, too. I hear it. I hear it in the group of dads sitting two rows over discussing when to apply for Trinity football season tickets in the event their (six-year-old) someday starts for Trinity. (Trinity has one of the top high school football teams in the nation.) I hear it in the parents screaming at the coaches about "favoritism!" and "play my kid 'cuz that kid sucks!" I hear it in the parents complaining about the plays being called and how the coaches are SO stupid.

I can only surmise that the dad with NO coaching experience and NO football experience beyond high school is so invested in his son's success that it has completely overridden his good sense.

Part of me gets so angry with those loudmouth parents, especially when they are screaming at the coaches in earshot of my son. I feel so judgmental because just SHUT UP ALREADY. But another part of me feels stabbed in the heart with HYPOCRITE ALERT because I've done my share of ranting and raving and complaining about coaches and playing time and all those other first-world sports problems. (I just tend, by nature, to be rather quiet, so security doesn't get called.) It's clear those dads love their kids. That counts for alot in today's world, when so many parents are emotionally or physically absent. Those dads are at EVERY game and EVERY practice. (I know. I hear them.)

I expected the mighty mites parents meeting to be a spectacle. (To be honest, I was halfway hoping it would be a spectacle. Better blog post.) But the head coach handled it with grace and vulnerability and authenticity. He met each question head on. He shared the great lengths the coaches take to avoid "daddy ball". He discussed the relative merits of offense versus defense. He outlined the depth chart and the coaches' strategies to develop each individual player. He discussed who's playing where and why and what a child needed to do if he wanted more playing time at an individual spot. He talked about the running game and the passing game, the offensive line and the defensive line. He congratulated us that each child on the team (almost) now knows which direction to go with the ball.

And he reminded parents to enjoy watching their kids play. Because this time goes so fast.

I remember this past spring, during softball senior night, the dad of our senior third baseman watching his little girl's last home game. She had decided not to play in college, not because she didn't have the ability (she does!), but because priorities change. Her softball career was winding down. "I just love watching her play," he said. "I'm gonna miss it. I just love to watch her play."

And I remembered an article written the year before in which college and professional athletes were asked the most helpful thing their parents said to them about their sport. The answer, "I just love to watch you play."

So this season I'm going to remember that I do. I love to watch Paul run - head up, shoulders back. I love to watch him take the ready stance, tensed for the "hut!" I love to watch him smacking his teammates' backs as they break the huddle. I love to watch him play. I love to watch Sam step into the batter's box, confident she can handle anything thrown her way. I love to watch her run, long legs quickly picking up steam on a stand-up triple. I love to watch the quick reaction time and teammwork on a short to first to third double play (against BALLARD!) I love to watch her play.

This year I'm making a promise to myself that THIS is what they're going to hear from me - not the plays they missed or then shots they whiffed or the complaints against coaches/umpires/opposition - but that I just really love to watch them play.

Best Effort

So, my first grader has been getting warnings and calendar marks for talking too much at school. Did you hear that? He has been TALKING. At SCHOOL! To PEOPLE!

Do you remember last year when he communicated only in barely perceptible head nods and shakes? When he wouldn't talk above a whisper? English and school and life was just too overwhelming for the spoken word.

And now he's talking TOO MUCH?

Hoorah! Hoorah! Happy dance. Whoot, whoot, holla', holla'!

I mean... sorry teachers... what I mean is... Dude, I'm so glad you're talking. I'm thrilled you have a burning curiosity about the world. I'm ecstatic you have the words to ask ALL THE QUESTIONS. I'm moved to tears that you now feel safe enough to talk ALL OF THE TIME to LOTS OF PEOPLE.

But now my curious, excited, safe seven-year-old we need to learn how to be quiet and listen when it's time to be quiet and listen.

This takes some effort, people. We have a year's worth of pent up questions and conversation. Questions and conversations that sometimes go like this:
P:  "Mom, 'member dat one boy?"
Me: ?
P: "You know! Dat one boy from de place!"
Me: ?
P: "Mom! Dat boy! I played with him! You 'member!"
Me: No idea, but trying to avoid a meltdown. "Um, sure. Okay."
P: "Why he do dat one thing? Why?"

So we've been practicing our "be quiet and listen." A lot. This is the kind of practice I really, really enjoy. For five minutes while I read/tell this story, keep all questions, comments, rememberings and tangential remarks to yourself. After the story you may raise your hand and ask away.

This is harder than I realized for certain seven year old boys. But practice makes you better, right? So we're gonna keep on practicing.

On Friday after school Paul bounced into the car, bubbling over with excitement. "Look! Look! Look at my calendar!" He pulled his folder out of his backpack and thrust it all me as I'm trying to pull out of the carpool circle.

(Side note - Did you know that driving with a child in the car is one of the leading causes of driver-distraction car crashes, according to the American Automobile Association. Someone should pass a law. Seriously.)

Best effort! Talking AND listening. It's been a milestone week!

Namaste Today

I am not a very good yoga practitioner. (There is probably a name for such a person who "does yoga stuff", but I don't even know what that name might be.) I used to think yoga was a little wimpified. Time is limited, and with only an hour to work out a couple times a week, I thought my workout hour needed to include serious sweat and a bit of pain. Long lovely deep breaths and strange contortions didn't seem to fit the bill.

I also need to admit that I had been a little bit brainwashed against yoga. Not for exercise reasons, but for religious reasons. A elder in a church I used to attend, a man I greatly admired, was opposed to yoga as a spiritual practice that contradicted Christianity. I like to think I am not one to be influenced by others' ideas without thoroughly researching and studying the topic myself, but if I'm honest I took his counsel to heart without ever consulting God on the issue.

But then came a long, hot summer with too many weeks without camp while all the neighborhood friends did have camp and so weren't home to play. Turns out, my son enjoys the Kids' Club at the YMCA and they will keep him for TWO HOURS at NO EXTRA CHARGE so long as my membership is current and I stay somewhere in the facility. Needless to say, I made full use of all my membership perks this summer.

Two hours meant I could (theoretically) run and lift and take a class. There are lots of classes to choose from, and one that often coincided with the Kids' Club hours was power yoga. (Not sure if there is a difference between power yoga and regular yoga, but power yoga sounds way cooler.)

Power yoga kicked my butt. It doesn't LOOK especially difficult - a bunch of people taking deep breaths while standing on one bare foot in a dim room - but I left with shaky muscles and a calm mind.

The instructor opened and closed each class with the blessing, "Namaste." I didn't know what this meant so I ran home to look it up (you know, just in case I was being led down some dark spiritual path). It means - that which is divine in me honors that which is divine in you. Mother Teresa used this to bless those for whom she cared. That part of me that is made in the image of God sees that part of you that is made in the image of God. I find this beautiful.

Most of us remember where we were twelve years ago. I do. We had just moved to a new city with three year old Sam. I had signed up for a Women's Bible study (free childcare) on Experiencing God. Registration and coffee from 8:30 to 9:00 then the study started at 9:00. A few women wandered in a 9:00 with some puzzling news: "I just heard on the radio that a plane hit the World Trade Center." And we thought weird. A single engine, small aircraft must have lost control. So sad.

The introduction to the study got underway, but before too long switched gears as the leader began to fervently pray. God you are our refuge and strength; an ever-present help in times of trouble. May we not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. And then she shared the news: "The World Trade Center Towers have been hit. The Pentagon has been hit. All appear to be coordinated acts of terror." May God have mercy.

We collected our children and went home to phone calls and covert news reports so as not to scare the littles and prayers. And I heard the cries for retribution and I felt those cries in my own heart and I worried. Oh, God, may we not be overcome by evil. And in the midst of evil we saw the good as friends, neighbors, strangers reached out a hand of blessing to one another. That which is divine in me honors that which is divine in you.

And today, as we remember to never forget, as we ache over a world still shattered by terror, as we debate retribution and bombing strikes and WHAT SHALL WE DO I pray Oh, God. May we not be overcome by evil. May we find a way to overcome evil with good. And I look for a way to Namaste.

Syria Link Up

On Tuesday evening Sam and I attended a volunteer orientation at Kentucky Refugee Ministries. Louisville and Lexington combined have one of the largest refugee resettlement programs in the United States, with over 10,000 refugees having found new homes in these bluegrass hills. We watched an oldish video showing the worldwide refugee situation. After the video the volunteer coordinator said, "The estimated number of 15 million refugees worldwide is no longer correct. Currently the number is an estimated 22 million. And that will most likely rise due to...well, due to recent events." And a silence fell over the room because recent events weighed heavy in our hearts: oh, Syria.

Many years ago a dear writer friend, Elsa Marston, published FIGS AND FATE, a collection of short stories about growing up in the Arab world - Egypt, Iraq, Lebanon, Palestine and Syria. I fell in love with her characters and with the world they inhabited. I longed to travel to those ancient and foreign lands. Some day. But now... oh, Palestine; oh, Lebanon; oh, Iraq; oh, Egypt; oh, Syria.

I feel baffled and helpless: It's Too Big.

I've tried to educate myself with: 9 Questions about Syria You Were Too Embarrassed to Ask.

In keeping with my preference of getting my news from Saturday Night Live, I read The Onion. Specifically, Al-Assad's commentary: So What's It Going to Be?

and I voted with the rest of America to put boots on the ground by Sending Congress to Syria.

I realized that the international terror alert levels spoof attributed to John Cleese wasn't really written by him, but it's hilarious nevertheless: Syria Conflict Raises Terror Alert Levels Worldwide.

But as much as I want to look away, to laugh it all away, I know that we must stay engaged, we must maintain a Mindful Response to Atrocities.

The decision to strike or not to strike is not mine to make. The aid I am able to send may barely make a dent. But I can reach my hands to heaven and cry to the God of all nations. Oh, God! Why do the nations conspire against you and the peoples plot in vain. The leaders of the earth rise up and band together against the Lord and against his anointed. I can join with the world in Begging Our God for Mercy, Refuge, Peace.

Photo sources from http://visual.ly/save-syria

My Brush with Celebrity in the Guise of a Homeless Man

So, Wednesday I was asked to lead devotions on Thursday for this amazing group of elementary teachers. I had gotten out of the habit of going to Thursday morning devotions because Thursday is my morning to work from home, and so I generally stay in my pajamas until around 10:30 writing and editing drinking coffee and checking facebook, but I missed them (devotions, not pajamas) and asked if I could figure out a way to rework my schedule so I could go to devotions. Which I have a suspicion is going to mean no more pajamas or facebook on Thursday mornings, but sometimes God asks us to sacrifice, you know? It also sometimes means being asked on Wednesday if you can devote something on Thursday.

I stayed up late Wednesday night praying and writing searching YouTube. I thought I'd read something to the teachers from Ragamuffin Prayers because the writers and the artists have a depth of wisdom and rawness and grace to their prayers that I admire. But as I was reading I came across a prayer and accompanying lyrics to a song called "Hard to Get", and I watched a personal video and I started remembering.

When I was twenty-four and just out of graduate school I got my first "real" job as the support and recovery group director at a large church in Indianapolis. I have no idea how I got this job. My counseling training was at an uber-secular college, I'd done my internship under the mentoring of an atheist, and I hadn't much been to church save Christmases and Easters and our wedding for the last six years. I was a bit skeptical about working at a church, but the counseling pastor was so genuine and funny and brilliant that I knew working with him I'd have a blast and learn a ton. Somehow he slipped my obvious deficits in religious knowledge past the elder board and offered me a job. I guess this was God's way to get me back in church, and I'm grateful.

One night after a group I was packing up to head home when a man in a white T-shirt and faded jeans shuffled downstairs to my room in the basement warren. "Is Gary around?" he asked, looking for my boss, the counseling pastor.

"He's still in a meeting." I nodded toward another room. "Can I help you?"

"We can just hang out while we wait," he said. He straddled a chair and considered me. I considered him back, while trying to appear as if I wasn't, trying to appear nonchalant. I was a counselor now, you see, so I thought I was supposed to seem wise and accepting and as if I'd seen it all. But...

He wasn't wearing shoes.

Not like just-kicked-off-my-shoes-at-the-door-because-it's-late-and-I-have-a-blister, but like these-calloused-feet-haven't-seen-shoes-in-years not wearing shoes. This was surburban Indianapolis, a rather well-to-do area and, well, people wore shoes. They just did. We had a clothing closet at the church, to which Gary had a key, so, okay, whatever, none of my business, really. Still.

He stared at me as if he knew what I was thinking but didn't much mind. "What's it like for you, working at a church?" he asked.

I've never been good at small talk, especially small talk about myself. I was usually the one asking the questions. But this didn't seem like small talk. He leaned forward.

"Oh. Well." Somehow, the civil and polite society answer of "fine" didn't seem appropriate. He had a childlike intensity, like a kid desperate to take something apart, to figure out how it worked. I glanced toward the door, wishing Gary would hurry. "There's a lot more to church life and politics than I ever realized," I said.

He wanted to know more. And so we talked for a bit. I don't remember what about, but I do remember that I forgot to care that he wasn't wearing shoes. My concerns that he might be off his medication dissipated. He had a spiritual depth, a way of looking at life through a slightly different lens. I do remember one question he asked. "What is something that scares you?"

I didn't answer. Maybe because the question itself scared me, maybe because Gary arrived. The two greeted each other like brothers. Hmmm, I thought. Odd for a counselor-client relationship. "Oh good, you've met," Gary said.

"Um." I realized we'd overlooked the formalities of names and such. "Kristi Thompson," I said, extending my hand.

"Rich Mullins," he said, shaking it.

I was still new to this church thing, and I hadn't yet familiarized myself with the Christian music scene. That name rang a bell, but I couldn't quite place it. I glanced at Gary. He was laughing at me. Rich seemed oblivious. He reached into his bag and pulled out an instrument I didn't recognize. "Let's hear it," Gary said. Rich settled in, that same childlike intensity on his face, and began to play, masterfully play, what I later learned was a hammered dulcimer. The pieces clicked into place. Rich Mullins, Christian music artist, "Awesome God" and "Sing Your Praises to the Lord" and other songs even I in my ignorance knew and loved.

Gary and Rich had been friends in college, and were still close. Rich blew in and out of the church several times in the years I worked there, sometimes giving concerts, sometimes just stopping by to talk through spiritual revelations. I didn't know him well, but I think everyone who brushed against him felt  his love, his genius, his intensity, his brokenness, his exuberance. He was the most famous person I'd ever met, but he didn't want to be a celebrity. He wanted to be like Jesus.

And he didn't care what a first year counselor might think about his lack of footwear.

That wasn't what my Thursday morning devotion was about, though, not really. I veered off topic, into thinking about Rich's question about what scared me. But this devotion got me remembering two men, Gary and Rich, who didn't much care about power or fame or fortune, but rather who knew how to walk with Jesus with abandon, and who are probably just now enjoying a killer jam session with their Lord.

And they probably aren't either one of them wearing shoes.

How Hard Is Too Hard? (and how do you know?)

After my last post,  a friend private messaged me to ask, "How hard is too hard? And how do you know if it's a hard something your kid can do, or if he's so NOT ready that it could be hurtful?"

Great question! I put on my licensed clinical counselor hat, assessed the latest scientific research, and confidently responded, "I don't know."

I don't know. How hard is too hard? There are so many variables. This July our son started playing tackle football. We signed up with a friend, which is always a bonus. (Not included on the flow chart below, but friend involvement usually counts as a supportive relationship and can help kids do harder than they might do alone.) But this friend was one of the youngest on the team, and wasn't ready, wasn't having fun at all, so friend dropped out. Now Paul is on this very intense tackle football team (think the drills at football camp in Remember the Titans) without friend and without understanding much of what American football is all about.

So football is hard. He never wants to go to practice, and will start telling us he doesn't want to go to practice from the moment he wakes up and realizes it's a practice day. (But once he's AT practice, in the care of one of the six foot five inch, 300 pound, former NFL player coaches, he's fine. And he says, "Yes, sir!" a lot.) So we really struggled, all of July, if this activity was good for him, if this was TOO hard, if we should let him quit. I asked my facebook adoption support group, people who know trauma kids, and got a wide variety of answers and opinions. Basically, their advice all boiled down to, "I don't know."

So I put together a flow chart:

So the arrows don't all line up, but I'm proud of myself for figuring out how to get this flow chart in the blog in the first place. It was hard! But I can do hard things. ;)

Generally, I'm a fan of letting kids try hard. Failure's not the worst thing that will ever happen to them. In fact, failure may be the best thing that will ever happen to them, especially if they fail knowing that you love them, you support them, and you are right there backing them up and encouraging them to try again. 

“Success is 10 percent inspiration and 90 percent perspiration.” Thomas Alva Edison

Doing hard teaches them how to perspire.

Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; ⁴ perseverance, character; and character, hope (Romans 3:3-4).

Suffering, perseverance, character, hope. If our kids know they can do hard with God in their corner, then they know they can do anything.

Football practice is still not his favorite thing,
but he's learning what it takes to be a warrior.
And we're there cheering like crazy people.

Is it too hard for a seven-year-old to mow the grass?
No, no it's not. (It may look a little whack, but he's SO proud of himself!
And I'm thrilled to have a child who wants to attempt yard work!)

Doing Hard

When Sam was 12 years old she had a purple belt in Shaolin Kempo Karate, training for a blue belt. She had already decided to take a break from karate - she was also playing field hockey and basketball and softball, so SOMETHING had to give. Also, at this level there were very few girls her age, so she had to spar mostly boys or adults, and this was beginning to feel awkward. But she had been studying for this belt for nearly a year, and she wanted to test before she turned her attention to other things.

The instructor warned us before the test that 1) it was an incredibly difficult test at least two, maybe three hours long, 2) they were rigorous in their awarding of belts so she might not pass, and 3) no other kids were testing. Only adults. Adult men. We had the option to back out, thank-you-very-much-we'll-stick-with-purple.

But Sam wanted to test. She had studied for that blue belt, training two, three, four times a week, sparring sweaty, stinky boys twice her size. So Trent and I dropped her off at the dojo, with instructors that I respect and trust very much. But as we watched the other students walk in, grown men in their 20's and 30's, everything in me wanted to grab my baby girl and haul out of there, back to the safety and comfort of our suburban home where we didn't need to know Pinans or Kata or how to break a two-handed choke hold.

Like most moms, I want my kids to be happy. I want them to feel successful and confident, to know they are loved and valued. I want them to feel safe and protected. I don't necessarily want them to spend two plus hours in a gym blocking attacks and throwing punches in rapid-fire combinations. It was a difficult wait.

When we picked her up her face was stoic, exhausted, set in that don't-even-look-at-me-or-I-will-cry-and-I-don't-want-to-cry-in-front-of-these-people expression. My heart plummeted. What had we done?

The minute she got in the car she did cry. I felt even worse. I didn't know what to say. I had let her go through with this and it had been terrible and I was an awful mom who had probably scarred her for life and why had I even allowed her to take karate in the first place.

"I'm so proud of you," I said lamely.

"That was so hard," she said. She told us some of what they'd had to do, the physical and emotional stress. "I hurt all over." Then she pulled out the belt from her duffel, the blue belt. "But I did it." And we both cried. Because she had done hard. And now she knew she could.

Cute but ferocious. My baby tiger.

Sometimes I talk to parents whose kids are struggling with academics or with friendships, with a teacher or a classmate, and I hear that this is so hard. Everything in that parent wants to make it right, to fix it, to switch classes or change teachers or redo grading policies to ensure that their kids are happy and successful. And sometimes it is a situation in which someone in authority needs to step in to confront meanness or address injustice. But sometimes, a lot of times, it is a situation in which a grown up needs to say, "Yes. This is hard. You might hurt. You might fail. But with God in your corner, you can do hard things."

Because when you know that you can do hard things, then you can do anything.

Edge of the volcano. Nicaragua.

I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. Philippians 4:13

The Power of Sport

I hadn't realized I missed softball. Sam's opportunity to visit Europe for practically the entire summer meant she couldn't participate in summer travel softball. Honestly, I wasn't too heartbroken over this. Last summer, when Paul was newly home, two nights a week and every weekend we had a dilemma. Should we travel to the practices/games as a family (but, honestly, there was little "family time" as Sam was playing and Trent was assistant coaching and I was left trying to entertain Paul who didn't much like anything about long, hot softball games except the hotdogs) OR should I stay at home with Paul, much as I had done every day ALL SUMMER LONG, trying to think of fun and creative things we could do without leaving our neighborhood because he didn't much like to leave our neighborhood?

So no softball this summer? No crazy softball parents screaming and yelling and complaining about playing time, no softball gossip about this-or-that team who stole this-or-that player because of this-or-that coach, no must-be-completely-blind softball umpires, no softball concession stands that JUST ran out of ice and water and hotdogs, no softball Gatorade loaded with Red 40, no softball rain delays in teeny-tiny towns with nothing else to do, no softball quadruple headers in 100 degree heat, no softball hotels with three hundred fourteen year old girls racing up and down the hallways, no softball gate fees, no softball playgrounds strategically positioned so the parents who must entertain their small ones have no chance whatsoever of actually watching the game? No softball player annoyed that you missed her last at-bat because you were distracted by little brother?

Honestly, I wasn't too heartbroken over this.

And, if truth be told, I get a little cynical about youth sports in America. Which I realize is totally hypocritical because now I have not one but two children who are full-on participants in youth sports in America. But that's different because my kids are involved for the character building and discipline and work ethic and fun, not because I'm grooming my youngest for his shot at the Olympic games and a feature spot in a P&G commercial. (Although if you saw the strength of his trunk and the level of his energy you'd enroll him in gymnastics with visions of front-row seats at gold medal ceremonies, too. And also the gymnastics club has a parents-night-out once a month.)

Then last night Sam and I volunteered for Special Olympics KY regional softball tournament. And as I climbed the rickety ladder to the scorekeeper booth and as we stood for the crackly rendition of The Star Spangled Banner, with the athletes lined up on the field, and as the athletes cheered when they heard Sam announce their names in the line up I remembered what I love about this sport. None of these teams were vying for the World Series (although they were hoping to qualify for the state softball tournament) and none were maneuvering for softball scholarships and none of their parents were pacing the sidelines, screaming at their athlete/coach/umpire. Instead they were playing for the fun of hitting and running and catching and cheering.

There was B. who, every at bat, waited until he got a full-count before swinging and tattooing the ball to the center field fence. (And the umpire who gently admonished, "Swing if it's good" every time she got too close to a called third strike.) M. who pumped his arms and rallied the fans every time he walked onto the field. J. who smiled and waved at Sam every time she announced his name. (Also J. who ran to first then immediately zoomed right into the dugout every time he hit a foul ball, which was often.) M. who made several spectacular 1 - 3 putouts then jumped up and down in excitement, pigtails bobbing. D., in center, who ran faster than he could throw and so chased the runner for the putout at third. (I had never scored an 8 unassisted putout at third before. Ever.) J. who struck out but said, "That's OK. At least I can hit a home run if I want." B. who DID hit an inside the park home run and then picked up his bat and walked off the field as nonchalantly as if he was getting his mail. And L. who was a bit late because he'd had to walk from his job at Oxmoor but made it just in time for his at bat - a single that would've been a double except the lead runner was so busy watching his hit that she forgot to run. And the cheering and the encouragement and the atta-girls and atta-boys from the sidelines. And the huge congratulatory hugs and high-fives and excitement after the game from both the winners and the losers. Because they were all winners.

THAT'S what I missed about softball. And that's the power of sport. Congratulations to all the teams for a game well played.

Happy Meet the Teacher Day

It's Meet the Teacher time again at Christian Academy. The school is abuzz with children and parents, bringing in school supplies and ALL THE PAPERWORK and gearing up for the first day of school on Wednesday.

Remember last year's Meet the Teacher Day? Paul had only been home ten weeks and I was a nervous wreck about the start of school. I wanted needed him to go to school, and I wanted him to go to CAL, but there were so many questions. Would he be ready? Would it be too hard? CAL didn't have an English Language Learner program at the time, so how would we work on his fluency? Would he fit in socially? Behaviorally? Trauma impacts the developing brain, ya'll, in a myriad of ways.

We knew we were on a day-by-day plan. His teacher was wonderful, is wonderful, and she was willing to take him without knowing anything about his academic readiness (we weren't able to give him the admissions test because he didn't speak enough English). I had the Jefferson County ELL program on the back burner, and I was also contemplating homeschool if worse came to worse. (I should remind you that I am a school COUNSELOR, not a teacher, and the thought of homeschooling gave me hives. Literal hives.) On Meet the Teacher Day I was so ramped up with nervous energy while trying to appear calm that I could have powered the school's electrical grid.

We had prepared SO WELL. We bought the school supplies and discussed the school supplies and pored over the yearbook and visited the school. (Once or twice a week all summer long.) We had mastered just the right mix of positive excitement with reassuring calm. Trent took off work to provide backup for me as I was sort of supposed to be working. There were a gazillion people but we navigated the hallways and walked into the classroom and found his table and put his backpack in his cubby. He listened to the stories and watched the other children for cues. He was golden. GOLDEN. My brave, strong-hearted little man.

Until he wasn't. Until he got the look - the fight or flight look - and I had to scurry after him into the hallway and I didn't know what was wrong because he didn't have the words. And I was a wreck because WHAT IS WRONG? and what are we going to do if we can't even manage Meet the Teacher Day? And then I finally figured out what was wrong and realized that what was wrong was wrong because of something I had done, something I had done without even realizing, without even THINKING, and that somehow made it better but also so much worse.

I hugged him and kissed him and apologized and sent him home with Trent while I walked upstairs absolutely sobbing. Not discrete, sympathetic tears, but an ugly, hiccupping, snot-nosed cry.

This does not engender confidence in parents of elementary school children, I realize, to see the school counselor crying hysterically at Meet the Teacher Day.

The second grade teachers, whose rooms my office sits between, were absolutely wonderful and reassuring. I remembered that we are often harder on ourselves than others are on us. Sometimes the school counselor needs to cry on someone else's shoulders.

And my fears that such a rocky start would lead to an excruciatingly difficult school year were absolutely unfounded. He did so well, and his teacher was so patient, and he caught up to what he had missed and trucked along with everyone else.

And today at Meet the Teacher Day I almost forgot to worry because he already knows his teacher (and she is wonderful), and he has several great friends in class, and this year I knew not to remove the school supplies from his backpack until I asked him if I could do it or if he wanted to (and I got a wave of the hand like, "I don't even care, Mom. Leave me alone so I can color this butterfly.")

I didn't even cry. Except maybe a few discrete, sympathetic tears at how much he's grown, at what a blessing he is, at how brave and strong. Happy Meet the Teacher Day!

First day of school last year. He's so little!

Field Day at the end of the school year. He's so big!

Back to Life

Sam's flight landed at 4:45 pm, right on time, after a three hour layover/customs in Detroit. Kind of brings you back to things, doesn't it, a three-hour welcome-back-to-America in Detroit. The Delta folks, while considerate and trying to be helpful, wouldn't give us a pass to meet her at the gate. Since she's 15, she wasn't technically flying as an unaccompanied minor. Teens who are 15 to 18 are offered the option to fly UM, with a $100 one-way fee, but if you deem your teen mature enough and confident enough to manage the complexities of international travel (we do) then she can fly as an adult. (*This is a bit misleading. Since Sam and her BFF were flying with BFF's little brother and sister, the littles HAD to fly as UMs. And as Sam and BFF had to stay with the littles at all times, then they reaped the benefits of the flight attendant ushering them through customs and ensuring they made their connection.) So we saved the $100 fee, but couldn't get the pass to meet her at the gate, since she was, by their reckoning, an adult. And also because BFF's mom was already meeting them at the gate.

So Paul and I waited just on the edge of security, which allowed Paul to "What if" everything that could happen if the uniformed officer had to use his gun or what if someone stole his gun or what if someone tried to sneak past the officer WITH a gun or what if someone tried to sneak past with scissors and what if they were running with scissors and what if I asked the officer if Paul could touch his gun? "No, I'm not asking if you can touch the gun. You're not allowed to touch the gun." Paul studied me resolutely. "I's going to be a police when I get big. Then I can have my owns gun. An' touch 'em."

Then she was there! In Louisville! Bright eyed and no less rumpled for having been traveling for the last 13 hours. We grabbed bags and found the car and arranged seats (Paul was desperate for Sam to sit by him. "I's excited Sam's home!")

It was a marvelously normal dinner with everyone around the table chatting and arguing and vying for the last sausage. Sam was starving. Part of traveling with UMs means you "get" to hang out in the Delta Skyzone room, where they have complimentary chips and water, but no access to the Detroit airport fast food offerings. She wanted brats on the grill, mashed potatoes and green beans. I assured her that I had just assembled TWENTY freezer meals, ranging from chicken pesto to chipotle steak, but she wanted brats. Apparently this is her quintessential American meal. (Although aren't brats German? Confusing.) Topped off with red velvet cheesecake which her dad so graciously saved from our date night on Saturday. Then we looked at pictures and opened presents and settled in to watch one of her fifty-plus DVR'ed episodes of NCIS. And when it was time for bed she hung out in our room, braiding her hair and watching TV and chatting and generally keeping us awake. All of which I'd missed so much.

Today it's back to life. Trent took Paul to the Y because I had an 8 am doctor's appointment. (I realized three weeks ago that I should take care of all my appointments during those rare summer days when Paul is at camp, but three weeks obviously wasn't enough leeway for the various doctors and dentists to schedule me in on one of those rare summer days. Ah, well. That's what sick days are for, right?) Then I swung by home to get Sam (who woke up, rather annoyed, at 7 am because she's still on her late night/sleep in mornings German time. I hope she stays on this time forever and ever.) She has back-to-school day at 10:30, work in my office, school shopping, then softball practice at 4:00, immediately after which she is working as a greeter at a friend's State Farm tent for a neighborhood festival until 9:00.

Trent and I suddenly remember what it's like to arrange her chauffer schedule while also ensuring that Paul gets picked up from the Y at 4:00 and fed and to his practice by 6:00.

Back to life. And I'm loving it! Welcome home, best girl!

Young Together

This weekend was the 25th reunion of the Richmond High School class of 1988. I'm tempted to joke that I was a prodigy who graduated at age 12, but 1) it's obvious that I was no prodigy and 2) I'm actually quite comfortable with being 25 years post graduation. I've now been out of school longer than I was in school, and I feel like I've finally learned some things. Being young was fun, but I was also so naive and insecure that it's a little bit painful. I think I'd rather be forty-something, not quite as agile or fresh-faced, but a little wiser and definitely more comfortable in my own skin.

I love my 1988 Richmond High School classmates. This, I've learned and come to appreciate, was an amazing class, is an amazing group of people. These are the friends with whom I can let much too much time pass between visits, but then we can sit down together and feel as if we're instantly reconnected, laughing and catching up over a meal just like it was a post-football game pizza at Noble Romans.

These are the friends who feel just the same. Even though we're clearly not the same. We've gained weight and lost weight, changed our hair (thank goodness! The '80's was not a good decade for hair) or lost our hair, had kids, agonized over kids, made decisions, faced disappointments, overcome adversity, battled demons. But with all that I can still talk to former classmates and think, "They are just the same!" Just the same in all the ways that matter. Still funny, still crazy, still smart, still talented, still kind, still the life-of-the-party, still quiet, still wise-beyond-years, still hopeful, still fearless.

These are the friends who knew me when. They know my stories. They knew me with braces and glasses, knew me skinny and excruciatingly shy, knew my crushes and my heartbreaks, knew my bad choices because they were right there making those bad choices with me. They know I have no sense of direction because they were with me the day I tried to drive to a party at Brookville Lake and ended up in Brookville, Ohio. They knew that Trent was all wrong for me because he was such a male chauvinist when he dated Erin, and they weren't afraid to tell me not to date him. (They were also the bridesmaids and honored guests at our wedding, and I hope will be there when we celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary.)

Even though we had RSVP'd and were in Richmond, ready for the party with a new dress, we didn't get to attend our reunion because of a family emergency. But they were the friends who were praying and offering support, meeting me and Paul for dinner - telling those stories and exclaiming how CUTE! Paul was even as he was licking the salt shaker and scamming quarters. (He was on his best behavior, girls, believe it or not.) These were the friends who stopped by before the reunion to make sure everything was OK, and who texted after to find out how things were, how they could help.

We were young together at the same time, in the same place. And that means so much.