Recasting Mother's Day

Mother’s Day has simple and good intentions, but for many it is a difficult day. Many feel unworthy of it, and many wonder why there’s no day for them. Indeed, the cards and commercials can make it seem like a day for none of us—for who could be so perfect as these sanitized, sparkling, fake families?

In the midst of the myth of Hallmark perfection, let us also remember those often hurt or forgotten on Mother’s Day:

The women who have lost a child--born or unborn, young or old, an only or one of many, recent or long ago but not forgotten . . .

The women and men who have lost or never known their mother . . .

The women who want a child but are still waiting, and those who will never be able . . .

The women who want to adopt but are still waiting, and those who will never be able . . .

The women whose family members don't recognize their motherhood or children as "real" because they came via adoption or marriage or they don't look the same . . .

The mothers who placed their children for adoption and struggle to find their place in their lives, and the mothers who did so secretly and silently endure the condemnation of "I don't understand how any woman could do that" from those who have never even tried to understand . . .

The mothers unknown around the world whose children have journeyed to America without them, their identities lost and too often forgotten . . .

The single mother who feels blamed for society's ills . . .

The lesbian woman whose motherhood is scorned as second class . . .

The woman who regrets her abortion . . .

The woman in the depths of postpartum depression who despite her best efforts, at this moment regrets her baby . . .

The women whose daughters endure abuse and whose sons rot in jail . . .

The women and children and orphans who live on $1 a day while we spend $1.5 billion on throwaway cards . . .

The women who are not called mom but take the time to bake her brownies, go to his games, staff the nursery, take her underwear shopping, vote in school board elections, send birthday cards, attend graduations, chaperone trips, walk to the well, and work for peace . . .

Women who feel they don’t fit, women of complex stories, women of the real world . . .

This day may not be easy for you, but you are remembered, and you too are worthy of honor.

To all the women who have loved me and those I love—thank you for blessing my life and our world with your love.

Partly inspired by this blog post: "For the Childless Woman on Mother's Day" by author Vinita Hampton Wright

Making Goals: How Alive Am I Willing to Be?

"You can't make footprints in the sands of time if you're sitting on your butt. And who wants to make buttprints in the sands of time?"

Bob Moawad

As I've already mentioned, last week I wrote up two things: (1) my To-Do List of Doom and (2) ongoing and specific goals for various aspects of my life.

The first is pretty much what it sounds like: things that have to be cleaned up, cleaned out, fixed up, organized, and checked off in order to get our house on the market and get moving toward moving, as well as some paperwork type things like readoption and taxes and--oh joy! welcome back to my life!--FAFSA forms.

My personal goals are a revival of what FunnyWriterMommy and I used to work on together when we had our pseudo-accountability (pseudo because who are we kidding, we were still slackers) and writing times together. We'd taken ideas from a couple books we'd read and made it into this process of writing personal goals for all aspects of our lives: spiritual, physical, relationships, vocation, use of time and money, and so on.

Some of these goals were ongoing every day, week, or month: drink so much water a day, take a sabbath day each week, go on a date with husband once a month. Some were more specific tasks to be done in a certain time frame: this month I will finish reading X book, make gift for so and so, clean closet and donate old clothes, outline X writing project.

Then every quarter we'd get together and admit how much we sucked at meeting our goals.

So I figured, hey, I don't need FunnyWriterMommy around to suck at meeting goals!

Last week I finally actually sat down and thought through those areas of my life and prioritized some goals. And wow, do I have a lot of room for improvement.

I'm trying to trim the fat from my body and our budget.

I need to get the house ready to show, get control of my inbox, and get more productivity out of each day.

I'm confessing that I'm a freelancer who doesn't market, a writer who doesn't write, a youth worker/youth pastor's wife who hardly ever reads the Bible, a stay at home mom who barely plays with her child more days than not.

Hey, I'm a picker, I'm a grinner, I'm a lover, I'm a sinner . . . and I bet you are too. We pick and choose what "disciplines" we adopt. We grin and say everything's fine when we meet those acquaintances in front of the store, even if we're overwhelmed by what we left behind closed doors. We love to be loved, and we sin to be sinners, because the truth is we really like that truism that everyone has their weakness, because we really love having ours.

The thing is, a discipline is not a discipline if you only do it when you feel like it. That's a hobby. As my crazy drill sergeant math teacher would bark, "Discipline is doing what you are supposed to do, when you are supposed to do it, even if you don't want to." It's that last part we all make an art form out of denying.

But confession is good for the soul.

Discipline is good for the life.

I confess I've had too little of each, but I'm starting over again.

And I'll need you to help me do that again too. Again, and again, and again.

Because to fail at my goals? I can do that on my own. But to move forward, I can't walk alone. And I want to live a life that's not just keeping up but really going somewhere, whether I can see what's ahead or I'm feeling stuck in between.

"How alive am I willing to be?"*


I wanna see miracles
To see the world change
Wrestled the angel for more than a name
For more than a feeling
For more than a cause
I'm singing 'Spirit, take me up in arms with You'
And you're raising the dead in me
___________________________________

It was a beautiful letdown
When I crashed and burned
When I found myself alone unknown and hurt
It was a beautiful letdown
The day I knew
That all the riches this world had to offer me
Would never do . . .

Easy living, not much like your name
Easy dying, you look just about the same
Won't you please take me off your list
Easy living please come on and let me down

We are a beautiful letdown,
Painfully uncool,
The church of the dropouts
And losers and sinners and failures and the fools
Oh what a beautiful letdown
Are we salt in the wound
Let us sing one true tune

lyrics from Switchfoot, "Twenty-Four" and "Beautiful Letdown"

*quote from Anne Lamott

Bittersweet Milestones

Anna has passed some bittersweet milestones in the last couple months:

The day she was born.

The day she entered the orphanage care center.

Having lived longer with us than in Ethiopia.

As these dates pass and I remember what we were feeling a year ago . . . I wonder what Anna was feeling. And I wonder what her mother, assuming she is still alive, so far away in Ethiopia, feels now. I wonder if she thinks of her child a hundred times a day—or a thousand.

The circumstances of our adoption provided us with zero information about Anna’s family. We know only her home city. Even her birthdate is an estimate. On the days surrounding I wondered about the circumstances of her birth and prayed her mother would be able to trust that her child is being loved and cared for. I wish she could know that though she is unknown, she is not forgotten.

I do not think so much about Anna’s father—I suppose I feel a maternal connection to her mother that I do not feel toward him—but her mother has been strong in my mind and heart even as we waited for our referral. At times I would feel a strong need/desire to pray for our child’s mother as she carried her child, for everything from peace of mind to good nutrition. Was she strong and healthy? Was she sick and afraid? Was she wondering how she would ever care for her child, poor and alone? Or was she glowing with excitement, picking out names and dreaming of all her child would do and be? What happened to tear her away from her own flesh and blood?

I wonder if that tiny baby had any inkling what she was losing that day her story changed course, that day of new rooms and nurses and other babies fussing in their cribs beside hers. I wonder did they tell her she would have a home again soon, and did it stop her cry.

I wonder what she remembers and how to keep it alive. I wonder how to tell her that although she’s been with us longer than not, she’s not more or less American than Ethiopian, not more or less ours than her first family’s, not anyone’s or anything except Yegetanesh, You belong to God, born at the right time and in the right place to become who He made her to be, for such a time as this.

Jesus, write me into your story
Whisper it to me
And let me know I'm yours

—Rich Mullins

Needing What I Cannot Give

They declared a young man something other than what they thought he should be.

They ganged up on him.

They beat him to within an inch of his life.

They tortured him.

And he said, Father, forgive them.

I must remember where I stand in this story.

I am not innocent. I am not a bystander. I am the abuser of Jesus. I am complicit in his death.

And each day I continue to abuse the gifts and love he gives me through his resurrection.

I am sorry to admit that despite it being Lent, I have thought little about Jesus's suffering until this week. But holding my precious, unmarred baby in my arms, my mind's eye sees a young man in pain, echoes of sad and shocking news that has fallen close to home this week.

I have been thinking about the words justice, mercy, forgiveness, and how supernatural it is for God to embody and dispense them all. I am far from this. Too often my stated desire for justice is really for vengeance; for mercy, one-sided; for forgiveness, selfish. I want these things for myself and those I love but not for those I hate but yes, someone else loves.

Justice. Where there are crimes, justice should be done. But in an angry heart I want it not just done but done to the perpetrators. Not just that the scales should be balanced but that the hammer should fall. This is why ultimate justice should not, cannot, ever be for me to decide.

Forgiveness. I do want to see forgiveness--for the victims, so their hearts will not be poisoned. Justice can draw out the arrow, but only forgiveness can heal the wound. But can there be forgiveness without repentance? There cannot be reconciliation . . . but I think there can be forgiveness offered without request. Indeed there must be, else we would all stand condemned by a thousand offenses a day we fail to even recognize we have committed against our brothers and our God.

Which brings us, perhaps, to mercy . . . the thing I cannot now bring myself to desire for others even though I would beg it for myself or my own. I feel it would undermine justice. How can they coexist? But if mercy were fair, it would not be mercy; it would be justice, just as something paid for is not a gift. Mercy is God's gift to give. Mercy is a sovereign God's right even as justice is his requirement. Only a sovereign God can be merciful and yet ensure justice is fulfilled. And now we are back to the story again, wondering how dare we ask for mercy after what we have done yet knowing we cannot stand without it.

Sometimes we know not what we should ask. But we know a man of sorrows who is familiar with suffering, rich in mercy, and willing to forgive. Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

“You can’t conceive, nor can I, the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God.”

—Graham Greene

My Cup Runneth Over and Maketh a Big Mess

Warning: Transparency Alert.

Disclaimer: I'm not out of hope and I don't dislike motherhood. In fact overall I'm surprisingly fond of it, but that's a story for another day. This is about these latter days and how they've taken their toll.*

We were joined in church yesterday by the missionaries to Cambodia who our church supports and whose grandmother goes to our church. Jeremy preached and besides telling stories that made me want to go back to Ethiopia, he used an example of a pitcher of water pouring into a cup sitting on a saucer sitting on a plate. The pitcher is God; he's always pouring and pouring his grace. We're the cup; God pours into us and it overflows into our family/loved ones/the things we hold most dear (the saucer) and then into the larger world, the people and places we touch in ministry/life (the plate). But if you put the saucer or plate over the cup, nothing gets into the cup. It stays empty or drys up.

Hmmm.

I'd say I am feeling dry, except it's more like drowning. There's grace all around me and most days I can even see it, but sometimes it feels like instead of drinking it in, I'm just flailing around and making a mess.

These days I am giving a lot to Anna, and that's a good thing. It's worthwhile and usually it's enjoyable. Sometimes it's downright fun. But it never, ever stops. It's just so constant, this mothering thing.

That might be okay if everything else weren't constant too. But it is, and over the last couple weeks all the demands of life, mine and ours and everyone else's, have been engulfing and overwhelming me. Sometimes I feel like I work thirteen hours a day and accomplish nothing. Too many to-do's and not enough done. Too many bills and not enough money. Too much conflict and not enough communication. Too many needs and not enough helpers. Too much work and not enough play and one dull boy and girl crashed vacantly on the couch with no energy for either.

Another day, another dollar. Two steps forward, three steps back.

Days and weeks like these can leave us feeling perplexed. What are we doing wrong? Why did God bring us to this spot? Am I doing enough? Am I doing too much? What if the money runs out? Is it my fault? Will it ever get easier?

Some of those questions I know the answer to; I just need to remind myself or hear the truth again. Some of them we'll never know the answers to. And for some of them we just have to play our hand out as best we can.

It's not like I haven't been here before, and knowing me, I'm sure I'll come back again. I'm thankful God gives more than enough grace to smooth over my ups and downs. Deep down I trust His work is not done in me and around me. I want to be a Psalm 27 girl:

I am still confident of this:
I will see the goodness of the LORD
in the land of the living.

Wait for the LORD;
be strong and take heart
and wait for the LORD.

(verses 13-14)

But let's get real: My confidence falters sometimes, with so much riding on it. I try to be strong and I just take on too much. My plate gets full and my cup gets blocked and runneth over and maketh a big mess. (And then leaves that mess in the kitchen for several days hoping it will clean itself.)

So yeah, I'm a Psalm 27 girl, deep down. But some days, in all honesty, it comes a little more naturally for me to be a Matchbox 20 girl: I really, really just wish the real world would stop hassling me. And you.

Please don't change
Please don't break
The only thing that seems to work at all is you . . .
I wish the real world would just stop hassling me and you

*Mmm, what I really need right now is some Good Dog Bad Dog for these latter days. All I need is everything. Will there ever be a time in my life when I can't come back to these lyrics? I submit that there will not.

Beauty and the BS

To follow up on my earlier post about being highly visible and the praise that constantly gushes over our daughter, let me say again that I do take these comments as compliments (we have yet to receive a negative remark--though I know we will someday). We are and will continue to be as proud as imaginable of our daughter not just for her beauty but for all the other qualities emerging in her as well. I do appreciate the nice things people say.

I'm just not always sure what to say in return.

When someone says, "She's such a beautiful baby!" or "That's the most adorable baby I've ever seen!" what am I supposed to say?

I usually go with a simple "Thank you," although sometimes it feels like taking credit for something we had nothing to do with. We neither made nor chose her.

I've occasionally said something joking like "Yes, no thanks to us," but I don't really want to emphasize that as she grows up.

Sometimes I say, "Yes, we certainly think so." This is true, but does admitting my bias imply I don't think it's true? I mean, sometimes I think people are laying it on a little thick, but I don't mind them agreeing with my assessment that she's the most beautiful baby ever.

Sometimes I think I can see my baby's ego causing her entire head to swell up to the 99th percentile and a belief that beauty matters most rising up to devour the seeds of her preteen self-esteem, so I deflect with a comment about something she's doing rather than how she looks. I want her to hear, and know, and trust, as she grows older, that her beauty is enhanced and made complete by her brains, her heart, her purpose, her character.

She's beautiful, yes. But it's nothing compared to the beauty inside.

That's my answer. If only you, and she, could see how true it is.



Note: This may seem silly at her age and when the comments are compliments, but consider the hair comments which are surely in our future: http://www.antiracistparent.com/2007/09/21/good-hair-and-bad-hair-the-silent-messages-our-children-receive/#more-295

Also recommended:
"A Girl Like Me" at http://www.mediathatmattersfest.org/6/index.php?id=2#
http://transracial.adoptionblogs.com/

Cutest Baby EVER in the WORLD?

As I already shared, a couple weeks ago we took Anna with us to Wildhorse Canyon for Young Life leadership training camp, and she was a great traveler and made lots of friends. This phenomenon was an interesting experiment, in fact.

The first night she was being chatty so I took her outside to the "baby zone" where a dad was trying to jiggle his little guy to sleep too, but of course Anna saw that she could soak up attention from everyone standing there and immediately enjoyed making big eyes at people and smiling so they could tell her how she's the cutest, most adorable baby ever in the whole wide world with the biggest eyes and oh so sweet. Which is true, of course. Still . . .

She was like a freaking celebrity with all the attention she got. Everyone was always watching her and saying hi and asking her name and (occasional grr) touching her head. This happened quite a bit in the store this week too. I know people like babies and especially cute, alert babies . . . but at first Control Group Baby was right there and it was Anna that got all the oohs and ahhs. And I know she really is cute and adorable and alert and with big eyes and oh so sweet. And we her parents do find her to be the most beautiful thing in the whole wide world. But twice total strangers have said, "She is the cutest [or most beautiful] baby I've ever seen in my life." In your life? Really? You don't have children or grandchildren or neices or friends' children whom you've seen for more than ten seconds and whom your affection for might give them a bump up to the top of the list? I mean, these were older women. They had to have seen a lot of babies in their life. But it's official, and we're making a plaque for the house: Cutest Baby EVER Slept Here.

Young Life leaders are awesome people so all the attention was positive and we had some nice conversations with people about adoption and babies/parenting, so I didn't really mind. Actually it was a lot of fun having her there and we are proud to have adopted her and be her parents (and prideful in a selfish way to be seen with celebrity baby). I know a lot of the attention she gets is because she is black in places most are white, and she doesn't "match" us either. She just plain stands out in a crowd, and the consensus does seem to be that she's exceptionally cute, and even we are amazed at her beauty. So I don't blame people for watching her--I would and I do! That's an illustration of differences in racial privilege, but I don't take offense as long as people are positive, not offensive, and it's not making her or us uncomfortable (at this point).

Still, it's a little strange to know that a lot of that attention is because in our white world, she's got a novelty factor as well. And I wonder sometimes about how much of the praise for her beauty is a kind of surprise. When people seem amazed that she could be so cute, or have such fine features, or whatever, is that a slightly different kind of response to her race? Did you not think she could or would be cute? (Then again, maybe just not that cute, because she's even more beautiful than even I imagined. But I see with mommy eyes.)

I don't want to read too much into people's comments, but it's interesting to observe the patterns. Seems like maybe white people overcompensate: they get caught staring and so feel they have to give a compliment so we know they approve. Or tell us about someone else they know who adopted. People do this a lot in general; when we told people we were adopting, we almost always got told about someone else's adopted kids in response, and often about how cute (and/or maybe how small or curly-haired or whatever) so-and-so's little girl from wherever is.

It's human nature to try to make that connection, maybe. To show your support with examples of others you support. But I wonder if there isn't a bit more to it with adoption and especially transracial adoption. (To show you're not racist by talking about your personal Stephen Colbert's Black Friend Alan?) We don't need these people's assurance, but maybe they do.

Or, then again, maybe she just really is the world's most beautiful baby.

Refills

Today I took my last malaria pill, signifying that we have been home from Ethiopia for one month.

Actually, to be honest, I haven’t taken it yet, only looked at it, because to do so makes me a little sad. Going to Africa was a dream I held for many years—maybe my whole life—and my feeling when the plane landed was We did it. We’re in Africa. Along with the half-joking thought I can die now. (I had the same "check it off the list of things to do before I die" feeling to a lesser degree at my first U2 concert. I hope to go back there too.)

I can’t believe that my time in Africa is gone.

I refuse believe I have no refills left.

T-Minus 5 Days and Counting

So, we leave for Ethiopia next Friday this Friday. WE LEAVE ON FRIDAY!

Are we all ready? Ha ha ha. That would be a big fat no. We do have almost everything we need, but until yesterday it was all dumped in a pile in the middle of Anna's room. I removed packaging from new items and reduced the pile to 45% of its previous size. Good grief, no wonder our Earth is in trouble.

Thursday night we went up to Portland since Aaron had to have an x-ray and doctor's visit early Friday. We stopped at Target and bought some gifts for our Compassion girl who we will get to meet! Hoo boy, that shopping was fun. I can't imagine the fun those adopting older kids have picking out everything for them.

The doctor said Aaron's recovery is right on track and the weird symptoms he is still having, like coughing and night sweats, are not unusual. That means they can't do anything for you; you just have to wait it out. He is getting stronger all the time, though. We got out and about for the fireworks on the 3rd and 4th, and he got to see a lot of people. Is there anything better in summer than fireworks where the river meets the sea? I think not.

We are now in the period of Lasts and Nexts. Last time going to church just the two of us. Next time we go out to eat, we'll need a high chair. Last time I use or wear or wash things before I put them in the suitcase. Next time I want to zip into the store I'll have to unbuckle and rebuckle a car seat. Last time grilling steak on a Saturday night without a side of baby food. Next time you see us, we'll have our baby with us. (Last time you'll pay any attention to us.)

It is strange and surreal to think that the next time we do a lot of things, we'll have to do them completely differently. People keep saying, sometimes in a cryptic warning whisper, "Your lives are about to completely change." I say I know, yet I have no idea. But really, isn't that the point? We're doing this so that our life together, as wonderful as it has been thus far, does change and grow and expand. That doesn't mean I know what it will feel like to be in the next phase, but I think it's like marriage--you can only be so ready, and then you just do it, a day at a time.

I don't know how to get any more ready.

Except packing...
And laundry...
And cleaning up...
And finishing work...
And running errands...
I gotta go.