The Rally Cry for Respect

In these last months there has been a great hue and cry about the importance of showing respect, especially to law enforcement officers. I am in 100% agreement with this injunction. Law enforcement officers deserve our respect and admiration for a myriad of reasons. So do teachers and cashiers and pharmacists (my sister could tell you some stories! Whew!)

I’ve loved the two football teams for which my son has played, and one reason is because several of the volunteer coaches are police officers. Several times a shift has run late and they’ve come to practice in their uniforms. My son has the uncanny ability to suss out the power dynamic in a situation faster than any kid I’ve ever met. (And the hubris to step into any perceived power gap and take the reins of control for himself.) But when a large, muscular football coach in full police gear commands this bitty baller to drop and give ten, it’s clear who holds the power. There is no other response than, “Yes, sir!”

My kid being told to "guard the corner and stop getting sucked in!"
Both the coach and the chain crew are law enforcement officers. 

This builds respect. Because it also builds relationship. And here’s where I see the mandate that “people should teach their kids respect” breaking down. 

‘Cuz, y’all, can I just get a witness that it’s a daily, consistent, difficult battle teaching my child respect, and I’m living in a comfortable, fair, middle class world and surrounded by dozens of people supporting me in that effort - from his law enforcement football coaches to his teacher and classmates to his friends and my friends and family members to the high-fiving security guards at church. We’re working the program and he still gets mouthy and defiant and doesn’t always listen to directive.

But what of those parents who can’t or won’t teach this respect by reason of generational poverty, addictions, crime, abuse, injustice or fear? 

According to Bruce Perry, MD, PhD, Senior Fellow of the ChildTrauma Academy, “We know that our biology predisposes us to mirror the actions of those we see around us... These facts are wonderful when what we are considering repeating is loving and nurturing, but they are frankly terrifying when we think about the violence and the increasing number of simulations of violence that surround us and our children.” He continues, “The mirroring systems of our social brains make behaviors contagious. And again, this is wonderful when what you are practicing is sports or piano or kindness, but not so great when what’s being repeated is impulsive, aggressive responses to threat.”

So what are we to do? Are we to shake our heads at the Michael Browns of the world and tsk, tsk their fate because, well, they should have learned respect.

How are they to learn?

This seems a pivotal moment for those of us carrying the banner of respect - a moment either to make a different or to shake our heads. What if all those believers who shout, “Yes! People should learn respect!” step in to mentor youth? To model and teach respect?

Organizations like: Big Brothers Big Sisters, Every1Reads, (seriously, y'all, teachers are on the front line in this directive), Kentucky Refugee Ministries, Uspiritus, Orphan Care Alliance,  Boys' and Girls' Club, Portland Promise Center, just to name a few that come immediately to mind, are all desperate for volunteers and financing. They could all benefit from our desire that children learn respect. Respect comes from relationship. Who better to build those relationships than believers? Who better to stand in the gap for oppressed and downtrodden youth? Who better to build bridges and create relationships for “such a time as this”?

This is too big a moment to just talk the talk and lament the state of society today. If we want children to learn respect, then we need to show the way.

Stories

In fifth grade I attended a very small, very homogenous, very conservative school. The bookmobile came once a week for library time. We were allowed to check out a maximum of ten books if we thought we could read them all. I could and I did. One week I put Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing by Judy Blume on my stack. I wasn’t especially excited about this particular book - it seemed to be about boys younger than I - but by that time in the school year the selection was running a bit thin.

Once at the checkout counter I was told, rather apologetically by the bookmobile librarian, that I wasn’t allowed to check out Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. “Not allowed?” I studied the book, feeling both anxious and incensed.

“Sorry,” she said. “School policy. Nothing by Judy Blume.”

Well. I checked with my teacher who assured me that was, in fact, the school policy. “Some of Blume's books explore themes and topics contrary to our values,” he explained.

That weekend I made my way to the public library downtown, where I checked out Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing and, because I was feeling uncharacteristically rebellious, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.

The story of Peter and Fudge helped me understand and cope with my own sibling relationships. The story of Margaret helped me understand and cope with growing up, helped me explore my faith - what I believed and why.

It was my first realization of the power of story, how story can connect us to one another and to great universal truths, but also how stories different from our own can incite a fear great enough to censor those stories. Because I was an inherently anxious child, it was books that helped me walk through that fear into a realization that I didn’t have to tremor away from all that was different. Through stories I could understand and respect those differences. Through stories I could fight that fear.

In sixth grade I transferred to a public school and was placed in the classroom of a teacher who read prolifically and encouraged us to do the same. There was no banning of books in her classroom, just wise guidance toward the right book at the right developmental time. She introduced me to Mildred Taylor’s Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, to Anne Frank, to Tolkien, to The Great Gilly Hopkins, to Shel Silverstein. There was world out there filled with conflicts and adventures, faith and doubt, injustice and redemption. I soaked in the stories of girls like Margaret who were a lot like me, growing up white and middle class in the suburbs, but also of girls like Cassie Logan, who grew up with dignity in a place of injustice.

We need each other’s stories. In a world where it is so easy to take sides - Republican versus Democrat, Christian versus Muslim, liberal versus conservative, straight versus gay, police officer versus black male - we need to hear each other, to listen, to empathize. We may not agree, but we can understand. People want to know they matter. Stories walk us through the fear of all that is different and into a respect for those people. Because they do matter. Their stories matter.

Indiegogo recently launched a We Need Diverse Books Campaign. Kimberly Brubaker Bradley, who is a brilliant writer and also a good friend (I recently walked into a fifth grade classroom that was reading one of her books aloud and began gushing Oh! Wow! I KNOW her so enthusiastically that those fifth graders now believe her to have celebrity status ranking right up there with a Disney XD star) wrote a blog on Jacqueline Woodson and Daniel Handler's watermelon joke that created impetus behind why We Need Diverse Books.

Because once we understand someone’s story, we can begin to move past fear toward respect, reconciliation, redemption.

Soar

Eaglets learn to fly by observing their parents. It isn't instinctive. They watch closely until, sometime between two and four months of age, they lose their baby down and grow their flight feathers.

Not all eaglets are eager to leave the warmth and safety of the nest. For those reluctant babies, the parent eagles tempt the young by flying with choice bits of food just out of reach. The parents engage the eaglets' curiosity - and hunger - encouraging them to spread their wings and fly.

I doubt the mama eagle gets all emotional and sappy about this process. I don't know much about reading the facial expressions and body cues of raptors, but somehow this look does not convey, "Oh, I can't believe my baby's all grown up and flying. Sniff, sniff, cry, cry."

Rather, I'm interpreting this as, "Girl, get your tail feathers out the house! Seriously! Thinkin' I'm the maid and the cook and the chauffeur all the time. Nuh unh!"

Today, in one small sense, my baby girl left the nest. Her flight feathers are in. She's been watching and practicing. We've been eagerly preparing for this day - tempting her curiosity (and hunger). "Once you get your license you can go to your friend's…the movies…the store…drive yourself home from practice… whenever you like, but right now I'm busy so you need to wait."

I have been EXCITED about this rite of passage because in many ways life just got easier. The 70 minute round trip plus one hour wait time I endured on Monday evening so she could catch pitching lessons for a friend? No more. The text on Tuesday at 4:50 that the practice that was meant to end at 5:30 is over so could you pick me up NOW (when we live 20 minutes away)? Done. The how to get your brother to Rock Creek and you to English Station at the same time? Not a problem!

So, yes, we've been encouraging this. But there was still a clutch in my heart when, after successfully passing her driver's test, she dropped me off at home and drove away, alone, to school.

I hope we've been good teachers - that what she's learned from observing us will carry her through the challenges of navigating tight merges and road construction and crazy drivers.

I hope home will always be a safe place to land, but not so safe that it stifles her curiosity or desire to explore what's around the next bend. (And I hope she takes that bend at a slow, steady speed on dry pavement, easing into the turn.)

I hope she soars.

But it's still hard to watch her drive away.

This Subaru commercial nailed it. "Daddy, okay!"

Is It Safe?

Every year when our family prepares to travel to Tijuana with Sherwood Oaks Christian Church and Amor Ministries, we field lots of questions about our sanity the safety of traveling to Mexico. On our first trip to Amor in 2007, when it was just Sam and I, my main safety concerns had to do with water and rusty nails. I hadn't even contemplated thoughts of drug violence. Turns out, in 2007 Tijuana was at the height of its drug-war violence. I had no idea. None. One of the campers got a stomach upset in the middle of the night, and another bruised a fingernail with a hammer, but that was the extent of the danger during our first trip.

For several years we tried to promote the trip to a Christian community with which we're involved. We thought we would have no trouble organizing a team of families to "Come Build Hope". I did get several inquiries, and one family who was interested, but I also received no less than 30 emails/phone calls from people scolding me for promoting such a dangerous venture. Didn't I know such a mission was too dangerous for Christian families?!

Too dangerous? For Christian families? It still puzzles me. Yes, there are drug-related, and I'm sure other-related, homicides in Tijuana - 492 in 2013, up from 320 in 2012. Most of the victims were involved in street-level drug trafficking, according to KPBS news. By the same token, the number of homicides in Chicago was 415 in 2013, down from 503 in 2012, according to CNN. Yet no one thought twice when the school's music department traveled to Chicago. Theoretically, at the time of the trip, Chicago was MUCH more dangerous than Tijuana.

But is it safe?

Amor has a campsite down a long, bumpy, dirt road somewhere in rural Tijuana. Security guards on bicycles patrol the campsite 24/7. This year Paul was fascinated by the morning guard, Santiago, who always had a fire going near his post. Between Santiago's accent and Paul's accent, they had a bit of trouble communicating - "What name? Powell? Pole?" - but they struck up a relationship, nevertheless. At 64 years old, Santiago biked 2 1/2 hours one way to get to work. He loves Amor, the in-country personnel as well as the short-term teams who come to build - and he took his job patrolling the site seriously. (One morning several of the boys Paul managed to move some embers from one campfire or another to a stack of wood in hopes of starting his own blaze. Santiago came rushing to Trent. "Pole? Fire!" The incendiary science experiment was quickly extinguished.)

The team travels from the campsite to the worksite in vans or buses. Amor works through the local Mexican pastors. Those wanting an Amor house apply with a pastor, and the pastors meet regularly to discuss each family's need and circumstance. (The family for whom Sherwood Oaks built this year was living in a three-sided shack - with a curtain providing privacy - made of garage doors.) Each family must own the land on which to build, and they must put in "sweat equity" leveling the land for building. (Often more difficult than it sounds due to the rocky and mountainous terrain.) Because Amor has worked so closely and positively with Mexican churches, local government and police for the past 34 years, Amor teams are welcomed and beloved by the local residents.

The view from this year's worksite. Fairly typical of the neighborhoods in which we've worked.
Dirt, tires and shacks cobbled together with garage doors and baling wire.

But is it safe?

From a ministry standpoint, Amor has an extensive safety protocol. They have had no incidences of violence in their 34-year history, comprising scores of in-country staff and hundreds of thousands of short-term volunteers. Sherwood Oaks has taken family camp teams, including children ages five and up, for nineteen years.

They have made the across-the-border trip to the emergency room exactly three times in those 19 years. One of those trips was for dehydration. The other two? MY children.

Fifteen stitches and seven stitches respectively.

If you drink enough (purified) water, and aren't a Thompson progeny, you should be fine. As a friend commented when I shared news that Trent and Paul were on the way to the ER, "Is that some sort of rite of passage in your family?"

But is it safe?

Several recent and compelling articles explore the issue of safety and children. In "The Overprotected Kid" in The Atlantic, Dr. Sandseter writes that children "have a sensory need to taste danger and excitement; this doesn’t mean that what they do has to actually be dangerous, only that they feel they are taking a great risk." Books like Free Range Kids examine the statistical likelihood of dangers we most fear, and encourages parents to let children explore and learn free from overprotectiveness. Mrs. Gore's Diary blogs about learning to let go of fear and trusting God in spite of internet news of brain-eating amoebas and secondary drowning.

In short - what, on God's green earth, could possibly be too dangerous for Christian families?

Paul and buddies, just hanging out next to the 50-foot drop into the neighborhood dump.

Just as Sam did before him, Paul talks daily about his time in Mexico - the fun he had, the friends he made, the 24/7 community, the work he others did. When can he go back? Can he go next year? Can we all go? Can he bring his friends? The discomforts of dust, outdoor banos and seven stitches in a busted lip barely register.

But safe?

"Safe?" said Mr. Beaver. "Don't you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you." -- CS Lewis, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

Safe? Who said anything about safe? But it's good, I tell you.

All smiles and bandages in front of the casa de amor.

*photo credits Brad Pontius, Sherwood Oaks Christian Church

FamCamp

In retrospect, it was crazy.

To be honest, at the time it was even crazier.

In June, 2006, we were in the middle of a gut-wrenching move from Bloomington, IN, to Louisville, KY; Trent was working a new territory with a new manager so couldn't get away; and I decided to take our sheltered, innocent eight-year-old daughter to Tijuana, Mexico, to build a house with a Mexican family.

Because we had absolutely no construction experience.

And we didn't speak Spanish.

And also because she had never slept in a tent nor managed without electricity or running water. It had been a good twenty-five years since I had (thanks be to God).

So Trent was working in Kentucky. Sam and I spent Friday night at my parents' house in Indianapolis so we could catch the 7:00 am flight to San Diego. But my parents weren't home, so I arranged for a taxi to pick up us at 5:30 am.

Sam and I and our mountain of luggage (including the tent we had borrowed, tools, air mattresses, sleeping bags, clothes, Cipro (because the water), solar showers, and flashlights) waited and waited. No taxi. I called. And called. Finally at 5:50 am: "We have a driver en route to arrive around 6:30 am." WHAT?

We threw the bags in my (nearly empty of gas) car and I floored it. We made it to the airport in record time, screeched into a parking spot, grabbed the suitcases, and I chased down the airport shuttle that had just pulled away while my eight-year-old stared, wide eyed, at her crazy mother. I remember thinking, "God, I don't even really want to go to Mexico. And if we miss this flight I'm content to spend the week camping by Lake Monroe in Indiana. So if you want us there, You're going to have to get us there."

We made it to the gate with minutes to spare.

An article in the airplane seat pocket detailed the current drug situation in Mexico. It was not reassuring.

But then we arrived and set up camp.

Happy, happy, happy! (Feliz, feliz, feliz!)

By day two, Sam and I were plotting how to persuade Trent to join us for FamCamp 2007.

Our 2007 Mexico FamCamp family.

In 2008, we returned with my parents, my sister and brother-in-law, and our best friends from Bloomington. Crazy. Todos locos.

Each year brought new adventure, new heartache, new joy. 2009 was the year Sam sliced open her knee on a tent stake. "Quince puntos in mi rodilla." I can't explain why we returned to Tijuana after getting her stitched up at Balboa Park Naval Hospital in San Diego, except that there was no question in our mind that we would return. She had a knee brace and a makeshift crutch and a heart as bright as the desert sun.

We missed FamCamp in 2012 because we had just returned from Lesotho, Africa, with Paul. And we missed last year because Sam was in Germany and Paul just wasn't ready. We're crazy, but not that crazy.

This summer a friend from Spain is living with us, plus Sam is in the midst of travel softball, taking the ACT and preparing for a trip to Ghana.

So Trent decided to take our post-trauma, street-smart eight-year-old son to Tijuana, Mexico, to build a house with a Mexican family.

In retrospect, it's crazy.

Crazy love. Amor loco.

Perfect Day

It has been a tough couple of months. Heavy, dark, spiritually intense months. I still haven't wrapped my mind around what God was doing or protecting us from or what spiritual truth I was supposed to learn. Because clearly I haven't quite learned it yet.

But today… today was one of those oasis days. First, Paul slept until 7:00 am. SEVEN A.M.! Then he snuggled into bed with me to watch some Sheriff Callie. One of these days his viewing tastes will catch up to his age, but right now I'm thrilled he enjoys Sheriff Callie and Gaspard (not sure if that's the name - can't quite tell if they are rabbits or dogs, but they're all quite innocent and respectful so they can be whatever animals they wish.)

After a few shows he wanted to read. ON HIS OWN. WITH A BOOK. I can't even tell you how exciting this is. He loves stories, and being read to, but reading on his own is hard, hard work. (Monday he started the Minds-in-Motion sensory therapy summer program. I don't want to jump the gun, but he seems much less frustrated the last couple of days with tasks that require vision and auditory focus.) While he read (A BOOK!) I finalized his and Trent's registrations for Mexico Family Camp with Amor Ministries. (Serious leap of faith - they'll join a team from Sherwood Oaks Christian Church to build a home alongside a Mexican family in Tijuana.)

Then I finalized Sam's campus visits to Vanderbilt and Belmont, and arranged for a few fun excursions while we're in Nashville.

The reading fun wore off after about 40 minutes, so Rachel, our friend from Spain played basketball with him while I packed our gear and lunches. Then the four of us headed to the pool to meet some teacher friends.

It took Paul a bit to warm up to the new environment, but eventually he was off and running with friends from school so the teenagers could lay out and read their books and I could chat with my friends. Gorgeous sunny day, not too hot, I may have gotten a bit sunburned.

And when I got home - a letter from the county jury pool stating that the trial for which I had been scheduled to serve next week was settled and "no further action is required on your behalf."

Now rookie baseball and then a late dinner - European style - thanks to Rachel who wants to go to culinary school. (Um…yes…you may practice at our house. All summer. That will be fine.)

Thanks, God. I needed this day.

Birthday Gifts

Tuesday was my mumble-fourth birthday! Happy birthday to me! This year, my birthday started early. 12:51 am, to be specific, with a birthday greeting scream of "Mom! Help!" My poor kid was burning up - 102.5 and aching all over. It wasn't the birthday I would have planned, but brought with it so many gifts.

Gift #1: Connection. "Stay wif me. Sleep wif me. Don't leave me." From 1:00 am until 5:30 am he tossed and moaned, arms and legs touching, holding, draping across one part of my body or another at all times. There wasn't much I could do but offer ibuprofen and kisses, but it turns out that was just what he needed. To be loved by a child from a hard place, to be offered the opportunity to nurture that child into connection, is God's greatest gift.

The way you heal the world

is you start with your own family.

--Mother Teresa

Gift #2: Netflix. There are no words for my gratitude for Netflix, where my son can watch a continuous loop of Let It Shine and pretend he's a gospel rapper. This is especially fun when he's half-delirious and moaning.

I might be a busboy

But you just got served.

--Cyrus

Gift #3: Our pediatrician. I do not take lightly the incredible gift of being able to call our pediatrician at 8:00 am, scheduling an appointment for 11:00 am, and getting a complete, caring and thorough workup to rule out everything from strep to mono. (Turns out it was a particularly nasty but thankfully short-lived virus.) I realize that sadly, this is a privilege not shared by much of the world.

In health there is freedom,

Health is the first of all liberties.

--Henri-Frederic Amiel

Gift #4: Popsicles. Paul didn't want to eat or drink anything. He was so lethargic and hot and achy that nothing tempted him. Until the sweet nurse (see gift #3) handed him an orange popsicle. Doctor's orders - popsicles and Sprite all day long.

I like freedom. I wake up in the morning and I say,

"I don't know, should I have a popsicle or a donut?"

You know, who knows?

--Oscar Nunez

Gift #5: Sick Days. It is a great gift that I have a job in which I can stay home with my sick child. Again, I realize that this is a privilege not shared my all, and many must weight the devastating choice between staying with one's child versus losing one's job. I am thankful that the teachers and students with whom I work are so flexible in rescheduling my guidance time and so caring to send Paul well-wishes and prayers for his healing. An equally great gift - Trent's job is also flexible in allowing him to take the afternoon to relieve me so I could meet with enough classes and students that I didn't fall ridiculously behind with end-of-the-school-year stuff.

Sorry your sick day is due to actual sickness.

--Unknown

Gift #6: Junie B. Jones. Reading is hard work for my 1st grade English language learner, but he loves stories, and he loves to cuddle up next to me and take turns reading about another first grader who is also prone to impulsive mishaps. When his eyes ached too much for television, he wanted an eye mask and some Aloha-ha-ha.

There is no substitute for books

in the life of a child.

--May Ellen Chase

Gift #7: Steno Notebooks. Because we were stuck at home without schoolwork, yet with a reading test looming, we practiced the visual tool - compare and contrast - in our steno notebook/journal. Paul may not know the unit's pattern statement or process questions word-for-word, but he seems to grasp the underlying theme: Mom and Dad "Love me and Take kare ave me."

Children will not remember you

for the material things you provided

but for the feeling that you cherished them.

--Richard L. Evans

Naming It

It's a sunny Monday morning. I just dropped the kids off at carpool. I'm not scheduled to work at school on Monday mornings, although I usually do because there is always something to do or someone who needs a little TLC. But in a few hours I'm traveling to the 5th grade retreat in southern Indiana, and when it's over I'll have to hurry back (Trent laughed when I mentioned that I'm planning to "hurry back" across the bridge - clearly that's an oxymoron) because Sam has a district tournament softball game against arch-rival and good friends at Eastern High School. So from about 10:00 am on it will be nonstop action until game over. And then it will be celebration or consolation. Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.

But right now the coffee is brewing, the music is playing, and I have a minute to stop and think. I think best through my fingers. I understand best when I write. My children at school know that when they visit me to work through a tricky problem, I'm likely to pull out a sheet of paper and some markers so we can write and illustrate their story together. I tell both my writing students and my elementary students, "Let's get it out of your head and onto the paper. Then we can figure out what to do with it."

There is a scientific brain-based explanation for why writing and telling our stories are such powerful healing modalities. From THE WHOLE BRAIN CHILD by Daniel Siegel and Tina Payne:

The right side of our brain processes our emotions and autobiographical memories, but our left side is what makes sense of these feelings and recollections. Healing from a difficult experience emerges when the left side works with the right to tell our stories… This is what storytelling does: it allows us to understand ourselves and our world by using both our left and right hemispheres together… Research shows that merely assigning a name or label to what we feel literally calms down the activity of the emotional circuitry in the right hemisphere.

Siegel and Payne refer to this storytelling strategy as "Name It to Tame It."

From Whole Brain Child by Siegel and Payne

We are a people of story. Since the beginning of time peoples have gathered around fire or scroll or table to tell the stories of the seasons, of the gods, of the hunt and harvest, of war and love, of hurt and healing. Story puts meaning to memory. We have long known that this is true. Now science shows us why.

Much of therapy is about telling our stories, making sense of our stories, rewriting our stories - integrating the emotional right with the logical left; the survival downstairs brain with the rational upstairs brain.

On Saturday our therapist pulled out her feelings cards to help Paul name and tame a difficult situation that happened on his Adoption Day. "The Tale of the Applesauce" seems a simple story on the surface, a story in which "Paul overreacts and gets in trouble", but she knew and I knew that there was a deeper and darker subplot.

The therapist primed the pump, helping him recount what happened that day, how it felt, what he thought. "I felt mad and scared and shy." Because what happened? "She tooked my applesauce." What did you do? "I yelled. I'm not supposed to yell. Then I felt shy." You felt shy? "Because I was in trouble."

"Those are big feelings. Thank you for telling me. I wonder if your brain remembered other times when someone took something that was special to you?"

He was noncommittal. "Maybe."

On the way home, in the quiet cocoon of the car, Paul shared "The Tale's" prequel - "When We Were Hungry and I Had to Protect Our Food".

"You felt hungry and scared and mad when the big boys tried to take your food. You had to yell and fight and run away to feel safe," I said. "I wonder if your brain remembered those mad and scared feelings when she moved your applesauce. Your brain is still learning that now you are safe, now you have enough to eat, now no one is going to steal your food."

As if to emphasize the point, we pulled through the Chick-fil-A drive-through.

Paul was quiet, watching the cars and people moving in and out of the restaurant, watching as the ever-friendly Chick-fil-A staff handed us our food, wished us a happy day. Then, "She wasn't tooking it. She was just moving it. TRANSFERRING it."

"That's right! She was transferring it. You are helping your brain learn that taking and transferring are different."

Paul grinned, that mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Mom?"

"Hmmm?"

"Can I transfer the strawberries in your fruit cup to my fruit cup?"

"Are you transferring my strawberries or TAKING my strawberries?"

The grin widened. "Taking!" Pause. "Can I? Please?"

"Absolutely."

The serious business of bringing in the harvest.
May 2013

My Children

I am still suffering the effects of vestibular neuritis, which, while improving to the point I can now walk, drive and pretend some semblance of functionality, still leaves me feeling as if I just stepped off the Mad Hatter's Tea Cup ride ALL OF THE TIME. (And I always hated that ride.) Reading and writing take considerable effort because - guess what - the vestibular system and the visual system and the auditory system and the vagus nerve are all connected in earth-rocking ways.

So I'm not going to write much. I'm going to tell one Paul story and then show you some pictures. Yesterday, Paul asked, "Mom, 'member those kids we help?"

For the record, Paul remembers EVERYTHING about EVERYONE we have EVER met. EVER. (Except, of course, minor details like their names.) And he expects me to read his mind about WHO THE HECK HE'S TALKING ABOUT. Which I cannot. Especially when all of my current concentration is focused on remaining upright without swaying too visibly.

He is learning I need clarification. "Those kids? They weren't homeless but we help them and their famb'ly. Remember? From Africa?"

Me: "The Somali kids? That you helped tutor?"

Paul: "No! They live in Africa NOW. In MY country. WE MET THEM! REMEMBER?" (Sometimes I think he thinks I'm an idiot with the memory of a flea. Sometimes he's right.)

Me, thinking, thinking: "Oh! Our World Vision kids? Tokiso and Mohaila?"

Paul, sighing with the satisfaction of finally being understood: "Yes. I was trying to tell my teacher about them. Cause they's kind of like our family too, right?"

Me: "Yes. They are exactly like our family, too."

I haven't been able to read but a couple of the blogs and posts and who-ha-ha about World Vision and the latest homosexual controversy. Because I Just. Cannot. Even. It makes me nauseous. Everything makes me nauseous, but this especially.

We have sponsored children through Compassion and through World Vision for many years. (World Vision introduced us to the country and the children of Lesotho, which in turn introduced us to Paul.) When we traveled to Lesotho in May 2012 we were able to meet our children. Julius, the Lesotho World Vision representative, drove us to meet Tokiso on Monday, along with her ENTIRE family, her ENTIRE school, and about three-quarters of the ENTIRE village. On Tuesday Julius drove us to meet Mohaila, his family, his schoolmates and his teachers.

We write letters back and forth - Mohaila doesn't much like to write, but he does it anyway. I think his mama makes him. She's that kind of mama - and we watch them grow and love them from afar.

I read that World Vision lost close to 5,000 sponsors when they announced they would allow those in legal same-sex marriages to work for their organization. FIVE THOUSAND. Those numbers represent real children, y'all. Real families. Real communities. In a moment of outrage, of disagreement, children became pawns. Children just like MY children.

Mohaila's mama shared that he's still in school because of our sponsorship. School isn't easy for him. Sponsorship provides him with the support he needs to get an education - an education that is essential to his future.

Tokiso's local ADP (area development program) representative shared that our sponsorship enabled Tokiso's mother to visit a doctor. A visit that saved her life. A visit that meant Tokiso and her siblings still have a mother. World Vision provides hope; preserves families.

Paul is still learning what it means to be family. He is still learning that we are family NO MATTER WHAT. We are family EVEN IF we disagree. Family sticks together. Family loves each other. Nobody walks away. Nobody flakes out when it gets tough - because it will get tough. This family will NEVER give up on our kids. Not the ones who live in my house, and not the ones who live half-a-world away. Don't nobody mess with MY CHILDREN.

A calvary of children riding donkeys led us up a mountain
to a rousing welcome from Tokiso (in yellow) and her schoolmates.

A World Vision sponsorship helps the entire community. Our sponsorship
assisted in building a clean-water-well for the school. Which is pumped via a
MERRY GO ROUND! Just look at these babies!

I was somehow conscripted into participating in a traditional women's dance.
Yes, they are laughing at me. And I think the teacher in white might
have posted to YouTubes Funniest Videos or something.

Both families cooked us an amazing lunch! 

World Vision supports the entire family.
Our family is forever linked with Mohaila's family.
Forever. No matter what.

What Doesn't Kill You

You know that saying, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger?" Based on recent happenings, which I am unable to clarify in a public blog BECAUSE OF ALL THE THINGS, I find it necessary to clear up a few misconceptions about this particular phrase.

1. What doesn't kill you MAY make you stronger IF this thing that does not kill you is a moderate and predictable and developmentally appropriate stress and IF you have the blessing of having been loved and cared for and supported by the adults in your life. Things like failing a test because you didn't study and consequently having TV-time replaced with STUDY time. Things like not making the cut because you didn't practice or don't put forth effort and realizing that if you want it you're going to have to bust your butt. Things like falling off your bike and scraping your knee and getting it all bandaged up and loved on so you can go try again. Even things like learning to confront meanness or unfairness in an assertive, dignity-protecting way. I'm quite a fan of these "isn't killing you" experiences, which is why my son was breaking down and hauling boxes with his dad before dawn instead of watching television.

But, and here's the tricky bit, these love-and-logic "not killing you" experiences work best in the context of safe and fair and loving relationships. These love-and-logic "not killing you" experiences work only if the child's dignity and spirit are valued. Parents, teachers and coaches of highly sensitive people or of children from hard places must walk a fine line between correcting versus humiliating, between instructing versus devaluing. Otherwise we move into items #2 or #3, see below.

2. Even if what does not kill you IS a significant or unpredictable stressor, like slicing open your knee in the middle of rural Mexico or public humiliation or surviving a natural disaster or coping with a chronic illness or even the death a loved one, IF the child has a reliable adult or adults to help buffer the stress this thing may, with support and God's great healing, make them stronger. "Because we know that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance character, and character hope." (Romans 5:4). But to realize this hope takes time, sometimes therapy, the support of loving relationships, and always the comfort and power of God.

3. If what does not kill you is severe, unpredictable and prolonged, it may in fact cause changes in the wiring of the brain that completely overwhelms the ability to cope and, rather than making you stronger, can make you enraged, anxious, antisocial, depressed, even suicidal. There is healing and strength, but it requires all of God's strength, power and comfort, and all of the hands-and-feet love of His people. This healing may not look like we want it to look. It may not look stronger. It may be messy and filled with hurt. It is all the cracks and brokenness and weakness through which only God's strength can shine.

Spring Again

For the first time in a long time, I feel a joyful, bubbling well of hope. The sun will do that. So will rest. (Eleven hours of sleep, y'all. No nightmares. No 5:30 am neediness. This morning I was replaced with an iPad, a Netflix app, and a bag of oranges. And I'm good with that.)

The sun warms my shoulders as I rake away the last of the soggy, brown leaves from the front yard. Down the street I hear the shouts and laughter of my little boy and his friends playing pickup basketball. My daughter is driving home from softball practice while her daddy teaches/encourages/warns from the passenger seat.

After a long, cold winter, it's beginning to feel like spring.

I discovered some things about myself this winter. I don't like to feel stuck in the cold. And I can be kind of whiny and frustrated about feeling stuck in the cold. It's easy to feel a little bit hopeless. Always winter and never Christmas. I have a tendency to look around at warmer places like, say, Florida. "It's not cold in FLORIDA. What do we need to do to warm things up around HERE?" I tend to seek validation that yes, it really is cold. (Read: you are not crazy - a wind chill of negative 10 can freeze even the most even-tempered personality). And I also seem to have a deep need to warm things up. Seriously, what's it going to take? I'll move south, I'll shift the jet stream, I'll even start a fire in the living room if I need to. What do I have to DO?

Too much snow. Make it go away.

I discovered some things about God this winter. Sometimes He lets us stay stuck in the cold for a season. I had several opportunities to "move" somewhere that seemed a lot warmer. The grass looks a lot greener when it's not covered in six inches of snow, y'all. But each time God said, "No. Wait. I know it's cold, but take heart. I will overcome the cold." They say Aslan is on the move. I'm not always good at figuring out what God is doing/is going to do and/or whether I'm going to like whatever it is. But when God says wait, when He promises that spring is coming EVENTUALLY, I am learning to trust that He who enters the storehouses of snow can also make the sun stand still in the sky.

I discovered some things about the support of friends this winter. A listening ear feels a lot like that NorthFace parka I'm coveting. It buffers against the icy wind. It may not make the cold go away, but it makes it a lot more tolerable. And sometimes, sometimes, enough friends working together with God CAN shift the jet stream, CAN melt the snow, CAN make you believe that we shall have spring again.

And now I'm off to enjoy more teenage driving, more little boy basketball, more sun on my shoulders. Because while we may yet have another cold snap before winter truly releases its grip, today it feels like spring.

This year spring came on February 20. A day of new beginnings…

The Very Best Valentine's Day Present

My funny Valentine…
Sweet, comic valentine…
You make me smile with my heart…

I have been lucky enough to celebrate 26 Valentine's Days with my love. (Maybe 25. There was that time in college when we broke up. But that was only for one night. I don't *think* the breakup occurred over Valentine's Day - that would have been stupid of me - but the breakup WAS precipitated by someone else buying me flowers. So…)

Trent is the romantic in the family. He's not into buying flowers and chocolates and whatnots, though. His gifts take months of thought and planning. He specializes in big events - the year Sam was two we bought a fixer-upper and I thought I'd never leave the house again except to go to work and Lowe's: he arranged childcare and a surprise overnight getaway complete with chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne. Or last November after sixteen months of near-cocooning with our son he arranged a four-day vacation to South Beach and somehow stayed well within budget. (Except perhaps for the lobster ravioli at Prime Italian. But that was worth breaking the bank.) Those are just a couple of his wonderful and romantic presents.

Today he gives his best present ever - a present six months in the making, one that has required daily thought, prayer and sacrifice.

Today is the day he completes his six month water challenge and buys a well for a village in Malawi with the money he's saved.

Photo from Marion Medical Mission (www.mmmwater.org)

I am smitten. In his words:

Today my six months of drinking H2O only comes to an end.  I was hoping to have some great revelations to share with everyone on the lessons I learned.  The truth is, the lessons were all simple ones that I have always known, but choose to not make a part of my daily thought process...until now.

1.       There is always someone that has it worse than you.  Each time that I “deprived” myself of a drink other than water, I was reminded that I have never really been deprived of anything in my life.  I will probably never know the feeling of hunger or thirst or want for anything.  It was so easy to not appreciate the little things in life.  Not anymore.  Appreciate all He has given you.

2.       With God, all things ARE possible…even if it’s as small as only drinking water, or the bigger challenges that God places in front of us.  We can’t do them without Him, so why do we try so hard to do everything on our own?  Lean on Him daily.

3.       It’s great to have the support of family and friends.  If it’s as easy as supporting a friend’s challenge or as hard as supporting a friend who is experiencing a life-changing challenge, God made us loving and relational creatures who are able to show our love for Him by showing our love for each other.  Show love every day.

Thank you all for your prayers and support.

If you would like to donate to the Marion Medical Mission Shallow Well program, you can follow this link http://www.mmmwater.org/

The site will give you information about the program.  100% of the donation will go toward the Shallow Well. One well is $400 but any size donation, larger or smaller is appreciated.

Happy Valentine's Day! Be love.

Just Keep Swimming

Betta fish #3 is still alive, and all is well in the world.

We currently have two fishtanks going in little man's room. The newly constructed fish "bowl" (made out of an extra (and unneeded because Trent doesn't believe in buying flowers) flower vase) in which Captain III is currently residing while the too-high ammonia levels in the filtered fish "tank" stabilize.

Captain I, II and III have taught me a few things about parenting hurt children.

• Toxins are often invisible. "You can't see the ammonia or the nitrates in the water," the fish lady told me. "They're invisible killers. You have to test the water and change it regularly."
• Adoptive and foster parents can't always grasp the trauma their children have faced. Many of our kids have been through stuff that should be confined to horror movies. We know this, and yet it's hard to see, hard to understand. It's often invisible until something - maybe what seems a minor stressor - causes it to erupt in nightmares, rage and grief. 
• You have to treat the toxins, not the symptoms. When Captain I died, our quick fix was to buy Captain II and stick him back in the same fish tank. We didn't know it was toxic! It promptly died, too. We had to treat the fish tank, clean the water, for Captain III to survive. When my child "acts out", my first instinct as a parent is to impose consequences, lectures, rules, rewards. But a child who is acting from a place of fear and grief can't grasp consequences. He doesn't care about rules and rewards. First there has to be connection. Healing. The toxins need to be treated before the behavior can change.
• For us, testing the water and changing it often means regular and inviolable family connection time, regardless of behavior. As maddening as bedtime might be, and as much as I might want to use the loss of bedtime stories and songs as a discipline tactic to "brush your teeth right now or else!" these bedtime snuggles offer my best opportunity to test and change the waters, to remove toxins.
• One of the hardest things about owning fish is keeping the water levels just right for your particular fish, even as fish food and poop mucks it all up. As Ryan North stated: "This is one of the hardest (but most incredible) things about being a foster or adoptive parent. You have to earn back trust you never violated. You have to work to redeem hard places that you never created. You have to heal wounds that you never inflicted."

• We thought our one gallon, filtered fish tank was a great size for our new Betta. It even has a filter! After all, at the pet store those fish live in those little, tiny containers. The fish lady wasn't impressed. "Too big to clean often enough, but too small to create a self-sustaining environment. The smaller the tank, the easier it is for things to get out of whack."
• Bruce Perry, author of The Boy Who Was Raised as a Dog,  is one of my favorite researchers/writers on developmental trauma. He has a wealth of knowledge on the impact of trauma on the developing brain. He writes that it is the young brain's amazing plasticity, which makes it possible for children to learn love and language, that also makes it so susceptible to early stress and trauma. Children are a small tank. Early traumatic stress profoundly affects the developing brain, changing its physical structure, making children from hard places much more reactive to life's everyday stressors.
• By the same token, Perry writes, "The more healthy relationships a child has, the more likely he will be able to recover from trauma and thrive. Relationships are the agents of change and the most powerful therapy is human love." Relationships above and beyond the family grow my child's tank, allowing him to create a buffer against stressors. We are so grateful for the relationships that have helped him grow - Nana and Papa and cousins often and always, Grandma, our small group family, his football/basketball coach, his best friend's mom who senses when I'm over it all and takes him for playdates, his kindergarten teacher who is still available for hugs and counsel, all the teachers and friends at school who offer encouragement and support, neighborhood families and playmates - he is blessed by so many caring, tank-expanding relationships.

• It takes time to stabilize. After Captain II "fell asleep" so suddenly, I desperately wanted Captain III to be swimming happily in his tank when Paul returned from school. "I am not processing DEAD FISH right now. What do I need to do, what do I need to put in the tank, to fix it?" I asked the fish lady. She shook her head and tsk'ed at me. "You're gonna need some beneficial bacteria in the tank, but it's gonna take a week or two for that to neutralize the ammonia and adjust the nitrate levels. If you want to do it right, it's gonna take some time, honey."
• In adoption, attachment counselors talk about "family age". A child may be eight years old, chronologically, but if he's only been in the family for 18 months,  he is still at a much younger emotional and developmental age, still feeling young and shaky about separation and independence and in his ability to regulate. Children make amazing gains and strides, they surely do, but it often takes years longer than we think it might. 
• It's been three weeks yesterday since Paul learned about his teacher transition at school. The first week was the worst, when those toxic fears of abandonment and change erupted into rage and grief, stirring up toxic memories. He needed to know that we were safe, that we would care for him no matter what, that we would never leave. He needed to see that we could unpack those early toxic memories and bring them to light, heal them.
• This week the anxiety levels are plummeting as he realizes this new teacher and routine is not that different, not at all scary. We're stabilizing. Now he's testing the new teacher, which is oh, so blessedly "normal" and much easier to manage (at least for me) with apology notes and extra "helps". As Paul said so sagely after he "moved his number" and had to face the consequence: "Sometimes you get grumpy. Then you just need to do the work to cheer up."

Just keep swimming, y'all. Just keep swimming.

 

God Save the Fish

Sam got Paul a fish for his birthday a couple of weeks ago. Normally, I am opposed to bringing any more creatures into this house because with two kids, two dogs, one cat, one husband, two jobs, one ELL refugee tutoring assignment, a preschool Sunday school class, assorted freelance gigs and a book I'm meant to finish someday, I have reached the limit of THINGS I CAN CARE ABOUT. But…

Paul really wanted a "fish of his very own". And he has been going through HARD THINGS the last couple of weeks. Which means he's more easily stressed, frustrated and flat-out mad than is bearable. He tends to take out his stress, frustration and mad on Sam. She's his safest person, apparently. Which she could view in a positive light, right? She doesn't.

So this fish is sort of a connector. Paul loves his fish. And happy feelings about fish bleed into happy feelings about Sam. At least, that's the theory.

Except the stupid fish keeps dying! "Sleeping" may be the word I used when Paul saw him motionless at the bottom of the filter. Just taking a little fishy nap.

You may be reading this as someone whose children I have counseled. In which case we may have discussed the idea of being honest with your children, supporting them with your presence and love while allowing them to face the grief and stress of life. This is important.

Except not this fish. Not right now. Hypocritical perhaps, but I am not adding a dead fish to the traumatic memories we're working through. Everything else may be out of whack, but THE FISH IS JUST SLEEPING!

So we discovered the sleeping fish Friday evening. On Saturday Trent and Paul went to the YMCA while I scurried back to Feeder Supply. Later Saturday afternoon, "Mom! Look! Captain is awake. And his tail is bigger! He grew!"

See, Son. What am I always telling you about the importance of sleep? Sleep and grow.

Sunday evening the fish took another nap. Seriously. I am the killer of fish. So Monday morning I will take the kids to school, finish editing two manuscripts, get ready for my school job, zoom to Feeder Supply for a quick course on HOW TO KEEP A FISH ALIVE THROUGH WINTER, replace Captain II with yet another lookalike, then head to school to help other children who don't live in my house walk through the difficulties of life with honesty and courage.

Water

I am too tired to blog. So much has happened over the course of the last three weeks, I don't even know where to begin:

• Wonderful - The celebration of Jesus' birth; a vacation with family at the beach; a birthday for a super heroic eight year old boy. 
• Difficult - Christmas; being out of routine; the attempt to get home from our family vacation. 
• Traumatic - this week landed us smack in the middle of hard things. While I know there is healing at the end of this setback I don't yet know how God is going to work it out, and I don't have the words. Which is difficult for me, not having the words.

 So it's my husband's turn. Backstory - five months ago our church issued a challenge to step out of our comfort zone. If we were willing, we could accept the challenge and complete one of five tasks. From our time spent in Mexico and Africa, experiencing the real-life difficulty of water scarcity, Trent chose the challenge to drink only water for six months as a way to fast and pray for those around the world who lack clean water. For six months he has given up beer, Diet Coke and sweet tea to drink only tap water. The money he has saved (around $400) will be donated to Marion Medical Mission to install a shallow well in a water-deprived community. At the beginning of this fast he issued a challenge to friends and family - you all drink whatever you want, but if I make it, you commit to donating a well, too. When he ends the fast on February 14th, eleven wells at $400 each will be built and self-sustained in villages in sub-Sahara Africa.

With one month to go, this is Trent's letter to his supporters:

Well....no pun intended there, it's the last month of the "Well Challenge"!  I had one person say to me, "So my reward for listening to you complain about not drinking Diet Coke for the past five months is that I'm going to have to fork over $400?  You should have paid me to listen to your complaining, but hey, the Lord loves a cheerful giver!"

Oddly enough I get to begin this last month with a trip to Las Vegas, where everything is paid for, including the water.  Yummy!  I assume  I can survive since I have made it through holidays, vacations, family vacations, birthdays, New Year's Eve, and an 8 year old's birthday party.  There sure are a lot of reasons to drink more than water.  There will be one celebration at the end, on February 14th, Valentine's Day.  Mostly to thank my beautiful wife for all her support and encouragement.  I would invite all of you as well but that would be a little awkward.  I will say again how much I appreciate the support and prayers from each and every one of you.

I have watched the news about the people in WV where the water supply has been contaminated and thought how inconvenient that would be. But on the other hand, the majority of the world does not have trucks filled with water and bottles of water to help with this need. Together we can do a small part to come to their rescue.

I will send everyone the link to the Marion Medical Mission website in 4 weeks. In 1990 they installed 13 wells. In 2013 they installed 2,999 wells, providing clean drinking water to hundreds of thousands of men, woman and children.  

Trent

ps: I am so proud of him, his heart and his sacrifice.

pps: I did not take the drink-only-water challenge. I am no longer allowed to give up coffee. For the good of all mankind.

Jesus answered, "Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst.  Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life."  John 4: 13-14