Tonight was Parents' Night for our two wrestlers. They are both such great competitors that it is a pleasure, even for a non-sports type like myself, to watch them compete. And tonight it was a real joy to stand with our two sons, along with other parents. Some of the boys had parents with them, some did not. I was proud to have been there.
After we were all introduced, and the crowd applauded, we took the gifts from our sons -- two yellow roses and two cellophane-wrapped bags of chocolates -- and sat down with two sets of friends from church. And there was a letter. Claudia ripped open the envelope as I glanced across her shoulder to read the words.
It took no more than the first sentence to collapse the wind from our lungs and brings sudden tears to ours eyes.
"Dear Mom and Dad ... Both me [Leon] and Ricardo want to thank you for everything you've done in our lives, like adopting the both of us, when nobody wanted us and giving us a better life."
The remaining sentences are the kind you would expect from a fourteen-year-old wrestler, thanking us for coming to some of their meets and for buying them Subway sandwiches.
We couldn't help but pass the letter to the friends sitting nearest us. They are also adoptive parents, and they too were struck by the straightforward words of gratitude.
What more can I say? Both Leon and RIcardo are the kind of kids any parent would be fortunate to have in their lives. They are respectful, appreciative, attached,and delightful young men. They create virtually no stress for us and only add to the joy of our lives. And of our twelve children, they are two of the oldest we have adopted.
For those who believe that adopting older children carries too much risk, these boys will challenge your stereotypes. And to think that if we had not stepped forward to make them a part of our lives one would have aged out of an orphanage in a poverty-stricken Latin American country and the other would still be in the impermanency of foster care.
I have to believe that our two boys are not unique, and that there are many hundreds of other older children waiting to be adopted who could bring deep, satisfying joy to committed, loving parents. They need parents to take the risk and give them the chances that permanency affords. While I am grateful to God tonight for the gift they are in our lives, I am troubled that there are others just like them in the system who continue to wait.
Many times in the past thirteen years the tears I have shed have come from disappointment, disillusionment and loss. But tonight, they are tears of pure, unrefracted joy. It almost makes the other kind of tears worth this moment in time.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Dear Daughter's Birth Mom
Dear Daughter's Birth Mom,
I've been thinking about you many times in the past few days. You and I have never spoken to one another, never seen one another in the flesh. I have seen a couple of pictures of you when "our" kids (the three you gave birth to some 19, 17 and 15 years ago) were in your care, but that's the extent of our connection.
Well, not exactly. It seems like I know you because I know the children you brought into this world. We have had some very good times, and we have had some very trying times together. It is always an unusual experience to become a parent to children when they are 8, 6, and 4, knowing that they have deep memories of their first years of life with birth parents and other caretakers. LIke most adoptive parents, my wife and I have heard our share of "you're not my real parents anyway." We have had physical altercations, threats, the involvement of law enforcement and many other challenges over the past decade.
But I need to tell you that there have been moments of joy and celebration as well. "Our" children are so very beautiful; we are grateful for the genes that have provided us glistening, wavy, thick black hair and broad smiles from mouths full of white teeth. We are so very blessed with their warmth of personality, their sensitivities to others, their fierce loyalty to one another. Thank you for giving them the gift of life.
Speaking of the gift of life, I need to tell you that "we" are grandparents tonight! "Our" oldest daughter has given birth to a beautiful daughter, four days after her seventeenth birthday. She is a lovely, bright moment in our lives, entering the world at 6 pounds, 6 ounces and 16 inches in length. She has her mother's puffy tan cheeks (you remember those same cheeks seventeen years ago now, don't you?) and a petite nose. Ringlets of soft, wavy black hair crown her glorious little face.
You can be proud of your birth daughter. She was exceedingly careful during her pregnancy to eat nutritiously, to take the appropriate vitamins and to receive good prenatal care. The past couple of months have been difficult for her because of the way baby was situated in utero. "Our" daughter experienced pain the equivalent of kidney stones for weeks and bravely soldiered on, often refusing to take additional sedatives because she wanted to be sure her baby was born in good health.
You should also know that "our" daughter and granddaughter are surrounded by people who will love her on both sides of her family. "Our" granddaughter's father is young, too, at nineteen, but he is responsible and loves "our" daughter and his daughter.
It's an awkward thing, really. I have known the children you gave birth to longer now than you did. I do not know the circumstances surrounding your departure from their lives, but I have to assume that deep within you have loved them, too, all these years, even though your role as primary caretaker ended more than a decade ago.
Really, though, all I wanted to say is "thank you" for creating their lives. Claudia and I are proud to be their parents. And I just wanted you to know that "we" are grandparents.
I thought you should know.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Parenthood: A Drama Not Of One's Own Making
This time of year is always fairly dramatic in our family. With twelve kids -- and now the addition of two "significant" others in the lives of a couple of our older kids -- and the final hours of expectation for a first grandchild, this is a strangely unusual year for us. Add to those nuances the reality that two of our children celebrate birthdays this week as well ... and the fact that a major winter storm is headed our way in the next three days ... and it's quite a drama in our home.
We experienced an additional drama tonight. Our two wrestlers, Ricardo and Leon, both won their respective matches tonight (it marks Ricardo's 12th win with a single loss this year) to the roaring cheer of their fans. It was a marvelous evening, and sentimental old fool that I am (now that my status as grandparent is imminent I can be an "old" fool) I found it hard to hold back tears of joy as I watched my sons wrestle themselves to victory.
I couldn't help but think about how their lives would be different if they were not our sons. Ricardo joined our family directly from a Guatemalan orphanage at the age of ten, and Leon joined our family two years from foster care at the age of twelve. They are now sixteen and fourteen and almost always blessings to my heart. They are respectful, low maintenance and warm and engaging young men. Until Leon moved into our home he had not ever had the chance to be part of competitive sports or much of anything, actually. For whatever reasons his foster parents did not allow participation in those kinds of activities. And Ricardo by this age would have been "set free" from his orphanage to live on the streets of Guatemala City.
But tonight there is excitement in the air, multiple dramas. And none of them my own making. Perhaps that's one of the benefits of being a parent of older children. When children are younger the parent assumes the role of entertainer and enforcer. While I loved the stages when a couple of children were toddlers, I remember how physically exhausting those years were. The constant supervision, perpetual direction and need for direct care become overwhelming.
These days, though, I can kind of sit back and experience drama -- most of it good, but not always -- as an observer, not as a director. My wrestling sons work hard all week, I encourage them at home and affirm their discipline, and then I get to enjoy the drama of watching them do what they do best. My daughter will be bringing a new life into the world, and I will not have to do anything about that process but enjoy the outcome of the experience. We will celebrate Christmas together -- with whichever of our children can be here for that time -- and I can happily enjoy our time together. My role in that experience is less direct than ever -- I simply help buy a few gifts, pay those bills, and take responsibility for the holiday meals and niceties. Not such a bad deal.
I am grateful that once again I have sense of peace within my soul. It's only day two of enjoying that newfound contentment once again, but I think I'm going to like this!
We experienced an additional drama tonight. Our two wrestlers, Ricardo and Leon, both won their respective matches tonight (it marks Ricardo's 12th win with a single loss this year) to the roaring cheer of their fans. It was a marvelous evening, and sentimental old fool that I am (now that my status as grandparent is imminent I can be an "old" fool) I found it hard to hold back tears of joy as I watched my sons wrestle themselves to victory.
I couldn't help but think about how their lives would be different if they were not our sons. Ricardo joined our family directly from a Guatemalan orphanage at the age of ten, and Leon joined our family two years from foster care at the age of twelve. They are now sixteen and fourteen and almost always blessings to my heart. They are respectful, low maintenance and warm and engaging young men. Until Leon moved into our home he had not ever had the chance to be part of competitive sports or much of anything, actually. For whatever reasons his foster parents did not allow participation in those kinds of activities. And Ricardo by this age would have been "set free" from his orphanage to live on the streets of Guatemala City.
But tonight there is excitement in the air, multiple dramas. And none of them my own making. Perhaps that's one of the benefits of being a parent of older children. When children are younger the parent assumes the role of entertainer and enforcer. While I loved the stages when a couple of children were toddlers, I remember how physically exhausting those years were. The constant supervision, perpetual direction and need for direct care become overwhelming.
These days, though, I can kind of sit back and experience drama -- most of it good, but not always -- as an observer, not as a director. My wrestling sons work hard all week, I encourage them at home and affirm their discipline, and then I get to enjoy the drama of watching them do what they do best. My daughter will be bringing a new life into the world, and I will not have to do anything about that process but enjoy the outcome of the experience. We will celebrate Christmas together -- with whichever of our children can be here for that time -- and I can happily enjoy our time together. My role in that experience is less direct than ever -- I simply help buy a few gifts, pay those bills, and take responsibility for the holiday meals and niceties. Not such a bad deal.
I am grateful that once again I have sense of peace within my soul. It's only day two of enjoying that newfound contentment once again, but I think I'm going to like this!
Monday, December 21, 2009
The First Day
It has been months since I blogged, and even more months before the last time I blogged. I have thought about it nearly every day, but have unconsciously (and sometimes consciously) simply pushed the thought from my mind. I have experienced the fall (and the summer before that) in deeply negative ways, and I didn't want to subject the blogosphere to my excursions into the land of negativity and despair.
But here it is, the first day of Winter, the longest night of the year. I have always found the season of Fall a bittersweet mixture of delight and despair. I delight in the beauty of nature's hues bespeckling the leaves of trees with the final explosions of autumnal reverie. I enjoy the crispness to the air, a contrast to the murky humidity of late summer. I look forward to the beginning of a new school year as it provides a sense of normality into our family's life once again.
But as the days become shorter and the nights longer, I find myself experiencing despair. Difficult conversations that I can normally push myself through become harder to bear during the chilling months of fall. Conflicted relationships pierce my soul in a deeper fashion. Responsibilities that are ordinarily easily fulfilled become arduous, unfulfilling tasks. As the light of each day gradually slips into the darkness of winter I can feel my soul becoming more intent on self-preservation, less trusting, less settled.
It would be one thing to experience this if the only thing I needed to do each day is to clock in at a job where I made the same widgets every day in the same factory where I had worked for twenty years of my life. My shift would come to a conclusion as I hear the "thrunk" of the metallic device stamping my time card, and I could walk away, leaving the stresses of work behind.
My experience might also be different if my responsibilities as husband and father were more typical. After an eight-hour day of work I would return home to my statistically average 2.2 children. We would do what a typical family does (whatever that might be). I would not have to listen to the every night tantrum of a thirteen-year-old whose diagnoses create consistent noise, cursing and a very low threshold for any kind of frustration. I would have a desk in my bedroom where the scissors I purchased last week would be right where I placed them (yeah, I know, that's what happens in "typical" families, too). I could go on, but you get the picture.
But I do not have that kind of life. I have made decisions vocationally and parentally that preclude this fantasy from occurring. Usually I can balance the frustrations and irritations with the blessings and the benefits of my lifestyle. But not so well during the cold of fall and winter.
I was reminded again of that reality as I prepared to preach yesterday. I knew what the Scripture text would be (I had, after all, selected it) and I knew what the focus of the service would be (again, my choices), but my heart was far from what I needed to preach. My task was to preach on peace, and my heart was in a land far, far from that place of abundant faith experience. I spent most of Saturday embittered and angry about my Sunday morning task, because I hate to preach about something that seems so far away for me personally. It feels like dishonesty, and if nothing else I am a fairly honest person.
My sense of peace had been stolen by life events. I am irritated with an oldest son who does not have even the courtesy to call between major holidays, but can always be counted on to extend his hand when it's something he needs. I am annoyed to have another "adult" son who spends more time behind bars than in the clear light of freedom, always believing he will outsmart the authorities, but who always gets caught. I am impatient with another "adult" son whose only real requirement for living in our home rent-free is that he attend school, yet he cannot seem to get himself up to do that much. I am continually in a morass of ambiguity knowing that I have a sixteen-year-old daughter who will soon give birth to our first grandchild. I could go on and on, but I will not.
I have felt trapped, annoyed, irritated, without much hope. And so I spent a fretful Saturday night with little restful sleep, awakening Sunday morning to fulfill my responsibilities, but unhappily so. And so I preached about peace, even though my own spirit was rocked with anxiety and self-doubt. I preached from the Lukan account of the delivery of Jesus. Luke says surprisingly little at the point. Basically we hear that Mary and Joseph leave their home environs for the bustling, capitol city, where they bed down in an animal's dwelling. And then "while they were there" Mary gives birth to her son. I found myself drawn to that phrase "while the were there." The more I preached the more I realized that my primary audience yesterday was myself.
Mary and Joseph accept their setting for what it is, and they do what they need to do for that moment in time. We don't hear from Luke whether they had any other preferences or desires; we simply know that "while they were there" they allowed to take place what was going to take place. They recognized their inability to change their immediate circumstances, and they simply did what they needed to do. What stood out to me yesterday is the sense of peace the scene invokes. The surroundings are simple, the parents humble, their child one of many born in Jerusalem that day. But the difference for people of Christian faith is that is the first day that God's light dawns upon God's people in such a visible, tangible way.
It's kind of like the winter solstice, when the nights gradually become shorter as the days become longer. Light returns, new possibility emerges and we find peace within ourselves. Not in our outward circumstances or situations (of our own or others' making), but within ourselves. And that is God's gift to us. A sense of peace that is unshakeable because it comes from beyond ourselves, but paradoxically, from within ourselves.
I'm not sure if anyone else heard God speak through yesterday's sermon, but I did. And I trust that a newfound sense of peace will embrace my beleaguered spirit once again.
But here it is, the first day of Winter, the longest night of the year. I have always found the season of Fall a bittersweet mixture of delight and despair. I delight in the beauty of nature's hues bespeckling the leaves of trees with the final explosions of autumnal reverie. I enjoy the crispness to the air, a contrast to the murky humidity of late summer. I look forward to the beginning of a new school year as it provides a sense of normality into our family's life once again.
But as the days become shorter and the nights longer, I find myself experiencing despair. Difficult conversations that I can normally push myself through become harder to bear during the chilling months of fall. Conflicted relationships pierce my soul in a deeper fashion. Responsibilities that are ordinarily easily fulfilled become arduous, unfulfilling tasks. As the light of each day gradually slips into the darkness of winter I can feel my soul becoming more intent on self-preservation, less trusting, less settled.
It would be one thing to experience this if the only thing I needed to do each day is to clock in at a job where I made the same widgets every day in the same factory where I had worked for twenty years of my life. My shift would come to a conclusion as I hear the "thrunk" of the metallic device stamping my time card, and I could walk away, leaving the stresses of work behind.
My experience might also be different if my responsibilities as husband and father were more typical. After an eight-hour day of work I would return home to my statistically average 2.2 children. We would do what a typical family does (whatever that might be). I would not have to listen to the every night tantrum of a thirteen-year-old whose diagnoses create consistent noise, cursing and a very low threshold for any kind of frustration. I would have a desk in my bedroom where the scissors I purchased last week would be right where I placed them (yeah, I know, that's what happens in "typical" families, too). I could go on, but you get the picture.
But I do not have that kind of life. I have made decisions vocationally and parentally that preclude this fantasy from occurring. Usually I can balance the frustrations and irritations with the blessings and the benefits of my lifestyle. But not so well during the cold of fall and winter.
I was reminded again of that reality as I prepared to preach yesterday. I knew what the Scripture text would be (I had, after all, selected it) and I knew what the focus of the service would be (again, my choices), but my heart was far from what I needed to preach. My task was to preach on peace, and my heart was in a land far, far from that place of abundant faith experience. I spent most of Saturday embittered and angry about my Sunday morning task, because I hate to preach about something that seems so far away for me personally. It feels like dishonesty, and if nothing else I am a fairly honest person.
My sense of peace had been stolen by life events. I am irritated with an oldest son who does not have even the courtesy to call between major holidays, but can always be counted on to extend his hand when it's something he needs. I am annoyed to have another "adult" son who spends more time behind bars than in the clear light of freedom, always believing he will outsmart the authorities, but who always gets caught. I am impatient with another "adult" son whose only real requirement for living in our home rent-free is that he attend school, yet he cannot seem to get himself up to do that much. I am continually in a morass of ambiguity knowing that I have a sixteen-year-old daughter who will soon give birth to our first grandchild. I could go on and on, but I will not.
I have felt trapped, annoyed, irritated, without much hope. And so I spent a fretful Saturday night with little restful sleep, awakening Sunday morning to fulfill my responsibilities, but unhappily so. And so I preached about peace, even though my own spirit was rocked with anxiety and self-doubt. I preached from the Lukan account of the delivery of Jesus. Luke says surprisingly little at the point. Basically we hear that Mary and Joseph leave their home environs for the bustling, capitol city, where they bed down in an animal's dwelling. And then "while they were there" Mary gives birth to her son. I found myself drawn to that phrase "while the were there." The more I preached the more I realized that my primary audience yesterday was myself.
Mary and Joseph accept their setting for what it is, and they do what they need to do for that moment in time. We don't hear from Luke whether they had any other preferences or desires; we simply know that "while they were there" they allowed to take place what was going to take place. They recognized their inability to change their immediate circumstances, and they simply did what they needed to do. What stood out to me yesterday is the sense of peace the scene invokes. The surroundings are simple, the parents humble, their child one of many born in Jerusalem that day. But the difference for people of Christian faith is that is the first day that God's light dawns upon God's people in such a visible, tangible way.
It's kind of like the winter solstice, when the nights gradually become shorter as the days become longer. Light returns, new possibility emerges and we find peace within ourselves. Not in our outward circumstances or situations (of our own or others' making), but within ourselves. And that is God's gift to us. A sense of peace that is unshakeable because it comes from beyond ourselves, but paradoxically, from within ourselves.
I'm not sure if anyone else heard God speak through yesterday's sermon, but I did. And I trust that a newfound sense of peace will embrace my beleaguered spirit once again.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Water, in Jesus' Name
It has been a long day. Wednesday during the school year is my busiest day of the week, with the day filled from first thing in the morning until well past early evening. Today, for example, I was up early enough to get myself ready before the kids assail our two bathrooms getting ready for school. Claudia is out of town on a fairly extensive series of training and speaking events, so I do my part in transporting kids to school and then I'm in the office by 7:30 AM. I meet with one of our new staff members to begin work on his ninety-day ministry plan, transition in five minutes to our regular staff meeting, followed by a brief lunch and a second early afternoon meeting.
It is now mid-afternoon, and I am receiving texts from three of our children with specific requests they have in mind. At 3:00 our son Mike (20), who is living semi-independenty stops by the office to talk about how we can assist him financially in purchasing a winter coat. After our discussion I transport him to a friend's car across town and come home to take care of tasks that have accumulated throughout the intervening hours. I take three of our kids to a store so they can buy what they need and return home to provide some emotional stability for our second youngest son, Dominyk (13), who is more agitated than usual tonight. By 5:30 we are heading to church for Wednesday evening dinner, followed by music practices and confirmation (a class which I instruct). By 8:00 it's time to exit church and head for the local grocery store to purchase items for tomorrow's Clergy Day Apart, a gathering of area United Methodist clergy once a month, hosted at our church. I have three of my kids with me, and I enjoy spending purposeful time with them. We arrive home, I check in with those who have been home already for some time and enter my bedroom, where I sit at my desk to check late-arriving emails and await my wife's arrival online so we can chat for a few minutes before bed.
She appears, we exchange pleasantries and synopses of our days, and then she asks if I've heard anything from our newest "son." This "son" appeared at our house sometime about a year ago, a friend of our three ninth grade boys. It wasn't long before he was staying regularly on weekends, and then nearly every night. Finally he just stopped going home and made our home his. We told him he was welcome to stay here, but that he would have family responsibilities like anyone else, that it had to be OK with his mother, and that he had to keep in regular contact with her. We want to be supportive of him, but not disruptive of his family origins. It has really been an interesting series of months, and Claudia and I have noticed no negative difference in our family as a result of his presence. He is one of ours.
Recently he contracted a cough (which has been spreading throughout our family and elsewhere) and became quite ill. He asked to go to his step-dad's house (where his mother and a couple of half-siblings live), and I transported him there on Monday night. I realized then that he must be quite sick to ask to return home. In the meantime he has seen a doctor and received a prescription.
When I asked our kids on Tuesday if they had heard from him, they said, "He went to the doctor, but they don't have any insurance, and his mom doesn't have money to buy the medication." I must confess I was rather uncharitable in that moment, probably saying more than I should have, something to the effect of, "Well, if his mom's husband has enough money to drink a six-pack every night, there should be enough money to buy a sick kid medication." I didn't belabor the point, though, and didn't want to demonize his family in front of my kids, so I said nothing more.
So, Claudia asks me, "Have you heard how XXXXX is doing?" I said, "No." The last we had heard is that basically he was still very sick, but had no medication to take. Contrary to my reclusive character, I picked up my iPhone and texted him, asking him if he was still sick and if he had his prescription filled.
At first I received no text back, so I continued with my online conversation with Claudia. Ten minutes later an apology appeared, "Sorry I was sleeping." So I asked him again ... and in a series of text messages discovered that nothing had changed. He was still very sick but did not have the money for the prescription. I determined from him where the prescription had been electronically delivered, and asked him to be ready in ten minutes.
I'll have to admit that I was not necessarily thinking to myself, "This is what I need to do because I am a Christian." I was thinking rather ignoble thoughts about his legal caretakers, and wondering how it is that he had become one of my children over the course of the past four or five months. This is one of my kids, I thought to myself, and there is no way in hell I am going to let him suffer through an excruciating cough, fever and symptoms of H1N1 without doing something about it.
And then I was startled by his next text: "But can you get a water first? That would be great." What? I paused. I glanced at the text frame on my iPhone. What was the source of that request? It was almost as though the gospel text affirmed my intention to do the right thing. A "cup of water, offered in Jesus' name." I assured him I would buy him some water when we picked up his meds.
At 10:30 PM I was pulling into the mobile home park where his family lives, where he sat on the steps awaiting my arrival in the dark. As he ambled over to the car I could hear his wracking cough, and as he opened the door and sat down I inquired, "Como estas?" (he is Hispanic and bilingual). "About the same" was his linguistically tortured response. Our drive to Walgreen's was a quiet one. My son Ricardo (16) was with us (I thought XXXX would be more comfortable with one of his friends along with me), and we drove in contented silence.
As we entered the store I asked mijo ("my son" in Spanish) if he had picked up a prescription before. I could tell by the look on his face that he had probably never done this before, so I led him through the process. I greeted the pharmacist who glanced at my middle-aged, graying-around-the-temples caucasian form and the two young Hispanic men with me. I indicated as discreetly as I could that I would be paying for the prescription, and confirmed that there was no insurance. The pharmacist instructed XXXX as to the dosages and frequency of administration. As promised, we walked to the open cooler and I asked XXXXX to pick out several drinks to take with him. In addition we purchased some ibuprofen and cough drops.
In the car I went through dosage instructions once again, handed him the two pills he would need to take right away, and reminded him that he needed to take one per day afterwards. He nodded his understanding. Minutes later we were back at his step-father's mobile home, and as he opened the door to leave I reminded him that I would text him tomorrow to check in with him, and that we wanted him well again because we missed him at our home. His muted "thanks" were acknowledged, as he stepped back into the shadows of a cool, late September night, going "home" again, but not really.
By the time I returned home XXXX had texted again to tell me he had taken his medications, and wanting to make sure he knew when to take the next dosage. I confirmed the directions and told him to get well soon.
You know, it's a strange world we live in when a $70 prescription, three bottled waters, two bags of cough drops and one bottle of ibuprofen offered in Jesus' name late on a fall night cures more than flu-like symptoms. And I'm not talking about "mijo." I'm talking about myself.
It is now mid-afternoon, and I am receiving texts from three of our children with specific requests they have in mind. At 3:00 our son Mike (20), who is living semi-independenty stops by the office to talk about how we can assist him financially in purchasing a winter coat. After our discussion I transport him to a friend's car across town and come home to take care of tasks that have accumulated throughout the intervening hours. I take three of our kids to a store so they can buy what they need and return home to provide some emotional stability for our second youngest son, Dominyk (13), who is more agitated than usual tonight. By 5:30 we are heading to church for Wednesday evening dinner, followed by music practices and confirmation (a class which I instruct). By 8:00 it's time to exit church and head for the local grocery store to purchase items for tomorrow's Clergy Day Apart, a gathering of area United Methodist clergy once a month, hosted at our church. I have three of my kids with me, and I enjoy spending purposeful time with them. We arrive home, I check in with those who have been home already for some time and enter my bedroom, where I sit at my desk to check late-arriving emails and await my wife's arrival online so we can chat for a few minutes before bed.
She appears, we exchange pleasantries and synopses of our days, and then she asks if I've heard anything from our newest "son." This "son" appeared at our house sometime about a year ago, a friend of our three ninth grade boys. It wasn't long before he was staying regularly on weekends, and then nearly every night. Finally he just stopped going home and made our home his. We told him he was welcome to stay here, but that he would have family responsibilities like anyone else, that it had to be OK with his mother, and that he had to keep in regular contact with her. We want to be supportive of him, but not disruptive of his family origins. It has really been an interesting series of months, and Claudia and I have noticed no negative difference in our family as a result of his presence. He is one of ours.
Recently he contracted a cough (which has been spreading throughout our family and elsewhere) and became quite ill. He asked to go to his step-dad's house (where his mother and a couple of half-siblings live), and I transported him there on Monday night. I realized then that he must be quite sick to ask to return home. In the meantime he has seen a doctor and received a prescription.
When I asked our kids on Tuesday if they had heard from him, they said, "He went to the doctor, but they don't have any insurance, and his mom doesn't have money to buy the medication." I must confess I was rather uncharitable in that moment, probably saying more than I should have, something to the effect of, "Well, if his mom's husband has enough money to drink a six-pack every night, there should be enough money to buy a sick kid medication." I didn't belabor the point, though, and didn't want to demonize his family in front of my kids, so I said nothing more.
So, Claudia asks me, "Have you heard how XXXXX is doing?" I said, "No." The last we had heard is that basically he was still very sick, but had no medication to take. Contrary to my reclusive character, I picked up my iPhone and texted him, asking him if he was still sick and if he had his prescription filled.
At first I received no text back, so I continued with my online conversation with Claudia. Ten minutes later an apology appeared, "Sorry I was sleeping." So I asked him again ... and in a series of text messages discovered that nothing had changed. He was still very sick but did not have the money for the prescription. I determined from him where the prescription had been electronically delivered, and asked him to be ready in ten minutes.
I'll have to admit that I was not necessarily thinking to myself, "This is what I need to do because I am a Christian." I was thinking rather ignoble thoughts about his legal caretakers, and wondering how it is that he had become one of my children over the course of the past four or five months. This is one of my kids, I thought to myself, and there is no way in hell I am going to let him suffer through an excruciating cough, fever and symptoms of H1N1 without doing something about it.
And then I was startled by his next text: "But can you get a water first? That would be great." What? I paused. I glanced at the text frame on my iPhone. What was the source of that request? It was almost as though the gospel text affirmed my intention to do the right thing. A "cup of water, offered in Jesus' name." I assured him I would buy him some water when we picked up his meds.
At 10:30 PM I was pulling into the mobile home park where his family lives, where he sat on the steps awaiting my arrival in the dark. As he ambled over to the car I could hear his wracking cough, and as he opened the door and sat down I inquired, "Como estas?" (he is Hispanic and bilingual). "About the same" was his linguistically tortured response. Our drive to Walgreen's was a quiet one. My son Ricardo (16) was with us (I thought XXXX would be more comfortable with one of his friends along with me), and we drove in contented silence.
As we entered the store I asked mijo ("my son" in Spanish) if he had picked up a prescription before. I could tell by the look on his face that he had probably never done this before, so I led him through the process. I greeted the pharmacist who glanced at my middle-aged, graying-around-the-temples caucasian form and the two young Hispanic men with me. I indicated as discreetly as I could that I would be paying for the prescription, and confirmed that there was no insurance. The pharmacist instructed XXXX as to the dosages and frequency of administration. As promised, we walked to the open cooler and I asked XXXXX to pick out several drinks to take with him. In addition we purchased some ibuprofen and cough drops.
In the car I went through dosage instructions once again, handed him the two pills he would need to take right away, and reminded him that he needed to take one per day afterwards. He nodded his understanding. Minutes later we were back at his step-father's mobile home, and as he opened the door to leave I reminded him that I would text him tomorrow to check in with him, and that we wanted him well again because we missed him at our home. His muted "thanks" were acknowledged, as he stepped back into the shadows of a cool, late September night, going "home" again, but not really.
By the time I returned home XXXX had texted again to tell me he had taken his medications, and wanting to make sure he knew when to take the next dosage. I confirmed the directions and told him to get well soon.
You know, it's a strange world we live in when a $70 prescription, three bottled waters, two bags of cough drops and one bottle of ibuprofen offered in Jesus' name late on a fall night cures more than flu-like symptoms. And I'm not talking about "mijo." I'm talking about myself.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Necessarily Inconvenienced ... the Life of a Parent
Claudia and I are preparing to take a week's vacation by traveling with friends who share our last name but not our direct genealogy this week. We will travel from our home in south-central Minnesota to Columbus, Ohio, where we will present workshops at the North American Council on Adoptable Children (NACAC) annual conference. We have attended many of these conferences in the past decade and have found them to be places of support, education and connection. It has become one of our regular routines of summer, and we like it.
Coordinating travel is always a challenge. With the number of children we have, there a multitude of logistical issues to resolve. Where will our kids stay? Which kids can be home together and live in harmony? Which PCA (personal care attendant) will be able to "overnight it" to provide adult supervision? What will they eat ... planning the menus, purchasing the groceries, providing money for milk and basics later in the week. What about laundry? Where are socks for everyone? Is there enough laundry detergent, softener, dishwasher concentrate, dishwashing liquid, cleaning supplies for the week?
It is a tiresome, tedious process which Claudia and I divided between ourselves. This time, however, there have been several of complications that have inconvenienced out always stressful planning process. I have had a couple of professional responsibilities to care for that have crept over into my vacation time this week. Inconvenient, but necessary and care for. We have the extra frustration of replacing a passenger window in our car before we can actually depart on our trip. The window, of course, was broken by a careless thirteen-year-old on Friday night and, of course, the specific glass cannot be shipped to our community until tomorrow morning by 8:00. (We hoped to leave by 9:00, but that may be delayed now). I have been waiting a week or so to have the oil changed in our car so that we could begin our 1600 mile trip with fresh oil. That will have to be squeezed in after the window has been replaced tomorrow morning. I would like the car completely washed and vacuumed before leaving, too, so the stress is compounded.
That is all inconvenient. But the biggest inconvenience of the day is that our son John was released after 88 days in a county jail two hours from our home. The timing was not great, but we had few options. We couldn't see him being released onto the streets, and we were unable to find anyone willing to house him until our return in a few days. (We can't really blame anyone ... who would be open to welcoming someone who has been jailed for legal "criminal sexual conduct" (and no, he has not been assessed as a predator or as a risk to society; it is simply the age-old statutory rape issue with a male who is eighteen and a girlfriend nearly sixteen years of age).
So at 6:00 AM I drove out of our driveway with three of my children (I told the family that anyone who wanted to come could, but they needed to up and ready to leave at 6:00 AM without my getting them up) to pick up our son. We arrived thirty minutes before the scheduled court hearing, but it was late. Ninety minutes after its scheduled time to begin, the hearing commenced.
John was brought into the courtroom in his jail "blues," handcuffed and shackled, with an armed deputy standing immediately behind his chair for the duration of the hearing. Security has been strengthened in this particular court room after an incident sometime ago in which an inmate threw a sandal at the judge.
John's public defender is a champion of his clients, intelligent, articulate and passionate. Since this was not my first time in a court room with one of my children, I am pretty familiar with the protocol and not at all anxious. I have developed a rather hardened shell after all these years of receiving in some cases as much blame from the legal system as my children who have defied my and society's mandates. So, I never really expect much in the courtroom anymore and am prepared to take my legal tongue-lashing for parenting children who are not law abiding.
Today, however, was different. The attorney took time in his eloquent communication to acknowledge the work that Claudia and I have done in "taking in challenging kids and adopting them," as he put it. He commended me publicly for investing time in challenged kids and, in particular, for our willingness to bring John back into our family's life, even after serious legal charges have been levied. I was touched by his sincerity and warmed by his words of affirmation.
The judge was equally as impressive. He spoke in even and courteous -- but direct -- sentences that made it clear to John what would happen if he violates the terms of his probation. In brief fashion, should probation be violated, John will be required to register for life as a sex offender, serve up to fifteen years of probation and perhaps as long of prison sentence. This was not a surprise.
But the judge's next words were. "John, I have read your files, and I can see that you have spent most of your teenage years in legal trouble. I'm assuming that has been difficult for you, but not nearly as difficult as it has been for your parents over these years. You have had many opportunities to make good choices and have not. People have tried in your life, but you have consistently chosen to disregard them. You have the opportunity now, as an adult, to get your life together." He went on to present clearly and fairly what John needs to do.
Again, I was touched to have received even a brief moment of acknowledgment that raising John and children like him has been very, very difficult. Today was an inconvenience, but in the past eight years of John's involvement with the social services and legal systems, Claudia's and my lives have been very difficult. In that time we have learned so much about what we can control and what we cannot control. We are much more at peace with ourselves and our children today, knowing that there is really only so much a parent can do for a kid hell-bent on self-destruction.
Through it all, though, we have learned that unconditional commitment to a child (or young adult, in this case) may be the only thing that ultimately a parent can offer. All the rest is necessary inconvenience.
Coordinating travel is always a challenge. With the number of children we have, there a multitude of logistical issues to resolve. Where will our kids stay? Which kids can be home together and live in harmony? Which PCA (personal care attendant) will be able to "overnight it" to provide adult supervision? What will they eat ... planning the menus, purchasing the groceries, providing money for milk and basics later in the week. What about laundry? Where are socks for everyone? Is there enough laundry detergent, softener, dishwasher concentrate, dishwashing liquid, cleaning supplies for the week?
It is a tiresome, tedious process which Claudia and I divided between ourselves. This time, however, there have been several of complications that have inconvenienced out always stressful planning process. I have had a couple of professional responsibilities to care for that have crept over into my vacation time this week. Inconvenient, but necessary and care for. We have the extra frustration of replacing a passenger window in our car before we can actually depart on our trip. The window, of course, was broken by a careless thirteen-year-old on Friday night and, of course, the specific glass cannot be shipped to our community until tomorrow morning by 8:00. (We hoped to leave by 9:00, but that may be delayed now). I have been waiting a week or so to have the oil changed in our car so that we could begin our 1600 mile trip with fresh oil. That will have to be squeezed in after the window has been replaced tomorrow morning. I would like the car completely washed and vacuumed before leaving, too, so the stress is compounded.
That is all inconvenient. But the biggest inconvenience of the day is that our son John was released after 88 days in a county jail two hours from our home. The timing was not great, but we had few options. We couldn't see him being released onto the streets, and we were unable to find anyone willing to house him until our return in a few days. (We can't really blame anyone ... who would be open to welcoming someone who has been jailed for legal "criminal sexual conduct" (and no, he has not been assessed as a predator or as a risk to society; it is simply the age-old statutory rape issue with a male who is eighteen and a girlfriend nearly sixteen years of age).
So at 6:00 AM I drove out of our driveway with three of my children (I told the family that anyone who wanted to come could, but they needed to up and ready to leave at 6:00 AM without my getting them up) to pick up our son. We arrived thirty minutes before the scheduled court hearing, but it was late. Ninety minutes after its scheduled time to begin, the hearing commenced.
John was brought into the courtroom in his jail "blues," handcuffed and shackled, with an armed deputy standing immediately behind his chair for the duration of the hearing. Security has been strengthened in this particular court room after an incident sometime ago in which an inmate threw a sandal at the judge.
John's public defender is a champion of his clients, intelligent, articulate and passionate. Since this was not my first time in a court room with one of my children, I am pretty familiar with the protocol and not at all anxious. I have developed a rather hardened shell after all these years of receiving in some cases as much blame from the legal system as my children who have defied my and society's mandates. So, I never really expect much in the courtroom anymore and am prepared to take my legal tongue-lashing for parenting children who are not law abiding.
Today, however, was different. The attorney took time in his eloquent communication to acknowledge the work that Claudia and I have done in "taking in challenging kids and adopting them," as he put it. He commended me publicly for investing time in challenged kids and, in particular, for our willingness to bring John back into our family's life, even after serious legal charges have been levied. I was touched by his sincerity and warmed by his words of affirmation.
The judge was equally as impressive. He spoke in even and courteous -- but direct -- sentences that made it clear to John what would happen if he violates the terms of his probation. In brief fashion, should probation be violated, John will be required to register for life as a sex offender, serve up to fifteen years of probation and perhaps as long of prison sentence. This was not a surprise.
But the judge's next words were. "John, I have read your files, and I can see that you have spent most of your teenage years in legal trouble. I'm assuming that has been difficult for you, but not nearly as difficult as it has been for your parents over these years. You have had many opportunities to make good choices and have not. People have tried in your life, but you have consistently chosen to disregard them. You have the opportunity now, as an adult, to get your life together." He went on to present clearly and fairly what John needs to do.
Again, I was touched to have received even a brief moment of acknowledgment that raising John and children like him has been very, very difficult. Today was an inconvenience, but in the past eight years of John's involvement with the social services and legal systems, Claudia's and my lives have been very difficult. In that time we have learned so much about what we can control and what we cannot control. We are much more at peace with ourselves and our children today, knowing that there is really only so much a parent can do for a kid hell-bent on self-destruction.
Through it all, though, we have learned that unconditional commitment to a child (or young adult, in this case) may be the only thing that ultimately a parent can offer. All the rest is necessary inconvenience.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Attachment Is a Nice Thing
Over the years of raising attachment-disordered children (our oldest four children, in particular) I have forgotten just how nice attachment can be between a parent and a child. And, I suppose, how natural attachment is for many parents who raise children with that innate capacity not having been destroyed by early years of neglect or abuse.
Today I took three of our kids, Mercedes (13), Leon (14) and Ricardo (15) to our church parking lot, where they met a group of teenagers and parents who are on their way to Kansas City. There they will be engaged in mission work together for about a week's time. Over the years I have taken many of our children to such settings, and I have learned to be careful not to excessively embarrass them. Our older children seem to have had the more significant attachment issues, and I learned in those early years of parenting to keep my distance in public situations. I always made sure to bid them goodbye and pat them on the shoulder or whatever, and almost always with no reciprocal response and never at their initiation. I became accustomed to this unusual way of saying "goodbye," always hoping that my consistent efforts to express affection would pay off one day. To date they really haven't. With our older, attachment-disordered children it is still painfully awkward to express or receive emotion. I have pretty much given up on that after all these years.
So, this morning before we left the house I made a point of hugging each of the three kids going on the missions trip, telling them that I was happy they were doing something good and that we would miss them in their absence. I wanted to make sure I had a moment for connection if things at the church became too busy or awkward for that to occur. We loaded into the car and set off for the parking lot.
Arriving there they unloaded their luggage and gathered with other youth and parents. I had to make a quick trip to the ATM for cash for my young missionaries and joined them a few minutes later. I joined the casually gathering circle of humanity when I felt a warm body cuddling up to mine. Expecting it to be our daughter Mercedes (who is quite affectionate at home and in public) I glanced down, having to make a second glance. It was our newest son, Leon, clearly desiring to be close to me in the moments before his departure. I stretched my around his shoulders and hugged him close (but not too close, since I didn't want to embarrass him). His body eased into my side, as natural as sunshine in the morning. He was content to stand as close to me as he could, my arm around his shoulders squeezing his tanned neck as an act of parental affection. He didn't move until he had to, when our youth pastor invited the youth participating to move to one side of the circle and the rest of us to the other. And even then he was reluctant; it was obvious that he preferred to stand close to me in those waning moments than with his peers.
I couldn't believe it. I have a kid -- a fourteen-year-old boy, at that -- who is attached and who loves his dad (he loves his mother, too, probably a little more than me). It was a very fulfilling emotional moment. I have waited years and years for one of my kids to initiate any indicator of healthy attachment, and reality arrived early this morning on a humid, rain-spattered morning in a church parking lot.
It's strange how adoptive parents learn to value the things that many "ordinary" families take for granted. Like a child-initiated hug in a church parking lot filled with peers and parents. Attachment. It's a very nice thing.
Today I took three of our kids, Mercedes (13), Leon (14) and Ricardo (15) to our church parking lot, where they met a group of teenagers and parents who are on their way to Kansas City. There they will be engaged in mission work together for about a week's time. Over the years I have taken many of our children to such settings, and I have learned to be careful not to excessively embarrass them. Our older children seem to have had the more significant attachment issues, and I learned in those early years of parenting to keep my distance in public situations. I always made sure to bid them goodbye and pat them on the shoulder or whatever, and almost always with no reciprocal response and never at their initiation. I became accustomed to this unusual way of saying "goodbye," always hoping that my consistent efforts to express affection would pay off one day. To date they really haven't. With our older, attachment-disordered children it is still painfully awkward to express or receive emotion. I have pretty much given up on that after all these years.
So, this morning before we left the house I made a point of hugging each of the three kids going on the missions trip, telling them that I was happy they were doing something good and that we would miss them in their absence. I wanted to make sure I had a moment for connection if things at the church became too busy or awkward for that to occur. We loaded into the car and set off for the parking lot.
Arriving there they unloaded their luggage and gathered with other youth and parents. I had to make a quick trip to the ATM for cash for my young missionaries and joined them a few minutes later. I joined the casually gathering circle of humanity when I felt a warm body cuddling up to mine. Expecting it to be our daughter Mercedes (who is quite affectionate at home and in public) I glanced down, having to make a second glance. It was our newest son, Leon, clearly desiring to be close to me in the moments before his departure. I stretched my around his shoulders and hugged him close (but not too close, since I didn't want to embarrass him). His body eased into my side, as natural as sunshine in the morning. He was content to stand as close to me as he could, my arm around his shoulders squeezing his tanned neck as an act of parental affection. He didn't move until he had to, when our youth pastor invited the youth participating to move to one side of the circle and the rest of us to the other. And even then he was reluctant; it was obvious that he preferred to stand close to me in those waning moments than with his peers.
I couldn't believe it. I have a kid -- a fourteen-year-old boy, at that -- who is attached and who loves his dad (he loves his mother, too, probably a little more than me). It was a very fulfilling emotional moment. I have waited years and years for one of my kids to initiate any indicator of healthy attachment, and reality arrived early this morning on a humid, rain-spattered morning in a church parking lot.
It's strange how adoptive parents learn to value the things that many "ordinary" families take for granted. Like a child-initiated hug in a church parking lot filled with peers and parents. Attachment. It's a very nice thing.
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