Water

“But whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again…” John 4:14.

I felt like God was calling me to observe the Lenten season this year. As is often the case, He didn’t submit a list of explicit instructions. Just a feeling. A tug. A sense that some sort of sacrifice, some sort of fast, would be of benefit to wherever my Christian walk is taking me in these weeks leading toward Easter. I’m not of a Christian denomination that makes a big deal about Lent or even really acknowledges it all. No Friday fish fries or morning rites. Which is too bad, really. Not because I love fish fries (although a fresh-caught trout, cornmeal breaded and pan fried at a vineyard in Michigan may be the best meal I’ve ever had), but because my soul expands in the beauty and symbolism of liturgy, in the rhythm of the ecclesiastical calendar, in the language of the Daily Book of Common Prayers. If not for my conservative, fundamental upbringing, I would have made a good Catholic. (I’m not opposed to a little wine in the communion cup, either. (My school position contractually denies that sort of thing, so I'm just saying.))

OK. Lent. Sacrifice. Fast. Fasting makes me a bit crazy. And also tends to give me hives.. Not eating does bad things to me. I don’t like it. But then again, fasting is not one of those things that’s meant to be liked, I suppose. Rather, like the discipline of exercise, done because it’s a good thing to do and beneficial come swimsuit season. Maybe the “liking” comes after. Because like it or not, fasting is a valuable spiritual discipline - sacrificing self, denying self, emptying self so the Spirit may fill with His clarity, wisdom, guidance.

I also had a bit of a legalistic conundrum with the fact that Lent began on February 13, the day Sam and I were flying to Florida for two days of study and two days of play. (There were priests at the airport offering ashes. Which I thought was totally cool but also rather odd.) The spiritual discipline of the fast didn’t seem to connect with the spiritual disciplines of celebration and study that I had planned for the weekend. (I wanted butterbeer and beignets. No question.) But then I discovered something. I always thought Lent was exactly 40 days – to mirror the 40 days Jesus spent in the wilderness before his time of temptation. But Lent is really like 46 days – Sundays don’t count. So I had no qualms starting my Lent on February 19^th, a full 40 days before Easter, Sundays included.

With the technicalities worked out, the exact nature of the fast began to clarify. It didn’t involve foregoing food, praise be to God. In fact, I thought it was going to be an “easy” fast. That works for me just now – quick and easy, spiritual growth in five minutes or less, no heavy lifting required, glory and amen. The parameters – drink only water for 40 days.

I know, not a huge sacrifice, right? Granted I had developed a rather serious psychological and physiological addiction to coffee since bringing home our early bird in May. But I don’t really drink soda, other than an Izze now and then. And that school contract already limited other, more adult libations. Really it was just coffee (with steamed milk). Oh, and chai tea. And also regular tea. And sweet tea. And green tea. And hot chocolate. How hard could this be?

Today is the first day in nine days that I haven’t had a raging headache. RAGING. And I don’t even care what that says about my addiction to coffee because the moment Java opens on Easter morning (in 31 days) I am there for a fair trade extra-venti café au lait with caramel. I am counting the minutes. He is risen! He is RISEN INDEED!

I didn’t realize the soothing power inherent in a hot mug of something. Especially on days - like all of February and March - that it is 34 degrees and misty. (Yes, I tried drinking hot water. It is, frankly, awful.) I miss tea leaves and herbs and lemon and sugar and milk and fair-trade cocoa.

Not only has it taken me this long to move past the headache, but also to figure out if this fast even had a point or if it was just some stupid, legalistic endeavor invented by Catholics to make the last six weeks of winter even more miserable than they already are.

But these last couple of days, every time I pass my Keureg to pour a cup of water, I still grumble but I also thank God that cool, clean water gushes from the tap. CLEAN WATER. FROM A TAP. And I can drink as much of it as I want – or don’t want – to drink. Without fear of disease. Or parasites. Or death.

According to water.org, water-related disease kills more people every year than does war. Three-and-a-half million people. A city the size of Los Angeles. Every year. For lack of clean water.

Lack of access to clean water and sanitation kills nearly two children every minute. TWO. CHILDREN. EVERY. MINUTE.

These aren't just random nameless, faceless people. These are people just like our friends in Mexico - Alejandra and Sonia and Paula and Guadalupe. These are people JUST LIKE MY SON. He was once in that place where clean water was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He came home with some of those waterborne nasties. It is only by the grace of God and his genetically strong immune system that he was not a statistic, too.

Women and children bear an added burden as the brunt of fetching and carrying water falls on their shoulders. Literally. Not only do women spend 200 million hours a day globally collecting water, disallowing work, care taking, and schooling, but the miles they must travel puts them at risk of rape, kidnapping and death.  It is no wonder that Jesus spoke so unconventionally to the woman at the well. The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water so that I won’t get thirsty and have to keep coming here to draw water.”

A woman and her child gathering water from a contaminated source. (Courtesy of Marion Medical Mission.)

I’m still not sure what God is doing with me in this season. Certainly I am more grateful for each sip of water. It is not something I ever want to take for granted. And I’m more aware of the very serious issues a lack of clean water presents to the world. I’m praying and I’m learning. There are quality organizations doing great things in this area – water.org; Blood:Water Mission; Marion Medical Mission. But to him whom much is given – and I’m getting 70 ounces of clean drinking water a day, not to mention showers and dishwashers and washing machines – much is required.

Celebrating the installation of a clean water well. (Courtesy of Marion Medical Mission.)

Sometimes Magic Happens

Sometimes magic happens. Sometimes there is a conference in Orlando, Florida, with Dr. Karyn Purvis that happens to fall over a four-day school holiday and your husband says, "Sure, you can go. I'll stay home with Paul. And why don't you make a vacation of it while you're down there and take Sam to Universal for her birthday." (OK, that's not exactly how the conversation went, but that's basically the result.) And also sometimes you have Delta credit from the nightmarish plane delay in Johannesburg and then when ordering the tickets Delta screws up but then FIXES IT and so both tickets cost less than $200 TOGETHER. Sometimes that happens.

And sometimes it is gray and misty in Florida (that's not the magic part) and so when you go to Universal on Thursday it is still warmer than back home BUT IT IS NOT CROWDED and you get to spend all day at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter with your fourteen year old magical daughter, visiting with Ollivander the wand maker and buying chocolate frogs at Honeydukes and flying through Hogwarts with good friends Harry, Ron, Hermione and drinking butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks and high-fiving other wizards from Ravenclaw who are now suddenly new best friends. Sometimes magic happens.

And sometimes you take your fourteen year old daughter to the outlet mall even though you hate shopping but because you love her and she finds an adorable swimsuit (without any tears on the part of the mother or the daughter) and it's actually affordable and she's so, so excited that she begs you to go to the pool with her even though it is currently only 45 degrees in Florida. And you talk her into renting a movie, instead. And she agrees. And you get to relax for two hours and watch a movie. Together. Without little boy interruptions. Sometimes bonding happens.

And sometimes you get to sit at the feet of Dr. Purvis for two solid days with other adoptive and foster parents (including one who recently adopted her son from Lesotho) while she explains what trauma and loss does to the developing brain and the resulting behaviors and you think, "Yes, yes, I see that and oh, wow, this is so hard." And then Dr. Purvis says, "Yes, this is so hard and it will cost you everything you are to invest this kind of nurture and structure into your child but look what happens when that nurture and structure makes new connections in their brain" and YOU SEE IT. You look back and remember the rage and the terror and the living in fight, flight, freeze and you can see how those months of 24/7 parenting and carrying and massage and trampoline jumping and punching bag and the play, play, play have made new connections, NEW CONNECTIONS, and your heart sings. Sometimes connections happen.

And sometimes seeing this magic that happens in the hearts and minds of these kiddos that have experienced so much hurt makes you think, we could do this again, we could parent another older child with a difficult past and help him heal. And you go home to hugs and kisses and play, play, play and your heart expands so big that it could heal the whole world. And then later he gets a little sassy so you trot out your oh-so-effective Dr. Purvis language in the exact same Dr. Purvis voice and the entire family bursts into laughter. And you remember Dr. Purvis's encouragement to parent one hard-places kiddo at a time. And you remember that God has given you other callings, too, like counseling students and editing and writing. And you decide you have a lot more learning to do, first. Sometimes sanity happens.

I Want a Happy Ending

Full disclosure to all my writing students and those for whom I edit: I like happy endings. I do. I like it when Lord Voldemort is finally defeated and when Ron marries Hermione and when they all live happily ever after with little red-headed magical children. Sam recently read the "Scarlet Ibis" for literature class and we had this email conversation:

Sam: Mr. Rice made us read an even more terrible story today...Scarlet Ibis. It was really sad and now I'm sad :*(
Me: Oh, yes. Dead bird. Dead brother. Blah blah symbolism. Humans are depressing. Think about princesses. And unicorns.
Sam: And sing rainbows and poop butterflies! (Horton Hears a Who)
Me: I'm so glad you're my daughter!

But I'm also a counselor and so I get that some stories aren't happy. They just aren't. But at least, if it can't be happy ever after, I at least want some hope. I want to make sense of it all and learn something and move forward a wiser, if sadder, person. I had a writing student who was working on a memoir (I love memoirs). We went round and round about the ending. He had some legitimate points and I was right. Ultimately he blew me away and tied the entire story of his life together with a single sentence: Somehow, there are always maybes. His wasn't an easy story, but there was a lot of redemption, a lot of hope, a lot of maybes.

I've encountered some sad stories, recently, and I'm looking for some maybes. In the last couple of weeks we've learned more about Retselise's story, and it's not really my story to tell and it's rather confusing, but suffice it to say that Retselise and his sister were matched with a family about the time that we were matched with Paul, and had all gone according to plan the two best friends may have met their new mommies and daddies about the same time. And this new mommy and daddy have even better and more affordable HIV treatment than we have in the United States and they were quite prepared to welcome an HIV+ child into their family. But, through no fault of this couple, all didn't go according to plan and various and assorted government officials determined that Retselise and his sister were not adoptable at that particular time. And now two families plus all those who cared for him in-country are heartbroken over the death of this little boy.

Then, while scrolling my blogroll, I read about recent sadness at Beautiful Gate, a well-run and truly blessed orphanage in Lesotho. They lost three children to death in four days! Three children! In four days! And I can't even wrap my mind around it because not this orphanage, this orphanage around whom it is clear that God wraps his hand. If this can happen at Beautiful Gate, then what of Paul's orphanage, what of the children in more impoverished and dire circumstances in other places around the world? HOW CAN THIS BE HAPPENING?

The director of Beautiful Gate Lesotho penned these words on his blog, "Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, thought there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Saviour" Habakkuk 3:17-18.

And yet it's so hard when mommies and daddies in Connecticut weep for their children and when children in Lesotho weep for their mommies and daddies. I need some hope. I need some maybes. I want a happy ending.

Then I stumbled across another blog (I'm supposed to be working on my taxes, you see, and so I took a personal day to do so only to realize that I can't file yet because 1) I'm missing an obscure HSA form that I'm not sure how to acquire and 2) the IRS does not have the paperwork ready for certain types of returns (mine) thanks to the ineptness of Congress). And I learned that Lesotho has an adoption matching meeting scheduled for FEBRUARY 20 (Sam's birthday!). And also that there are at last TWO American families hoping for a match (I didn't realize there were any American families still waiting due to the shifting and confusing process. I think we were the last American family to be matched in May of 2011.) Plus families from The Netherlands, Sweden and Canada.

On her blog she lists daily prayers for each day of February leading up to the matching meeting. Such beautiful heartfelt prayers for this country that has grown in my heart and that so graciously offered to share with us our beautiful Basotho prince. Her prayer for February 12 echoes my own oft-repeated prayers: I pray that a day comes that Basotho children do not need to be sent to homes out of their country, but that they can stay with their families and communities. Until that day, I pray that you continue to send people to Lesotho, to serve them and share your love.

 And that gives me hope. And "I will rejoice in the Lord." Somehow, there are always maybes.

Back when Paul was still waiting. I fuzzed out the faces of the other children for privacy reasons.
But they're all beautiful.

More Stories

I love reading memoirs. That's my escapist reading. (Reading middle grade and YA novels is fun, too, but that's also part of my JOB, you know?) I have been known, on occasion, when a writing student can't decide between writing a rhyming picture book or a nonfiction book about ants or a memoir, to gently steer him or her toward the memoir (especially if he is older than sixty and has a colorful history). Then I can work and play AT THE SAME TIME!

I haven't read as much in the last eight months as I would like. I used to seriously wonder about people who said they didn't have time to read. (Or, gasp!, said they didn't like to read!) I mean, what else are you going to do with your time? How much Duck Dynasty can a person watch, really? Then we welcomed a six year old boy into our quiet lives and I realized that it is difficult to read with a little person bouncing, bouncing, bouncing and touching and chattering and "Mom, Mom!, MOM!" thirty-two times in one minute. So I haven't read as much as I would like. But last Friday we had a snow day and God smiled on me because the five-year-old neighbor boy was also home and so the two boys careened from house to house and I only really had to stop reading when they had the bright idea to ice skate on our small, small pond only to realize that the ice wasn't at all thick. And so they went wading, instead. Oops. Life lesson.

So this weekend I consumed two books on my "books I want to read before Paul goes to college" booklist. The first, A Year of Biblical Womanhood by Rachel Held Evans. Not truly a memoir, this is more of a "year in the life" piece as Evans undertakes the challenge of following Biblical laws, focusing on different commandments specific to women each month. This was recommended to me, as I wasn't especially interested, initially. It felt a bit gimmicky, to be honest, and also a bit too much like Jacobs' The Year of Living Biblically. And while, yes, I did find parts of it a bit gimmicky, a bit too picky-and-choosy, the book was also both funny and thought-provoking, acknowledging and wrestling with some of the more disturbing parts of the Bible as it relates to women, but also showing God's great love and compassion for women, seeking justice for our sisters around the world, and honoring women of valor. The Orthodox Jewish interpretation of the Proverbs 31 woman was my biggest takeaway, redefining this Scripture as a blessing on women and all that they do in this world, rather than as a list of expectations. Eschet chayii!

The second, also not truly a memoir but a blend of personal experience and acerbic satire, How to Be Black by Baratunde Thurston.  I have a Nook, so I could read this incognito while also supervising the boys' swim time at the Y. Because I'm not sure how to explain to curious onlookers WHY I wanted to read this book, other than the fact that Thurston use to work for the ONION, and deep in my dreams I aspire to that level of sharp sarcasm. (Not that I could ever go there because, not noted in the above review, I'm much too entrenched in my own box of Biblical womanhood to reach that level of searing humor.) And perhaps also I wanted to read it because when Sam saw the title on the Nook shelf she said, "Seriously, Mom? But you're like the whitest white woman I know." So clearly I need some guidance as an apparently VERY white woman raising a black son. An easy read and humorous, but as with all great humor it contains deep truths, truths about race and relationships and identity. So this book is not REALLY about being black, or white, or pink, or purple (OK, this is what people SAY when talking about being "color-blind", but does anyone really know anyone, outside of the muppets, who is pink or purple? Really? And wouldn't that be something you WOULD notice? And be curious about?) Really this book is about being whoever you are and understanding/appreciating everyone who you are not.