Blossoming the Cross

A kindergartner clutches a daffodil, one he and Mama had cut the day before. A brave daffodil, struggling through the winter-clutched ground, daring sun-yellow petals against ice-laced wind. So cold that wind. Cold enough to feel winter might just last forever. Always winter but never Christmas.

But the children had been told to place their frozen flowers into the wire-wrapped wood and so they donned coats and trooped into the teeth of that wind. This kindergartner didn't know why or what for. This was new, this was different. Once again the world spinning off its axis. There is change in the wind. Something is coming. A little bit scary. A little bit out of control. "Safe? ...Course he isn't safe!"

Snow falls. Blanketing the flower-decked wood in a shroud of white. Baring frozen teeth. The squeal of trying-to-catch-snow-on-the-tongue giggles piercing the solemnity of reverence.Then silence as the cross is hoisted, muscles straining, battling against frozen ground. Watching. Waiting. All shall be done, but it may be harder than you think.

A thud as the cross fits snugly into place. An intake of breath. Flowers blooming bold against a canopy of white. That which was dead alive again. Eyes dance. "There's mine!" a kindergartner declares, one hand tucked into Mama's. "The yellow one." Rebirth. When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death, and when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.



They say Aslan is on the move.



Little Lost Boys

One year ago next week Nancy Dimmock, on furlough from Ministry of Hope Lesotho, spent two days in Louisville visiting our school and home. She shared her family's story and the story of children in Lesotho with the children of Christian Academy School System for missions month. Nancy and I also spent time talking and praying about our adoption of Palamang, which had been stuck in the bowels of the Department of Social Welfare for over ten months. She added to my sense of urgency that Palamang needed a family. NOW.

One hour after I drove Nancy to her denomination's headquarters in downtown Louisville I received the email - our adoption had been approved. Sign and FedEx the attached paperwork to the Lesotho lawyer to present to the High Court judge.

We were finally, miraculously unstuck. What followed was a five-week whirlwind of signatures and emails and international phone calls and travel plans until we boarded the plane to southern Africa to meet our son.

I've often heard it said that God is rarely early, but he was never late. The timing for us was beautiful - we were able to meet Frank and Jesse Dimmock in Johannesburg and travel with them to Maseru. Sam and I were able to end our school years on May 3 and I was able to spend three solid months in intense attachment work with Paul. (Exhausting but oh, so worth it.)

But the years in the orphanage had taken their toll. Emtionally and physically. While not malnourished (due, I think, to his early years with biological family), Paul was much shorter and lighter than his US peers, so much so that I asked Nancy if he was perhaps a year younger than the date on his birth certificate. "Oh, no dear," she replied gently. "He's actually one of the biggest of his age mates." He quickly caught up with his US peers. He grew two inches in just over a month home! I had heard of this happening, but it always sounded somewhat exaggerated. How in the world can the human body grow so quickly? Trust me - it can. The child jumped from a size four to a size six in a matter of months. Now people watch my little man run and plow into things and ask, "Running back? Or tight end?"

I remember crying the night we met Paul and brought him back with us to our cozy rondaval at Mohokare. Tears of joy that he was with us, of course; tears of exhaustion, too, yes; but mostly tears for the swarms of children who had watched Palamang meet his new family, who had tried to catch my eyes, touch my skirt, capture a smile. They longed for just the feel of a Mama, and it broke my heart. They were a group of little lost boys. I rejoiced that one would grow up with love and belonging and good food, but I mourned for the rest. When would they find their mamas?

Things were difficult for Paul's orphanage. I have the dubious gift of sensing tension in a room, at catching nonverbals, at reading between the lines. I knew there were struggles and I also guessed that those struggles had no easy answers. When the Dimmocks returned to Lesotho they tried to help, but again there are no easy answers. This was not their orphanage. They could only offer advice and support. Some problems don't respond to an easy fix or even to an outpouring of aid.

Last week Paul's orphanage was either closed or downsized. Reports are conflicting. Several online newspapers - the Informative and the Lesotho Times - reported on the closure of MIS. The newspaper articles come at the stories from different angles, and I know enough from my years in journalism school that the truth is probably somewhere in the middle. But we do know that many children from two or three orphanages, Paul's included, were sent elsewhere.

Beautiful Gate took in twelve of these sweet souls. We didn't have the chance to visit Beautiful Gate Orphanage when we were in Lesotho, but we did meet the directors, Bryan and Anita. (When I met Anita after months of following her journey online I felt a little awestruck so said something mature and intelligent like, "OMG! I read your blog!" She nodded graciously and I'm sure thought something like, "Stalker.") I have heard nothing but praise for this orphanage and their care of the children. They are set up to care for 60 children, and this is to ensure each child receives adequate care, attention and love. But due to the orphanage closures they are currently caring for 72 children. They've posted a video showing the need. (I'm having trouble embedding it, so follow the link. It's well worth the watch.) It can be difficult, sometimes, to assess how to help, to know that your donation money is making a difference. In this case I can speak confidently that donations will directly support the children and their caregivers. (The orphans and widows.)

Ministry of Hope Lesotho also took in SEVENTEEN children. This is the home where Paul had several "playdates" while we were bonding in country, and this is the home that begged and politicked to care for Paul's best friend Retselise when Nancy found him so ill. I can also speak confidently that any monies donated to MoHL will go directly to the care of the children: Ministry of Hope Lesotho, PO Box 1462, Black Mountain, NC 28711.

Paul on a playdate with MoHL friends

Paul fixates on pictures and videos of children in Lesotho. He's still on the lookout for his buddies, I think. He watched the Beautiful Gate video last night and tried to determine if the hands and backs of heads belonged to his friends. He names the children that he knows in Ministry of Hope pictures. That's his abuti, his brother figure. That girl broke her arm and the doctor put a rock on it. "A cast?" "Yeah, a cast." Those two are his friends, they played together. And that boy gave him a ride in a wheelbarrow. He wants to know when we can visit. "Will they get 'em family? When? Who's gonna be their mama? Can we 'dopt 'em?" He's angling for a brother. (Mostly only when his neighborhood friends can't play though, so I'm suspecting what he really wants is a playmate.) He told me rather magnanimously the other night, "If there's another kid what needs a family, he can have my bed an' I'll sleep on 'de top bed."

International adoption is a tricky thing, and this post has gone on for far too long already. I am, of course, a huge proponent of international adoption. Sharing ourselves with the world brings us all closer together. There is redemptive power in adoption that we get to experience first hand. But with redemption there is first a loss. And there is a part of me that wishes Paul hadn't had to lose his first family; hadn't had to leave his country and his people and his language. I wish he could have grown up surrounded with love, wrapped in a Basotho blanket and viewing the mountains of his homeland. I wish he didn't have to experience this heartache. But because he did, I am honored and humbled to play part in his healing, and to do everything in my power to let him know he is loved, he is worthy, he is whole. All that to say I do agonize with the difficulty for a country to admit to not being able to care for its children, to send those children away to the West, to give them up to another culture and place.

So now I wish for all the children at Beautiful Gate and Ministry of Hope Lesotho and throughout the country that there was no such thing as poverty or illness or abandonment; they hadn't had to lose their first family; that they wouldn't have to leave their country and their people and their language. But I wish even more that they would know the joy and love and redemption of a second family, that they could grow two inches in one month, that they could gain the confidence to talk and laugh so loudly their mama has to remind them to use their "inside voice". That they could make new best friends with skin colors of all shades yet still remember to pray for their friends who are still waiting.

Lesotho recently signed the Hague, which is essentially agreements between countries to ensure the best interest of children adopted internationally and to reduce instances of child trafficking. The overarching goals of the Hague are positive. It has the best of intentions. But with all "good intentions" there are pitfalls. It has resulted in several countries slowing or halting altogether (Guatemala, Vietnam, Nepal). In the United States, international adoptions fell from over 22,000 in 2004 to just over 8,000 last year. (In comparison, US citizens adopted over 50,000 children from foster care in 2012.) International adoption politics, the policies of people with good intentions, have left many children "stuck" in orphanages around the world. I pray this is not the case with Lesotho. I pray that adoptions in progress can continue and that those under the new agency just named by the Lesotho Goverment and the US State Department can begin. Brandon Hatmaker wrote a compelling blog about a documentary that address this issue of those children who are "stuck" and urges people to act.

On Saturday Paul was again lamenting that his neighborhood friends weren't home. "Let's 'dopt a brother," he declared as we walked around the neighborhood. His eyes brightened. "Let's 'dopt Retselise!" The his eyes filled with tears as he remembered. We can't. Retselise got the help he needed too late. Retselise got stuck.

Cheater

Day 23 of my 40 day drinking-only-water fast: I fell off the wagon. Somehow, the hot water I was brewing first leached through some coffee grounds.

It was not delicious (no steamed milk or sugar fell in, more's the pity, and it was brewed a bit too dark for my taste), but it was wonderful. I feel a little bit terrible. But also a lot more awake. Oh, coffee, how I missed your morning warmth and caffeination.

All of which has me thinking about the process of cheating. It wasn't as if I consciously set out to cheat on my fast this morning. It's my day at the Rock Creek campus, so after dropping off my kids at English Station at the dark side of dawn, I drove right by the Java and the Starbucks that occasionally serve as my Wednesday morning pick me up. I won't say I didn't give them a second thought. I did. And that second thought said, "That's $2.86 I need to add to my Blood:Water and Marion Medical Mission donation account, because I know for a fact I have a $5 bill in my purse, and had I not involved myself in this ridiculous Lenten fast I would've stopped for a tall cafe au lait with caramel."

There was snow on the ground this morning, did I mention? With a wind chill of 21 degrees. And thanks to spring forward it was still dark when I pulled onto campus. And also I was thirsty. I couldn't find my 20 ounce water bottle that morning because one of the kids kept me busy with his grumping ("I don't wanna put on my socks. I don't wanna brush my hair. I don't wanna eat THIS! Fix me some'fing else!") and one of the kids was still upstairs communicating only in grunts. And also I was tired, thanks to an eleven hour workday yesterday that was interrupted only to haul one child clear across town to the other child's softball game before returning to work and then finally coming home to the news that one child was hurt because another child had lashed out in hunger and tiredness after said softball game so I needed to supervise another child cleaning out one's child cat litter box (helps for hurts) while processing the inappropriate anger reaction before putting another child to bed. Then I still had an hour-and-a-half worth of work to do before I could fall into bed to sleep for seven hours and wake up to do it all over again. So cold, thirsty and tired. And really it was no big deal. Was it?

The teacher's lounge setup at Rock Creek is a bit different than that of English Station, where there is always hot water brewing. (Meant to be for tea drinkers, but works just as well for the one of us who is - bleagh - only drinking hot water just now.) At Rock Creek getting hot water involves going to different stations - mug station, water station, microwave station. But there was coffee brewing right next to the mug station. And it smelled SO GOOD! And so somehow this hot water that just happened to be filtered through coffee grounds made its way into my mug. Which I drank. I wish I could say it made me feel awful physically - upset stomach, headache. But it didn't. It did, however, make me feel sorry. I had cheated, and that never feels shouldn't feel good.

So why did I cheat on my fast? Basically because I acted from self. I was tired. I wanted the coffee. I didn't stop to think or pray or send out an SOS text to an accountability buddy. I just drank. I cheated. While there are many levels, forms and  features of cheating, at its root it boils down to selfishness.

One of my pet peeves at the school where I work and where my kids go to school is carpool cheaters. There is a set method to carpool, to getting 1200 kids from pre-K to grade 12 on and off of campus as efficiently and safely as possible. It's a bit of a pain, honestly, and can be time-consuming, but at the same time it makes sense from a safety standpoint. And 99 percent of the cars follow the set procedure. But there's that 1 percent. Ugh! The ones that skip the procedure altogether and turn left at the roundabout or drop off kids in the no drop off zone or cut through the no-cut-through (sometimes plowing over pylons to do so). This makes me crazy. It's dangerous, first of all. (This morning I almost got sideswiped by a left-turn-cutter then nearly rear-ended a dropper-offer. Seriously! It is March! We've been doing this carpool thing for SEVEN MONTHS! I did the Christian thing - honked and yelled then worried someone might recognize my car.

I want the senior psychology class to write a research paper on carpool cheaters. I want them to collect data (write down the license plate numbers of the cheaters) then hunt them down interview them to explore WHY they cheat at carpool. Do they, like me, rationalize their cheat? "I was cold...thirsty..tired...in a hurry... And really it was no big deal. Was it?"

And I want to know if they cheat at other things, too. Like their Lenten fast. And are they sorry? Or are they figuring out how to cheat again tomorrow?

What do you think? Why is it so easy to rationalize our cheats?

Ain't Nobody Got Time for Dat

I has come to my attention that there are few of you who expect a blog update at some point on Thursday. And while I am flattered, this is also a bit surprising. Mostly because I didn't realize I was quite so predictable. (I work from home on Thursday mornings, and also it's the "end" of my editing week as I get new manuscripts on Friday, so I typically don't have manuscripts to edit. So there's a reason I tend to blog on Thursday morning.) But I'm also surprised because this blog is really more about my therapy than it is about writing for an actual reader. Although it's wonderful writing practice just now when I can't seem to get it together enough to finish my six-years-in-progress novel. But that's another blog post.

So I guess I missed my therapy appointment yesterday. It's not that I'm not puzzling over a LOT  of ideas, it's just that this seemed like a really busy week. I don't know that it WAS especially busy, in terms of having a lot to do, but it felt like that. And I don't like feeling busy. I'm sort of a recovering addict in that way. I used to crave busyness. I wore it as a badge of honor. "Look at me, I'm so busy doing so many busy things. How do I possibly manage, you ask? Well, really, I'm just clearly a superior human being, that's all." But like any recovering addict I had to hit rock bottom, have a bit of a come to Jesus moment, and go stone cold sober.

"Hi, I'm Kristi and I'm a busy-holic." "Hi, Kristi!"

Paul doesn't manage well when we're busy. (And we have a teenager who can't yet drive. You know who's busy? High schoolers are busy!) He marches to his own drummer, and when we're rushing out the door he feels out of control. So then he starts dragging and/or asserting control, which adds to the frustration and chaos, and suddenly no one's happy or connecting.

Someone really smart (it was either Dr. Karen Purvis or Dr. Gregory Keck or maybe Melissa Faye Greene) once wrote, "We have to adapt our lives to the children we adopt." Meaning we can't attachment parent effectively from the front seat of the car or engrossed in email. Paul needs to play in order to learn, to connect, and honestly, I have a hard time playing when I feel busy.

So today I'm taking it slow. Winding down. Centering myself. I took a yoga class this morning. (And oh, my HAMSTRINGS! It kicked my butt! Yoga always looked so easy to me - why waste precious exercise time standing on one leg? But every muscle in my body was quivering. Yet it all felt so peaceful. Who knew?) I carved out time to pray. The bathrooms need cleaning and the floors mopped before our overnight guest arrives. I may make time for that. Or not. I'm trying to put peaceful rhythm to my day so that when Paul and Sam come home (after playdate and practice, so I have even more alone time!) I'm rested and ready to connect.

There are topics I want to blog about, such as "Why I Quit Time-Outs" and "Do You Need Therapy?" and "What If My Nose Was an Airplane and Other Questions that Make Mummy's Head Hurt." But not today. Today I'm going to make myself a cup of hot water and pretend it's tea, read a bit more of Dr. Siegel's The Whole Brain Child (fabulous!), edit a couple of stories, edit a bit of my own story, take a bath, and wait for my lovelies to come home. I may not get everything on the to do list done. (I may, in fact, toss out the to do list.) Every email may not get returned. Progress reports may not get written. I may disappoint someone who is waiting for an "immediate response." But that's OK. Today I'm going to try to focus on the important rather than on the urgent.

Here's one of my lovelies "stuck" in my phone. Reminds me to put email away and pay attention to little man.

"So much time and so little to do. Wait a minute. Strike that. Reverse it." --Willy Wonka