A Whole New World

Renewal Leave Website

2011-05-16T09:00:00.001-05:00

I have not blogged here very frequently recently, although I am hoping to now that I embarking up a three-month renewal leave. Most of my blogging, however, for the next several months will be found at my Renewal Leave-specific website:

http://web.me.com/revbafletcher/Souljourner/Welcome.html

Please feel free to join me over there!

This Is Why

2011-04-29T15:35:00.003-05:00

It's been a while since I've blogged. I think about it from time to time, but when I sit to type words it often seems either insignificant or repetitious or inane. Over the years of my life as an adoptive parent I have consistently asked one question, "Why was I party to adopting twelve children?" Claudia and I trade barbs about the whole experience every once in a while. When things are filled with joy and activity and even success, there is a sense of fulfillment that wells up within my soul. But when the situations we confront are joyless and routine and disappointing, I sometime feel resentment.

It's not resentment toward my children, actually. Not usually. When I'm annoyed and irritated it is with my own choices. And it is in those moments when my question, "Why did I choose to adopt twelve children" is tinged with cynicism and discouragement. The past week has actually been a pretty positive one, following our quite enjoyable Easter weekend when everyone, except John, was able to join us on Sunday.

So, it's been a good week, and today has been a very nice day. Friday is typically my day off (often Saturday is off, too, but Friday is often my only "complete" day off during the week), so I look forward to the opportunity to focus on those tasks I like to get done. It's often kind of a domestic day ... laundry, grocery shopping, preparing dinner for the kids, cleaning up. Today I had the opportunity to do some of those tasks while watching grandson Isaac. For four delightful hours we shared the space of a nearly quiet house. Claudia is out of town doing a training today, and all of the other kids are at school (with the exception of Rand, who works tonight).

Isaac is now six months old and a charmer. He is affable almost always, full of smiles, giggles and gurgles. We started the day with strained peas followed by a bottle of formula. He prefers green beans, so the peas went unfinished. After lunch we sat together until he burped, then I put him down on our bed for a nap. Today's nap lasted only about forty-five minutes, at which time he awakened with broad smiles and sparkling eyes. If only I could wake up with such excitement for life. His diaper needed changing, and as we engaged in the process he decided to let loose with another brief shower that created a liquid line on the fresh sheets I had put on the bed earlier today. It's funny how a smiling grandchild can engage in such an unconscious act without even a cross word from his grandfather, while the earlier generation would have at least received a verbal harrumph.

With a clean diaper on, we went into the kitchen, where he played in his high chair for nearly an hour while I cleaned and began to make dinner for the rest of the family. I was surprised at his endurance, but finally it came to an end. Although he didn't cry once (during his four hours with me), I could tell by the change in his vocalizations that it was time for something new. We came back into the bedroom, where he sat on my lap as I checked email and glanced through today's mail. Our desk tasks were interrupted with several repetitions of "bounce." He has recently discovered his legs, and loves to propel himself upward (with a little adult assistance).

As he projected himself upward from my legs, I assisted with his effort, accompanied by a shrill glissando from his adoring grandpa, "Boooouuuunce!" We can do the repetitions about five times, and then we stop. My out=of-shape biceps and his propensity to vomit after more than five bounces upward govern our time of fun. Throughout the process it is a delight to witness his glee, his visual adoration, his vocal pleasure.

Before his mom came to pick him, we changed his clothes. His first outfit had become drool-covered, and it was time for something fresh and handsome. While he ate some more formula, I held him in my lap, transfixed by the delight of my first grandson.

And then I am reminded once again why I adopted twelve children. I always thought it was to offer them a better life and more opportunities than they might have had in their first experiences of life. For some of our kids that will prove true. But I realize today, more than ever, that it was for the next generation, for my grandchildren. Maybe between the efforts of my grandchildren's parents and us grandparents the world will be a better place for them.

I can't predict whether it's a better world for them yet, but I know this. It's a better one for me.

To Dream Again

2010-11-30T10:48:00.004-06:00

I have been thinking about the Advent/Christmas season since July. I'm not exactly sure why, since our family's stress around the holiday season skyrockets. With the cultural demands (you can read that "materialism" if you wish) and all the changes in routine and the snowy weather patterns in this part of the world and focused church rituals and experiences ... all that, combined with the stresses that many children with special needs feel ... well, it creates more heat than a steaming bowl of wassail, often without the interior warmth a holiday drink might provide.

But, I've been thinking about this season since the steamy days of summer when I made some worship planning choices as to what I would be preaching. As I prayerfully considered what that might look like, lo those long months ago, I was continually drawn to Matthew's gospel, the first two chapters. Especially I was struck by the five dream encounters that together weave the account of the Nativity and early years of Jesus. As the series has developed in my mind, I finally settled on a theme: "To Dream Again."

Unfortunately, due to illness I was unable to preach the first sermon in the series this past Sunday. I am seldom ill enough on a Sunday not to lead worship and preach, and when it is at the start of a series I have been so looking forward to it is a disappointment. I am fortunate to have a very gifted spouse who can hear me groan in the early morning hours on a Sunday, "I think you're going to have to preach for me this morning," and have her respond in a supportive fashion. I am grateful for that gift!

So this morning, as I'm sitting at my home desk before readying myself to come back into the office for the first time in days, I hear a knock at the door as our new grandson Isaac's mother asks me, "Is it OK if he stays in here with you for a few minutes?" I readily offer my assent and she lays his beautiful little six-week self on my bed, handing me his nearly finished bottle of formula.

He is joy in a small human bundle. Thick pitch-black hair frames his healthy pink forehead, his eyes sparkling depths of energy, his rosy cheeks a picture of baby health. Within seconds of his arrival I am hovering over him, kissing his warm, tender cheek and lifting him into my arms. As I cradle his young body in my left arm I nestle him into the crook, steadying his bobbing head, stroking his clean, shiny hair. His glance catches mine, and I whisper grandfatherly sweet nothings into his ears, offering him the remainder of his bottle.

Although I am the father of twelve children, I have never had the delight of nurturing such a tiny little life. Our youngest child arrived at the age of nine months, well past the fragile temerity of infancy. Coupled with their older ages and multiple caretakers early in life, even our youngest children have not always been easy to hold or to cuddle. They learned early, far too early, to push themselves away from their caretakers, responding to inconsistent care or to neglect. While I have loved all of my children, there have been too many moments when I, too, have experienced the painful rejection of their attachment issues.

But this baby is different. This baby was born to cuddle and nestle, to be loved and to love, to know from the very start of life security and contentment. His parents, though young, are attentive and kind and loving to their son. They do not allow their own disagreements or conflicts to disrupt their relationship with young Isaac. They talk to him quietly, they lovingly feed and clothe him, they generously offer him time to know his grandparents.

And so, as I revel in these thoughts, I set the bottle on my desk and rearrange his placement from the crook of my arm to that place seemingly made just for the face of babies, just beneath the caregiver's cheek and chin. I feel the warmth of his little body on my upper chest as his face looks just beyond my shoulders. He is close enough to my ear that I can hear the rapid inhale-exhale rhythm of his snuffling nose and mouth. I pat his back, just a little harder now, to facilitate his post-formula burp, as I feel the warmth of his swaddled body next to mine. In those brief moments his tiny little arms reach around my giant neck as he squeezes tight.

My heart catches, my eyes begin to mist, as my thoughts are drawn back to the season of the year and to the sermon series I will preach. Like shooting stars in the darkness of my imagination I see rapid-fire glimpses of the biblical narrative. I see Abraham and Sarah as they welcome their own baby Isaac into their aged world. I ponder momentarily the torturous act of faith Abraham embarks upon when an older Isaac is placed upon an altar of sacrifice, to be rescued at the last minute by a providential Creator. I remember that "Isaac" means "laughter." And I smile to myself. God allowed this childless, elderly couple to dream again.

In the soul-lifting warmth of that moment I find myself reflecting. The past few years have been very difficult for many of our children (and correspondingly, very difficult for us as parents). The challenges have seemed overwhelming at times, and dreaming has been only a luxury; simple survival has been reality. More times than I want to admit I have resentfully grumbled, "It has made no difference at all to adopt these children. The results would have been the same had I never known them." I began the journey of adoption with optimism and idealism. There was a time when I was hopeful and had moments of joy. But lately not so much.

If I am honest with myself I know why I chose the Advent/Christmas theme I did. I am out of hope, and I have been for some time. To have no hope is a dusty, desert experience of waiting, at first longingly and then languidly, for some sign of life. No longer expecting a drenching downpour of spiritually reviving rain, one without hope wonders whether even a drop will touch the tongue before the ravages of life's burning environment will sizzle it away.

But there's something about a fresh, dewy-eyed new life that invades the corridors of a tired old man's emptiness. With baby Isaac molded to my upper chest I whisper, "Beautiful baby, you are hope for the next generation." I kiss his glistening, baby-scented hair. I hear his life-filled puffs of breath. I feel his contented warmth. I delight in this dance of attachment between grandfather and grandson.

And I begin to dream. Again.

A Fool

2010-11-04T14:14:00.003-05:00

I'm a fool. Really, I am. I am a big picture, visionary thinker. I see possibilities in every situation (except, often, my own, but that's a different blog post). I am drawn to people with troubles. I have a kind and compassionate heart by nature. Most days I am pretty happy with those traits. But at other times I feel more like a fool than a hero.

Today, for example. Our 21-year-old son who has been living with us since March (after his last stint in jail) was in court again today. He was in court yesterday, too, but that was for a different set of charges, I discovered. His day, for all outward appearances, is fairly carefree. The basic expectation we have for him is that he will stay of out of legal trouble. You can see how that's been going.

My day, on the other hand, started early and will end late. Claudia left town this morning on the shuttle for a flight to Indianapolis, where she will be speaking over the weekend. After dropping her off, I returned home to take three of our kids to ride one of thirteen charter buses transporting students to the state soccer championship. I returned home to make sure three other of our kids were getting ready for their ride to school some twenty minutes later. Took that group of kids to school and then drove directly to the church office, where I worked on administrative details until a 9:00 AM meeting with clergy colleagues.

In the midst of the busyness I hear from our 21-year-old son who asks me for a ride home from his early morning court hearing. I agree to transport him, knowing that it will mean missing the first part of my clergy gathering (which is hosted by the congregation where I serve Christ). An hour later I receive a pleading call. Will I bail him out?

Yesterday the judge told him he needed to find a job prior to his thirty-day sentence (to begin in late November) so that he could engage in work release. Today the judge puts him in jail with a $1,000 cash bail or $150 bail bond. So, of course, he is confused and frustrated by the process. He has no money. We haggle for several minutes until I hear his plan to pay me back the $150 before the end of the week. It sounds tenable, so I agree, reluctantly.

But then again, I am a fool. Over and over again I have opened my heart to my errant children, only to have a similar pattern of behavior repeated. I'm never sure, really, who is the fool: the kid or me. Perhaps the answer is both, but for different reasons.

Our clergy gathering begins with conversation, then proceeds with morning prayer (including a hymn sing of sorts) and holy communion. The gospel reading cites the sadducees and pharisees who were so preoccupied with their own self-righteousness that they had little time for compassion, especially for the outcast. I can feel my inner person grinding because of the relevancy. Among the hymns we sing is one that includes these lyrics:

Differently abled, differently labeled widen the circle round Jesus Christ:
Crutches and stigmas, cultures' enigmas all come together round Jesus Christ.

My soul is pushing back. "Yeah, yeah, yeah" I hear my soul say. But deeper still I hear the quiet voice of the One saying, "This is your son. He has disabilities, he is labeled, he is stigmatic, he is enigmatic."

Another song was suggested which included a reference to prisoners, and I knew that I was in a moment of reluctant spiritual awakening. But God is like that sometimes, many times maybe; a relentless sentinel for compassion and selflessness.

While we are singing the hymns I receive a text from my son. "I'm really sorry for having to put you through this ... I know I have been an ass and just been seemingly taking advantage of you and mom. For now I'm gonna shape up and follow house rules and everything. I really need to put my life together. I've just been really down and depressed lately. I apologize."

This is not revelatory. It is reactionary, and it has occurred numerous times before. He gets in trouble, needs money, and suddenly penitence flows forth.

But I'm a fool. Have I mentioned that? I have a tender heart, and I love my kids, even when they use me and speak disrespectfully to me and take advantage of my good nature.

Rationally I know that the text I received are illusory, but emotionally I still believe that there is hope for my son, so I meet him at the jail, take care of the bail bond and take him to lunch, where we have the conversation we have had for years now, but with a twist. I remind him that I have loved him for thirteen years now, but I confront him reality. "Mike, you have a hole in your soul. You are a lonely, angry person who needs to find peace. You will be able to get beyond this, but it's going to take developing your spiritual life."

He looks at me, his translucent green eyes a contrast to the orange hair that covers his head and part of his face. And he says, "Yeah, I know."

The conversation that ensues is not earth-shaking. I continue to hear how Claudia and I have been the cause of his problems. It was our parenting, it was our choices, that have brought him to the place where he is. I choose not to defend myself too much, but I listen to the anger and the pain.

And then, fool that I am, I say, "Mike, you may never trust us or love us. And that's OK. We chose to love you when we adopted you, and I want to offer you the opportunity to blame me and be angry with me as much as you need to be. I will accept your anger and your pain, in hopes that one day, even if it is when I am dead, that you realize how much I love you."

He nods his head, chagrined but not changed. At least not yet.

But then again, I am a fool.

"We are fools for the sake of Christ." The Apostle Paul, 1 Corinthians 4:10.

Election Day 2010

2010-11-02T07:41:00.004-05:00

I have always been interested in politics. From elementary school forward I have captivated by the political process, the personalities and the power wielded by those who create legislation. I have been a committed voter, as well, having as my goal every two years to reach the polling place before the doors open so that I can be one of the first to vote.

This morning I arrived in the 6:55 AM darkness to wait with several other hardy souls. It was a brisk Minnesota morning, beautiful for early November, but chilly nonetheless. I counted the others waiting ahead of me to discover that I would be voter number ten. Among the ten of us I was by twenty years the youngest person there (and I am in my mid-40's). Two of the individuals used walkers to arrive from the senior citizen residence across the street, and a third required the assistance of an election judge due to failing eyesight. The others of us were above 40.

My wait was brief (less than 5 minutes for the authorizing process and another 90 seconds to await a voter booth). I glanced over the ballot, having known before entering the polling place how my votes would be cast. Within another 5 minutes I was finished, and as I inserted my ballot into the automatic tally machine I saw that I was voter number nine this year. Two years ago I was in the first fifteen, so I felt pretty good that my goal to "get there early" had been met.

As I filled in the ovals next to the candidates who received my vote, I recognized how differently I vote today compared to twenty years ago. My worldview has changed considerably in the past twenty years, and that largely because of my involvement with children and people whose lives are at the margins of society.

Twenty years ago I had a more naive understanding of life and the world. At that time I had a more profound conviction that there were plenty of safety nets available for those who were down on their luck or for children in poverty or for families needing resources beyond their own making. I must confess that I prefer that worldview, because it was simpler and easier to live with. To focus simply upon taking care of myself (and at that time it was only I as a single person), with the assumption that everyone else, somehow, would do fine as well is a contented way to live.

My life as a pastor and adoptive parents of kids, all of whom come from backgrounds of poverty to be sure (and often neglect or abuse), has turned my head in a different direction. While I am a strong supporter in empowering people to self-sufficiency and the consequent values to self that brings, I have come to recognize that a social safety net must be a presumption if those who live at the margins of life are to find independence and self-determination. Without such a safety net it is only a continual cycle of meaningless attempts to move ahead.

Perhaps what I'm saying is that I have encountered a world that is much more complex than I would ever have thought and that there are no easy answers. In the face of such a situation, I feel compelled to vote in a way that seeks, in the midst of all the messiness of human lives, to provide opportunities for those leas well cared for. Even if that means some perceived "cost" or "loss" on my own part.

A Father's Prayer

2010-07-27T08:31:00.003-05:00

O Lord, What Are We to Do?
A prayer for the wedding of Kyle and Christy Fletcher
by Rev. Bart A. Fletcher
July 24, 2010
O Lord, what are we to do?

Ever-living, carefully tending, always nurturing God, this is a day of celebration, acknowledging deep changes have arrived for all of us.

This day marks change for our beloved Kyle and Christy, whose lives, growing together over months extending into years, now culminate in vows for a lifetime together. No longer two autonomous, individual lives separated by singleness, they shall become mutually dependent, one for the other.

O Lord, what are we to do?

Do we grieve the loss of singlehood’s freedoms, or embrace the possibilities of lives lived together for something beyond ourselves … for a dream large enough that only You can create?

Change is here,

Creating God, and what are we to do?

Do parents who remember the precious, fleeting days of childhood and the
relentless march of youth and young adulthood, find themselves mired in loss or regret or the warm glow of nostalgia … or do we lift to you our hearts full of joy and delight as we sense profound gratitude that our son and our daughter have found another to take them where parents cannot go?

O Lord, what are we to do?

What are brothers and sisters to make of the blessed intrusion of another into their lives? Knowing that family traditions and expectations will shift as a new family emerges, will we resent the transitions … or will we welcome and declare as our own a new, adult addition to our family’s way of being?

Change is upon us, reliable Creator.

O Lord, what are we to do?

Friends gather here. From various stages and moments in Kyle’s and Christy’s lives we are, in this one shining moment, a community together. Time has eclipsed and the past collapses as we share together in these moments, the joyous anticipation of what it means for two lives to become one.

O Lord, what are we to do?

Change here is here! Life-sustaining and forward-guiding God of us all, we are to give thanks. We are to share joy. We are to reflect your community of hope.

We are to know all shall be well.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit! Amen.

All shall be well, and
All shall be well,
And all manner of things shall be well.
Julian of Norwich (1342-1416)

Parents' Night Tears

2010-01-21T21:24:00.002-06:00

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.

Dear Daughter's Birth Mom

2009-12-29T21:16:00.003-06:00

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.

Parenthood: A Drama Not Of One's Own Making

2009-12-22T21:29:00.003-06:00

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!

The First Day

2009-12-21T20:41:00.002-06:00

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.

Water, in Jesus' Name

2009-09-30T23:10:00.002-05:00

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.

Necessarily Inconvenienced ... the Life of a Parent

2009-08-10T21:29:00.003-05:00

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.

Attachment Is a Nice Thing

2009-06-27T09:56:00.002-05:00

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.

Breakfast With the Kids' Friend

2009-06-26T07:30:00.003-05:00

Claudia and I have always had as a goal for our family something we might call permeable boundaries. Permeable boundaries is a concept that attempts the best of two worlds: clear boundary expectations with a sense of inclusive hospitality. What I mean is that we have some clear family guidelines about what we expect from people who live in our home, but we want our family to be an "open" system, not a "closed" system. Many families with clear expectations, it seems, become mini-fortresses unto themselves, where those who are "in" are "in" and those who are "out" are "out."

Claudia grew up in a family where her brothers' and her friends were always welcome in the family home. She tells me that on more than one occasion her parents "took in" friends of her brothers who were unable, for whatever reason, to live with their families of origin for a period of time. It was simply the way her parents practiced their faith. They were (and are) hospitable people, generous in giving of themselves and whatever they have.

I was also raised in a family where inclusion was a strong value. Although we never had anyone live with us for any length of time, my mother from my earliest days instilled in me a concern for those who were different (due to physical or mental handicaps), forgotten (foster children in the community) or outcasts. She herself was raised in a family with interesting dynamics; her mother was always clear that there were no "step"-whatevers in our family. There were only children and (as they grew up) people who were to be treated with dignity and respect.

It is no surprise, then, that our home has continued to follow in these noble directions. Even during some of our most challenging times three years ago we did our best to be hospitable to friends of our kids. I have served food at our table on more than one occasion to our son Mike and his friends in moments when it was obvious they were inebriated or high. Frankly those moments tested my Christian conviction, because the behaviors I cite violate our family guidelines, and I was not all that interested in being kind to older teenagers living in ways that rejected our values. I decided, with gritted teeth, that my Christian witness would be stronger in providing compassionate hospitality than in asserting a moral code ... at least in those moments.

In any case, we have always considered it a privilege that many of our kids like to invite their friends to our home. Usually that has been for a short period of time -- an overnight or a weekend -- but this summer that invitation has extended to what appears to be an entire summer kind of thing. Our fourteen-year-old boys (we have three of them) have a shared friend who is a really nice kid. He is respectful, appropriate and cooperative.

Just before school was letting out in May, Leon asked if this friend could "move in for the summer." Claudia and I thought the request might be a bit exaggerated for emphasis, but we had no problem in saying, almost immediately, "Sure, as long as it's OK with his parent(s)." The request, it turns out, was quite literal, with no exaggeration. When it became apparent to us that he would be staying with us the summer, Claudia sat him down to explain our expectations. He would need to comply with our family's behavioral guidelines. He would need to assume a household chore. He would need to keep in contact with his mother on a regular basis. Their friend has been here nearly every night and day since that time, and it has worked out beautifully.

Last night as we watched Leon's late baseball game (it started at 8:00 PM and wasn't over until past 10:00 PM), I glanced past Claudia to see him sitting in one of our family's chairs, as bonded to us (or moreso) than our own children. Fortunately for him in this very white community he has "siblings" who belong to us who look nothing like us, so it's as natural as can be for him to assume a family connection with us.

I was up earlier than anyone else today, and I decided I would make pancakes for breakfast. On my day off (which Friday is) I usually make something that I eat right away and then serve others as they awaken (until about 10 AM, which is our family cut-off time for breakfast). It was quiet in the house, I had just sat down to eat my pancakes and sausage, when out of the corner of my eye I saw our kids' friend walking quietly up the stairs. Not wanting to shatter his or my solitude, I waved good morning to him. A few minutes later he appeared in the kitchen, and I asked him if he'd like me to make him some pancakes.

"Please," he said, a response, that from my kids or their friends, will motivate me to do a lot. A few minutes later we were sitting down at the table together eating quietly, as he prepared for his morning at summer school. In those moments words aren't really necessary. It makes me feel good to know that we are providing this young man with some stability and connection during the summer. I hope it teaches him something about the lived values of a Christian family. And I hope it teaches my kids something of Jesus' ethic of inclusion and hospitality.

Years ago I might have felt a bit awkward eating breakfast with my kids' friend without my children being there, but these days I simply count it a blessing and thank God for helping us create the kind of family that has permeable boundaries.

A Cynic's Surprise

2009-06-25T06:41:00.003-05:00

I have alluded to the reality that I have a tendency to be a bit cynical about things at times. Years of working with humans in both my professional and personal life remind me daily of just how fragile and ordinary life can be. While I find every individual's story interesting, and often provocative, I have seen and experienced too much the apathy and pain of others to have more than a jaded view of things. As an adoptive parent of older children, experience has taught me to expect the worst so that I can appreciate the surprise of something going well. (And, in case you're wondering ... no, it is not my practice to express to my children that I expect the worst in them ... I communicate expectations of the best, but prepare myself internally for the worst).

Last night Claudia and I were together in two church-related meetings. The first took place with nearly all of our teenaged kids, while the second was just the two of us plus a couple of other adults. Both meetings were really positive and encouraging, which makes me smile internally. During the second meeting I received a call on my iPhone from one of our older sons asking, "Is it OK if we go to the park?" Having learned from many years of parenting experience, you will understand that my next question was: "Sure. Who is 'we'?" He said, "Ummm. Just about all of us, and he named each of the boys in our family, plus one of our kids' friends who is pretty much living with us this summer." "OK," I said.

After the meeting, on the way home together, I said to Claudia, "Oh, yeah. That call was from Jimmy. He asked if they could all go to the park."

"Hmmm," Claudia replied. "I got a call from the girls [our fourteen-year-old daughter and her friend] that they wanted to go to the park, too. I think we should just swing by the park before we go home to see what's happening."

We have had a good summer so far with the kids who live in our home. They are getting along well together, can be trusted for periods of time with no parents in immediate line of supervision, and generally are earning a great deal of trust with their good behavior. Inwardly I began to cringe, wondering if we had reached a new negative turning point and hoping that I would not regret my decision to tell them they could go to the park together.

In years past, especially three years ago after having moved to our "new" community and with several of the older children living in our home at that time, any of their forays into the community were met with some new challenge. Negative peer influences, physical assaults, alcohol and drug experimentation ... we were never sure what would happen, but we always knew something negative would happen.

As we rounded to corner to the park, I was subconsciously chafing within. Just how disillusioned and disappointed would I be this time?

Before I could make out the figures in the distance (it was dusk and my middle-aged eyes aren't what they used to be), Claudia said in approbation. "Well, will you look at that? Our family is playing baseball together!"

With the exception of our sixteen-year-old daughter (who is home for a few days from her boyfriend's family's house), all of our children were at the baseball field. There were enough boys to fill the outfield and bases, as well as allowing a pitcher and a batter. In the stands were the two girls in what appeared to be a cheerleader-like stance. They were not arguing, taunting or otherwise disturbing one another. They were, I kid you not, playing baseball together. What could be more all-American and "normal" than that? And who else in our community has the personnel resources under roof to accomplish such a feat without even calling friends?

I returned home with a glow in my heart, my cynicism for the moment melting in a pool of emotional warmth. A few minutes later they returned home as the summer darkness was closing in. Seeing fourteen-year-old Leon, I said, "Hey, it looked like you guys were having a lot of fun. You even had a couple of cheerleaders out there."

He glanced at me impassively and without missing a beat responded, "Well, I think they were doing my texting than cheerleading out there."

So maybe I'm not the only cynic in our family, but every once in a while everyone, even those of us predisposed to negativity, enjoy a surprise.

The Irony Which Informs My Faith

2009-06-19T21:31:00.003-05:00

Claudia and I returned from our Philadelphia trip today. We had a delightful few days together doing what we most enjoy ... I love to investigate new places and historical sites, and Claudia likes to, well, work. So I spent most of yesterday exploring Philadelphia in the rain (I was gone about ten hours all told) while Claudia worked diligently in the room. Both of us feel we succeeded, so we returned home satisfied.

We were thrilled to learn that our kids who had been semi-independent (we have good neighbors across the street who serve as support, plus Dominyk's PCAs) for these days did well in our absence. Almost all of the laundry was done, the kitchen and living rooms had been cleaned and the emotional barometer was as steady as a blue-skied summer day.

After greeting our kids I began to skim through the accumulated mail for the week. In the midst of magazines, bills and solicitations was a letter from our son. As I surveyed the envelope with its county adult detention address, the irony which I have contemplated many times struck me once again. Our son's name is (I'll make this non-searchable, so read around the "*"s) J*ohn W*esley F*letcher, a name that has important connections in our family of Christian faith, the Methodist movement. It was John Wesley (1703-1791), an Anglican priest, who was instrumental in a revival of religion that swept across Great Britain and into the early United States of America. John Fletcher (1729-1785) was a contemporary of Wesley's and considered to be the theologian of the movement. It was rumored that John Fletcher was Wesley's intended heir apparent, but due to Fletcher's early death and Wesley's extended life this never materialized.

In any case, you might see why our son's name is significant in the family of a United Methodist pastor. When he was baptized at the age of ten we explained to him the historical heritage his name carried. His full name is J*ohn W*esley R*odriguez F*letcher (we included his birth surname), and we and he have always been proud to see the Methodist and Hispanic connections in his identity.

To see the names of two of Methodism's founding fathers handwritten above the institutional stamp of a county jail is an irony which forms my faith. And no, it is not the irony you might think -- a United Methodist pastor with a son whose name represents powerful figures in Christian history sitting in a county jail for charges that could result in his having to register as an offender for years to come.

No, the irony for me is that one of the groups of people John Wesley was most concerned about was those in prison. Much of his time and the time of his "preachers" was invested in visiting those who were incarcerated. In fact, for those of us who are ordained Elders in the United Methodist Church, it is a question asked of us prior to ordination: "Will you visit those in jail?"

It is oddly comforting for me to recognize this irony -- that my son J*ohn W*esley F*letcher is situated in a location his historical namesakes would have been quite familiar with -- and to believe that one day my JWF will discover the spiritual power that transformed those who have come before him.

A Visit to Philadelphia's Eastern State Penitentiary

2009-06-18T18:16:00.004-05:00

I am on vacation this week in Philadelphia, the birthplace of the United States of America. I have accompanied my wife on one of her speaking engagements, and while she works I experience the city of foot. This has been my fullest day this week, just in time for our return tomorrow to Minnesota. I am happy to report that I have walked more than 18,000 steps today, most of them from our hotel to Independence Hall and back. Once there I hailed one of the tour buses, disembarking at what is now a visitor's site, the Eastern State Penitentiary. This penitentiary was first opened in 1829 and saw its last prisoners leave in 1971. The tour is self-guided with the assistance of an easy-to-use listening device. I spent nearly two hours in the experience, moving at a fairly steady pace; I could have spent at least another hour there, exploring empty cell blocks and listening to further presentations with more attention to detail. It was really quite fascinating.

In the past few years I have become much more interested with the history of penology as a parent of a couple adult "kids" who have found their way behind bars as a result of breaking the law. I must say that the adoption journey has provided many opportunities for me to think about situations that earlier in my life rarely crossed my mind. Sure, I had thought philosophically about the criminal justice system as a college student, debated about it during my years in seminary, even initiated a visit to a prison years ago with two of our foster children in attempt to "scare them straight." I am not sure what ever became of the two foster kids, but I was always hopeful that I wouldn't be the parent of kids behind bars. Unfortunately, that has not proven to be the case, and I have had to come face-to-face with more than philosophical meanderings about criminal justice.

ESP came about due to the prison reform concerns of leading Philadelphians like Benjamin Franklin and (Episcopal) Bishop William White. They and others formed what was then called The Philadelphia Society for Alleviating the Miseries of Public Prisons (it first met in May 1787). My visit to ESP reminded me that in many cases the purpose of incarceration was not punishment for crimes committed; it was created as an opportunity for the "criminal" to become "penitent" (note that this is the root of the word "penitentiary"). While not all facilities were built with this purpose in mind, ESP was in the early 1800s. Even the language used to describe the experience connected with religious imagery. Ask a priest or other person familiar with the ways of the monastic, and he will be clear that even today in such a setting an individual monastic's room is called a "cell." In the cell was an opportunity for solitude, confession and amendment of life.

At ESP in the early days prisoners were "hooded" before entering the facility, until they were securely locked in their cell. This was to protect their identity from being observed by others, as well as protecting the identity of those already incarcerated. Once in the cell they had the bare minimums -- a bed, a bench and a cast iron toilet. Interestingly, ESP has indoor plumbing in place before the White House in Washington, DC! Once a day for an hour's time the inmate was allowed to step into the fresh air immediately behind his cell. Each cell had an individual area for outside exercise; no contact was permitted between prisoners. In the early years, an individual could serve the length of his sentence and not have contact with any other prisoner during that time period.

I found this picture too interesting to pass up. It is a picture from the "early days" with an inmate in his cell. He has a writing desk, a bed and on the wall above the door to his exercise area in back is a cross (the picture does not show that clearly) in the center, with two pictures on either side. Immediately above the door is this text:

I believe in God my Father

And in Jesus Christ my Saviour

And in the Holy Spirit, who comforts me and leads me into all truth

Compared with today's context, it seems a glaringly sectarian approach to reform. A clear statement of the traditional Christian understanding of a trinitarian God would never find state approval in today's culture. It would seem, in fairness, that it wasn't a universal at ESP, either, as there was a synagogue and a rabbincal leader for inmates of Jewish faith. However, the role of religious faith was, for those who created this penitentiary, paramount. To reform one's life meant, by default, the need to connect with God.

There don't seem to be any good records as to the success rate of ESP. It is not known whether ESP's approach to reforming a criminal's life was more fruitful than those penitentiaries where punishment was more the norm. I have to wonder, though, how much benefit might be derived from the appropriate exploration of spirituality by those currently incarcerated. (I'm not advocating that state or federal penitentiaries be places where faith is forced upon anyone, but why wouldn't society benefit from the opportunity to offer to a "captive" audience the opportunity to "reform" based upon a new or renewed relationship with the Divine?)

It seems to me that the United States of America -- with more people incarcerated than any other country in the world -- might rethink some of our criminal justice processes. Perhaps it is time to form a new Society for Alleviating the Miseries of Public Prisons. It is nearly two hundred years since this positive model was initiated. What might it look like today?

A Treasured Day

2009-06-10T05:35:00.003-05:00

Once again I am up early this morning. It is not even 5:30 AM, and I have already been at my home desk wading through the treasures of yesterday, my birthday. Yesterday was a strange day, actually. I had a couple of pressing church-related responsibilities that kept me distracted and unfocused on the presenting event, beginning my forty-fifth year of life. The day itself was rather full, and the evening was no exception.

Two of our sons, Wilson (10) and Leon (14) had their first baseball games of the season, Claudia and I both had evening meetings, and there was no time to cook or prepare for any kind of celebration. Beginning at about 4:30 yesterday afternoon life in our home shifted into high gear as the component parts of our family began moving in different directions. Our fourteen-year-old daughter Mercedes needed to get to her job at McDonald's. Leon had to get to his game site by the appointed time. Wilson's game was close enough to our home that he could walk to the field. Ricardo had soccer practice. Dominyk was not yet home from his PCA (personal care attendant) time. Claudia and I wanted to share a little time together before heading our evening meetings. I wanted to catch at least some of one of the boys' first baseball games.

Amongst the drop-off's Claudia and I found about an hour to have dinner together, while our oldest at-home son, Rand (20), facilitated further schedule issues and coordinated the feeding of available family members. I dropped Claudia off at her meeting site after our shared meal and zipped off to watch the first forty-five minutes of Wilson's game.

If you read this blog regularly you understand that I am no sports fan. I have never been a sports fan, from the earliest days of my life. But I am a big fan of my kids, so year after year I have found myself sitting in uncomfortable portable chairs or on hot (in the summer) and cold (in the winter) metal bleachers watching everything from football, to Tae Kwon Do, to wrestling, to basketball, to soccer (a fan of which I have become over the past couple of years, by the way), to hockey and myriad other athletic pursuits of my children.

I do not always understand the lingo of each particular sport, nor do I fully grasp all the intricacies of the rules. (My wife, on the other hand, does understand most of those details, so I often turn to her for explanation. Yeah, I know. Kind of gender atypical, but hey, it works for us).

Last night as I sat watching my third grader play his first baseball game of the season I was blessed with a few moments of gracious solitude. I sat in my chair, not that uncomfortable, although I was a bit chilly (the past week or so in Minnesota has been unseasonably cool, with highs barely reaching 60 degrees most days). I observed these young boys and their coaches, grateful to have the opportunity to be the parent of a younger kid again. As time ticked by I began to wonder if I would actually get to see Wilson bat before I had to leave. Just before I needed to depart Wilson's turn came, and I watched with pride as he picked up the bat, eventually hit the ball and made it to first base. His 62-pound body with spindly legs can run, and his brace-toothed smile always brightens his face. As I passed by him on the way to the car I congratulated him. He smiled and waved as I said goodbye.

I must admit I was a little preoccupied and brooding as I drove into the church parking lot. The tightness of schedules necessitated a significant meeting on the night of my birthday, and I would rather have been watching my sons' baseball games. But responsibility calls, and I did my best to explain the situation to both Wilson and Leon. Wilson's earlier response to Claudia (when she explained the difficulty of our schedules for the night) had been, "Well, it's going to be hard for me to win this baseball game if no one is there to watch me." Fortunately both of the boys were gracious in understanding that last night was a difficult one, but that we would be at most of their games in the near future.

The focus of my meeting at church concerns the broader vision and future of our life together as a congregation. The content is not without controversy, but what was shared received largely positive feedback. By the time I walked to my office before coming home it was well past 9:00 PM. After making an important telephone call and sending a few quick emails I walked through the darkened corridors of the church facility to my car in the parking lot. I breathed a sigh of relief, thanking God for the opportunity to serve in a church with bright possibilities and huge opportunities for the future.

Pulling into our driveway a few minutes later, our house appeared darkened except for two windows. Expecting to be enveloped by the silence of sleeping bodies, I was surprised that a few people were still awake, awaiting my arrival. Our oldest son and our dog Gizmo were out the door before I got to the house. Stepping into our entryway our daughter Mercedes greeted me with a warm smile and a huge hug. She asked how my meeting had gone and I responded positively. Skipping down the stairs I looked into our darkened family room, where I had heard voices and said, "Hi," not certain who was actually there. Our sons Ben (17) and Ricardo (15) and one of the boys' friends (15) greeted me in return. Looking for the baseball players, I found Leon in the garage looking for a lost item in the van.

"So, how did your game go, Leon?" I asked.

"I won it," was his response. (I think it's always interesting when a kid playing in a team sport responds in the singular to a winning game than in the plural, but that's another story altogether).

"That's great! What was the score?"

"2-1."

"I'm proud of you, Leon."

Before I could issue another congratulatory word, he said, "Yeah. I won it for you, Dad."

I was momentarily stunned by the words. I cannot recall, in raising our older kids, many of whom have been involved in sports or other activities over the years, ever hearing one my kids tell me that. The warmth that radiated from his face, the delight in his eyes to know he has parents who care about what he is doing, the sheer joy in being part of a family that will never leave him ... in that split-second the emotions and the benefits of older-child adoption flooded me with gratitude. I thanked Leon for his words, apologized for not being there for the game and told him how much I loved him.

Stepping back inside the house I began to look for Wilson. He had just stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a large towel, his jet-black hair glistening with water, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

"So, Wilson, how did your game turn out?"

"We won."

I congratulated him and then listened as he reeled off several sentences of baseball jargon that I tried to follow. I gathered from his rapid-fire report that his work on the team had been important, that he enabled several home runs to take place and that he had the honor of taking home the game ball. (Or something like that).

"Oh, Wilson. I'm so proud of you. That's exceptional!" I responded.

And then he, like his older birth brother minutes earlier, touched my heart with a treasured word. "I put something in your 'treasure box' for you on your desk. It's a picture." Earlier in the day Wilson had been a Cub Scout day camp event and he had painted for me a green, glitter-covered wooden treasure box. I walked the few steps into our bedroom to see on my desk a 3 x 5 inch picture of WIlson in his baseball uniform, prominently displayed in the opened green, glitter-covered treasure box.

Smiling with joy a bit of a tear crept from my eye. "You know what?" I rhetorically queried Claudia, sitting nearby. "I think the kids we currently have home now are going to make up for all the pain and difficulty of our early years with our older kids. These kids are going to help me leave behind a lot of my disillusionment and cynicism."

Turning forty-five wasn't that bad. It was a day of mixed emotions and responsibilities, to be sure, but I feel like a very fortunate man to have had such a treasured day.

45 to the Third Degree

2009-06-09T06:30:00.003-05:00

One hundred fifty-eight years ago today my grandmother's grandmother Sarah Harriet (Day) Hughes was born. Ninety years ago today my grandmother Irene Harriet Strause (Libby) was born. Forty-five years ago today I was born. In several months I will become a grandfather at the age of forty-five, at the same age as my grandmother before me.

The last birthday my grandmother and I shared together while she was living was three years ago. Her health had been fading for several years, but the summer and fall of 2006 marked her final days with us. In earlier years of my life June 9 was a marker of the relationship my grandmother and I shared. Some years it included a shared birthday celebration, almost always a visit (we lived less than ten miles apart as I grew up) and always a continuing reminder of how fortunate I was to be the first grandchild born to my maternal grandparents.

Beginning in 2007, though, this day has become a more pensive, bittersweet day for me. With my grandmother's death I am more cognizant of the cycle of birth, life and death. I am reminded of those blessed intersections in life that help to give us identity. For some reason 45 seems to be one of those symbolic markers. My grandmother was precisely my age today when she became a grandmother, and I will be (although not precisely) 45 as well.

There is something about watching a new generation emerge that roots a middle-aged person. During these middle years of life we have to acknowledge that our physical, temporal lives will not always exist. There will come the time when our physical corpus will be planted into the ground; we will leave behind a legacy, but it will live in the memories of others, not in our physical presence with those whom we love. Middle age is another of those golden opportunities for second chances.

I have struggled over the past decade plus to understand myself as a parent. I always believed I would be a good parent, and I had a fairly clear understanding in my mind of what that would look like. In my life as an adoptive parent I believed, let's be honest, that I would do my part to save the children of the world. I naively believed that children who had experienced early neglect or poverty or dislocation would find solace in the home my wife and I would seek to build upon a foundation of unconditional commitment and self-sacrificing love. My dream was that this solace would heal the wounds and provide a glowing future for the children I would call mine.

Now nearly thirteen years into the adoptive parenting journey I realize that my fantasies must meet the honest practicality of middle aged awareness. I must admit that in my zeal I overstepped my boundaries; I can no more save a child than a midwife can give birth to her patient's impending infant. As an adoptive midwife I can offer support, instruction, encouragement, the perspective of years lived. But I cannot make my child's decisions for him or her. It is as fruitless to try to change their hardwired tendencies or their moral freedom to choose as it would be to change the color of their eyes.

It is a complicated tangle being a parent. Having the highest of goals and offering the best of opportunities guarantees nothing in terms of outcome. And perhaps the reality is that the outcome is not ours to control anyway. It's kind of like turning 45. Who wants to acknowledge that about half of our years have already been lived? We cannot control that; we can only live it.

I am reminded today that the only years I knew my grandmother were the second forty-five of her life. And that gives me hope, that in the next half of my life perhaps the next generation of my children will do even better than the first.

I can live with that. And so can they.

It's Not Always Bad ...

2009-06-02T12:58:00.002-05:00

For those who read my blog on a regular basis, you might tend to think that all of life is challenging and fraught with emotional peril. There are certainly those moments, and much of what I thought being a father would be like has been challenged in the past few years, but it's not always bad.

At all.

This morning I had such a delightful experience with our third grade son, Wilson. It is the last week of school before summer break, so school schedules are more fluid, kids are experiencing the joy of anticipated freedom and teachers have that look of relief in their eyes. In Wilson's classroom this morning it was Donuts with Dad. Later this week it's Muffins with Mom. Weeks ago Wilson made sure to invite me. It was apparent (pun intended) that he really wanted me to be there.

So, as planned, I waited at the school office until the right time, when Wilson was to meet me. A few minutes after my arrival Wilson and his friend Tim (who has been at our home before) greeted me. Wilson and Tim are an interesting contrast in personalities. Wilson is quiet and reflective, and often I have to strain to hear his words. Tim is outgoing and gregarious, and no one has to listen intently to hear what he has to say. Walking toward me Wilson smiled as Tim boomed out, "Hey, dad!"

I exchanged greetings with them, told them I was excited to be going to Donuts with Dad, and then heard Tim say, "Hey, dad. It's OK if I call you that, isn't it? I'll just tell people I'm adopted by you." We had discussed this before when Tim had stayed the night with Wilson several weeks ago, and I have no problem with kids calling me "Dad" (whether they "belong" to me legally or not). I said, "Sure. Let's go to your classroom."

The third grade classroom was bustling with activity as I found an adult-size chair and sat next to Wilson's desk. Wilson trotted off to select a donut for the two of us, and in the meantime I noticed Tim bobbing in and among others. For whatever reason Tim was without a parent this morning, so I waved him over to Wilson's desk and said, "Join us." He smiled and brought his chair and his written work over.

The three of us had a great time, all thirty minutes of it. WIlson read to me from some of his prepared work, and then Tim read a story as well. We ate donuts together, I asked the questions that all parents of third-graders need to ask, and then it was time to leave.

What a great way to begin my day. With my son Wilson snuggled next to me, occasionally patting my hand, enjoying the opportunity to share these minutes with his dad. And with my other "son" Tim as he told me about his written story and pointed to items he had crafted during the school year. One rather large white male father-type, one rather small Asian child-type and one larger African-American child type. None of us resembling one another physically, but bound together by the need for this forty-five-year-old to be a father and these two ten-year-olds to have one.

Where Am I, Again?

2009-05-19T19:48:00.002-05:00

This has been a day marked by contrasts. I began the day early at Peachtree Tree Road United Methodist Church in Atlanta, during my second day at the Festival of Homiletics, where I heard more outstanding words from the likes of Barbara Brown Taylor and Thomas Long, both exemplars of the art of preaching. Our sessions were over mid-afternoon, so I returned to my hotel in what seems to be a pretty nice part of Atlanta, near Buckhead. I spent the remainder of the afternoon reading and thinking about what I've been hearing over the past couple of days.

So, with those lofty thoughts in my head, inspired by marvelous homileticians, I set off to find a place to eat dinner. Although this is a continuing education week for me, I do not ask the church to pay for my meal costs, although I suppose technically it would be appropriate for me to charge them back against my continuing education budget. Instead, I simply apply them toward income tax deductions, as our CPA directs. The freeing thing is that I can choose where I want to eat without little thought about the scrutiny of others.

But, anyway, I decided to have a steak tonight, so I set off for the Longhorn, evidently a chain in this part of the country, or at least in Atlanta where there are numerous locations. Upon arriving I was greeted by a young woman who told me the wait would be about ten minutes, so I sat down, extracting my iPhone from my pocket to scan through email and make good use of my time. In the few minutes that ensued I heard the southern drawl of an elderly man as he was leaving, thanking the young woman at the greeter's stand for the "free meal." She responded professionally. Once he was out the door and on his way, though, I heard her disclosing to her co-workers, in an amused, and not-so-quiet voice: "You'll never believe what he said when he came in here." Her co-workers encouraged her to say more, so she continued, "When I told him that the wait was going to be ten minutes, he looked at me and said, 'I don't speak Spanish.'" Together they chortled about the blatant racism, and caught in the act of eavesdropping, I had to glance up to remember the physical features of the young woman. It certainly wasn't a Hispanic accent of any type; her words to me had been good, Georgia sweetness. Sure enough, her tan skin, dark hair and diminutive height could reflect a Latina background, but I chuckled to myself. Having five Hispanic children of "my own" has inured me to the external judgments of the lilly white.

It was minutes later that I was escorted to my table, made my meal selection and awaited the arrival of my entree. As I munched contentedly on my caesar salad and fresh-made loaf of bread, I became aware of a group of four young (well, younger than I am, but that's not that young any more) men immediately behind me. The conversation went something like this:

Waitress: Good evening, what I can I get you to drink? [The men each ordered their favorite alcoholic beverage, after which she requested ID from the youngest of the men. He dickered with her for a few minutes, but finally produced the ID that indicated he was "legal"]. A few minutes later she came back to be barraged with questions about a table of women across the room:

One guy to waitress: Hey, what about those ladies over there ... are they drinking anything?
Waitress: Hmm. I'm not sure. [Looking more closely] ... it doesn't look like it.
Another guy to waitress: Well, they should be.
Waitress: They should be?
First guy again: Yeah, they should be.

As the waitress departed to take the food orders to the kitchen the four drinking buddies continued to share crudities, about life in general, women in particular and wives with too much specificity. With the country music droning in the background and the slurred Southern drawls from the table behind me, I had to ask myself: "Where am I, again?" I was in an upper-class suburb of Atlanta (part of my test to determine economic levels is to look at cars being driven, as well as how many people are out and about walking around ... in this case a lot of nice cars and no one to be seen on the sidewalks for miles), and I felt like I could have been in Redneck Village, USA. Not, mind you, that I have any particular problem with hard-living people.

I've come from a long line of hard-living people, but it's not how I want to live my life. And, as I ruminated on those thoughts, I began to realize that my deeper issue has to do with the sense of displacement I feel within my own family. Consciously I was preoccupied with what was going on around me, but subconsciously I struggle with the paths our older children have taken in their lives. (It's too soon to say what will happen with our younger ones).

Each of our children were adopted from hard-living situations, involving out-of-wedlock births, drugs, alcohol, neglect and/or abuse. And the current direction (with one exception) of all our children over the age of sixteen involves at least one, if not more, of these factors of their origins. It is confusing and disorienting to me. My values, and the values I had hoped to instill within my family, have not changed, but I am challenged to know why I have lived the way I live when I do not see it reflected in the next generation. It makes me feel foolish, unsophisticated and naive.

Where am I, again?

A Blessing from Archbishop Desmond Tutu

2009-05-18T20:33:00.002-05:00

After Ricardo's soccer game last night I stayed in a metro area hotel room, anticipating my early flight to Atlanta this morning. I am using a week of continuing education to participate in this year's Festival of Homiletics (a preaching conference). I have been in Atlanta a couple of times before this week, and I have come to enjoy the city. It is richly diverse, nestled in the bosom of the deep south, a fascinating mix of success and disappointment. In the summer residents refer to it as "Hot-lanta," but the forecast for this week actually shows it to be cooler here than back home in Minnesota.

Arriving uneventfully in Atlanta this morning, I picked up a rental car and drove to my hotel. There were, of course, hotels closer to the conference location, but when it comes to hotel rooms I am notoriously cost-conscious. I no longer stay in cut-rate hotel chains (I've traveled enough now that I just can't do that any longer), but with the power of the internet I can usually find myself a good room at a good price. This time I was able to find a great Doubletree Hotel, but it is several miles from the conference site. I figure the $75 a night difference is worth driving five miles or so and justifies the rental car.

Every time I get into a rental car, though, I am reminded anew of what a set up for disaster it is. The traveler is probably a bit disoriented after a crowded flight, followed by (in this case) a packed shuttle to the rental car area. Once there the driver-to-be is summarily disgorged from the shuttle to pick up his or her rental vehicle, most likely a vehicle nothing like the one back home. After stowing luggage, properly organizing the rental contract information, adjusting mirrors, moving the seat and steering wheel, turning on the air conditioning (or heat, as the case may be) and the radio, the driver is ready for the next step in the process: immediate immersion into some of the city's busiest traffic. Balancing the need to drive safely, merge correctly into the flow of traffic, scan directions to one's destination and adjusting to a new car -- all within five minutes -- is a daunting task. I've gotten used to it over the years, but it still makes me feel some trepidation. Fortunately I made it safely to my hotel, checked in and was able to take a short nap before this evening's opening festivities.

Two of my favorite clergy-type people in the world were scheduled for tonight: Barbara Brown Taylor (an episcopal priest who "walked away" from the Church to become a professor) and Archbishop Desmond Tutu. I have read and followed their lives for a number of years now, so to hear them in person was a real treat.

Taylor spoke eloquently of why it is that the South is so renowned for its particular version of Christian faith. She masterfully tied together the social and spiritual histories of the South in a profound way. Her conclusion, and my summary will sound much more perfunctory than her elegant words, is that the Bible is for "losers," by which she means those who have come through challenging difficult times. Those who have encountered loss find much in the Scriptures to help interpret our world. Her appeal was that people of Christian faith might remember that "suffering is less a problem to be solved than it is a mystery to be endured." In particular, she asked people of faith to consider how we find ourselves in the Scriptures and how that affects our interpretation of what we see there.

The crowning moment of the night, however, was to hear from Archbishop Desmond Tutu. His physical appearance is increasingly more frail, but his joyous enthusiasm is fresh and contagious. He spoke of the ways apartheid imprisoned his country (the Republic of South Africa) for so many decades, but joyously recounted the freedom that is now part of their lives. He thanked those in the United States and other western countries for standing in support of the anti-apartheid leaders years ago. He spoke about how far racial relations in the United States have progressed in the past fifty years. Since we are in Atlanta, he made reference to the ways in which this part of the country separated and discriminated against people of color, but how it is that things are different now. I admire his ability to let go of possible resentments and bitterness in order to acknowledge positive change.

The heart of his message was that God has created all of humanity in God's image. His recurring words were, "Be who you are!" To be created and to live in God's image means that to treat any other human in any degrading or discriminatory fashion is "blasphemy. It is to spit in God's face!" His final words, in recognizing the significance of electing our country's first non-white president, were to remind his listeners that Americans have changed our cultural landscape as well. We, like those in South Africa, are seeing changes within the social landscape. With a smile on his face and joy in his voice, his final words to us were, "Aren't you glad you don't have to say you're Canadians anymore?!" While I'm sure not every appreciated his political stance, I hope they recognized what I understood him to say: that the election of an African-American president does more to identify our country as making racial progress than mere words. And those who might have felt disappointment or shame in the past regarding our country's checkered racial history might be able to respond with more pride than before.

In closing the service Archbishop Tutu offered the words of St. Francis of Assisi which begin, "Lord, make me an instrument of your peace." Concluding those familiar words, he offered a blessing in his native tongue. It was quite an inspiring evening, and I am now left with a question I need to answer for myself. If I am created in God's image, who does that make me, and how do I find ways to be authentically who I am?

The Triple Crown Day of Parenting

2009-05-16T21:58:00.003-05:00

It's been some time since I have blogged. At least two months, in fact. I figure that my cynicism regarding parenting is probably not what those in the blogosphere want to read about, but at the same time I'm sure there are parents out there who feel like I do, so at the very least I can reflect the thoughts of others. As challenging as a cynic is, a lonely cynic is probably even more destructive. So, for what it is, here is an update.

Yesterday started fairly well for me. Friday is my usual day of the week "off," by which I mean I do not come even close to my church office or pastoral responsibilities (unless, of course, there happens to be a funeral or some other difficult to schedule event). I have a sense of freedom on Friday's and seek to enjoy it with all my might. By mid-morning, however, my aspirations had already been shattered by a scream fest involving my wife and our oldest daughter, who was demanding transportation to a distant community so that she could visit her boyfriend. This interaction has a long history filled with many complicating factors, and I will not go down that road. It's just too fraught with complexity, and it is simply what it is. (Please, no moralizing comments from blog readers at this point. We are years beyond that).

Anyway, with wife and oldest daughter on their way out of town, I set out to complete some of my personal day-off tasks. Within an hour or so I received word from my wife that there was news she needed to share. Before I go there, let me just share this irony of life. A week ago I was in a week-long training, in which one of the ice breakers was for each participant to share two pieces of information -- one true and one false -- about one's life.

The two I selected (one true, one false) were: (1) my mother is a logger and (2) I am a grandfather. Little did I know that within a week's time I would discover that both statements would be true, and I'm not talking about the "my mother is a logger." I've known that for more than forty years now.

So, suffused with the knowledge that our sixteen-year-old daughter is growing a new life within herself, I arrived back home to hear from the oldest son we have living with us, "Dad, the sheriff was here today." I said, "Oh?" "Yeah," he responded, "he wanted to know if we knew were Mike [our twenty-year old son who has already been in jail numerous times and served a stint in prison for felony convictions] is. I told him we hadn't seen him for a long time, but the cop asked if he could look through our house to make sure he wasn't here." This son has been diagnosed years ago with an expressive language disorder, so sometimes it's bit frustrating to talk with him, especially in situations involving crisis, because his ability to organize and express his thoughts is quite disjoined. "So," I said with my irritation than necessary, "what was the cop doing here?" "Um, he just said that if we see Mike we need to tell him that if he is seen on [our local high school] their property again he's going to be arrested."

Nice. Sixteen-year-old daughter with child. Twenty-year-old son on the verge of arrest ... again.

In what seemed like minutes later, although it was actually a couple of hours, I received the third piece of news. Claudia received a call from aforementioned daughter who had talked with our eighteen-year-old son's girlfriend. Our eighteen-year-old son recently decided that he would leave the group home he had been living in (a place that covered his room, board and transportation free of charge under a state program) so that he could take up residence with his fifteen-year-old girlfriend and her mother.

And yes, in case you are wondering, we did beg, plead and explain to our son that if he was sexually involved with a girl of that age that he could be charged with statutory rape under Minnesota statute.

And yes, he is currently in a county jail in Minnesota on two charges of criminal sexual conduct. The first charge carries with it a prison sentence of up to 20 years and a fine of up to $30,000. The second charge carries with it a prison sentence of up to 10 years and a fine of up to $20,000. And yes, according to the statute (which I read online, but admittedly only as a lay person, and not as an attorney) consent does not constitute legal permission. Our son is a very serious situation. And, as it has been every time for the past seven years, he has chosen his own way and not ours.

So there it is ... serious situations facing 25% of our children. On days like these I wonder why I signed up to be an adoptive parent. They could have been making these same choices as children who aged out of the foster care system without the supposed advantage of having committed, loving parents.

I am disillusioned and despairing tonight. If only there were an award of some sort for parents with the most bad news in one day. There isn't, of course, but for today I think my cynical muse will just call it the Triple Crown Day of Parenting.

Continuing to Learn Self-Differentiation

2009-03-17T06:17:00.002-05:00

I have written many times in this blog about the value of self-differentiation for the adoptive parent. (I suspect the same principles hold true for parents of any type, but adoptive parenting is what I am most familiar with). By self-differentiation, I mean the ability to know oneself in any given situation, to be supportive of another person while not necessarily appreciating their particular behavior. It is the goal of self-differentiation to maintain an appropriate distance without creating an emotional cut-off.

I had the opportunity again yesterday to self-differentiate.

Returning home from a meeting in the metropolitan area (about ninety miles from our community) I received a call on my iPhone from our son Mike, about whose most recent exploits I blogged yesterday.

"Hey, dad."

"Hi, Mike."

"How are you doing?"

"Pretty good. I've been in the Cities today, and I'm on my way home now."

"Oh. Sorry I didn't call you yesterday."

"Yeah, I was wondering what happened. Where were you?" I knew full well where had been, because I had checked our county's online jail roster and saw his face peering back at me.

"Um. Where was I?"

"Yeah, where were you?"

"Umm. I was out of town."

"Oh, yeah? Where was that?"

"You mean what town?"

"Yeah, I guess that's what I mean."

He names a neighboring community about 40 minutes away.

"Oh."

"So, are you still willing to do my laundry for me?" (I have told Mike in the recent past that I would be willing to help him get his clothes washed, even though he cannot be in our home or near our property).

"I can, but it'll have to be another day. I am headed back home now, but I have a meeting at church tonight."

"OK. Well, I'm doing good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm working hard on getting my apprentice hours in so I can be a tattooist."

"Good for you, Mike."

"Yeah, so anyway, I guess I'll call tomorrow."

"OK, Mike."

"Um, so," with exaggerated excitement, "have a great day!"

"Yeah, you, too, Mike."

I decided that I would wait to see if Mike might disclose to me his complete whereabouts for the weekend. It is, of course, possible that he was in a neighboring community at some point on the day in question, but I know for a fact that as of early evening Saturday night Mike was in our county jail on new charges. He must have been released sometime on Monday (probably after an initial court appearance).

Because he served his ninety days in prison, my understanding is that he was free and clear. But, he is stepping back into his old, familiar pattern once again ... a misdemeanor here, a minor infraction there, and eventually serious, felony-level acts. My hope is that he will curb his enthusiasm for crossing legal boundaries and not repeat his previous scenarios, but I know from experience that the best predictor is future behavior is past behavior.

There was a time when the actions of my children made me anxious with worry. While I continue to love my children, as I always have, a new depth has emerged in my life where I can love them without feeling a sense of helpless perplexity. I have (and will continue to) done my best to nurture, instruct, discipline and guide by example. I can do little more than that, nor should I.

Ah, the joys of self-differentiation!

Ten Days

2009-03-16T07:09:00.003-05:00

On Saturday I received a telephone call from our son Mike telling me he "really needed to get some clothes washed." Evidently the place where he had been staying doesn't offer him that luxury, so I explained my tight schedule and asked him to call back on Sunday, yesterday, after lunch so that we could arrange something.

Yesterday passed without a word from Mike, and considering the busyness of our day, it was a blessing of sorts. I still thought it odd (when Mike has something he needs he is fairly persistent until that need is fulfilled). Claudia had several events to attend to throughout the course of the day, and I had a hospital visit I needed to make after that, so it was about 9:00 PM before I was home, and by that time I was too tired to think about Mike's lack of communication.

This morning, though, I decided to check where I always check if I haven't heard from him in a timely fashion. I have in my favorite bookmarks a section I call "Minnesota Criminal Justice." There are several sites there that almost always fill in details for me about our crime-ridden, third oldest son. I opened our county's jail custody website, clicked through the alphabetical list until I arrived at the "F" designation and, sure enough, there was Mike's mug shot glowering back at me.

The site says that he was arrested Saturday night, several hours after talking with me, for misdemeanor business trespass. Since I'm not an expert in Minnesota legal designations, I'm not sure what kind of illegal action that represents. I am assuming, based upon Mike's history, that it must be shoplifting or something akin. (Or perhaps it could be that he was physically present in a store which previously had legally "excluded" him from being there, due to a previous illegal act).

A week ago he was in my car, having returned to our community three days earlier. I was asking him if his intent was to remain crime-free. His response was less than enthusiastic. He knows himself well enough to know that he cannot make any such guarantees. I asked him what compels him to be consistently engaging in criminal acts. "I'm an addict," was his response. I said, "What are you addicted to, Mike?" "Well, it's not like what you think. It's not drugs and it's not alcohol. I'm addicted to excitement. I get bored with things and need to do something that's exciting, and then I find myself breaking the law."

I have pondered his self-analysis a number of times in the past few days. To the outsider it might sound like denial or escapism, but in my experienced opinion, he has accurately described himself. It is the Mike that we have come to know in our years of parenting him. Nearly everything he has done over the years that has resulted in trouble for him (whether the commonplace infractions that all kids experience in a family's home all the way up the line to the "big ticket" legal items like burglary and theft) is tied to excitement factor. The bottomline is that Mike is addicted to excitement. Biologically speaking, I suppose that includes at least adrenaline and cortisol (I am no endocrinologist either). The complex weave of a person's psychological bearing never ceases to surprise me.

For the person who is addicted to pharmaceuticals or to alcohol part of the solution is avoid substances and those who use them. For someone whose addiction is literally "in house," though, I wonder what that means? For now, at least, what it means for Mike is that his ten days of freedom after ninety days in prison have now come to a conclusion. Today, and perhaps for a few more days, our community is safe from our son, and our son's self-identified addiction is controlled, but only behind the bars of a county jail cell.

There has to be a better way, but I don't know what that is.

When Your (Adult) Child Cannot Come Home

2009-03-04T20:24:00.003-06:00

It has been a long time since I have updated my blog. Part of it has been the busyness of my life over the past months, and part of it has been that I haven't wanted to think much about the dynamics of my family's life. And truthfully, these past few months have been pretty lackluster and ordinary. While it is much easier to live when life is ordinary, it doesn't do much for blog interest. The hard part of starting up again with a blog is that it seems so sudden, since there is little context for its reappearance. But it's time for a reappearance, so here goes.

Our twenty-year-old (this week) son was released from prison today, having served his ninety-day sentence for probation violations. Due to the nature of his offense (parole violation) he was in the segment of the prison population that receives no transitional services upon release, which means that he has no place to go.

About a month ago I wrote him a four-page letter describing many of the ways over the past ten years Claudia and I have done our best to help him transition into a sustainable lifestyle. We have been with him in and out of treatment centers, in and out of jail, through county social services agencies, and all the other available resources. I offered him my best three scenarios for his life: a stint in the military, a Christian-based treatment program and Job Corps. I sent him information for him to apply to at least two of these options. I made it as clear as possible that it was not in his best interest to return to the community where we live (Mike had initiated that conversation to begin with, so I did my best to affirm that his decision was a right one).

Several days ago I received a call from Mike's older birth brother (our oldest son). He had agreed to pick Mike up upon his release from prison but was unsure what to do with him after that. I explained to him that his mother and I were out of options, that after ten years of trying we simply know nothing further to do. (This is the same message I had given Mike as well). I encouraged the older brother to do what he thought he could do, but that he needed to be clear in setting his boundaries. He suggested, and I affirmed, that based upon past behavior it would not be a good idea for Mike to know Kyle's residence location, unless he trusted his brother's ability to remain crime-free. I was honest with Kyle, affirmed his desire to do the right thing by his brother, but wanted him to know that his precautionary concerns were justified.

At 5:00 PM today Kyle called to let me know that he was with Mike and that Mike was "deciding where to go." I tried to remain as non-anxious as possible, listened intently and offered some kind words. By 8:00 PM we were arriving home from Lenten services at church, and I received a second call. "Um, Dad. I'm with Mike in [a town sixty miles from us], and the place that Mike thought he could stay isn't going to work out. What do I do now?"

I took a deep breath. My mind floods with all kinds of thoughts. I am reminded that more than a decade ago it was their birth mother who unceremoniously dumped them off at a distant relative's home, where they waited a number of days before the relatives called child protection so that they could be removed to foster care. I feel the pangs of paternal guilt as the questions flood my thoughts, "What could I have done differently to have prevented this?" "Should I offer to pay for Mike to stay in a hotel somewhere for the night?" "Is it fair to Kyle that this is happening to him?"

But I choose my head this time, not my heart. Months ago I have done my best to counsel Mike as to what he should do upon release. In typical fashion, he has disregarded my advice, preferring his own scattered thinking. Kyle freely and willingly entered into this agreement with his birth brother. I did not broker the conversation, nor have I "put this" upon Kyle.

And so I say in response to Kyle's irritated tones, "I don't know what to tell you, Kyle. I gave Mike my best advice a month ago, the same as I told you. Mom and I have tried for ten years; we just don't have any options left."

"So what am I supposed to do? Just dump him off somewhere?"

I pause. I feel for both of my adult sons, one successful, the other struggling. One son has received the gifts of an adoptive family, completed high school, graduated from college, teaching a third grade class. The other son, two years his junior, has been unable (or unwilling, I'm never sure which) to accept the gifts of an adoptive family, rejected all of our attempts at intervention, not yet completed high school, possessing only the clothes on his back and having no money in his pocket.

"I don't know, Kyle. I don't have any good suggestions for you."

"Well, it's late, and I'm sick, and i have to teach my class tomorrow morning."

"I understand that. It's what Mom and I have been dealing with for years, so I can honestly say that I know what you're feeling right now."

"OK, then. Bye."

I am proud of Kyle. He has not blamed me. He has not demanded it is my responsibility to do something. He has not implied (though he would readily accept, I am sure) that I need to rescue him and his brother from this situation.

A few minutes later he calls. "Hey, dad. I guess Mike is going to some random friend's in [the community where we live]. How do I get there?"

I calmly give him directions from his location, providing only geographic data, no invitations. I do not remind Kyle that his brother is not permitted to be in our house or near our home (there is a restraining order). I simply provide him the information he requests. And upon clicking "end call" on my cell phone, I immediately say to my wife, "Claudia, are we doing the right thing?"

She does not hesitate, and I am glad. She reminds me that being "done" means just that, that we can no longer empower the deviant and illegal actions of a son who calls us only when he needs to be rescued. We cannot subject our other children to his jaded attitudes, the questionable friends that come with his territory, the opportunity to be once again victimized by theft or trespass.

"I wonder," I respond, "about recriminations. Do you think he's going to 'pay us back' this time?"

"If he does, we'll just have to have him arrested again. There's nothing more we can do about it."

And that's just about the long and short of it. There's nothing more we can do about it. And that's a hard thing to admit, because I became an adoptive parent to offer a different way of life to kids whose early years had been less than ideal. My goal was to prevent homelessness for kids who would otherwise age out of the system. I wanted to rescue a kid, not live with the concern of retaliation in the form of illegal behavior or intimidation to my other children.

It's hard when your (adult) child cannot come home.

A Moment of Joy

2009-01-25T19:48:00.003-06:00

I think I owe my blog readers some moments of joy from time to time, especially when so much of my blog has been focused on the serious, or the morose, or the challenging side of parenting special needs children. Imagine my delight a couple of days ago when I opened up the paper lying on our front step (we recently resubscribed to our community's newspaper) and saw front and center on the sports page (a page I rarely read) an article complete with large picture of our son Ricardo. (He's the one on the bottom, in case you didn't figure it out based on the origins of his name).

Midway through the article, which reports on the entire wrestling tournament, is this quote from Jim Rueda, the Free Press Sports editor:

One of the bright spots for East was Ricardo Fletcher, who took on Class AAA's ninth-ranked Alex Thompson at 119 pounds and gave the Scarlet all he could handle. The bout was tied at 2-2 after two periods before Thompson pulled away to an 8-2 victory.

What the article doesn't say -- and the writer couldn't have known -- is just how incredible this really is. In the Fall of 2007 Ricardo began the school year as a sixth grader, an old sixth grader, but one none the less. He has only been in the USA since he was ten (he just recently turned fifteen), so his English skills have been a challenge; hence his grade placement. After two months in sixth grade, though, we were informed that he was "too old" to be in sixth grade and would have to jump up to seventh grade. So in the Fall of 2007 he left sixth grade, became a seventh grader, and within less than a month decided to wrestle. He had not wrestled before, had no training or coaching previously, but did well enough that within a couple of weeks he was wrestling varsity. This year as an eighth grader he has done very well, and this is the second time in the season he has grabbed a sports front page picture and write-up.

With many of the challenges our children have presented us over the years, it is nice occasionally to relax in the joy of seeing one of our kids succeed. And Ricardo is the kind of kid who deserves to succeed. He is bright and respectful and almost always does what he is asked to do in the family without argumentation.

For just a moment I am experiencing joy, and thanking God for it!

Figuring It Out On His Own

2009-01-22T10:58:00.002-06:00

The letter (which I reference in a previous blog post) has not yet reached Mike, but today's frantic phone call from him foretells, as expected, continuing difficult water. He called first about an hour ago to see if I "had come up with anything yet" concerning his impending release from prison.

I said, "Well, Mike, I'm not really sure what to tell you. I just sent you a letter explaining that there wasn't too much we could do to help you at this point."

After a silence. "So, I'm on my own, then? That's the way it is? OK, then." And the call disconnected. I am no longer (after thirteen years of working with difficult kids) bothered by abrupt ends to telephone calls, so I stepped back into my work.

More than an hour later it is Mike again on the phone. "So, did you hang up on me last time?" is his opening salvo.

"Um, no. I thought you disconnected from me."

"Oh. So there's nothing you can do to help me, huh?"

"Like I said, Mike, I don't know what it would be. We've pretty much exhausted our options on this end."

"So, I get sent to prison and then you're all done. Is it like the straw that broke the camel's back or something?"

"It's like this, Mike. Everything I've been doing for you over the past few months and the years before that was to prevent you ending up in prison. And nothing worked. It doesn't seem like any of it really mattered too much."

Long pause, but the tension in the air is thick enough to slice. I respond, "Mike, I don't think it is really in your best interest to return to [our community]. You mentioned in your letter to me that you need to get away from bad influences, and that's all you know here."

"But what am I supposed to do, then? I don't have anywhere else to go. I should never have come to [our community] in the first place."

I bite my tongue. What I want to say is that on more than one occasion we have set up situations that allow him to start fresh in a new place with new people, but that each time he has refused to cooperate with whatever stipulations have been placed upon him. So I say simply, "You're right."

He begins to move down the blame-the-parents road by saying that his downfall in our community was the school that he enrolled in after he came to this community (following our family's move nearly three years ago) following his release from a Department of Corrections program. He was not yet eighteen at the time, and we felt that we had a moral obligation to at least let him try something new in a new community. But he is no longer a child, at least by legal standards.

"So I guess this going to be my life, then." Since the blaming game didn't work it's time to apply guilt, evidently.

"Mike, you're only twenty years old. You have your whole life ahead of you."

"Yeah, but this life in the system is all I really know, sine the time I've been thirteen. It's where I've been."

"You're right," I offer, mentally reminding myself that for the four years before that time Claudia and I did everything in our power to prevent his decisions that we knew would one day lead to this conversation. I feel Claudia and I could have done nothing more than we have done, but I know Mike cannot understand that, and rather than starting an argument over something that matters so little, I become more directive.

"You don't have any friends you've met inside that live in another part of the state who can put you up for a while until you get a job and stuff?"

"Not really. It's not like I can just go to another town and find a place to live and stuff. And I really don't want to return to [our community], but I don't really have much choice."

"And what are you going to do when you get here, Mike?"

"I don't know. People have offered me some jobs and stuff."

I interrupt. "Are these legal jobs, Mike?"

"Um, no. Not really. But I don't have any other choice. It's all I know."

Blame hasn't worked. Guilt hasn't moved me. So now it's time to play the victim card. I don't buy into the conversational plan.

"I'm sorry, Mike. I don't know what else I can do for you at this moment. I've checked into some things, but there just isn't anything available for someone in your situation."

I hear his expulsion of frustrated breath. "Just forget it, then." Blame, nope. Guilty, nope. Pity-the-victim, nope. Let's just get right down to anger, then. "I'll figure out someone on my own without your help. I'll take care of it myself."

"OK, Mike. I love you."

"Yeah. Whatever."

The conversation ends, and while I am conflicted because I do love my son, I sincerely, honestly know that there is nothing more I can at this time. He has made a progressive series of bad choices for seven years (throughout which we have intervened time and time again in many ways) that bring us to this point. I will pray for Mike, I will keep the doors of communication open with him, but I have reached the limit of what I will do for an individual who has been unwilling to better himself. I have had a long-standing personal, internal debate about what is "unable" and what is "unwilling," but there comes a point when a parent trying to "rescue" a kid who is "unable" must accept the reality of "unwilling." If for no other reason than because the laws and codes of society begin to hold that child, now an adult, responsible for his or her actions.

Mike will need, like all of us who navigate the churning waters of adulthood, to figure it out on his own. Every other attempt to assist him has only turned into entitlement and enablement, and I will not be held hostage any longer.

Just to Clarify

2009-01-22T10:36:00.002-06:00

I have worked hard in my life not to be a reactor, but it is a continual challenge to maintain a non-anxious presence, whether in my life as a pastor, or even as a blogger. Any of those three venues opens a person to critique, deserved or undeserved. In those situations it always important to know oneself, or to clarify once again (with growing awareness, ideally, not from a defensive, this-is-always-how-I-have-been posture) who one is.

So let me clarify my blog entry about $1.75 per meal.

As the grocery shopper and cook of a large family (on a night when everyone from our family is present, excepting adult children who live outside the home, there are eleven of us at the table) I know that usually our per person cost is less than $1.75. So, I do understand that it is possible to eat, and eat healthily and economically, for less than the amount a person subsisting on food stamps receives.

I have been blessed with the opportunity of intellectual development, economic security (for which both Claudia and I work hard), and family origins that taught me values of conservation, frugality and thrift (even if I do not always practice those virtues consistently, I do know *how* to do so).

What I wanted my kids to understand in our MLK Day project is that there are people in our world, in our community, perhaps even a door or two from where we live, who have not had the benefits I (and they now) have. I wanted them to recognize that people who rely upon food stamps for the basis of their food supply often lack education, may not have a stable housing situation and few resources to help them understand how to live except in a transient fashion. The truth is that people on the margins, who wonder from day to day or month to month where they are going to live have little energy left to organize and plan a home food pantry, make menu plans, follow sales at the grocery store or even to plant a garden with fresh produce.

Because some of these basic safety nets in society are harder and harder for challenged folks to secure, it means that their $1.75 per meal is pretty meager.

What I like about the comments I have received is that there are good, proactive suggestions. Yes, I think our church should offer classes to assist others to understand how to shop and cook economically and nutritionally. I would like to have a garden -- perhaps this will be the year we do that at home -- and would like to share produce with others.

These are good suggestions, but I want my kids to realize that there are big, systemic issues for the "low income" amongst us. And, of course, I want my children to understand that all of us need to break down the divisions that exist between "us" and "them" (however that is described). When people cannot find a job that pays more than $7 an hour, or affordable, safe housing or the most basic in health insurance, then food supply issues become even more paramount.

I'm carefully considering how I personally and pastorally might do better work in this arena, and prayerfully, earnestly hope my children will see their connection with all of God's creation (human and otherwise) as how people of Christian faith live.

Drawing A Line

2009-01-20T20:50:00.002-06:00

Last week I received a telephone call from our son Mike, who has served two of his three months in one of our state prisons. He is anxious "to parole" (as he says it), but will not be released until he has a physical address. He understands that he cannot live in our home, but he asked if we would consider paying for a month's stay in a hotel.

I have to admit my conversation with him was rather perfunctory and direct.

"And what, Mike, are you going to do once you are out?" It was an honest, factual question, based upon my personal feeling that his current location is not a bad place for someone to live in the midst of a harsh Minnesota winter. Three meals a day, a warm place to sleep, constant direction and supervision, with little chance of re-offending while behind bars.

He was incensed. "What do you mean what am I going to do?! I need to get out of this place."

I was not very sympathetic with his plight. He asked if there was anything I could do to be of help to him ... a place to live, or some friends we could ask or ... something?

I used my best "I'm sorry, but no" voice. Our conversation quickly eroded to silence, I begged off and reminded him that I loved him. "Yeah, love you, too, dad."

Today I received a letter from Mike. I glanced at the tell-tale envelope. The upper-left hand corner of the envelope says in stark green bold face print: "NOTICE: Mailed from a MN Correctional Facility," with Mike's handwritten address, offender identification number, and prison location.

Tearing open the envelope I unfold the trifold page and see at the top of the page in large letters this salutation: "BART ... "

In case you're wondering, children (even adult children) referring to me by my first name never goes very well. I was immediately irritated by what I interpreted to be the tone of his missive, although I'm sure in his scattered mind he wasn't implying any particular disrespect. The rest of his letter betrays no sense of rudeness, so I'm sure I am simply overreacting.

His letter is basically a written plea echoing his recent verbal requests. He mentions that he needs a place to land when he's done with his prison sentence (and he can get out earlier than he anticipated if he has such a location), he would like us to pay for a hotel stay (he estimates a month would be $300, which reminds me that he really doesn't understand the cost of living), and wonders if we might set up a dental appointment for him.

I'll admit it. I am tired of all that has transpired in the past twelve years. For more than a decade now we have done all we could do for him. He has bounced from treatment center to treatment center, juvenile delinquency center to center, county jail cells in at least three counties, and now a state prison cell. Over and over again we have attempted to intervene in ways that would offer him a chance to prove his consistent thesis that he is "ready to change this time."

And so I write him a letter. It starts out by reminding him of our continuing love for him, and then, before I can stop my fingers I am writing: "I need to say some things to you that are hard for me to say and, I am sure, hard for you to read." I spend the next three pages recounting the numerous times since the time he was thirteen that Claudia and I have stuck with him, advocated for him, and offered him opportunities to change.

I have decided it is time to draw a line. In as factual of a way as possible I must remind him that his illegal behavior has cost us thousands of dollars, countless hours spent in court rooms and, most painful of all, the sense of safety and security for our other children that Claudia and I have worked so hard over the years to create and maintain.

We have always loved you, Mike. This letter is not about whether we love you or not. If you cannot believe that after all of this, then I doubt we will ever convince you. But love does not mean perpetually repeating the same things over and expecting a different outcome. You have been intelligent enough to figure out ways to break the law and to get into numerous illegal situations. You are intelligent enough, then, to figure out a better way for your life.

In my final paragraph I am clear that we want to hear from him, we want to know how he is doing, but we are unable to do more than that. This is difficult. Maintaing clear boundaries without emotionally cutting off the other person is always a challenge, but I must be fair to my law-abiding, still-at-home children. Those who are willing cooperative (most of the time, anyway) and able to benefit from our family must take the priority.

$1.75 Per Meal

2009-01-19T14:08:00.002-06:00

$1.75 per meal. That's how much a family of four qualifying for food stamps receives. Before today I knew it wasn't much, but I had no idea it was that little. $1.75 doesn't even buy a McDonald's Happy Meal, and in some stores barely a soft drink. But let me back up a few days and tell you how I got to this place.

I have always felt a little guilty about viewing Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Day as simply a day off. (In fact, it really isn't a day off for me in the technical sense, but that's another story). Anticipating that the kids would be out of school and wanting to push for more than a day to sleep in, I decided that I wanted to off our family a different way to spend at least part of the day.

So I went to the office this morning as I normally would and put in some time and then by late morning was heading home to pick up two of my kids who wanted to observe MLK Day in a socially just way. I took two groups of kids but shared with the same story on the way to the grocery store.

I reminded them that today Martin Luther King, Jr., would have been eighty years old, had he not been assassinated more than forty years ago. I told them a bit about what he stood for, and that in particular he was concerned with the poor and the dispossessed (although I didn't use the latter word in my descriptions with them). Then I told them about "food stamps." I pulled out the government brochure I took from the internet earlier today, and together we looked at the chart. By the time we were done figuring with the calculator, we discovered that a family of four who eats twenty-meals a week for four weeks a month has $1.75 to spend per meal per person if they rely solely upon government assistance. At first they didn't really understand why that was such a big deal until I asked them how much a typical meal at a fast food restaurant is. Or when I reminded them that when they are gone for an evening meal on a school sporting event we (their parents) usually send them a minimum of $7 to cover their single meal.

Arriving at the grocery store, we determined that we would purchase a week's worth of groceries for an individual ($36.75) and then bring the results to our local food shelf. I handled the calculations as we selected food items and offered suggestions on the way. "Remember," I said, "we want food that is nutritious, filling and inexpensive."

We chose beans (both canned and dried), dried pasta, jarred pasta sauce, instant oatmeal, cereal (on sale for less than $2 a box), and a variety of canned items with high protein possibilities. It didn't take long to reach our pre-assigned dollar limit, and our cart looked rather empty, compared to our regular grocery shopping expeditions which usually require (and occasionally two) full carts for a week's food for our at-home family of eleven.

Because I wanted both to acknowledge their budding attempts at social justice, as well to prove an additional point, I took them out to lunch, too. The first group went to a sub sandwich place where their sandwiches alone were $5 (and they were on sale). The second group went to a Mexican restaurant, where each of our meals, with drinks, tax and tip, were nearly $10 per person. As we scanned the menu I asked them to find options for $1.75. It didn't take long for them to recognize there were no such options. And again I reminded them that those who live at the edges of society don't have many of the same choices so many of us think nothing about.

I don't know how long our expedition today will stick with my kids, but I intend to do similar things in the months ahead as a reminder to my children at how fortunate they are (even though I will keep the moralizing language to myself in hopes that they "get it" with the education piece I bring along with the process). Without exception, each of our twelve children in their earliest years subsisted with birth families at the economic fringes of society. I hope the experience in living in our family will provide them the opportunity of seeing something different.

And, more importantly, that they will one day find selfless ways to give back to the world, as well.

Principle

2008-12-29T21:57:00.002-06:00

For better or worse, I am a person who is driven by principle. It probably comes from my childhood origins, growing up in a family where nothing was more important than integrity. Integrity, interpreted in my family of origin, meant to be who you said you were, no matter what. The archenemy of integrity is hypocrisy, to change one's face depending on one's current circumstances. I am making no claim to faultlessness or perfection, but I can tell you that when I find myself in a situation where I have been less than genuine I live to regret it. Even if no one else knows, I know. And that's an emotional killer. All that to say that I respect people who do things because of principle, although I am not foolhardy enough to believe in simplistic, moralistic ways that become more legalistic and enslaving than joyfully liberating.

Tonight three of my sons and I saw Valkyrie, the new movie in which Tom Cruise plays one of the key figures of an attempt to assassinate Adolf Hitler in the waning years of World War II. He is driven by principle, acts decisively and does what is, apparently, in the best interests of those beyond himself. His figure is contrasted by a weak-willed compatriot, an older general, who agrees philosophically with the need to depose Hitler but consistently crumbles in the face of difficult decisions. I hope it will be no spoiler (I'm assuming you know enough about history to know that the fifteen or more ill-fated attempts to assassinate the Fuhrer never were successful) to say something about one of the final scenes in the movie.

Cruise's character is talking with the older, halting general in the moments before their execution by firing squad. The pallid general is feebly looking at the ground, his lips quivering as he contemplates his imminent fate. Cruise calls to him and says, "Look them in the eye. That way they'll never forget you." As the general stumbles to his appointed place to die, his gaze is fixed upon his executioners. In the midst of his terror he makes what appears to be a brave last stand, even while trembling. Cruise's character is thrust to his death site and stands erect, brazen in the face of the death squad, unwilling to flinch, his strength of character and principle towering to the end. As the bullets pierce his body, dropping him to the ground, the camera focuses upon his impassive face, his one good eye (the other was lost in a previous battle for the Third Reich) reflecting his final goodbye with his family.

It is worth noting that not only is Cruise's character principled, but his spouse is as well. He is clear with her before setting out on his mission to depose Hitler that if it fails they will not again see each other. Without hesitation she affirms her understanding of the gravity of the situation and silently blesses his courage.

For whatever reason as I watched the final minutes of the movie and the closing credits, I recalled a conversation I had with our seventeen-year-old son Ben (or "Jimmy," his name changes day to day at his discretion) just yesterday. We were talking about some political situation in our troubled world, and I made mention that in many countries people are routinely rounded up and executed without provocation, or any kind of legal process. I went on to mention that in his country of origin, Guatemala, the record of human rights violations in the past thirty years has been horrific. And then he said, in his own inimitable way something like this:

"Yeah, dad. So Ricardo [also born in Guatemala and from the same orphanage from which we adopted Jimmy first] and me are really lucky, aren't we? Because if we were still in Guatemala we'd be living on the streets right now. And we might even have been killed by now." For him it was just that clear. Life in the United States with parents who love, provide and protect their children is superior to a culture in which an orphaned child is turned out the streets by the time they are fourteen. In Guatemala orphans who grow into adolescence have few choices. They might polish shoes at the airport, beg for quetzales (the basic currency) from strangers, prostitute themselves or participate in the drug trade.

As frustrated as I can become with my task as a parent, the brutal reality that Claudia and I have literally saved the lives of two children (hopefully others, too, but at least these two from a Guatemalan orphanage) pulls me back to one of my most basic principles in life: children matter and they need adults to care.

There are many times when I feel very disillusioned and dispirited in this adoptive parenting journey. It is harder than anything I have ever attempted in my life. But I am driven by principle, and I am either too stubborn or too far gone to quit. I can only hope that one day the principle that children matter and need adults who care will trump my frequent moments of despair.

Return From a Month's Absence

2008-12-29T08:02:00.002-06:00

It has been more than a month since I have blogged. I would like to attribute my absence in the blogosphere to the stresses and strains of my vocational life. As a pastor the period between Thanksgiving and Christmas is challenging. The expectations (largely self-imposed) to prepare and deliver thoughtful, meaningful messages in worship and to design services which reach beneath the surface of worshipers' lives preoccupy much of my attention during this time period. With the economic challenges afoot, this has also been a season of unusually high demand from folks living at the margins of life. Their telephone calls, drop-in visits and often-impossible requests are big stressors.

I'd like to say it is these vocational challenges that have distanced me from my blog. But I don't think that would be entirely honest. In the last month I have been plagued with other issues and questions, especially related to my life as a parent, and I haven't felt these moments of personal shadow would be very redemptive for those who are accustomed to reading my words.

Don't misread the previous paragraph for anything more than it is. Our kids are doing pretty well, all things considered. There are, to our knowledge, no new illegal activities occurring in the lives of some of our kids. We are not, unlike other adoptive families, under the scrutiny of social services auspices. We have, in fact, had many good interactions over the past few weeks.

The issues and questions to which I refer above are, rather, much deeper than that, and really reflections of who I am as a person. This whole parenting process has become so much more complicated than I ever thought it could be, with fewer clear answers than I had anticipated. I am realizing a couple of things about myself, and while I don't have the data set to know if this is more than only a personal meandering, I wonder if it sounds like anything other parents experience.

(1) Parenting is less about changing a child's life and more about shaping what is already present through genetics or past experience.

(2) It is easy for a parent to lose oneself in the parenting task, resulting in confusion for the child(ren) in question as well as for the parent.

(3) Being parent to an adult child, especially one with a history of attachment issues, is fraught with emptiness and loneliness.

It's always a little embarrassing when the very things I've been saying to adoptive parents over the years come "home to roost," to use an agrarian metaphor. I mean, how many times have I blathered that adoption is "about what's best for kids, not what's in it for parents." Or, "Parents need to remember who they are in the process." I even have spoken at national conference workshops on the spiritual dynamics of adoptive parenting. It's always so much easier to speak as an outsider than to face the reality of one's own situation.

And so, in the midst of the flurry of family activity and vocational responsibility of the past month, I have had these thoughts percolating in the background of my consciousness, but with little opportunity for resolution. Perhaps I will continue to elaborate in the days ahead with hope of finding some peace in the process.

The Black Garbage Bag

2008-11-25T19:04:00.002-06:00

I have been horrified by the stories I have heard from kids who have experienced institutional care of any kind in their lives. One of the things I have hated most over the years is the way children in the foster care system have their possessions treated. Too many kids leave one foster home for another with virtually nothing that is their own. One of the things Claudia and I decided years ago when we first adopted kids from foster care is that we would take with us whatever possessions the kids valued, even if it meant inconvenience and cost for us.

When we adopted Kyle and Mike a decade ago we shipped from Washington State to Minnesota their battered bikes, among other possessions, because we wanted them to have with them whatever familiar comforts they could have. They came with a few pictures of their earliest years of life, their clothing, some awards and certificates and a few games. They had virtually nothing, but we arranged for any they wanted to come with them.

No, it was not convenient for us. Yes, it was irritating. We spent a number of hours in our limited visiting schedule packing, taping and shipping from UPS the big items. But it made us feel that we had done the right thing for them, even when many of those same belongings were lost or destroyed within a short time of arriving in Minnesota.

What I have abhorred most in this journey is the way that foster children arrive. Almost without exception they have arrived in our home with two or three black or green plastic garbage bags filled with their clothing and whatever scanty possessions they still have. I have often wondered whether the "garbage bag" is a dark symbol for the way society sometimes views these "leftovers of society." While I understand the need for quick and inexpensive solutions to moving children in a fairly rapid way, I still have a problem with the garbage bag deal.

It's been years since we have had foster kids (in the temporary, transitional sense) in our home, so I had forgotten about my disdain of the garbage-bag-as-travel-container concept. I had forgotten, that is, until yesterday evening. On my way home from work I stopped by the county jail to pick up what remained of Mike's "property." I had called in advance, so the staff knew that I was on my way.

Following the standard protocol (enter the open doors, pick up the phone in front of the locked doors, state my business on the phone, listen for the buzz to open the locked door, proceed to the elevator, get off and wait for the "click" signaling the large, imposing doors to be open) I stepped inside and was shocked.

There was no human encounter, no staff person (uniformed or otherwise) to transact the deed. There was sitting in front of the iron doors a black garbage bag with a formal notice that indicated the property belonged to "inmate Michael Fletcher."

Now don't get me wrong. I don't expect busy officers or staff persons to greet me with a smile as they hand me my law-breaking son's belongings. I don't think that an institutional process note shouldn't be stapled to the bag. I'm not even saying it should be delivered in something better than a trash bag. It's not about the policies or procedures at the local jail.

Simply put, I was immediately drawn back emotionally to numerous trash bags I've seen over the years that have carried the belongings of our kids as they entered our home. I'm sure I am overreacting to the whole thing, but it reminds me once again that humans are not well cared for by institutional processes, whether that is the foster care system, a treatment center or a jail or prison incarceration.

There is something about the ever-present black garbage bag that bespeaks a culture where those who are separated from "normal" society -- through no fault of their own, as children in foster care, or because of illegal activity, as adults serving jail or prison time -- are little more than refuse to the rest of us.

And it reminds me that the only hope for such dispossessed people lies not in institutional environments, but in personal, human connections. Institutional systems, structures and procedures, in and of themselves, do not "rescue" children or "reform" criminals. It is good people working within those sterile, life-robbing structures who make the difference. Kudos to those who choose to work within the confines of institutional existence in an effort to help people. It really shouldn't be this hard for those caught in the system to find redemptive human connections, but I am grateful for those who do their best to make it happen.

Of Course It Bothered Me

2008-11-25T18:33:00.003-06:00

Since I have already confessed on one blog today that I am not as patient as I wish, I will make a second confession. I am not always as gentle as I wish. Generally I can tolerate (at least externally) a great of frustration and irritation, but there comes a point where I am done, the boundary has been crossed and my volatility explodes into verbal expressions of rage.

Today was one of those days. Our elementary kids are home from school for Thanksgiving (the older kids get out tomorrow) so our regular pattern of life is a kilter. Changes in our family routine are always challenging for our children, and occasionally for us parents. In the confusion of this morning twelve-year-old Dominyk did not receive his required medications, so his behavior has been very challenging. He has a challenging array of diagnoses and when unmedicated it is a test for even the most patient. Incessant conversation, belligerence, distractibility, short attention span, obsessions and perseverating, all in one human package.

Claudia, Dominyk, Wilson and I had lunch out together today, and I decided to work from home for a little while this afternoon before my responsibilities with Salinda. We had been home a short time when Dominyk began to proclaim that our house "is so hot. It's just so hot, dad. I can't believe how how it is. I'm sweating. Can I turn the heat down? Oh, dad. It's hotter than hell in here." On and on, over and over, again and again. When I moved him beyond the confines of my bedroom desk area he went to another room to begin to assail Claudia with the same perpetual harangue. She managed to get him into the back yard so he could cool off, but in the process he was angered and sat under a tree screaming and crying, peppering his emotions with the verbal grand-daddy of them ("you f*****r") over and over. While I am uncomfortable with my children using that word, I have become somewhat immune to it over the years.

And then I heard the "ping ... ping" of rocks being pelted at our house's back walls. It was really something. His blubbering gibberish, punctuated with profanity and rocks propelled at the house in rage. It was the rocks caroming into our house's siding that pushed me over the edge. I stormed down the stairs, ripped open the door and commanded Dominyk to return into the house. He complied with my request.

In the meantime my wife, sensing my heightened emotional state, entered the room, and in an effort the diffuse the situation ended up only further enraging me. It was not pretty. With Dominyk's crying, my screaming and Claudia's imploring shrieks I'm surprised the neighbors didn't call law enforcement. There are times, I admit with embarrassment, that my wife must feel like she is raising thirteen, not twelve children. The result was that I asked (that's putting it much too nicely) Claudia to return to her work, so that I could take Dominyk for a walk. As I stormed out of the room, I happened to notice the mute witness to our emotional display, Wilson, our nine-year-old son. Wilson joined our family with older brother Leon a little more than a year ago, so he isn't used to his Mom and Dad demonstrating such poor people skills. Really, this is a rather infrequent occurrence in our home. I said nothing at the time to Wilson, making a mental note to myself to debrief with him later in the day.

Dominyk and I went for our walk, which was a calming experience for the both of us. By the time we returned home both of us were in a much better place emotionally. I spent a few moments with Claudia, apologizing for the whole series of events leading up to the altercation, and then went on to take Salinda for her driver's permit test.

The rest of the afternoon and night has unfolded in blessed calm. While Claudia was at the school watching Leon and Ricardo win their wrestling matches, I stayed home with several of the kids who helped me cook dinner. We had a nice time, actually, singing some discordant versions of several musical genres, cooking eggs and sausage and bacon and hashbrowns, dancing around the kitchen like a "bunch of ninnies" (as my grandmother would have said years ago). When there was a moment of relative peace I remembered my need to talk with Wilson about what he had witnessed.

"So, Wilson," I said, "you know about this afternoon?"

"Yeah .... " he said, his brown eyes looking at me for further inquiry.

"Umm. Things got kind of loud, didn't they?"

"Yep."

"So, did it bother you?"

"Of course it bothered me," he said, his shrill young voice commanding attention.

"Were you scared?" I asked, summoning my best pastor/counselor/father of troubled children sincere tone.

A look of derision, a flash of impertinence from his smoldering Asian eyes. "No, I wasn't scared."

"So what were you feeling?" I invited, using all the skills I have learned in ways to combat dysfunctional family dynamics.

"I was mad," he said in that "you really can't be that clueless, can you?" voice.

"You were mad? Mad about what?"

"I was mad because y'all were interrupting my computer game. I was just about ready to win, and then I couldn't hear it anymore. You just about screwed that all up for me."

I've learned a long time ago not to make an emotional issue out of something that isn't there. So I said simply, "I'm sorry, Wilson. I'll try to be more controlled next time."

In such an emotionally healthy way that it makes me a little jealous, all I heard from his diminutive being as he moved from the room on to something better, "Yeah, okay, Dad."

I am grateful that at least one of us home today is emotionally balanced enough to take it stride.

In Praise of Waiting

2008-11-25T15:10:00.005-06:00

I like people to think that I am a pretty patient person, but really I am not. Over the years I have learned to wait and appear externally patient, but inwardly I roil at inefficient, slow-paced processes. I suppose it is for that reason that often my task as a parent is a frustrating one. It's been twelve years now, and I am still getting accustomed to the parenting journey, but I still have moments of irritation along the way.

There are moments, however, when patient (as much as I am able to conjure the attitude) waiting results in something praiseworthy. I had the opportunity to experience that a few minutes ago. First a bit of context. In our family's functioning Claudia and I have pretty clear responsibilities. If it has to do with grocery shopping, food preparation and menu planning it's my responsibility. If it has to do with school conferences, IEP meetings and the like, it's Claudia's job. Occasionally we shift specific responsibilities when scheduling conflicts occur, but it helps both of us to know what is within our realm.

When it comes to the driver's permit, behind-the-wheel hours and eventual driver's test, that's my job. I first accompanied one of our foster kids years ago to his driver's permit process, logging hundreds of hours behind the wheel with him. I hope that today, even though he is nearly thirty years old he remembers that gift in his life. I went with our oldest son the two times it took him to pass his permit test (he would not want you to know it took two times, so don't tell him I said that) and the one time to pass his driving test for his license. I did the same for our second oldest son, whose pattern was exactly the same (2 tries for permit, 1 try for the license). With our son Jimmy, who struggles with developmental delays, I have accompanied him some of the five or six tries toward a permit (still unsuccessful).

And today I accompanied our daughter Salinda as she passed her permit test on the first try! (She will love rubbing that in the face of her oldest brother who is obnoxious self-confidence personified). As we left the driver's examination station I handed her the keys and said, "Drive me home."

She looked at me for a moment, assessing my level of sincerity. "Really?"

"Of course. You've just passed your permit test, and now it's time to get you on the road, legally."

I had to add the last word because it was only a year ago that our most difficult year in history with her began. She illegally took our car one night in September of 2007, which resulted in a series of very difficult situations. The car was stolen twice in that night, in two separate counties, ultimately taken by our son Mike (then 18) who was erroneously given custody of the car by a beguiled officer, but that's a story I don't want to relive right now. Ironically, the car that was stolen a year ago was just diagnosed with permanent engine damage (due, I am sure, to what happened to it while it was being driven illegally all around the area, though Salinda had nothing to do with that part).

Anyway, a year ago at this time Salinda was living in a residential treatment center, under juvenile justice supervision and challenging authority at every corner. The past fourteen months have been very difficult ones for her and for us. The past two months or so, however, have shown progress on her part.

She successfully completed her confirmation process a month ago and professed her Christian faith. She was released from all of her juvenile justice requirements and oversight within the past six weeks. And now she has legally succeeded in completing driver's education and the permit test. And today I was able to be chauffeured home for the first time she has legally driven our vehicle.

And, in case you're wondering, I did have to point out to her the irony of the situation, that technically this is not her first time to drive a vehicle of ours, although it is the first time she has done so legally. I did in a light-hearted way, though, and not with a sense of vindication or mean-spiritedness. She smiled, understanding very well what I meant.

Over the past year, especially when her attitude has reared its ugly head, I have murmured and gesticulated and threatened behind closed doors to my wife that Salinda would never be driving one of our cars again. I postulated that she might never get her license while living in our house because I wouldn't pay for the class, and I wouldn't help her learn to drive. I griped and moaned, and punished anyone who would listen long enough to me about her outrageous behavior.

But today redemption has come near us. As we drove home together, she at the wheel, I in the passenger's seat, I am proud and relieved. I am proud that she has taken steps to put her life back together, and I am relieved that God has given me the grace to let go of my resentment and hostility.

Sometimes that's what waiting, even impatiently, can accomplish.

An OID

2008-11-20T21:57:00.002-06:00

Our son Mike now has an OID. I suspect most of you who read this blog do not know what an OID is. I did not know this acronym until a few hours ago myself. An OID stands for "Offender Identification," the number provided by the state Department of Corrections which will identify Mike for the rest of his life.

It's funny how all of us have numbers associated with our lives. There are social security numbers, which by the time we are seniors in high school we can rattle off with alacrity. There is our birthdate, which typically we speak numerically, as in 01/01/70, for example. There are cell phone numbers, house phone numbers, office numbers. There is our height and our weight. For those of us watching cholesterol or blood glucose levels or blood pressure levels we have numbers associated with each of those medical measurements. Our eyesight is measured in a numerical equation of sorts. Many of us are acquainted with the mileage on the odometers in the vehicles we drive. If we are runners or walkers we may use a pedometer to measure our steps or our miles.

Every day we face a panoply of numerical excursions. But most of us do not have an OID. From what I have discovered online about the appropriate way to write an inmate in one of our state's DOC facilities, the OID must be included with the person's name or the mail will not be delivered. So our son is no longer identified by his first, middle and last names, nor even by his social security number. Now he will be a number in the criminal justice system. While I do not know how the numbers are assigned, I have to assume they have some chronological basis. If my assumption is close to correct, it means that there have been more than 226,000 others before Mike who have had such a number assigned. Nearly a quarter-million persons who have been so identified.

I suppose I am defensive about the whole thing. My experience recently recounted in this blog has soured me on many of those employed in the criminal justice system. The cynicism and biting, vulgar sarcasm continue to echo in my ears. It angers me because even those incarcerated are real people, with real stories and with people who love them. They have committed crimes against society, but they still have someone, somewhere who knows and cares about them, in spite of their choices.

The whole number thing seems to be just one more way to depersonalize an individual who is already marginalized in society. Now, don't get me wrong. I am not some bleeding-heart liberal who thinks that there is no place for incarceration in our world. I believe that when society's rules are broached there is a price to pay. But I wonder, shouldn't we as members of society be proactive in doing something rehabilitative for those in state custody. I mean, is there any better time to attempt something positive when he or she is a captive audience, supported by taxpayer dollars?

I am under no illusion that those who serve time do not deserve it, but these are people (except for the most egregious of criminals) who will one day return to our communities. Wouldn't it be better public policy to provide opportunities for change, transformation, a new way of life? I'm not sure how sitting in a jail cell for three months waiting to be released is helpful for the inmate or for the larger society. And the whole number thing irks me. I'm sure there are very good reasons why an inmate's social security number cannot be used, a number which has followed him or her since the time of birth. The assignment of a number that is used on all correspondence and identifying papers smacks a bit of Nazi Germany to me. While the number is not callously tattooed on the inmate's forearm, it might as well be.

I'm reluctant to even blog this, because I am afraid readers will think that I am somehow defending the actions that have brought Mike to this point in his life. I do not. What he has done is illegal. It has crossed the boundaries of what is appropriate, and there needs to be appropriate sanctions. I am simply pleading for some redemption in the system, rather than the simple retribution I have seen manifested in the attitudes of those who are responsible for supervising our inmate population.

I have to admit that I have complicated grief over this matter of my son being in prison. I am distressed that after all the years of effort we parents have not been able to prevent his outcome. I am frustrated that we have so few supports in the educational and social services system that could have something created a different future for him. I feel guilty that I feel relieved that he is locked up. When he is locked up it means that I know where he is, how to find him. I do not have to worry that he is sleeping on the street or on some stranger's couch, or that he doesn't have food, or that he is going to be injured or killed by those he has crossed. I am relieved, but I am grieved. And I constantly have to guard myself against the parental desire to try to convince people that for the years that Mike was in our home he was loved and valued, and that he is more gifted and valuable than his most recent choices make him appear to be.

I suppose that's what bothers me most about the whole OID number deal. Mike is more than a number, more than an inmate, more than another piece of society's refuse.

He is my son, and while I am not proud of what brings him to prison life, I still love him. OID number and all.

Someone To Tell

2008-11-19T21:24:00.002-06:00

Minutes after hearing the news that our nineteen-year-old son Mike would serve a three-month prison sentence for violating the terms of his parole, I was sitting in the visitation area at our law enforcement center, awaiting the arrival of Mike on the other side of the glass.

The indistinct orange of his county-provided jail clothing blurred momentarily as he sat before the video camera on his side and picked up the receiver.

"I'm going to prison, dad."

"Yeah, I heard. Looks like ninety days. Where are they sending you?"

"Don't know for sure. It could be [names of two Minnesota Correctional Facilities north of the metropolitan area]. They're supposed to be pretty hard core."

I pause, knowing nothing about what prisons in our state are considered "better" than others. I surmise that Mike has heard from the inside jail population information that is more relevant and reliable than would be my guesses.

"So," I ask, "are you concerned about that at all?"

"Um, a little. No, not really," he equivocates. I am sure he has some apprehensions, but in his typical way he overestimates his abilities. There is little solace for me in knowing that he has been in numerous treatment facilities over the years, including recent stays in at least four area county jails.

But I try to remain non-anxious and offer, "Well, you've been in a lot of places over the past few years, anyway."

"Yeah, but I was really kind of set up to fail this time, you know."

Ah, how many times have I heard this phrase from Mike in the past five or more years? It is always someone else who has set him up, always his friends who have gotten him into trouble, always the system that has failed. It is not he who has culpability. And yet, I understand to some degree what he is saying. He has never been able to follow the basics of society's expectations ... to obey the law and stay out of trouble, to respect authority. So, in that sense it is true that he was "set up." Sadly, though, he may spend much of his life being "set up" again and again. I wonder if he will ever be able to figure out what it means to be an ordinary citizen in any community where respect of others' boundaries is a norm.

And so I say, "Yeah, there are a lot of expectations when it comes to parole. So, tell me, Mike, how exactly did you violate the terms of your release?"

"Well, I didn't call my parole agent every night."

My eyebrows arch, I sigh inwardly. "So, you mean to tell me you are going to prison for three months because of a missed call?"

"And I was in the car with a friend who had stolen property. They thought that I was involved with that, too, but I wasn't. And they know that it won't hold up in court, so they aren't going to charge me with that."

Ah, yes. We are getting as close to the truth as Mike is willing to convey or is able to tell me, what with his faulty executive mental functioning.

"So, do you think you can visit me when I'm in prison?" he asks plaintively.

"I'm not going to make a promise that I won't be able to keep, Mike. I'll see what I can do, but I don't want to disappoint you. I will write to you and stuff, though."

"Oh, OK. Do you think you could give me some money before I get taken away today? I need to get some personal care items like shampoo and soap and stuff."

"I don't have any money with me, Mike." (I very seldom carry cash).

"Oh, they would probably take a check."

"Mike, I don't have my checkbook with me, either."

"Oh."

"But I'll give it some thought, and when I find out exactly where you are I'll check with them about their guidelines. I'll follow up on this for you."

"And, do you think when I'm out I can come back home?"

In a split-second my mind spins back to the red-headed nine-year-old I met in a Washington state foster home years ago. In our initial conversations with Mike and his older birth brother Kyle we talked about their moving into our home. It is haunting, really, to hear his question, because the emotional quality is akin to that day years ago when he asked about living with us in a forever family.

But he is no longer nine, and I am no longer naive.

"No, Mike, you cannot live in our home."

"Well, the restraining order will be lifted by then. I thought I could come back home."

I don't have the time or the energy to explain to Mike that the restraining order, which will technically be expired by that point if we do not have it renewed by court order, was originally initiated by us against him. I know I have explained this to him before, and I do not want to revisit that history.

"I'm sorry, Mike, but it doesn't work for you to live with us. It makes everyone else too upset. We will help you find housing and do all we can to navigate the social services system with you, but you cannot come to our house again."

"Oh."

Our fifteen-minute impromptu visit comes to an abrupt ending as the officer indicates it is "time to be done."

"Gotta go, Dad."

"I love you, Mike."

"Love you, too."

The receiver is summarily dropped into its holder. An orange blur stands and moves away from the monitor. And I am momentarily alone with my thoughts.

This is not an unexpected moment. I have anticipated for months now that the day would come when Mike and I would have a conversation in which we talked about a term of prison incarceration. I have been helpless to do anything for years to help Mike change his behavior. The hours of conversation and holding therapy when I would hold his screaming, skinny, fetal-balled body in my arms are gone. The multiple late nights' summons to sheriffs office to pick Mike up after days on the run are history. His place at our table, to my immediate right, has been occupied years ago by another child. Juvenile treatment center plans, therapy sessions, letters written, hugs given but unreciprocated.

Nothing we have done for more than a decade has altered this outcome, I think to myself, as I shuffle silently, alone in the small corridor that leads to the elevator which will transport me to the fresh air outside the stultifying building I have occupied for little more than an hour.

I push the doors open to my freedom as the winter air blows into my face. And then it hits me. There is only one purpose I have been able to serve today. I am the one person outside of the criminal justice system Mike has been able to tell about his plight.

I cannot change today's outcome, and seemingly never could. But for Mike today I am someone to tell. It's not much, but it's all I have to offer. And maybe, I pray, it is enough.

Moving Up to the "Big House"

2008-11-19T11:27:00.002-06:00

Our son Mike has taught me so many things about the social and criminal justice systems, and it's an education I would never have sought without the connection I have as his father. There is no way I would willingly sit through meeting and meeting with frustrated, overworked social workers looking for the "answer" to Mike's dilemmas. On my own I would never have visited any of the many treatment centers Mike has called "home" over the years. And I would not have spent as much time visiting in jail settings without his presence.

Soon, it appears I will have the opportunity to visit him in a Minnesota State Correctional Facility ("prison"). But I get ahead of myself.

On Monday I received a pleading call from Mike that I attend his parole hearing. The next day his parole agent called to give me the details "since you asked to be present for the hearing." It was a voice mail message, but I audibly responded, "Uh, no. I did not ask to be present for the hearing. Mike asked me to be present. That's not quite the same thing." She mentioned in her message that I might not be allowed to be part of the hearing, but that she would ask the Parole Hearing Officer on my behalf. I pondered calling her this morning to decline the opportunity, but then hung up the phone before she answered. I decided to show up anyway, if for no other reason than to remind Mike that we love him no matter what he has done.

Per instructions, I arrived at the county jail early, telephoned from the lobby (as is the procedure there) and was buzzed to the third floor. Upon arriving, I waited for the click of the steel bars indicating I could push open the massive doors and enter. There is always a sense of finality as the doors "click" shut behind me, and I am faced by uniformed officers in a musty, grungy, time-worn building that has housed inmates for three decades. The bright fluorescent lights reflect on the shiny floors and there is a sense of abject silence. I am led this morning to wait in the cubicle in the command center. Space is at a premium, and on this floor there is no place for someone to wait who is not uniformed or otherwise directly connected with incarcerated life.

Like anywhere, employees at the local law enforcement center vary in the depth of their humanity. While all are steeled for their work with the criminal element, some are more humane than others. In the cloistered cell with several others (I being the only one without a work-related reason to be there) I heard more cynical, brash commentary than I choose to blog here. I will choose not to violate the workplace environment of those I overheard, because I was, after all, in their space. Suffice it to say that what you see on television or hear from those on the "inside" about those who work there is not far from the truth. Vulgarity (and I am no prude), personal commentary and cynicism abound.

During the wait I spoke with Mike's parole agent. She is professional, but guarded. We have what I would consider to be a good conversation. She expresses her concern that there aren't many options for someone like Mike, who has consistently engaged in criminal behavior, and who violates the terms of his release. Eventually I ask her, "What will be your recommendation?"

"I'm recommending ninety days incarceration, which is according to the state guidelines," is her response.

I commiserate with the few frustrating options available to her, and take a moment to remind her that over the course of our years as Mike's parents we have discovered how little is available that would be helpful, especially for someone who is as defiant as he is. Those who do not believe "oppositional defiant disorder" is a legitimate disorder really need to meet someone like our son.

I stand in the crowded cubicle for an hour's time. Others filter in and out, oblivious to my presence, unsuspecting that I am Mike's father. In casual conversation one of the employees asks another, in a voice that bespeaks "let's make a bet on this," "So, is Mr. Fletcher going back ... um, I mean, going for his first time [to prison]?" The professional young male officer says, "We don't know yet." The interlocutor steps back out of the cubicle. Ten minutes later I hear the commentary of two less-than-professional (in my opinion, of course) employees, "So is Fletcher going to prison?" "F***, I hope so," is the response.

I am momentarily enraged. After all, the name they are battening about is not simply my son's last name. It is my last name as well, a gift given at the time of adoption years ago, and now only a surname to be poisoned with cynical vulgarity. I choose to say nothing. It is not my space, nor my place to defend a barely-adult son who has violated the law (and I'm sure the personal lives of these officers) many times. What parent can defend such an errant son in such a situation?

So I stand quietly, awaiting the verdict. I can see through reflections on the glass into the room where my son, his attorney, his parole agent and the parole hearing officer sit. Mike's head is impassive, unmoving. His attorney is calm. His parole agent is unseen, but the parole hearing officer gesticulates, his hands speaking volumes as he communicates his decision to Mike.

Minutes later they emerge. Mike is directed toward his cell. His attorney and the parole hearing officer head for the exit. His parole agent enters the cubicle, apologizes for the time I have spent standing without being asked to be present for the hearing. "He received ninety days in prison. He'll leave sometime today for one of two locations," and she names the possibilities, both miles north of us.

I thank her for her time and exit in time to be momentarily with the departing hearing officer and attorney. The attorney offers his hand, identifies himself and says, "Are you Mike's dad?" I respond affirmatively, and he asks if I have any questions about the process.

"Oh, no," I reply. "We've been through this kind of thing with Mike many, many times."

But what I don't say as they make their way to the elevator is: "Many, many times, but not with a prison sentence. This is new territory for all of us."

Just as I am about to leave the humane officer I describe above calls to me, "Mr. Fletcher, would you like to have a quick video conference with your son?"

And so I do, the details of which I will blog in my next entry.

Manipulation or Affection?

2008-11-11T08:02:00.002-06:00

There is something deep within the healthy human psyche that abhors manipulation. To be emotionally coerced by another goes against the gain of all that a healthy person understands about relationships. Healthy humans know that relationships are characterized by mutual respect, reciprocity and a genuine desire to be in connection with another. Even healthy humans encounter moments of frustrations and irritation with others, but with appropriate relational effort understanding and healing occur. But to be manipulated feels dank and musty. It is the slippery feeling of wondering whether it is you the other desires or what you can offer. It is the difference between subject and object, and the difference is strikingly different.

It is, I suppose, one thing to be manipulated by a boss who is trying to get more efficient work accomplished through your position. When it's happening in your place of employment it still is uncomfortable, but at least it can be escaped, even if for the remaining thirteen or fourteen hours of the day when you are not at work.

But it is another thing to be manipulated by someone close, and when it is your son or daughter, it feels especially bad. When we experience manipulation we question ourselves. Is there something about us that is so weak that we are "taken in" time and again by a child who is adept at getting what he or she wants? How do we extend love to a child while protecting our personal boundaries from being broached time and again. Or is love something that opens oneself to such pain?

I am fortunate to be married to an emotionally healthy woman, so in that most primary relationship in life I am comforted and contented. But I am not so fortunate when it comes to our children, and because we have adopted all of them, I wonder sometimes how it might (or not?) be different in families where children have joined the family through birth. Are there some primal wounds so deep for adopted children and their parents that there is always a distance of sorts? That's a question I cannot answer, although there are times when I long for a satisfying answer.

I have learned that the only thing I can control is how I respond to a situation. I cannot change the way my child does what he or she does. I can guide, I can live by example, I can correct, I can consequence ... but I cannot choose the way my children choose to live their lives, especially as they grow into adulthood.

My thoughts are provoked by a message I received on my cell phone last night. It is my practice not to answer calls whose numbers I do not recognize, figuring a message can be left so that I can call back as I deem necessary. Last night, after I had gone to bed, there were four calls from the same number, one after the other. Finally there was a message left. I listened to it this morning.

The background noise is a combination of muffled voices and institutional sounds as I hear our son, Mike, in a voice hollowed by the large room from which he calls:

"Dad. It's me, Mike. I'm just calling to let you know that I turned myself into jail last night. I'm wondering if you could buy me a phone card for $20 so I could call you. And maybe you can visit me. I love you. Bye."

Manipulation or affection? Is Mike calling because he cares about me or because he cares about himself? That's probably an unfair question to ask of someone who is nineteen and whose organic brain issues mean that he processes things much differently than those of who are typical. Is this call an effort to gain more money from his dad, or does he sincerely seek connection because he finds himself in trouble once again?

Manipulation or affection? It is probably both, in some disjointed, strange, atypical way my son feels as much connection with me as he can feel, but for purposes of self-preservation needs to be in connection as well.

The bottom line is simply that I am Mike's dad. I made that decision years ago. And the good thing is that I can be Mike's dad, love him and care about him and still draw boundaries for myself. I will maintain connection with him, although it may be through written letters than face-to-face contact for now. I remain committed to him, but my checkbook may remain closed. I will help him navigate the confusing world of social services assistance, but the doors to my home will remain off limits.

While I cannot choose (or even discern) whether Mike is manipulating me or caring about me, I can choose how I will respond. And I will choose affection ... I will choose connection ... and I will protect myself.

I have learned that with difficult, attachment-disordered children/young adults, the two are not mutually exclusive.

Twenty Days and Another Chapter Closes

2008-11-10T06:55:00.002-06:00

When we have not heard from Mike in a day or so our first step is to check the online county jail roster, and since Mike already told me late last week that he needed to turn himself in, I was not surprised when I checked this morning and found his name on the list. In Mike-like fashion, he turned himself in at 10:30 PM on Sunday night, when he has known since at least Friday that he needed to show up at jail. I'm sure he figures he has nothing to lose; if law enforcement had run into him in the intervening they would simply arrest him, saving him the need to find a ride to jail.

As I suspected, the reason for his arrest was not because he was stayed out of the county overnight without consent of his parole officer. The charges as listed online are theft. Again, this is no surprise, because he has been involved in numerous theft charges in the past couple of years, including motor vehicles and theft by receiving stolen property. It appears that Mike has now expanded his retinue to include the theft of livestock. I'm not sure what is involved in that whole charge, but I'm sure it is an interesting story. Much more interesting than the story he was trying to spin with me on Friday about having to spend the weekend in jail because of an out-of-county overnight stay. The only thing truthful about his conversation with me Friday is that the arresting agency (which is also included online) is "community corrections," which means his parole officer.

Lying and manipulation are part of the whole-person package when dealing with Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder. Our son has the disadvantage of also having a high IQ (not at all FASD individuals do), which means that he has just enough brilliance to charm and manipulate others and get himself into difficult situations. FASD is not his only diagnosis, so by the time you compute all the factors together it presents a rather dismal picture, indeed.

I could spend more than a paragraph articulating my opposition to alcohol consumption by pregnant woman (and, to be honest, alcohol consumption in general), but I will hold myself back for the moment. My irritation turns too quickly to disgust these days when I think of all the money spent and lives affected by the consumption of a substance so potentially lethal to so many in society. I will now bite my tongue lest you think me a Puritanical type (which I am most assuredly not); I have seen personally too many evidences of the tragic results of alcohol consumption to say nothing.

Now, once again, we will wait to see how the criminal justice system deals with our son. I was present at his last sentencing, so I heard with my own ears the dire warnings of the judge in question. He articulated clearly that Mike's time for leniency had run out, and that any violations of the conditions of his release would result in twenty-two months of prison time. Mike, of course, had an alternative explanation of his plans at that time. It was to get out of jail (which he did three weeks ago this morning) and work to pay off some of his thousands of dollars of restitution, stay clean and sober and out of legal trouble, then choose to "execute his time," which he was certain would be at the local level (not a state prison) because of the overcrowded prison situation. If he were to "execute" his time Mike speculated that he would be out within seven months and not have to leave the area. Now, however, he will have an additional criminal charge, so that might change the outcome. Who knows?

What I do know today is that the citizens of our community are once again safe from the criminal exploits of my son. And that both pains and relieves me.

"You're a Priest For Heaven's Sake"

2008-11-09T18:24:00.002-06:00

It is a cold November night, but I needed to walk, so I called for my dog Gizmo and invited our son Dominyk (12) to join me. On nights like these there is no need to worry about encountering other walkers with dogs, or other walkers for that matter. It is a solitary pursuit, but not really, because Dominyk is gregarious. He never quits talking. Toward the end of tonight's walk he asked me, "So, dad, when you die what happens to your brain?"

"Well, since your body doesn't need it any more it stops working."

"No, I mean, what happens to your brain when it's been in the ground for a few weeks?"

"Umm, I suppose it kind of shrinks and decays. When your body is dead it doesn't work anymore."

"So your brain doesn't go to heaven?"

"Well, none of your body goes to heaven. Your spirit goes to be with God, but your body is finished with its work and it stays in the ground. You don't need your brain anymore at that point."

"Your brain doesn't get to go to heaven?"

"No, Dominyk. Just your spirit, that part of you that makes you who you are and that lives forever."

"Well, without a brain how do we recognize other people?"

"You don't need a brain to do that in heaven."

"So how do you know, then?"

"Umm, I'm not sure exactly. But at that point there must be a different way of knowing that we'll know about then."

"You don't know the answer to this?"

"No, Dominyk. There are some questions in life that we cannot answer right now."

"You're a priest for heaven's sake, and you can't even answer that question? You're supposed to know that stuff!"

I am grateful for the reminder that we feeble humans, even we humans who have been theologically trained and spiritually disciplined, do not have all the answers. Even if, for a twelve-year-old, it kind of wrecks your credibility.

A Cryptic Explanation

2008-11-08T18:58:00.003-06:00

One of the ways I maintain my sanity in the midst of crazy stuff with my children who are especially challenged (and challenging) is by blogging about it. Taking the time to write about and reflect upon my experience in the blogosphere helps me feel that perhaps I am not alone in this bizarre journey. That is not to say that all of my children are challenging or draining -- we do have children that nourish life and make my existence a blessing -- but those who perplex me receive more blog time.

So, Mike calls me this afternoon.

"Hi, Mike."

"Dad?"

"Yes, Mike."

"I'm calling to let you know I didn't turn myself into law enforcement last night."

"Oh. Why not?"

"Well, I didn't have the money for my Huber release fees."

"I gave you a check yesterday to cover that, Mike."

"Yeah, I know. But, um, someone stole it from me."

"Someone stole it from you? I don't believe that, Mike."

Silence in the midst of lots of background noise on his end.

"Mike, I watched yesterday as one of your friends went into the bank. I'm assuming he took the check I gave you and cashed it."

"What do you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the white car you were in yesterday with three [and I describe them] other guys."

"I wasn't in a white car yesterday. What car are you talking about?"

By this point I wonder just how confused another human being can be, and how Mike can possibly not know what I am talking about.

"Mike, I met you yesterday at [Name of] Bank. You were in a white car with three other guys. You got out of that car, stepped into mine and I gave you a check for $60."

"No you didn't."

"I didn't? Then where did you see me to get the check?"

"I don't know."

"So, anyway, that's where you got the check. Then I drove across the street, watched from the parking lot and after a few minutes one of your friends from the car left the bank and got back into the car."

"Oh, he was getting money from his account."

I didn't even bother to go down that road with Mike. If I had, I would have asked him why the friend waited until after I left to get money from his account. But like I say, I didn't bother. I've learned not to pursue much questioning from someone who is confused and lies with such alacrity.

"OK. Hmm. Sounds like it must have been quite confusing," I summarize.

"Yeah. So, I didn't go to jail last night because I didn't have the money."

"So," my cynical mind wants to say, "now you have to pay to go to jail?" But I said nothing.

"And you'd better put a stop payment on that check if you don't want to lose your $60," he says, trying to sound helpful.

"Well, Mike, it costs at least $25 to put a stop payment on a check, and I want to see who cashed it after all."

He then proceeds to tell me the name that will be on the check, followed by some convoluted story about how this person was going to cash the check and give him the money to take with him to jail. Lie upon lie upon lie. I am silent. He is waiting for me to offer to pay another $60 so he can obtain work release from jail. But Mike does not know that I am now done doling out money. I have reached the end of my boundaries, and I am now finished.

"So, you can come visit me tomorrow at jail, if you want," he says.

"I'll have to see what my schedule is like, Mike. Sunday's are busy days for me."

"Yeah, OK. Well I've gotta go."

I say goodbye and the call ends. I have learned a long time ago that Mike will do or say whatever he feels he need to at any given moment. I have learned that with the combination of his mental health diagnosis, the group of friends he runs with and his history with the criminal justice system that I cannot trust much of what he tells me. So I am not disappointed, and I am not surprised. I will continue to love Mike as I have for a decade, but I will now draw tighter boundaries between us because once again his time on the "outside" has come to a screeching halt.

While he does not communicate it to me, it is my sense that Mike has violated his parole, that his officer found out, called him on it and directed him to jail. It is likely there will be a hearing next week to determine whether or not his violation is substantial enough to bounce him back into jail or perhaps toward the twenty-two months prison term he was "promised" if he violated the terms of his release. He believes it unlikely that he will get back out any time soon, so he wants me to stop pay the check so that it appears to me that he cares about the situation.

We'll see what the truth is once the new week dawns.

An Unfolding Mystery

2008-11-07T15:00:00.003-06:00

Parenting an adult son with FASD (and other assorted diagnoses, including PTSD and RAD) is always a mystery. There are moments that seem like sincere, honest connections between two people who love each other. These moments are infrequent, and overshadowed by the consistent intuitive sense that I am about to be taken advantage of once again. Over the years (Mike has been part of our family for nearly ten years; he is now 19) I have learned to erect boundaries between him and our family, for their protection.

While Mike is not violent or aggressive towards family members, he has stolen from us for years, and when allowed to be in our house (we have had a restraining order against him now for nearly a year) has brought illicit drugs, alcohol and questionable friends doing the same with him. His erratic behaviors and unsavory companion choices have led us to take legal action to keep him away from our physical property and our minor children.

He has now been out of jail eighteen days. And tonight he will go back. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

This week I haven't heard much from Mike. In the first two weeks following his release I heard from him fairly regularly, at last once every 36 hours, but by the time this week rolled around it has been about once every 48 to 60 hours. Yesterday morning a call came on my cell phone while I was at the office sporting a number that looked vaguely familiar. Because Mike has no cell phone he uses whatever phone is at his disposal at the moment, so there hasn't been one consistent number. I answered. It was, in deed, Mike.

"Hey, dad. You think you could come pick me up in [a town 30 miles away from us]."

"Well, I'm at the office, Mike, and I have an appointment in about an hour from now. What are you doing [in that town]? I thought you could not be out of the county limits."

"Yeah, well, I just can't leave the state. I can be out of the county, but I can' t be out overnight."

"It's 8:30, Mike. Were you out of the county last night?"

"Um, yeah, I was, actually. But don't tell [the parole officer]."

"Well, I'm not going to call her up, Mike, but if she asks me I will tell her the truth."

"OK. Whatever. You think you can give me a ride back?"

I sigh inwardly, but I have told Mike that I will do what I can to assist him in his life on the "outside." "I can give you a ride, but I will have to leave now. Where will you be?"

There is muffled conversation as he puts his hand over what we would have called in years past "the receiver" (I'm not sure what that's called on a cell phone). "Can I call you back in five minutes?" he asks. I agree and the call ends.

The minutes tick away. It is now ten minutes later, and I know that if I do not walk out of the office at that very moment I will not have time to both provide transportation and meet my appointment at 10 AM. I decide to begin the trek and call on the way so I don't lose any time.

I am seven minutes into my trip when the cell phone rings. "Dad?" "Yes, Mike, I'm on my way. Where will you be?" "Umm. I hope you haven't gone too far yet." "Not really, just about seven miles." "Good. My friends can give me a ride back."

I am both irritated (but not that much, since it's only seven minutes into the thirty minute one way journey) and relieved. Mike continues, "Yeah, my friend has a court appearance in [the metro area, which is 90 minutes away], so I'm going to go with him and then we'll come back tonight."

"Do you have to work today, Mike?" I ask, reminding him that if he misses much more work time he will be fired.

"At 4 this afternoon. I'll have time to get back. Oh, does Kyle still live [in the same metro area where he is headed]?"

"Yes, he does."

"What's his cell phone number?'

I hesitate. For years I have not given that information to Mike, but now Kyle is a college graduate, a responsible mature adult, working full-time and occasionally bemoaning his lack of involvement in Mike's life. (Kyle and MIke are birth brothers). I agree to give him the cell number but will not (and Mike did not ask) disclose Kyle's address. I figure the worse that can happen is that Kyle can choose not to answer the call.

I do not hear from MIke again for 24 hours. This morning he calls me back. "Um, dad, I'm going back to jail tonight."

"You are?" I ask, unsurprised, but maintaining an even tone with my son.

"Yeah. The parole officer found out I was out of the county overnight, and she's telling me I need to turn myself into jail before the end of the day. I'll have to stay the weekend so that she can see me on Monday. It's bogus, though, to have to go to jail because of that."

"Well, Mike, it is part of the terms of your release, you know. You have to stay in the county or you are violating your release."

"Yeah. Umm. I'm wondering if you could pay my Huber fees?"

I pause. I know what Huber Fees are, but I want to make sure I know what he is talking about. (In Minnesota, perhaps in other states, too, "Huber" is the reference to work release for the incarcerated).

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I have to pay $60 if they are going to let me work this weekend. Otherwise I can't get out and I'll lose my job."

I am reluctant to do this, but I am caught between two places. I can say "no" and quash his ability to work and perhaps result in his job loss. I can say "yes" and at least allow him to continue to work. I am unhappy with either solution, and in years past it was very clear what I would have done. I would have said, "Sorry. You knew the risks, you took them and you get what you get."

I decide this time to test the situation. "I suppose I will do that, Mike."

"Thanks. Do you think you can also buy me a warm winter coat?"

"Pardon?" I ask, incredulous, but really I shouldn't be. The past decade should have taught me that there are no limits to the requests of an attachment disordered person. I continue, "No, MIke. I'm not going to buy you a coat. That's why you have a job."

"Oh. I was hoping you could take me to [sporting good chain] and get me a cheap one, like one for about $150."

I am astounded that he would think, first of all, that $150 is a "cheap winter coat," and secondly that I would consider it.

"No, Mike. I don't have that much money to spend."

"So, you can give me the $60, though?"

"Yes, I will do that. Who should I make the check to?"

"I don't know. Why don't you just bring cash?"

"Um, no, Mike. I'm not going to give you cash. I'll only write a check."

"Yeah, but I don't know who it should made to."

"Well, you can ask at the jail when you go there. I'll give you a check with the 'payable to' line not filled in. You can fill it in when you know."

Now, dear reader, before you chastise me for foolish gullibility, understand that this is part of my plan. I want to see if Mike will, in fact, do what I've asked of him.

"So, dad, you'll give me a check with the 'payable to' line blank and then I can just fill it in?"

"Yes, Mike. You will fill it in at the jail with what they tell you. Where do you want me to meet you?"

We discuss a couple of options, and I hear him consulting in a muffled fashion with his companions. "How about [the name of the bank where my checking account is held]?"

The location immediately make me suspicious, but I agree. In a few minutes I arrive in the parking lot and pull up to the car in which are four young adult males. I stop, Mike gets out and comes to my car. He sits in the front seat and bemoans his fate. "It's just bogus, dad. She [the parole officer] shouldn't be making me go to jail over this."

I remind Mike, patiently, that he has violated the terms of his release. I ask how she knows he was even out of the county overnight.

"I don't know. She probably could tell from the phone number I used to call her or something."

He is prevaricating, filling space (aka "lying") hoping I will not think there's more to the story. I am pretty sure there must be more to the story, though.

"Yeah, dad, I was just thinking, it's going to be more than $60. There's a booking fee, too. Do you have an extra $10?"

"No, Mike, I do not. My checkbook is at home."

"Oh." He hesitates, can think of no other way to add to his monetary booty and opens the door.

He gets out, grabs the clean clothes that I have recently washed for him and today delivered to him, and I say, "Give me a call next week when you know what's going on." He says, "No, I'll call you tonight." We exchange goodbyes.

The car to which he returns does not move. In fact there sees to be no inclination at all for them to move. Truth by told, it seems Mike is stalling. With exaggerated effort he steps out of the car, takes out his freshly washed hoodie and begins to put it on. It takes a long time. I decide to pretend I am oblivious to the tactic, and I depart.

But I drive across the highway to a parking lot where I can watch what transpires. It takes a couple of minutes to get there, but the car still has not moved. I wait one minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Four minutes later one of Mike's friends from the white car exits the bank doors and gets into the car. Immediately the car departs.

I have good reason to believe I have been set up. While I do not yet have the details in hand, I think the truth is something akin to this. The reason Mike's parole officer knows he was outside the county is because he was involved in something illegal there (how else would she have reason to know he was gone?) He has been ordered to present himself at law enforcement tonight because he will have a hearing to determine whether his parole has been revoked, and that hearing will not take place until early next week. He needs to be in jail to ensure that he does not abscond. The $60 is not for any "Huber Release" fees. It is for his friend in the car to repay back for something. While his friend would have preferred the $70 [or the $150 referenced above for a new winter coat], he will take $60 for now.

As soon as my check appears online (so that I can see who is on the "payable to" line) I will be able to close my "case." If, in fact, the check shows no evidence of having gone through the county law enforcement system to pay "fees," this may well be the last time I will help Mike financially.

And, if it turns out that the recommendation is that Mike serve his time [twenty-two months in prison] for violating his parole yet again, it may be that I will not need to worry about it for some time.

Making History

2008-11-04T07:56:00.003-06:00

This is not a political blog, although politics have always been of interest to me. Earlier in my life it was my plan to become a United States Senator, so every two years when the election process heats up I am an interested observer. I have chosen not to become overly involved in the political process at the local levels because of my role as a spiritual leader in the church. My first commitment is to God and to the vocation to which I have been called, and I am reluctant to do anything that would diminish my ability to lead. So, while I hold pretty clear political opinions, and while my preaching seeks to connect my Christian faith understanding with the world, I do not believe God is a Democrat or a Republican. Frankly, I find political extremism on whatever end of the spectrum that is wrapped in religious ideology a bit frightening. I am as uncomfortable with dogmatic conservatives who claim God is theirs to shrill liberals who co-opt Deity in other ways. My position is that politics can easily become an idol for any person of faith. I want to avoid that, while continuing to recognize that God expects us to be involved in political process because that's how we, as a society, care for others and provide stability for human empowerment.

In any case, I exercised my right to vote this morning. At 6:50 AM I was standing in line (number fifteen) outside my precinct awaiting the opportunity to cast my ballot. Our second-oldest son Rand (now 20) was with me (number sixteen) as well. Two years ago Rand voted for the first time with me, and this year he is voting for the second time with me. Just a few minutes ago I spoke to our oldest son Kyle (21) who lives in the metro area; he experienced frustration at the polling place, but has also voted. Our son Mike (19) is a convicted felon and is excluded from voting. At some point today my wife Claudia will also vote. I'm not sure that she and I have ever accompanied one another to the polls, and historically she and I have sort of cancelled out one another's votes. She is rather close-mouthed about her political preferences, while I am fairly talkative about mine, at least at home. Our kids at home find it amusing to bait us with issues and then decide whether they're going to side with mom or dad. I always remind them, though, that politics is a human, faulty process with no guarantees, and that each person seeking office has their own peccadilloes. There is none righteous, no not one. (Hmmm. I think I've read that somewhere before).

Today, however any of us choose to vote, we will make history. Either the first African-American man will be elected president, or the first female will be elected Vice President. (As you can see, I don't give third parties much credence at the presidential level). And whatever your political persuasion, it seems like an election year when things need to shift in our country's corporate life. With the economic crises and other issues belaboring us as a nation, it seems that all of us with brief a collective sigh of relief when today is over. Whatever the outcome, we are tired of the political advertising, the intensity, the inactivity that currently characterize our common life as US Americans.

If you are reading this before the polls close, and you have not yet voted, do it. You will make history.

Perfect Attendance and a Special Education Assessment

2008-11-03T20:53:00.004-06:00

As you might imagine, with nine kids at home (seven of whom are in seventh grade or higher) there are nights when our family transportation schedule is more than a bit challenging. This was one of those nights. We have one son in Boy Scouts (which meets at our church, approximately three miles away from our home). We have four other kids who will be involved in winter sports (the orientation meeting for winter sports was tonight). And we have our older daughter who begins driver's education classes tonight. We have two parents with two vehicles (our third vehicle is currently out of commission) needing to head in different directions.

Boy Scout Dominyk (12) was delivered by his PCA to their meeting at 6 PM. Tonight the Scouts ate pizza together and then canvassed the area to sell tickets for their annual Spaghetti Dinner. It was my responsibility to pick up Dominyk after my assigned task.

Claudia cared for the Winter Sports Orientation meeting and getting our daughter Salinda (15) to and front driver's ed.

My assigned task was to accompany Ricardo (14) to his Soccer Banquet.

Ricardo is another of our delightful children. He is an introvert, so he talks little but hears and understands everything, even the subtlest of innuendo or turn of phrase. He has been with us about five years after we met him in Guatemala at the same orphanage where our son Jimmy/Ben (16) grew up. In these years Ricardo has listened a lot and talked little so his English is sparse but quite good. It is still heavily accented in a voice that has always seemed deeper than his stature should allow. He is handsome, athletically gifted and emotionally stable.

And he is learning disabled. From the moment he entered our family's life Claudia and I could tell his academic progress would be halting. It wasn't the language challenges of leaving behind Spanish for English at the age of nine. His math skills are pretty good, and he is quite artistic, but ready has always been a horrendous challenge for him. I am no expert is learning disabilities, but I have had a pretty strong notion for years that he is at the least dyslexic. Because of his transitional international status, the school policy and practice (perhaps this is a widespread practice; I'm not sure) has been to hold off on an IEP (Individualized Education Plan) for at least five years after a child enters the country. So Ricardo has struggled and waited for years educationally due to this policy. It has now been five years, so this Fall Ricardo will finally have an IEP that will hopefully address his needs.

He is all too aware of his learning challenges, and he is staking his future success on playing soccer. When I ask him what he wants to do when he grows up, what I hear, in his heavily staccato English is: "Dad, I want to play soccer." And a good soccer player he is, but we know he needs to have a better academic foundation if he expects to play soccer beyond high school.

Tonight was the Soccer Banquet, and I sat by my quiet son Ricardo. He knows other players on his team, but evidently doesn't talk much with them either. Tonight's award for Ricardo was a "Perfect Attendance" award. He did not miss a single practice session and his achievement was acknowledged. Of the many other soccer players present tonight, less then ten received a similar award, so I guess it is more than an average expectation kind of award.

I'm not sure what will become of Ricardo. He is in eighth grade this year. He has a lot of academic progress to make. He is a good athlete. He is emotionally healthy. He is an enjoyable kid to have in our home. And tonight we are celebrating his soccer achievement and his impending IEP.

The Shrimp and the Great White Shark

2008-11-03T07:06:00.003-06:00

Yes, Virginia, I am father to children other than Mike, although he has occupied much of my blog's attention over the past couple of weeks. His life is a circuitous one, interesting in many ways, but his is not the only life who is part of mine. I have a spouse and I have eleven other children who add so much depth and meaning to my days. They do not always receive here the attention they rightly merit. (A subtle reminder that it is never a good idea to measure a person's life simply by what they read on one's blog).

Of the twelve years I have been a father, I must say that many of those years have been filled with emotions ranging from moments of joy to periods of real desolation. Caring for children whose histories and biologies are mysteries is a challenging proposition. There are many moments when I have entered too deeply into their past traumas or present defiance and lost myself. I continue to learn, day by day, what it means to be a "self-differentiated" person who can maintain a hold on my own sense of being. To lose oneself as an adoptive parent is a frightening proposition for both child and parent.

There are many heavy, heavy moments in the task of parenting older adopted children, so when moments of lightness appear they are too often forgotten or relegated to the trash can of frivolity. Because of my own personality qualities, I continually have to remind myself to find more opportunities to bask in the light than to lurk in the shadow of my family's existence. They are really two different modes of being, the one offering hope and the other continual disillusionment.

One of the bright lights in my existence currently is our youngest son, Wilson, who is now age nine. He and his birth brother (13) have just celebrated their first anniversary in our family. They have been so delightful. It is almost as if I have been holding my breath for a year to wait for things to crumble. With many of our kids (especially those whom we adopted earlier in the journey) it took only a few weeks before things really fell apart. Wilson and Leon, however, are very emotionally healthy and exhibit all the signs of children who were emotionally cared for in their early lives. They are, I am sure, "normal," but for a family like ours, formed through adopting older children with considerable emotional challenges, they seem unique and special.

Wilson, who is a slender, spindly child who will soon by ten, looks to be about five or six. His petite frame and diminutive stature belie the truth of his age and sophistication. It is always a surprise, then, when a witticism rolls from his puckered lips. One of his favorite things to do is to come bounding into my bedroom and jump into my lap. I have a comfortable chair in a corner by a lamp and spend a lot of my reading (and television, when I watch it) time there. As his slight frame nestles into my ample one, the warmth of his emotional presence lights the corner. We exchange teasing words on occasion, or share a candy from his Halloween bag or watch a television program together. It is a joyful, heart-warming experience.

Yesterday as he snuggled into my side I said, "How are you doing, Shrimp?"

With his crescent-shaped brown eyes sparkling and a smile filling his gap-toothed grin, he responded, "Who are you calling shrimp, great white shark?"

In our multicultural family where we who are caucasian are now "outnumbered," my rejoinder was, "Hey, are you being racist or just commenting on my size?"

He giggled happily and we shared another moment of attachment happiness.

These moments of happy, healthy attachment have been so far and between that when they occur, even after twelve years, they surprise me. While I love all of my children equally, I have found that I love them differently. Some of them are so very hard to love because of the continual emotional rejection and distance they convey, but this one is a delight to my soul. He is just so easy to love, warmth received and shared, love reflected and received.

Life for a parent as it was meant to be.

"This Looks Like a Drug Deal"

2008-10-31T17:59:00.002-05:00

It has now been a couple of days since I've seen Mike. I last saw him on Wednesday night when I picked him up after his work shift and dropped him off at the (new) friend's house where is staying. I reminded him yesterday that I would be unavailable Thursday (meeting out of town in the metro area), but he called anyway, wondering if I could give him a ride to work. I couldn't and told him that he'd need to call me this morning to get together.

I didn't hear from him this morning. I figure that he's an adult (legally, at least), has been in jail numerous times and seems to be able to find a place to stay each night so I don't need to follow him around with telephone calls, especially when I'm not sure where to find him. This afternoon, on my way to a town two hours from ours to pick up our eighteen-year-old son, John, who is coming home for the weekend for the first time in nearly a year, my cell phone rang. I was in the midst of following my iPhone's GPS map, so I couldn't answer. Mike left a breathless message to "call as soon as you can." Since Mike's physical location does not always match the cell phone number from which he has called, I chose to wait for him to call me back instead.

The cell rang a few minutes after picking up John. "Hey, dad, it's me, Mike. Can you give me a ride to work?"

It was 3:45. He needed to work at 4:00.

"I'm sorry, Mike. I'm not in town right now. It's why I told you yesterday to call me this morning."

"Oh. Do you think you can call B[urger] K[ing] for me to tell them I'm going to be late for work?"

"Um, no. I don't even have their number. You can call them to let them know you'll be late for work."

"Well, I thought your iPhone had that google feature."

"Yes, it does, but I'm driving right now and I'm not going to take the time to find that number to call for you. You can do that for yourself."

"Okaaayy. When will you be back?"

I told him my approximate arrival time.

Two hours later, five minutes after stepping foot into our home, the cell phone rang again. "Dad?"

"Yes, Mike."

"Are you home now?"

"Yes, Mike. I've been here five minutes." Who says FASD people don't have a sense of time? (I'm only being facetious, but it has always disarmed me when Mike is able to put things together when he really needs to).

"So, you can think we can meet up so I can get that check [to help pay his rent while he stays with a friend]? I can come by the house."

"No, Mike. You can't come by the house. That would violate the restraining order."

"Oh, yeah. How about we meet at that park on top of the hill?"

"You mean E[rlandson] Park?" I confirmed.

"Yeah, that one."

"OK. I'll be there in ten minutes. See you then."

I arrive at the park in question, turn off my ignition and listen to the radio. I wait patiently as five minutes turn into ten. I am beginning to feel frustrated by this turn of events as my cell phone rings once again.

"Dad? Are you at the park yet?"

"Yes, Mike, I've been waiting here for ten minutes."

"Well, where are you?"

"I am in the parking lot."

"I don't see you."

"Are you at E[rlandson] Park, Mike?"

Garbled background noise as I hear his voice asking his friend where they are.

"Oh, I guess we are at A[lexander]. We'll be there in a minute."

I smile. Our town is not that big, the two parks are not that far apart, and I made certain in our initial conversation to confirm the location by name, not by geographic estimate. There was a time for me when Mike's rapid movements from mental lucidity to cloudiness really irritated me. I believed that if he could remember something on one occasion, he should be able to repeat the performance. But I have learned over the years that this is simply not how Mike's mind works. And I have had to learn that it is MIke I care about, not the functioning of his brain patterns. Yes, it is still irritating to me, but I am getting over it year by year.

His friend and Mike pull up in an old car. I nod greetings to his friend who exchanges the masculine pseudo-gesture of polite recognition as Mike hops out of the car to open my door.

"Hey, Dad. Sorry about that. Do you have the check?"

I hand him the check. He pauses, looks at the check, glances around the parking lot and says with a silly grin that lights up his freckled face and makes his blue-green eyes sparkle.

"You know this looks like a drug deal."

It's ironic. In this paternal/child interaction he is the experienced one, I am the novice. Mike would know what a drug deal looks and feel like. I would not (unless you count watching too many episodes of COPS).

"Yeah, MIke, I guess it does."

"So, anyway, thanks. I'll call you tomorrow."

With that he bounds back into his friend's car and our daily interaction is complete. It has now been just about two weeks since Mike got out of jail, and from all I can tell he is doing as well as he ever has. There is no reason to suspect that he is using chemicals of any sort, he is not involved in illegal activity, he has a place to stay. For Mike this has been a pretty successful run.

"If I Fail My UA It's Your Fault"

2008-10-28T21:46:00.002-05:00

With apologies to those who read this blog, knowing that we have twelve children, and hearing me blog almost incessantly about our son Mike ... I continue to do so for at least a couple of reasons: (1) it gives meaning to what I am attempting to do in helping Mike, (2) it helps educate people who do not understand or who have not lived with fetal alcohol spectrum disorder, and (3) it provides support for other families encountering similar experiences.

Here is a synopsis of today's connections with Mike.

It is 4:45 PM, I am in my church office awaiting the arrival of a 5:00 PM pastoral counseling appointment and my cell phone rings. I answer it, knowing it will be Mike. "Dad, can you give me a ride to work? It's me, Mike."

"Mike, I'm getting ready for an appointment right now; I can't give you a ride at this moment."

Pause.

"You can't give me a ride now?"

"No, Mike, I have a commitment right now."

"Umm. So how am I going to get to work?"

I do my best to be positive and self-differentiated, reminding him that I cannot help him at this moment. He is agreeable enough and hangs up.

An hour later my cell phone rings again. I have just finished my appointment, so I agree to pick Mike up and transport him to his job. I have another commitment at 6:30 PM, and it is already 5:55, so I am anxious to finish the ride. As I pull into the driveway of the home where Mike has been staying there are three other people on the steps with him, a young adult male, and a young adult female with a young child on her hip. Mike bounds out to the car, "Think you can give [my friend] a ride to [location several miles out of my way]?"

I glance at my wrist, deduce that I have just enough time if we leave immediately and agree. I am not happy about doing this, but I feel it is one of the ways I can show appreciation to the people in question who have allowed Mike to live with them for the past week. Mike's friend ambles into the car, we exchange names and I deliver his friend to the specified location.

He thanks me, and we depart for Mike's place of employment. I ask Mike about his friend. It turns out that Mike is actually the friend of this guy's brother (the guy is actually in his mid-20's). There are four or five other "kids" living in the home with their mother. "Pretty ghetto, huh?" Mike asks me. I simply smile and shrug.

I have learned to be a lot less judgmental over the years, especially as it concerns Mike and his friends. There was a time when both Claudia and I tried to help Mike make better friend choices, but because of his disabilities he has typically moved to the lowest rungs of human life and living situations. They are, after all, the only ones who will accept him and help him in times of desperate need. Rather than recoil at the interactions, I have had to reframe them in my mind, reminding myself that it was people at the margins of life that Jesus was most frequently with (and it was the "religious" people, in fact, who most criticized Jesus for that). I remind myself as well that in the ethos of my denominational history (Methodist) it was with those who were most challenged and challenging that John Wesley (founder of the movement some three hundred years ago) spent much of his time. I am in good company (Jesus, John Wesley) spending a bit of my time each day with people who are so very different from myself.

Before I drop him off for work Mike says, "I'm not sure how long I'm going to be able to stay there."

"Why is that?" I ask.

"Well, everyone there is cool with it except his sister. [The 17-year-old with child on the hip and another on the way]. She's pregnant and she's drinking, and I keep telling her what a bad idea it is. She doesn't like that."

Since Mike knows firsthand the effects of fetal alcohol spectrum disorder, I can only imagine the way in which he confronts this drinking teenage mother. I'm sure his approach is less than tactful or respectful. It is, I am sure, direct and pointed. In any case, I have to respect my son's desire to prevent others from his fated existence.

It is several hours later. I have dropped Mike off for work, tended to my 6:30 commitment and have arrived home to take a walk with our dog. Midway into the walk Mike calls, asking for a ride home from work. Since I have made a personal commitment (internally) that I will do whatever I can to empower Mike's clean and sober lifestyle, I agree to pick him up. I arrive a few minutes later at his fast-food restaurant work site. As I pull up to a parking spot I can see Mike sitting at a table. Upon seeing my car, he stands up, grabs a bag of food on the table and begins to exit. Before he reaches the outside door I can see him stop, turn around and look. I wonder what is happening.

Then I see him dart back to the table and pick up the soda he had forgotten. I smile to myself in a sardonic fashion ... even when he is doing his best, Mike's scattered nature will always haunt him. I need to see those situations to remind myself that much of what Mike has done is impetuous and without malice or intent. If I can remind myself of the way his brain functions (or doesn't function) it helps me to be more patient and gracious toward him.

He jumps into the car where I witness yet another dysregulated response.

"Hi," I say.

"Hey is for horses," Mike responds, which would have been a very appropriate response had I said, "Hey," but I had said, "Hi." I choose to smile instead of correct.

"Do you think you could take me to [local grocery store that cashes paychecks]?" he asks, a sense of pride emanating from his voice.

"What do you need to do there?"

"I need to cash my paycheck." He nearly beams with pride at his accomplishment. In nineteen years Mike has never before received an honest, earned paycheck.

"Sure. How much is it?"

"Not very much." He is not deflated, just factual. "It's only $51."

I commiserate. "Yeah, by the time they take out taxes and stuff there's not that much left, is there?" I decide not to go on and on about how working less than 15 hours a week at a minimum pay job isn't going to produce much profit for him. I decide to let him enjoy the fact that he has earned his first paycheck.

It turns out that the store in question will not cash his paycheck without a photo ID. They will charge him $2 to cash his check in any case, and I decide that I will offer him a gracious out. "Well, Mike, if you will endorse your check to me I will swing by the ATM and give you the cash. I'll just deposit your check and you can keep the $2 for yourself."

"So, your bank is open tonight?" When he reveals innocently his naivete about the workings of life it makes me realize just how alone in the world my adult-son-who-is-really-just-a-kid is.

"No, Mike. But the ATM is always open. I'll just take your check and give you the cash."

"Oh, OK."

I have brought Mike a couple of homemade brownies I made earlier in the afternoon. I ask him if he likes brownies. "Yeah. Did you make them?" I respond affirmatively as he takes the small plastic bag with two brownies in it from my hand.

"You know what this looks like Dad?" he says, a glint in his eye.

"Umm. Yeah. But these brownies aren't going to cost you $60 [which I learn is the going rate for good weed in a plastic baggy like this in our town]."

"Well, if I fail my UA it's your fault," he says jokingly.

"Well, you've blamed me for a lot of things over the years, so I guess if my brownies make you fail your UA I'll take the blame again."

The irony does not escape me. Mike is nineteen, has just earned his first "real" paycheck, does not fully understand the functioning of a 24-hour ATM. Yet he understands all too ably the nuances of packing and selling illegal substances. When I began this parenting process twelve years ago with older kids, I never thought I'd be in this situation, rejoicing that my nineteen-year-old has a job at a fast food restaurant making minimum wage. Years ago I thought I would be disappointed in such an outcome, but with all we have been through with Mike over the past few years, even this feels like a small victory.

It has now been nearly ten days since he exited jail. He is clean and sober. He is working a legal job. He has a place to stay for the night. We can communicate with one another in tones of levity. It will be an OK night after all.

In a Matter of Minutes

2008-10-28T11:02:00.003-05:00

Yesterday ended ridiculously strained and full of family stress. And I'm not talking about our nineteen-year-old son Mike. It's a sad thing when one's crime-historied, organic brain damaged son ends the day better than the supposed functioning family members. And it's stranger still when things change within a matter of minutes.

After a full morning of work yesterday and an afternoon of errands of various kinds, I prepared dinner for our family, minus Claudia (who was making an out-of-town business-related visit) and Rand (who was working). It was a hurried affair on my part, and barely an excuse for an evening meal -- sloppy joes, chips, fruit and peanut butter cookies (made from frozen dough). But the meal was remarkably peaceful and stress-free. We prayed together, ate our food, and then scattered in various directions.

Our twelve-year-old son Dominyk and I headed off to a Boy Scout Court of Honor. The Boy Scout Troop of which Dominyk is becoming a part is chartered by our congregation, so we are very familiar with the physical geography of the space. Familiar space is always a bonus for Dominyk, whose anxiety issues can be overwhelming. The Court of Honor was a great celebration of both the Troop's and individual's achievements (this is really a spectacular troop), and at the close we headed home. I asked Dominyk, "So, are you still excited about being a Scout after all you heard tonight?" "Kind of yes, kind of no. My brain keeps saying 'no.'"

"Why does your brain say no?" I inquired.

"Umm. Don't know."

"Well, there are times when we need to tell our brains things are OK, don't we?"

"Yep. That's what I'm doing, dad."

On the way home I decided to stop by the local grocery store to pick up a few coupon items before their expiration date (which was last night). Among those items were sports waters, like Gatorade. The coupon allowed us five free with the purchase of ten. Dominyk has an obsession (in clinical terms, not as in what most people mean by "obsession") with drinks of any kind, and I thought it would be nice for me to let him choose the flavors, a task he completed swiftly.

On the way to pay for them he began to harangue me with how it would be once we arrived home. "I'm going to choose who gets what drinks, dad. I'm going to keep five of them in your closet [where we keep items like this locked up until use] just for me. I'll decide who gets what."

I continued to remind Dominyk that it was not going to work that way. That I would distribute the drinks, and that each person would get one and each person could choose which one they wanted. He was not convinced, although he silence his verbal barrage.

Upon arriving home I allowed Dominyk to choose his drink first, but he was still convinced he would be the arbiter of drinks in our home for the evening. I told him in no uncertain terms that it was not going to work that way, after which he stomped off to his room screaming about my unfairness. I have heard such phrases so many times for so many years I must confess I paid little attention.

I told the other kids they could help themselves to the drinks on the table as Claudia and I departed for a twenty-minute neighborhood walk. The walk itself was enjoyable enough. It was a crisp, clear, cold late October evening and refreshing in its own way.

Nearly home we encountered a shadowy figure lumbering down the other side of the street. Even before we could see his face I could tell by his gait that it was our thirteen-year-old son Tony. He had on his grey hoodie, hood pulled over his head, a backpack at his side and a determined pace coupled with no eye contact.

Claudia headed home, and I walked over to Tony. "So where are you headed?"

"Away. I'm going away from home."

"Oh."

Silence as we walk.

"How long do you think you'll be gone?"

"I don't know. Maybe for good."

"Hmmm. Care if I come along?"

Silence and the adolescent look that says "dad you're so damn dumb I'm not even going to answer that."

We trudge along together for twenty or so minutes. While Claudia and I walked there had been an altercation at home involving at least three or four other of the kids, and Tony feels that he has been mistreated. The fact of the matter is that Tony is seldom mistreated, if that classification is based upon innocence. He is constantly provoking, demanding, violating others' space, physically aggressive and lacking any kind of impulse control. He is unable to see this, nor does he understand how his behavior contributes to the way others treat him. I have given up, at least for now, trying to explain rationally to him why things are the way they are for him. I simply remind him that he does not need to respond with physical aggression and threats when others bother him.

By the time we arrive home the emotional level has been ratcheted up many degrees. Having left a relatively calm (except for unhappy Dominyk) home minutes before, it is disarming to enter the emotional intensity that now floods our domicile. Heading to our bedroom, I see a crumpled note at the top of my trash. It reads:

Dear Dad: I fricin hate you. I wish I was never boren.

Recognizing Dominyk's handwriting and phonetic attempts at spelling, I am angry. I am angry with myself for having purchased the stupid drinks that created the emotional disturbance in our home, and I am angry that I am too tired to respond more positively. Unhappily, I do not handle this stressful invasion into our lives very well. I am not at my best at night, and I find many ways to assess the inadequacy of my and my spouse's parental ability. In particular, I expound for minutes behind the shut door of our bedroom to Claudia about all the ways she contributes to our family's distress. It is a verbal attack that is unwarranted, one that diminishes my spouse and myself in the process.

In the ensuing minutes she responds by leaving the bedroom, intent upon reprimanding to her spouse's satisfaction other children who were involved in the earlier altercation. Her intense interactions with our oldest daughter cause the daughter to explode with nasty words of invective peppered with f*** and other linguistic barbs. It is really very unpleasant, and as we all prepare to try to sleep there is an uneasy truce afoot.

Few of us are happy. None of us are proud of our behavior. All of us feel trapped.

There is, my wife reminds me, always tomorrow. And while I do not know what tomorrow holds, I know it does not include my purchasing any more soft drinks for some time.

One Week, Eight Plus Three Hours

2008-10-27T17:50:00.003-05:00

The story continues ... I sat waiting in the parking lot for Mike's arrival for nearly forty-five minutes after the time he told me I would need to wait. During that time I took care of a couple of errands so it was not completely wasted time. At the forty-five minute mark, though, I could wait no longer. I had to be at Wilson's elementary school to pick up items he had sold for a school fundraiser, so I left the parking lot outside the building Mike had entered.

I picked up the cookie dough (fundraiser items), met Wilson at home and then he and I set out to deliver the goods. We had just begun the process when I received a call on my iPhone identified as "blocked." If you've read my previous posts, you know that "blocked" to me equates with the law enforcement center, because all of Mike's calls for the past few weeks have come from there and carried that designation. I answered the call and braced myself for the disclosure that he had violated parole and was back "in" again.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Mike."

"You think you can pick me up?"

"Where are you?" I asked a bit befuddled.

"At the place you dropped me off. I'm done."

"Mike, that was two hours ago."

"Yeah, I know, but they had a lot of people who had to do the 'pee' [UA] test, so it took a long time."

"Umm. Sure, I'll be there in about a half hour. I'm doing something with Wilson I need to finish first."

"OK."

I must admit I am surprised that Mike is doing this well. He has not only organic brain issues to deal with, but he has such an engrained pattern of behavior developed over the past few years in regard to opposition to authority and the law enforcement process that I can hardly believe he's still doing OK.

While I was waiting for Mike earlier I had stopped by a local grocery store to purchase some gauze, medical tape and antibacterial ointment so that he could care for his lacerated fingers, so as he hopped in the car I handed him the Halloween-orange plastic bag. He inspected the contents and grunted appreciation of some sort.

I asked, "So is Officer C....r happy with how you're doing on parole?"

"Umm. I don't know. I guess so."

We drove a few minutes in silence.

"So," my nineteen-year-old son who sometimes functions emotionally at about the age of ten queries, "are you happy to know I'm passing my pee tests?"

"Well, actually, I am happy about that, Mike. That's great. Aren't you happy about it?"

He looks at me, a frightened fawn caught in headlights, momentarily considering a response. He utters it moments later. "Yeah, I guess."

"So are you hungry for dinner?" he asks. It is four in the afternoon. I have eaten breakfast at 6:00 AM, lunch at 12:00 PM and need to return home to prepare dinner for the others in my family. "Well, I need to get home and make dinner for everyone else now."

"Oh, yeah. Think you could give me five bucks so I could get something to eat?"

I try not to give Mike cash. If there is something he needs that I consider appropriate I buy it directly and hand it to him. And today I do not have any cash in my pocket.

"I don't have any money, Mike."

"Oh, OK."

I know he is hungry. He doesn't recognize that the reason I don't have any cash in my pocket is because I have spent most of my discretionary money for the last part of the month in his direction over the past week to buy him a few clothes, a warm hoodie to wear and some shoes. But he's not thinking of that. He's not being manipulative or selfish; he's just not thinking of that at all.

He doesn't ask, so I offer.

"Well, I don't have time to eat with you, but I can swing through the Taco John's drive through. How would that be?"

"Umm. That'd be great. Thanks."

It goes against my grain, really. I have always believed that food is meant to be shared with others, and preferably in a home around a table with those you love. Food to me represents family, friends, warmth, togetherness, attachment, joy. But to Mike, separated so long from those who love him by behaviors that cannot continue in our home, food is simply sustenance. And so I content myself knowing that even if Mike cannot eat with his family these days, at least his family can offer him some food in Jesus' name.

I drive through, purchase the food, hand it to Mike, and he says, "Thanks."

In two minutes we are at the location where he is currently staying. On the way I remind him that if he gives me his clothes that need to be washed the next time we meet up I can do that for him. I pull the car into the driveway, glance in his direction and say, "See you later, Mike. I love you."

"Yeah. You too."

And maybe, in that split second of time, we both mean it.

One Week Plus Eight Hours

2008-10-27T14:35:00.002-05:00

It has been one week and eight hours since Mike was released from jail. Over the past few days I have been in contact with him about once a day, usually to provide transportation for him to work. Our conversations have been brief and factual. Today, as I type these words, he is meeting with his parole officer. His meeting began at 1:30, he told me he would be finished in fifteen minutes; it is now 2:45, so I am wondering if perhaps something has gone awry. If I don't receive a telephone call from him soon, I will begin checking the county jail custody list to see if he appears there.

It's a strange thing to parent an adult child who has spent more time since reaching the age of majority incarcerated than not. While others his age are completing their first or second year of college, our son is still trying to complete high school. Other kids his age are dealing with difficult roommates or challenges in their schedule, while our son is simply trying to stay out jail, hold down a part-time job and retain housing. As I blogged earlier, I have learned how to view Mike's situation differently than I would have even two years ago. Then I still had some typical expectations for his life. I no longer live under the illusion that Mike's life will ever be ordinary.

By Thursday of last week (his fourth day out of jail) he had already been involved in an altercation that resulted in numerous scrapes (a number quite deep) on one of his hands and shoulders. The story is that he was helping to protect a friend who was being threatened by someone else with a knife, and in the process he was shoved to the ground and his left arm and hand ground into the gravel and pavement beneath him. I saw him a day or so after the altercation and his hand did, indeed, look quite nasty. In addition he was kicked in the head a couple of times, resulting in a bruised temple and cheek.

So today, on the way to his parole officer meeting, he pulled off a bandage and said, "Do you think I need to see a doctor?" On one of the fingers was a skinless gash, oval in shape and probably an inch in diameter. The top layer of flesh was gone and what was left bore the tell-tale signs of too much coverage and not enough light or oxygen to promote healing qualities. "I think," I said, "that you need to make sure you keep it clean and that you allow it to have some air." "Oh," he murmured as he pulled off the other three bandages on other appendages. "S***" he cursed. "Is that my bone?" He peered more closely and said, "Yeah, that's my bone."

Fortunately I was driving so I didn't have to look. There are reasons why I am an ordained minister and not a medical professional.

Up until today's meeting Mike has had what I would consider, for him, a successful seven-day run. He has not been arrested, he has worked, he has stayed in the same location for housing, he has made both PO meetings to date, he has met with the county mental health social worker to investigate service options.

The first seven days have been good ones for Mike. It's the last eight hours I wonder about.

Never Mind ... Maybe It's Just the PTSD Talking

2008-10-22T09:54:00.002-05:00

Last night I blogged that I was dubious about Mike's whereabouts and activities. I went to sleep last night without difficulty and awakened this morning as I usually do, so my sleeping was not affected. However, being the parent I am, my first impulse was to check the online county jail roster just to make sure my nagging suspicions could not be confirmed. Before I clicked to the site, though, I picked up my iPhone and discovered a text message that arrived at 12:34 AM. It was Mike. A brief message simply telling me that he had found a place to stay and that he had used $5 (I had given him a $10 yesterday to buy something to eat) to "buy gas. Hope that's OK."

There was some strange comfort in his message. He took time to let me know that he was safe and he reported back to me how he spent the money I gave to him. For someone with the checkered history Mike has, especially with those of us who love him (that's where the attachment disorders kick in), I'm not sure he could have done much better than that. Now, of course, I have no way to prove that he was, in fact, safe or that he did, in fact, use the money for gas, but that's not my job to figure out.

He appropriately informed me of his schedule today, which includes being at work by 11 AM, and asked if I could meet up with hi (the trunk of my car continues to be his closet). I agreed, so at 10:30 I will meet him at a local gas station, give him a ride to work, wait while he changes into his work clothes, and then open my trunk so he can deposit his other clothes in the "closet."

For many people who don't understand the lifestyle of adoptive parents with special needs kids (or special needs kids who are now "adults") this "taxi service" thing might sound silly or warped. Fortunately my schedule is fluid enough to allow me to do this, and it provides me some comfort knowing that I can be of assistance to help Mike do what he is supposed to do. While I cannot make his decisions nor do for him what only he can do, I can do my best to empower him. I use that word intentionally, because this situation could easily become one of enablement (which I view with disdain) rather than empowerment. It is my task to keep my boundaries with Mike clear and to offer what assistance I am able to offer. This way it benefits him, and helps me to find comfort in a challenging situation.

Many times adoptive parents jokingly (and sometimes not so jokingly) speak of their own "post-traumatic stress" (PTSD) as a result of raising children who are unpredictable, threatening and scary. So, at least for this moment, ignore last night's cynical blog. Maybe it was just my PTSD talking.

It feels good to know that for forty-eight hours now Mike has done what he is supposed to do.

I Hate To Say It, But ...

2008-10-21T21:37:00.003-05:00

I think my previous post was prophetic. In it I spoke of how I have learned to count differently when it concerns our children who have special needs, and specifically how hours are a fairly accurate measure of success for them.

This morning, day two of our son Mike's release from jail, began responsibly on his part. He called me at about 7:30 AM to check in, to ask when we could meet (so that he could leave with me his duffle bag with new clothes; he doesn't want it "lost" or stolen). We agreed upon a time for him to call back, and we met at that time. I had work commitments all morning, so I agreed to meet up with him again at 12:30 this afternoon. We met at that time, ate lunch together, drove to an alternative learning center (school) where he got scheduled for the remaining pieces he needs for his GED and then we were about out of time. I needed to be back home by 2:00 PM, so I left him at the library (at his request). He asked when he should call me back. I told him sometime tonight after 7:00 PM. It is now 9:40 PM, and he has made no contact with me.

I have learned not to get very troubled about this behavior with Mike, since it has been occurring for at least the past seven years. When Mike was twelve or thirteen he would disappear for days, sometimes, with no word to us as to his whereabouts. It was his unpredictability then (and our inability to supervise or provide protection to him) that resulted in his numerous treatment center and secure facility stays, which he rues to this day as having "stolen my childhood." We, his parents, of course, are the culprits for this theft.

So, while I am not surprised by his erratic behavior tonight, it does forebode for me that Mike's time "out" will not be long, maybe hours, maybe days. Here's the scenario as I reconstruct it in my mind, as to how Mike thinks about this (if, in fact, it is a thinking process at all).

Yesterday he needed someone to meet him after he was released into the cold from jail. His dad was the most logical choice. His dad fed him, purchased clothing for him and a warm coat, paid for him to get an new state identification card, paid today for a new library card, and bought him lunch. He had a meeting with his parole officer today which he described as "sucky." When I asked why he said that he had to drink an untenable amount of water in order for him to undergo the UA testing required. His test, after nine months in jail and only one night out, was predictably clean. His next parole officer meeting is a couple of weeks out.

I suspect he has met up with old cronies once again, thinks he has time to drink or drug a bit before his next UA, and is beginning on that journey again tonight. Since he has the bare minimums of what he needs, he feels he is set for now and he has time to "recover."

So, for at least the first twenty-six hours (maybe thirty, if I'm really generous) Mike may have been completely compliant with the terms of his release. I am hoping that tomorrow might result in forty-eight hours, but I have to admit I am dubious. We'll see what happens, when he calls next and what "need" he has that I can fulfill.

Fortunately for my own sake I have learned to set emotional limits and financial limits. I can sleep well tonight knowing that I aided Mike's immediate needs in the real world, that he can't blame me for not having something warm to wear in the cold fall weather, and that he has food to eat that should keep him for a day or so. And I have no illusions that "this time is going to be different." If it turns out that it is, in fact, a change, I will be grateful and glad for Mike. And if it is no different than all the other times I will not blame myself, and probably not even Mike. This has become such an engrained pattern for him I'm not even so sure he can change things.

As my friends in the recovery world say, "It's one day at a time." I would change that slightly. "It's one minute at a time." While I don't know what's happening for Mike tonight, I have no control over it, nor over him, so I will not worry or become anxious. Once again, as he has taught me time and again over the past ten years, I will simply commit him into God's care, knowing that this is all I can do. And maybe that's enough.

Learning How to Count

2008-10-20T14:29:00.002-05:00

When I was younger I used to count by years. It was "x" number of years until high school graduation, four years of college, two years of internship in my chosen field, three years of seminary education. For a long time the concept of years served my thinking rather well.

I have discovered that as a parent, and an adoptive one at that, that I need to learn how to count all over again. When dealing with special needs children it is not helpful to count in years. A year is a nearly insurmountable period of time in which to project outcomes. Even months are too big of a stretch in most cases. Occasionally days will suffice, but I am discovering that hours and minutes are a more accurate measure for assessing success in many of my children's lives.

This morning, for example, I was up early in order to meet our son Mike outside of the county jail, as he was released at 6:00 AM. It was a chilly fall morning with temperatures hovering in the mid-40s, so by the time I arrived at 6:10 AM Mike was already shivering in the cold, holding in his hands two plastic grocery bags containing all of his worldly possessions. Other than the clothing on his body (and the sweatshirt in question was given to him by the jail staff), he had only a few paper documents and a number of drawings he has been working on.

He has been in jail so long that he didn't recognize my car. It was seven months ago that we gave our newer car to our oldest son Kyle and purchased an older (though nicer) car which we have been driving since. When I pulled up Mike was surprised to see that it was his ride, but upon discerning my presence he jumped in the front seat, all 168 pounds of him.

There are few places to go at 6:15 in the morning, especially in our college town, so I drove to a family restaurant and we had breakfast together. We had a good conversation, and Mike reminded me continually why it is so easy to love him. When he is chemical free and needing the help of someone he is charming and more socially appropriate than several of our kids who have no real challenges.

Within a few minutes I became tasky, and we made a mental list of his tasks for the day, the chief among which is "find a place to stay." "It's a little early, dad, for me to be trying to contact friends, but I'll try later" he reminded me after we had established that as a priority. "Yeah, Mike, I understand that."

After eating we drove to my church office (Mike cannot be in our home, especially when his siblings are there, and they were still getting ready for school at that time), and I gave him, per the judge's order, a specific invitation to be with me in the church. (The judge ordered this as part of his sentence since he was involved eight months ago in a burglary at our church). In the office I worked while he emailed friends to see if he could find a place to stay.

At 9:00 AM I telephone one of the county's adult mental health social workers. She was not in, so I left a message asking her to contact us about setting up an appointment to talk about what services Mike qualifies for. I am hopeful that she will return my call sometime soon so we can get working on that. She already has Mike's file (has had for a couple of years now so that when the need arose it would be there).

We stayed at the office most of the morning, until departing to purchase some personal care items and some basic clothing. He has one pair of tattered jeans, so I purchased two more (discounted at T J Maxx) for him, as well as a sweatshirt. He now has some t-shirts, underwear and socks. That's about all he has, but it will be a start, and he appropriately thanked me.

At 2:00 PM I dropped Mike off at the place where he has started to work, where he quickly changed clothes. I told him to call me later tonight (I have responsibilities all this afternoon through early evening) to update me on things. It has been nearly nine hours since I picked Mike up, the first time I have seen him in the flesh for nine months. And in those nine hours he has been successful. Nothing has been stolen, no one has been lied to, everyone's property has been safe.

I am learning to be thankful for hours. I'm sure glad I have learned how to count all over again, because for now, at this very moment, everything is OK.

Sometimes I Think I'm Doing OK

2008-10-19T20:15:00.003-05:00

I must admit that there are many times as a parent that I wonder what difference it makes. Because I am a parent only by adoption, I do not have the birth parent route to contrast or compare with; as a result, there are times when I say, "I'm not sure it would have been all that different for my kids had we not adopted them." My wife is always quick to correct my moments of self-doubt. Melancholy that I am, however, I need to be reminded in ways that I could not otherwise manufacture, that this is so.

I was reminded tonight that maybe I'm doing OK as an adoptive parent. Shortly after I submitted my previous blog about my meeting up with Mike tomorrow morning, I took our two youngest kids, Dominyk (12) and Wilson (9) for a quick bite to eat. It has become something of a tradition in our home that they and Claudia and me (or one of us parents) will eat our Sunday evening meal together when the older kids are all at youth group. Claudia is the driver for youth group kids tonight, so it was only the three of us.

We voted. It was 2-1 in favor of McDonald's over Wendy's (you can probably guess who was the sole voter for Wendy's), so the three of entered a local McDonald's at about 7:30 PM, not exactly primetime for eating in our southern Minnesota town. It took very little time for our order to be taken and processed. We sat down at a round table near what appeared to be another family grouping, although from external observation it was hard to figure out the connections. There were two adults a bit younger than myself (late 30's maybe), another adult (probably in her early 20's), a grade school aged boy (sitting with the older adults) and a young girl, probably 2 sitting with the twenty-something adult female.

Dominyk, Wilson and I were chomping on french fries and discussing the details of the newest McDonald's Monopoly game when I heard, "What the hell are you doing?"

Usually that's a sentence that emanates from one of my own children while we are eating out, so I was momentarily taken aback as I surveyed the verbal landscape. It was not the older two adults; it was not the young Hispanic family of four sitting t our right (they were speaking in animated Spanish, and while I know a little Spanish, I would not have understood that phrase spoken). To my shock (and I am not always very shockable these days) it was the twenty-something female speaking to the two-year-old child in diapers, who I now assumed was her daughter.

"You sit down and eat your food now," she continued to command. The toddler said nothing, seemingly unfazed by the barrage of negative emotion accosting her young ears.

By this time Dominyk had craned his neck around to see who was using the words that delight him so, and he began to chuckle. I chose to ignore his response, as I didn't want to further inflame his giddiness. Within seconds he was once again focused on his Monopoly pieces. Young mom with young child, however, was not yet finished.

"Stop it now. You can't put the whole damn thing in your mouth at one time. What's wrong with you?" she berated the young child.

I never really know how to respond in such a situation. I am always troubled to see a child verbally abused and wonder if that's what I am hearing in a public setting that perhaps it's even more vicious in a home with closed doors and windows. I could be wrong about that assessment, but I wonder. I had glanced at the young child earlier and didn't see any signs of physical abuse or neglect. Since the older adults sitting nearby (connected with these two) didn't flinch an eyebrow and move a muscle in her direction, I assume that she may have learned her interactive style from one or both of them.

I don't think I'm a coward, but it just didn't seem to be the time or place to confront negative parenting, and any intervention with a stranger it is certainly outside of what Minnesotans consider to be "appropriate." It appeared that things were calming down, the young child was eating as her caretaker directed, and so I relinquished my irritation, although I prayed briefly for all involved.

And so I moved my attention back to my own two boys. As they enjoyed their fast food fare they did not have to hear words of condemnation (although at times at least one them does receive words of direction, quietly issued and not with profanity), they did not have to be degraded for being humans. They simply ate, chatted on about what they might win from the Monopoly promotion and enjoyed these brief moments together.

Sometimes I think I'm doing OK as a parent.

For Better, for Worse

2008-10-19T19:05:00.003-05:00

It is 6:30 on a Sunday night and Dominyk (our twelve-year-old son) and GIzmo (my faithful walking companion canine) and I are enjoying the beauty of an October evening. The sun is setting, a rose-colored spectrum of warm colors. "Dominyk," I say pointing to the skyline, "Isn't it beautiful?" "Yep, but it doesn't really match the colors of the leaves." Dominyk is an interesting child, always has been. His unique challenges create a very talkative, attention-challenged child whose ways sometimes resemble a borderline autistic.

A few days ago while he and I were traveling somewhere he announced to me, "Dad, I don't think I'm ever going to leave home. I'm just going to stay with you and mom and take care of you when you're older." "That's thoughtful, Dom, but I'll bet the day will come when you are ready to be on your own." He is not convinced, so I add, "But it's not a decision we have to make right now. You have plenty of time to think about that."

He and I are walking together when my cell phone rings. The called ID reads the telltale, "Blocked Call," which as I explained in earlier blog, means I am about to answer a call from our local law enforcement center, where our son Mike has been "executing his time" for several months. I answer the call.

"Um, hi, dad."

"Hi, Mike."

"Um, do you think you can pick me up tomorrow? I'm getting out."

We had talked about this on Wednesday night, so I am not surprised. I have purchased him some clothing items that I have not yet had a chance to get to him, because I know when he is released he will have only the clothes he is wearing and nothing more. We have recently purchased him some work clothes, and now he will have some underwear and socks to add to his very meager possessions.

"What's your plan? You can't come to our house, you know."

"Yeah, I know. I just want you to talk with me about what my options are so I can make some decisions."

"What time?" I ask. I already have a rather busy morning, and Claudia will be leaving mid-morning by shuttle for the airport on a four-day business trip out of state.

"How about 6:15? They let me out at 6:00."

I pause. I consider telling Mike I have a full morning. I would like him to know that his release will be an inconvenience to me. I wish he were able to have other plans or alternatives so I could, in good conscience, agree to meet him at another time. But I know he does not. And I figure it is a positive sign if he wants me to help him make some choices. Mike's IQ is high, but his organically damaged brain has so little executive functioning that he needs all the guidance he can receive. His typical pattern upon departing jail is to meet up with some of his crime-ridden friends. I have yet to determine whether that is because he is drawn to the lifestyle or because he has no other options. I have always hoped and wanted to believe it's because he hasn't had other options.

These are the thoughts that race through my mind before I speak. But I already know the answer. Tomorrow I am the "other option" that Mike needs. My conversation with him may not get him past evening before he is in legal trouble again, but I believe I have a moral responsibility to aid someone who specifically asks for my help, especially when it is my son.

It's too bad that parents don't take some kind of vows when they give birth or adopt a child. In many ways parenting is at least as big a challenge as is marriage, which provides a number of vows between two parties. I'm not exactly sure what parenting "vows" should sound like, but at the very least they would include the words, "for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer."

Tomorrow will be one of those days for Mike. He leaves jail not richer, but poorer, in so many ways. He has nowhere to go, no one other than parents as a healthy resource, too many concerns for someone who is nineteen. Ten years ago I made an unspoken vow to "love and to cherish" him and his birth brother, and I will continue to be true to my vow. And so tomorrow at 6:15 AM I will welcome into my personal world (but not our family world for numerous reasons) our errant son. Maybe, my heart portends, this will be the time when enough comes together for Mike that he can begin a new chapter in his life; while my head tells me it is unlikely.

Tomorrow morning it will be his father who loves him showing up before the sun rises to help him brainstorm options for "better," and once again I will be prepared for the "worst."

Surrounded By Mental Illness

2008-10-16T21:32:00.003-05:00

You'd think it would be enough that I confront various levels of mental illness in my life as a father of adoptive children. Let me hasten to add that not all of my children have mental illness, but several of them do have interesting behaviors and ways of relating to the world that often tire me. There are moments when their ways of understanding or responding to things are just too weird for me, as a rational, mentally healthy, fairly emotionally balanced (my wife might differ on my definition of that) person. In any case, I have come to accept my role and have actually learned as a parent to separate myself from (most of) my children's peculiarities.

Knowing that my home life is often interesting and occasionally challenging, I find some measure of relief in my vocational life as a pastor. Most days I spend with people of relative emotional balance, shared spiritual values and some genuinely nice people. It is a blessing. So when mental illness begins to horn into to my vocational life, too, it feels a little overwhelming. My church office and the people in my congregation and the community who frequent our church facility allow me to feel safe and "normal."

That changed for me tonight by my introduction to Pastor Charles. I knew something was amiss when I received a telephone call at home from one of the physicians in our congregation who was at the church earlier tonight. She talked with Claudia, who asked her to tell the visitor that our benevolence fund process only works during business hours (9 - 3) each day. I assumed that might have taken care of the issue, because we didn't hear back from her.

I arrived at the church a few minutes early for my 6:30 meeting, got to the meeting and began when within five minutes there was a knock at the door followed by the immediate intrusion of a smiling face and a garralous stranger asking for the "Shepherd of the fine flock." I stepped into the hallway amidst raised eyebrows of those in my committee meeting. In a broken French patois with enough English for me to understand I learned that Pastor Charles had been sent by the God of light to vanquish the darkness of the evil one. Based on his dialect and his theological descriptors, I suspect his origins are Caribbean and that his history is connected to voodoo.

He was clear that he is a practicing Christian and that he has turned his back on voodoo, even though his former wife (of fifteen years now) has sought to bring him down. He informed me that he has not engaged in sexual intercourse for more than fifteen years and that Satan is constantly trying to bring him down, but that the light of the Lord is bringing him through such temptation and trials.

It was a disjointed experience for me. I recognized clearly the theological premises he was articulating ... in fact, on a number of his preaching points I could ally myself theologically. But the rate of his delivery, his demonstrative gestures and his intensity made it clear to me that he was suffering from some form of mental illness, in addition to the cross cultural challenges. I told him I needed to get back to my meeting, but that if he would wait I would transport him to a nearby hotel.

The meeting was intense (it's budget time in the church, and this committee was discussing one of the most sensitive areas of church life, our staff and ways we compensate them), and I had been in church from 7:30 AM to 4:30 PM today for a district committee meeting already, so I was tired and not very patient. During the meeting I received two individual warnings that "you have a guy in the narthax waiting for you." The second came as a succinct note written by one of our AA group leaders (we have numerous support groups in our church most nights of the week) telling me about a "guy with two suitcases who appears to have some mental problems." I figured if an AA participant suspects someone is mentally ill I'd better listen.

After the meeting one of the committee members kindly offered to accompany me. I did not perceive our visitor to be a physical threat, but you never really know, so I accepted his offer to come along with me to transport my Pastor friend to a nearby hotel. The five minute ride to the hotel bore much more preaching and revelation from God. I should not have been, but I was, surprised by his biblical literacy and theological sophistication, although it was hard for me to separate those pieces from his breaks with reality and his report of being followed, persecuted and assailed by alien beings.

Upon arriving at the hotel I did my best to convey Christian grace and charity. After a mutual blessing he offered me several of his illustrated creations in gratitude for my kindness to him. A random sampling is pictured above. They are intriguing pieces, most of which are black and white, depicting various spiritual quandaries, angles, shapes, alliances and superiorities. He spoken frequently of mysticism and spirituality in ways that an ordinary person would find creepy. I graciously accepted his eight pieces of work, wishing him well on his journey.

Returning to the church to drop off my parishioner companion I thanked him for being supportive. "You sure do meet some interesting people, don't you, Bart?" he said. I regaled him briefly with several other incidents I have experienced over the year, trying to advocate for the plight of the mentally ill in our society.

People like Pastor Charles should not have to wander the streets, seeking the help of churches and others in their quest for survival. In our community there just aren't resources to offer someone like him, especially someone who appears so very different from the social norms of our southern Minnesota community. The only goal in our community is to get someone like Pastor Charles quickly on the road to the next town. In no way do we want him here, largely because we have no way to deal with such significant mental illness.

As I assessed the situation, I realize I did not feel good about simply dropping off a mentally ill man at a local hotel. Although I didn't perceive him to be a physical threat, I wanted to do what I could to ensure the safety of his next listening audience. I called the police to report the situation so they could follow up to make sure everything was OK at the hotel.

And then I prayed. I prayed for myself, feeling like I am surrounded by mental illness. I prayed for the people in my church that they might learn compassion and Christian grace from experiencing in whatever way Pastor Charles. I prayed for the hotel staff person who would have to deal with his erratic behavior. And I prayed for Pastor Charles. That God will protect His precious child, even when the rest of the world doesn't know what to do.

I only hope that others will do the same for my children when they are erratic, disconnected, rageful, antisocial and creepy. Even the most mentally ill in our society belong to someone who loves them.

The Day After Sentencing Conversation

2008-10-15T20:40:00.002-05:00

As I promised Mike at yesterday's sentencing, I showed up tonight at the jail to visit with him. I was the only one in the visitation room -- evidently Wednesday night visitation is not well attended -- so we visited almost an hour. Visits are typically thirty minutes in length only. I have previously been critical about the ways visitors (like myself) are sometimes treated by law enforcement center personnel, so I need to balance my previous words with words of appreciation now for the opportunity to "extend" the visiting time. It feels much more humane to me, and I appreciate that.

"So, did you like what you heard in Court yesterday?" were Mike's words of greeting to me.

"Umm. Well, not really. Did you?"

"I don't know."

"I'm assuming you probably knew what the judge was going to say before he said it, right?"

"Yeah, my attorney talked with me about it beforehand."

"So, tell me, what does it all mean?"

"It means that if I don't follow every single thing the judge said [and at this point Mike elucidated his understanding of the numerous terms to his sentence] I will go to prison for twenty-two months."

"So do you think you'll be able to do what you are required to do?"

With no hesitation on his part Mike answered, "No."

We pause in our conversation to absorb his candorous remarks, and then I pick up our interaction again.

"So, you're saying that you know yourself well enough that it's not going to work or you're saying that no one could possibly do all that."

"Well, both really. I don't know how I'm supposed to work, find a place to live, do eighty hours of community service within twelve months, finish school and stay out of legal trouble."

"You're right. That's a lot to do. It's going to be hard."

"So, I think I'll probably end up executing my time."

I have heard Mike use this insider language before, but I've never been quite clear on what exactly it means. So I ask him to try to explain it to me once again.

"It means that when I get out [on Monday] I'm done serving my time for now, but if I break any of the terms or probation I'm going to prison. But I think I'm just going to save some money, stay out of trouble and then execute the time."

I am more confused now than ever. "I'm not getting this, Mike. You mean you're going to plan to screw up so that you can go back in?"

"Nah. What it means is that I can ask to serve my time, and because the prison system is so filled I would be able to sit in the county jail for seven months and finish it all up."

"Oh. So you can decide to come back in and serve the time locally, on work release, and within seven months you're done with the whole sentence. If, I mean, you are able to complete the others terms ... restitution and stuff?"

"RIght."

More silence ensues as I consider how much about our criminal justice system my nineteen-year-old son has learned, and how much he has taught me in just the past year.

"Well, in your situation that might be the best thing for you. You'd have a place to live, you'd be able to work, and you'd be able to get your time done locally."

Our conversation wanders into other avenues. He is trying to assess how much assistance from us he can garner in the next few weeks. It is awkward for me because I want to help him get on his feet, but I will not put myself in a situation where I and our family members will be taken advantage of once again. He has repeatedly stolen and taken from us over the years, and I will not do that again.

I agree to purchase some underwear and socks for him, since he has one pair of each. I do not agree to help him find a place to live. (Been there, done that, bad results). I do not agree to provide him a cell phone. I do not agree to provide him with transportation (although I may be willing to help with that within the city limits if it means a ride from work to his place of abode). I agree to consider helping with fees so that he can test for the GED.

He asks about family members, and I give him updates person by person. He decides to tell me that he smokes, something I am not surprised by. "It helps me relax when I'm under stress," he tells me. "And you're paying for these how?" I question, since he has just told me he has limited clothing and no place to live. "I draw pictures and people pay me." "And you're not concerned about your health?" "Well, I figure I have to worry about skin cancer before lung cancer" (Mike is very lightly complected). "I know you don't like that I'm doing it, but it helps me."

"Well, Mike, I guess everything is relative."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean no father wants to be visiting his nineteen-year-old kid in jail, so in terms of context your smoking isn't probably the biggest issue we're talking about right now. Of course I care about it, but I think there are probably some other things that are more important at this point in time."

"Oh, you mean like my having a place to live and stuff?"

"Yeah. That's what I mean."

By the end of our conversation there are several barbs that I refuse to be snagged by. "Well, I've learned a lot about jail since I've been pretty much locked up since I was thirteen." "Yes, Mike, you've had a difficult few years."

"I couldn't finish treatment because you guys took me off your insurance plan in the middle of it."

"Mike, no one in our family over the age of eighteen who is not in school or working is able to stay on our insurance. Are you chemically dependent?"

"Well, no."

"And since you are not chemically dependent, there is no way that Mom and I could have afforded to pay the $25,000 not covered by insurance for you to be in treatment."

Silence.

Mike has aspirations. He has goals. He wants to get his driver's license. He wants to get his GED. He wants to work and make money. He wants to purchase clothing. But he knows he can never do it all, especially on his own.

"So, I've learned that I have to do what I have to do to survive. When you're starting from the bottom up and you're completely on your own you do what you have to do."

"So what are you saying, Mike?"

"I'm saying that I don't plan to do anything criminal, but if it means I have to do something that will prevent me from living in a box on the street, I'm going to do that. I'm not going to be so desperate that I'm going to be homeless."

And that pains me to hear because I know that for months before he and his birth brother moved in with us ten years ago his birth mother and her four children were, in fact, often homeless. They lived in a car for a while, with relatives, with whomever she could find.

He continues. "I mean it's not like I want to do anything illegal, but if I have to then I have to."

I cannot tell whether he is playing me or whether he is simply stating facts. I suspect it's a combination of the two.

"Well, Mike, Mom and I have always wanted you to be able to succeed, and we are looking forward to the day when you'll be able to move beyond this chapter of your life into a new one."

He says little more. It has been nearly an hour. He is tired of talking, fidgeting, ready for the word that visits are now over. "Well, Mike, I love you," I say as he stands to hang up the receiver. "Love you, too."

And with that we separate. I return to my home with my children, my spouse, my dog. Mike returns to his quarters.

Will they be temporary or permanent?

A Gracious Community

2008-10-15T10:45:00.002-05:00

I'm not sure how adoptive parents with troubled children make it without the support of others, outside of themselves. Over the past twelve years Claudia and I have had any moments of exasperation and challenge. We have discovered that the people who were our friends more than a decade ago have largely been replaced. Our "old" friends simply didn't understand the dynamics of children with special needs, nor did they really "get" our passion to adopt older kids who needed permanency.

I'm not sure that we ever intentionally said to ourselves, "Well, let's get ourselves some new friends." It wasn't like or anything. It has happened gradually over time as we have met others who are doing what we do. These are people we would not otherwise ever have known, because they are in many ways so different from ourselves. In some cases we do not share the same geography, the same experiences in life, the same religious preferences, the same philosophies of life. But one thing we share in common is children who are unique and a thirst to do in our world what is right on their behalf, even when it means a complete reorientation of our lives to do so.

We have also been blessed with a very gracious and kind community of faith. The churches that we have served over the past several years have learned what it is about our family that makes us unique and, in most cases, have discovered the passion we have for the forgotten children in our world. In our previous church the parsonage (church-supplied home for the pastor and family) received more-than-ordinary damage over the course of our seven years there. When it was time for us to leave, we offered to pay for at least half of all the damages and left them with a $1500 payment as "earnest" money of a sort. How humbled and surprised we were a couple of weeks later to receive from the church the $1500 back with a note that told us how much they had been blessed by our time with them, and that they wished to care for the parsonage renovation themselves. Upon leaving that gracious community we wondered what our next chapter in life would have in store for us.

We have been in our current pastoral appointment for 2-1/2 years, and while we do not live in a parsonage any longer (this church offers a housing allowance which gives me the opportunity to actually "own" a home and build equity during our time here), our congregation is still affected by our lifestyle. It is not as direct, typically, but the effects are there, and often, if I do say so myself, they are positive effects.

For example, over the past couple of weeks a new family has begun attending our church because we understand what it is like to have special needs kids. She is a grandmother raising two of her grandchildren, both of whom were affected by in utero exposure to drugs and alcohol. (Their birth mom's life has been destroyed by drugging). Grandma wanted a church, had been looking for a church, but wasn't sure where to go. A friend (who is a member at our church) invited her to worship, and told me about it. I took the initiative to visit with grandmother before their visit to worship. We discovered her family and ours has a lot in common. We hope that she and her grandchildren will find the gracious Christian community that we have found.

I am reminded of what a blessing this is as a result of a meeting last night at church. Yesterday morning I sat in court and waited for our nineteen-year-old son to be sentenced on charges stemming from his break and enter episode earlier this year in our church facility. Because we have been open about our family's life and because the actions of this son were directly related to the congregation, I felt I needed to share the results of the sentencing with our Church Council last night. It was a sober moment. The Chair of the Trustees told us that she had filed with the Court the "Victim Impact Statement," and that in that statement she wished Mike well and offered encouraging words to him. Although I did not see the Statement, my impression is that included forgiveness and a good word. No one had a word to add to what I shared last night at the meeting. There was no judgment, no irritation, no faces scowled in malice. Rather there were the eyes and expressions of companions in life's journey, empathic grace offered without verbiage.

I wish for every adoptive parent the gift of supportive friends and a gracious community. There is no other way we would be able to thrive in this journey as adoptive parents of older kids. There is no way to say "thank you" for such compassionate kindness from people who understand and practice the way of Christ.

And the Hammer Falls

2008-10-14T13:30:00.002-05:00

Today our nineteen-year-old son was sentenced in a district courtroom in a neighboring county seat town. At his request, I was present. It was an awkward role for me to have, not because I have never been in court with errant children (I wish I could say that, but I can't), but because his sentencing was as a result of his breaking and entering the church building where I am pastor. To complicate roles even further, Mike is not just my law-breaking son, but I am his pastor. And I am not just his pastor, but I am the pastor of 500 others who call our church "home."

As I waited in the courtroom for his appearance (which took place more than 90 minutes after his scheduled time) I listened as others received their day with justice. There was a young woman charged with theft and forgery; she has served time and will now serve more time plus a fine. There were three young men, all separate cases, all of whom were involved in issues regarding alcohol and/or thefts of various kinds. Each of them will serve some jail time in addition to fines. There were two young women recently apprehended in a burglary which involved serious threats of assault. They will sit in jail with heavy bails above their heads until their cases are finally complete.

And then there is our son. I have not seen him face-to-face for months. I have written letters to him, and I have visited him occasionally, but seeing someone through the monitors in a jail is not really the same thing. Today he shuffles into court, his feet shackled. He is is slender, taller than I remember (he is probably now 5'10"), lean and muscular. His very short reddish blond hair clashes with the bright orange of the county jail clothing. His self-imposed tattoos gleam in their sickly blueness beneath the bright lights of the courtroom. The bailiff announces the case: "Michael Ward Fletcher versus the State of Minnesota."

He is seated with his court-provided attorney. At the adjoining table are the representatives from the Department of Corrections and the County Attorney's office. The judge cursorily glances at the paperwork and asks, "Has a plea bargain been reached?"

"Yes, your honor," the lawyer from the county attorney's office confirms.

Of the five felony counts Mike has been charged with, he has agreed to plead guilty to a charge of breaking and entering that is "just under" a felony count. Because of his numerous other legal run-ins in the past two years he has acquired "points" of some sort (I am not an attorney, so I don't understand the specifics, but I do know that it means if he does something illegal the next time will result in serious charges). The judge asks a few more standard questions and then says, "Mr. Fletcher, please stand for your sentencing."

Our sedate son, his face etched with the somberness of his situation, rises to his feet. He is expressionless throughout the judge's words. I don't know whether it is because he has already read and agreed to the plea bargain (so he is aware of the details), or whether he has consigned himself to whatever might befall him, or if he just doesn't really understand that he is about to hear. Mike is bright, but his FASD (fetal alcohol spectrum disorder) limits his executive functioning, so it is difficult to know what he really understands and what he doesn't. I suspect he is more confused than I am about the sentence. There are many details, some of which are connected to previous criminal activity that affect today's outcome and which are linked to the provisions of the sentencing.

My eyes squint and my eyebrows arch as I hear the words: "You are hereby committed to the Minnesota State Commissioner of Corrections for a sentence of twenty-two months." I look at Mike. I can barely see the outline of his profile, but his hands, clutched behind his back are unmoving. Even from the distance I can see his whitened knuckles, but they do not move. His face is granite, his visage unwavering, his emotion stoic.

The judge's stentorian voice continues. Mike will be on probation for a period of up to five years, during which he is to remain alcohol and drug free, remain law abiding and work "as you are able." He is to serve up to 360 days in the county jail (I have not heard whether that is concurrent with the other term), pay restitution amounting to several thousand dollars, and serve (I think) 80 hours of community service. He is not to enter B--- Avenue U----d M----dist Ch---ch again, without their permission.

The hammer has fallen.

The bailiff brings to my son, the criminal, his sentencing paperwork. Mike signs where he is directed. And he turns toward the officer who has brought him into the court room. It is a small court room; we are close to one another, but we cannot exchange a hug or a handshake or any other physical contact. I move in his direction, and he says, "So, do you think you could visit me tomorrow, Dad?"

In that split second of time there are many things that pour through my mind. I could be whimsical and retort, "Well, at least I'll know where to find you for a while." After five or more years of his running away, treatment center stays and juvenile detention and (now) jail and prison time, I don't have to wonder where he is sleeping, what he is eating or what illegal act he might be committing. Or, I could go "parental" and say, "What? You've just been sentenced to nearly two years in prison and that's all you can say?" Or, I could be pastoral and offer grace, "Mike, we love you and we forgive you."

But all I can say is, "When are the visiting hours?"

Reflections on Twenty-One Years Past

2008-10-14T07:54:00.002-05:00

I have discovered that in life there are unifying metaphors, many of which come to us unexpectedly and usually through intentional reflection. Let me flesh out what I mean.

One of the liabilities of my vocational life (ordained minister) is that we move. In my (United Methodist) tradition we move fairly regularly, on the average (these days) of every 7-10 years. (This is a greatly improved statistic from even twenty years ago when the average stay in a pastoral appointment was more like 3-5 years). With each move there is the opportunity for personal and vocational reflection, the process of saying "goodbye" and finding closure in order to move on to a new venue of ministry. These expected moves are challenging for a single person, but when one carries along a spouse and/or children with the process it is even more tendentious. And, if you are adoptive parents (as we are) with children who have previously (in their foster care experiences) moved rather frequently, it is both easy and hard.

It is "easy" because kids who spent any time in foster care know what it means to pick up and move on, often at the whim of someone else's decision. There is little power offered a foster child, and that's what can make it "hard," even when the children are now moving with their parents.

With every move there are multiple boxes that not only have to be packed to leave but consequently unpacked upon arrival. Some of those boxes are essential -- kitchen items, clothing, bedding -- and some are not -- boxes of books, magazines, photos. We have now lived in our "new" community for more than two years, and in my office I still have a number of boxes that need to be opened and sorted through. Truth be told, some of these boxes have now been sealed for nearly ten years, since they also sat in my previous office for seven years without having been opened.

Now here's where the life metaphor thing kicks in a bit. I find that there are so many things in life that each of us need to "unpack." There are unresolved conflicts or griefs, unhealed pains, unanswered questions that we have "boxed" to be opened "later," although later sometimes never arrives.

In a literal sense I am unpacking some of those old boxes, with the goal of having my office organized and in good shape within six months (I'm telling you, there really are a lot of things I need to work through here). And, I am discovering, in a metaphorical sense I still have things to unpack, sort through and with which to find resolution.

This morning one of the old theological journals I pulled out is dated Spring 1987. When I see dates on things, my natural inclination is to wander back into my memory to remember my "place" at that time. The Spring of 1987 was the first year after my college graduation, I was living in the Twin Cities, working full-time in a job I hated and working part-time in a church, which was the fulfillment of my life's call. I was the age then of my oldest son now.

And that's what makes me stop for just a moment to think. In fact, my oldest son was one year old at that time, although I had no knowledge of his existence. When you adopt older children that's one of the strange realities -- the life you were living had no intersection with the life they were living at all. Most parents who reflect back can remember not only what they were doing as an individual or a couple, but what was happening in their child's life, too. I do not have luxury.

But what I can do is to have a better developed sense of the life experience of my son. This is his first year out of college. He is working in his chosen field, and by his report doing well and enjoying the experience of teaching. Twenty-two years ago when I was his age I did not, like he, have enough life experience to fully understand my context or to really assess the meaning of it all. None of us do. But in time we grow. Our lives deepen and expand, we become broader and better connected with ourselves and others.

My life metaphor today is this water-damaged, wrinkled, stained Spring 1987 edition of Word and World: Theology for Christian Minsitry. As I open the stiff pages curled from moisture and disuse, I glance at the article titles. There is an article on feminist language in connection with God, a radical notion twenty-plus years ago. One of the journal writers was at the time an unknown pastor in Oregon writing an academic treatise on mysticisim; he has since become a well-known figure in his denominational world and has pastored one of its biggest congregations. The book reviews in the back now represent work that is considered out of date at worst, classic at best.

Twenty-two years ago I didn't have much time or inclination to read the articles in question. The fact is I have kept these journals all these years in hopes that someday I would have the emotional energy and intellectual focus to read and understand what is there. Year after year I have packed these volumes to read later, and now I finally have.

And I discover, to my surprise, that I have grown in the past quarter century. I am not the same person I was then. Because today I can read the articles, understand their salient points, ferret out the nuances, and most importantly, toss the finally read, shelf-worn volume into the trash.

I have read what is there; I have gained what I needed; I am ready to let go and move forward. Now it's time for me to tackle some of those journals -- and the residual pieces of my life -- from the late 1990s. Expect a blog about that in another ten years.

Without Your Clothes On

2008-10-13T13:34:00.003-05:00

I mentioned in an earlier blog that one of the things I want to do is provide a little more levity as it comes my way. Especially because I am by nature a fairly serious person, but also because the adoptive parenting task can be overwhelming to someone with a serious bent, I'm trying to enjoy those unplanned epiphanies where humor enters my life.

This morning I had a funeral for a relatively young man, who at the age of 78, died as a result of the effects of alzheimer's. I've only known him the two years we've been in this community and parish, and the past year he has been largely in a different state of mind, so my memories of him are limited at best. The first year I was here as his pastor he would always thank me at the end of the service as he shook my hand, often by saying, "A very nice sermon, reverend." As you might suspect if you are a church goer, a pastor hears those words on a regular basis, whether deserved or not. It's kind of like greeting someone with, "How are you?" and not really expecting an answer. But with the man whom we said goodbye to today, it always seemed sincere and personal.

These kind of funerals are not difficult. To help a family and friends celebrate the life of a person who has lived his years well, who has spent the past year slowly fading from the life he and those around him knew, is not hard. He, and his family members, were ready for his transition from this life to the one beyond.

Observing his family and friends hug, laugh and share conversation before and after the service was rewarding. It confirms what intuitively I thought to be true. He was a lover of people and those who were in his shadows are good, kind, loving people.

Following the lunch together a small group of family members were gathering to depart as I was crossing the entry area of our church facility. I was on my way to return my vestments to the sacristy when I was pulled aside by his widow. After some kind words and a hug, she introduced me to her deceased husband's sister-in-law. And that's where my chuckle for the day ensued.

"Oh," she said, as her septagenarian eyes scanned me, "that's who you are. I didn't recognize you without your clothes on." She was referring, of course, to my liturgical apparel ... alb, stole and cincture. But I couldn't help smiling to myself about the interesting way we humans communicate one with another.

A Confirmation Lap Dance

2008-10-07T18:09:00.002-05:00

Most of my blog entries are fairly focused and intended as reflections on my life as an adoptive parent; however, there are moments too humorous in our family's life not to note somewhere beyond our own dinner table. Perhaps if I blog events like this it also will provide some balance (for myself) to my typical need for deep introspection.

Our family that is together was eating a few moments ago, enjoying the spaghetti, salad and bread sticks I had prepared. My wife Claudia is out of town on business, two of our sons are playing in a football game (when there's only one parent home, we usually forego sporting events, even though we do so regretfully), a third son is watching them play football, and our three older sons are out of the home.

As I was getting ready to leave the table our sixteen-year-old son who, along with his fifteen-year-old sister, will be completing their confirmation process in a month, asked me about the confirmation project. (Our confirmands prepare what I call a "Personal Expression of Faith" which needs to include each of those elements ... related to the person, an expression of whatever form they choose, and related to their spiritual journey.

"So, Dad, if I do a CD [by which he means compiling a CD of favorite music and a written explanation of why that music has spiritual relevance to him] what kind of music can I use?"

I've explained this numerous times, so as I was drawing a breath to remind myself to be patient, one of the other kids, just beginning confirmation chimed in, "It has to be Christian music." I said, "Not necessarily, but it does need to have some kind of connection to your faith."

No sooner had those words fallen from my lips than I heard the other to-be-confirmed daughter saying, "I want to do something that's never been done before."

Affirming her positive approach [the last two years with her have been so very difficult, although the last two weeks have been a marvelous respite ... more on that later] I suggested in jest, "How about a rap dance?" Knowing that had never been done before, I thought it might open her thoughts to something even more creative.

"What?! You want my confirmation project to be a lap dance?" she responded incredulously.

"Umm. No. I said, a 'rap dance.'"

Those who understood laughed while the others exhibited a befogged face. And no, I don't think I'm going to add that the list of suggested confirmation projects.

When The Cell Phone Says "Blocked"

2008-10-03T11:43:00.002-05:00

I have learned something new about law enforcement in the past few months. Having had no encounters with law enforcement in my life until our kids became involved in illegal activities, there is always something interesting to learn from that side of life. I have learned, for example, that there are two separate housing areas at the local jail. One is for "straight time" inmates (those who are not allowed to leave until their sentence is complete) and the other is for "work release" inmates. (Our nineteen-year-old son has recently "moved up" to become a work release inmate).

I have also learned that sometimes good, law-abiding, tax-paying citizens who choose to visit someone in jail are treated with as little respect as the individuals who are incarcerated. But I've blogged about that before, so I won't perseverate on it any longer.

Most recently I have learned that when my cell phone rings and the caller ID says "blocked call," it is most likely a call from the local jail. Our son Mike has been reconnecting with us more frequently in the past couple of weeks, and while I understand it is because he needs something from us, I also understand that it's part of the reason I am his dad. Claudia and I have adopted kids so that when they are in difficult spots they have someone they can turn to. I can only imagine what it would be like to be nineteen, in jail, and having no adult resources at all (other than what the system may be able to offer). So, although there is not much we can do for Mike at this point in his life, there are some things we can do.

He called today to followup on his earlier request for our help in providing him with some clothing for possible job interviews. He tells me he has a job interview on Monday and wonders if we can help him "with the clothes stuff." I told him that we could, and that I would bring him some interview clothes before his interview Monday.

"Oh, yeah," he continued, "visiting hours are Saturday and Sunday from 2:30 - 5:30."

It's nice to have an "adult" child who wants to see you, even if it is while he is in jail, and even if there are ulterior motives.

With the latest research on the brain indicating that an individual's brain is not fully formed until the age of 26, I am hopeful that offers Mike some kind of a future. It is hard to know with his organic brain damage due to prenatal alcohol exposure, but he has a high IQ and is "bright" enough to get himself into trouble. Perhaps in time he can become a contributing member of society.

And if providing him a set of clothes for an interview can help him in that direction, I'm glad to do it.

A Wish Bracelet

2008-10-02T11:09:00.004-05:00

As I walked into our nearly dark church sanctuary last night (we have a Wednesday evening worship service at 5:30PM these days, which is actually growing in attendance, which is nice, but I wander) I noticed a couple of people towards the front of the worship space looking at an array of objects on the chancel platform.

I greeted them and I heard the voice of the sixth grade girl say, "Pastor Bart, would you like a wish bracelet?"

I said, "What is a wish bracelet?"

"Well, you choose one of these bracelets I've made. I tie in on your wrist, you make a wish, and then you wear it until it falls off. Then your wish comes true."

Now I'm not much of a believer in wishes, but I am a believer in prayer. Not wanting to create a philosophical quandary with such a genuine offer from this delightful young person, I said, "Sure, I would love to have a wish bracelet."

She showed me my options, and immediately I chose one that has two colors of green intertwined, one a life-giving grass-like green, the other a nicely contrasting lime green. At the center of the bracelet was a single large green bead.

"That's a good one," she affirmed. "It's even got my lucky bead in the center."

I'm not one for "luck," either, but I graciously accepted her offer. As she knotted the bracelet with two twists she said, "OK. Make a wish." I paused for a minute, nodded my assent, and she said, "There's your wish bracelet."

I've decided I would use my wish bracelet to help me pray for my son, Mike. Mike's eyes are green, varying between a light blue and the intensity of the grass green, sometimes almost a lime color, so the colors of my "prayer" bracelet remind me of him. Several years ago while he was in treatment somewhere (there've been too many times to remember) Mike crafted for me this green beaded celtic cross, which I have occasionally worn as part of my pastoral identity. It's another connection for me with the greens, my faith and my son.

It's funny how a new object on one's wrist seems annoying at first. Every few minutes I feel the bracelet against my skin, and I am reminded of Mike, and I pray for him. It's hard to know what to pray, because it is so basic. I mean, I want Mike to get out of jail, get a job, finish high school and stay out of legal trouble. For most of my kids I don't even have to pray that way because they have mastered (or are mastering) these goals. But with this son it's really just that foundational and just that basic.

I wrote Mike a brief letter this morning, explaining how I would be using my "prayer" bracelet.

I am not ready to give up on you, Mike, and I know that God is not done with you, either. As I explained to you last night in our visit, there is not much these days I can do to be helpful. But as there are things I am able to do, I will try my best. I want you to be able to finish high school, to get a job, to pay back your restitution.

I want you to never touch drugs or alcohol again. I want you to find friends who will be positive (or at least neutral) in your life. Most of all I want you to find happiness and to find your way in the world without further jeopardizing yourself or others

There was, of course, more to the letter, but mostly I wanted him to know that my desire is to maintain a connection with him even though that will be difficult because he can really not live in our home anymore. I want him to know that he is not forgotten, and that there is a person in the world who really believes something can change for him.

If I were simply a pragmatic truth-teller I would say there is little hope and that no change is possible. And maybe there isn't. But I'm not quite ready to give up yet.

A Look On the Inside from the Outside

2008-10-02T07:10:00.004-05:00

I mentioned in an earlier blog this week that I received a telephone call from our nineteen-year-old son, who is nearing the end of a ninety-day sentence for a felony charge. He is scheduled to be released in about three weeks. That could change, though, if his upcoming sentencing (for a separate third degree felony charge) results in more time "inside." Although I have been writing to Mike faithfully over the past few months while he has been in and out of at least three separate county jails (sometimes it has been hard to even know where he has been located), I have not visited him for some time. In one of our telephone calls this week he asked if I would be able to visit him. I agreed to come on Wednesday night after my responsibilities at church were completed. So last night at about 7:30 PM I stopped for my 30-minute visit.

The jail in the county in which we live is nothing special. It is dated, overcrowded (it's one of the reasons Mike has been "moving" from county to county) and resembles what you might have seen on one of those television prison reality shows. We are not a big county as counties go, so it's not a huge facility, but the county is currently in the process of constructing a new facility which, I am told, will house up to 300 inmates. The current facility is stretched when there are seventy-five inmates, and it is always full. I won't even take time to comment on how "we" can build a new jail facility to hold four times as many as we can now, in contrast to the lack of any kind of post-incarceration services available. It is lunacy.

It is Fall now, so by the time I arrived at 7:30 last night the facility was enshrouded in mist and the glare of bright lights. There were few vehicles in front of the jail, and I breathed a sigh of relief. There are times when there are so many visitors that the schedule is filled early in the evening. It's always irritating to prepare emotionally for a visit "inside" and then be turned away. While I'm on the irritating subject, it is also irritating, as a law-abiding, respectable citizen who pays taxes in this fine county, to be treated as a criminal when I show up for a visit or to request information from someone who is a law enforcement officer or assistant.

Earlier this week I stopped by to drop off paperwork for our son so the could apply for jobs and was treated so rudely by the front desk person I had to bite my tongue. I was simply inquiring as to how I could drop off the paperwork and her persistent response was, "You can't do that here. We are not permitted to accept items for inmates at this window." She would not offer information as to the appropriate procedure until I pressed, "Well what is the right procedure then?" She shrugged, pointed to a phone sitting on the window counter and said call [an extension]." You can't tell me that she didn't know exactly what the procedure is, and she could have been more courteous to me. After all, I didn't commit the crime, I'm not doing the time, and I'm helping to pay her salary. I wish this were an isolated instance, but I have been treated poorly in phone calls to this county and to another nearby county as well when I was simply inquiring as to visitation hours or procedures. The gruff, huffy, "I don't have time for your stupid questions" response is all too familiar, and it irritates me.

Anyway, last night I was pleasantly surprised by the voice of an officer on the other end of the phone line who, after asking the appropriate questions ("Who are you visiting? What is your name? What is your address? What is your relationship?") politely told me to "come on up to the third floor." Minutes later I walked into the visitation area where there are three or four separate carrels with a video screen and a telephone handset. There was no one else there tonight, so I didn't have to combat the collateral conversations to my right or left. I could focus on my visit, and that was nice.

Behind the other side of the glass sat our son, who eagerly picked up the handset to talk. After exchanging the typical pleasantries Mike updated me on his legal status. As a result of his past year of criminal activity his record will include two felonies that are permanent on his record. He was convicted of receiving stolen property and car theft, and these incidents will follow him the rest of his life. Nineteen years old and every time he fills out an application for a job or a volunteer opportunity or to try to finish high school or to go to a trade school or whatever he will have to mark the box that says he is a convicted felon. It could turn to three in a couple of weeks, but that remains to be seen.

"Well, I've grown up a lot in the past nine months, Dad," Mike said.

"Yeah? I'm glad to hear that, Mike. What's your plan when you're out again?"

"Well, it's mostly to try to finish high school and get a job. But that's hard to do when I don't have a place to live."

"You're right. That is a big issue."

Silence.

"Do you think you and Mom could talk to [the person who a year ago agreed to rent to me, but who dissolved that relationship after seven days?]"

"I don't think so, Miike. I don't think she is willing to do that again."

"Oh."

Another moment of silence.

"So, do I have any clothes at home?"

"No, Mike, you don't have any clothes at home. You took what you had when you left the last time, and there really isn't anything of yours there." [It has been a year since Mike was even in our home, and at that time he had virtually nothing].

"Hmm. It's kind of hard to get a job interview when I don't have any clothes to wear."

I glance at the orange jail garb that clashes with his reddish-orange hair and feel a pang of paternal angst. What is a parent to do at this juncture in a conversation? The reason Mike has no clothes is because he has spent most of the past year in and out of jail, staying with low-life friends when he is out and having his clothing and any other possessions "lost" or "misplaced" or "taken" by "friends."

"Do you think any of the guys at home have any clothes that are too small for them now that I could use?"

"I can check, Mike, but I'm not sure. Remind me of your sizes again."

He tells me, and I make a mental note to ask my wife about any possibilities on that front.

We continue to talk, exchanging information about family members and the like, when I ask him if he's on any medication.

"Yeah. It's mostly for my PTSD [post-traumatic stress disorder] and insomnia. They've tried different things, and these help some, but I really just need to get out of here. Jail is no place for someone with PTSD."

I have noticed during the first few moments of our conversation that his facial tics are more pronounced and that he is often wringing his hands and pulling his fingers through his hair. Periodically, without warning, at the slightest movement behind him he turns rapidly and anxiously in an effort to self-preserve.

"Do you fear for your safety, Mike?" I ask.

"Umm. Yeah. But I'm going to get out in three weeks or so."

And again, what can a parent do. This is my son, nineteen years old, jailed with criminal adults whose lives have been hardened over the years by their actions and consequences. He is one of the youngest of the seventy-five men currently locked up. His chronological age does not match his emotional age. He is, maybe, sixteen emotionally at this point in time. And I am helpless to do much for him.

He cannot live in our home because he steals everything he can from us. His presence terrorizes our other children. He brings into our home his drug-using friends, and we cannot feel free to leave our residence because he will enter it when we are gone. (We have a restraining order now that has prevented him from doing so currently).

I am torn. We adopted Mike (and our other children) to help them avoid homelessness, to show them a way of life beyond what their birth heritage alloted them, to give them a chance. Some of our kids have seen those open doors and walked through them. Others have seen those doors and walked past them, kicking a way through the wall to make their way of "escape" into bondage.

But I will do for Mike what I can do. And at this point what I can for him is to love him, to be present in his life (although he cannot be "present" in the same way in our family's life) and to remind him always that he has more potential than society or he thinks he has. It's not enough, but it's all I have to offer.

And I hate that.

Revisiting the Question, "Who Is a Victim?

2008-09-29T18:28:00.004-05:00

When I arrived at my church office Sunday morning in preparation for a full morning of pastoral responsibility, I happened to check my "in" box. Amongst the typical junk mail drivel was an official looking envelope with a return address of Department of Corrections, State of Minnesota. I knew immediately it was a piece of mail about our son, Mike, who is currently serving a sentence that will be up sometime in October. The piece of mail arrived at my church office because it involved the third degree felony burglary charges Mike acquired in the act of breaking into our church earlier this year.

Enclosed in the envelope were two documents. The first was a factual piece that reports Mike has pled guilty to the charges against him (evidently the five felony counts were dropped to one in exchange for his plea of guilty) and will be arraigned in mid-October. Anyone representing the aggrieved party (the church) was welcome to attend the sentencing. In addition, questions were asked about restitution. How much damage was done, what was not covered by insurance, what kind of restitution did the party suffering loss wish to pursue. Those kind of questions.

The second document is the one that made me pause. It is the Victim Impact Statement. Intended to be completed when a human person has been affected, the document was addressed to the name of our church and then "Educational Wing," with the address. The building in question is not going to be able to respond as a victim in this situation, so I pondered what I should do. I am not simply the pastor of the church in question, but the victimizer is my son. Who, then, is most appropriately the victim?

Is it I ... because the act was certainly motivated out of a personal vendetta against me as the perpetrator's father. Is it the trustees of the church, who are charged with the responsibility of caring for the physical property? Is the members of the congregation whose sense of security has been challenged?

Or, I wonder, is it Mike?

Hear me carefully. What Mike did is wrong. It is a felony kind of wrong. He needs to have legal consequences for his actions and his disregard of a place of worship. I am not saying that Mike is the "victim" of the court system or anything like that. I am not excusing his actions.

But I have to wonder what kind of person Mike would be at the age of nineteen if his birth mother had chosen not to drink during his pregnancy with him. Would he be successfully beginning his second year of college this fall? Would he have embarked upon a journey as an artist or another creative type in accordance with the innate abilities he demonstrates? Would he and I be talking about financial aid and class schedules and social life instead of solitary confinement, attempting to find work and looking for a place to live?

I know that his genetic type can succeed, because his brother is 21-years-old and a college graduation, giving back to the world by teaching a third grade classroom this fall. But Mike is sitting in a jail cell, awaiting yet another sentencing hearing. At some point Mike has to figure out that given his organic brain challenges he needs someone to guide him in life. But the tragedy is that not only does Mike have FASD, not only is he quite intelligent, but he has significant attachment issues that have never allowed him to trust anyone.

Ironically, as Claudia and I were walking today at lunch time I was beginning to talk with her about the Victim Impact Statement when my cell phone rang. I picked it up and saw the incoming number as "blocked." I debated whether to answer and Claudia said I should. Clicking the button to connect me with my caller I heard Mike's voice. "Dad? It's me, Mike."

He went to ask whether we had had any contact with the most recent treatment center he had been in, but I reminded him that since he is a legal adult they can have no contact with us at all. We couldn't even initiate contact on his behalf because we are not legally allowed that access. He was concerned because he believes the treatment center has both his birth certificate and social security card, he needs them to apply for a job, and he doesn't know how to get them back.

Now, really, what is someone who is that scattered as a young adult doing in a jail cell month after month? No one, not even he, contests that he broke the law, and that numerous times. But what good have jail sentences served him? I have never been convinced of the rehabilitative value of jail or prison, and Mike's experience has only confirmed my opinion.

I'm not sure what the answer is since none of the interventions we have tried over the years have managed to effect much change in Mike's life. But surely in a society like ours that still allows pregnant women to drink as they wish there should be some resources available for the ones who are victimized by her morally outrageous behavior.

Pregnant women who drink should be sitting in jail, at least until they have given birth to a relatively healthy child. But, as in many cases in life, the one who is held responsible is the one who has been impaired by a choice he was not able to make years ago in utero. And so we punish the one whose brain has been organically damaged.

I'm not sure anymore who is the victim.

A Little Brotherly Affection ... And Some Fatherly Attention

2008-09-26T08:19:00.005-05:00

I mentioned earlier this week that Claudia is out of town for several days on work-related business, so things at home are a bit different. She is the law-giver, so things are a bit freer here than often is the case. I am the nurturer, so it is not difficult for me to let some things go. Fortunately, between the two of us our kids benefit from the best of both worlds, structure and freedom.

Usually I am also gone before the kids are getting ready for school. I am either walking or at the office, both of which I prefer to initiate early in the day. Today is my day off, though, so there's a different feeling in the air (which I will soon embrace as I take our dog Gizmo for a walk in the fresh new day). These past few days have allowed me the luxury of awakening our kids (those who don't do it on their own) and having some first-thing-in-the-morning time with them. It has been really quite pleasant. I am reminded of the pleasures that stay-at home parents can experience. (I know there are drawbacks, too, to that role, but the joy of being able to awaken your children and see them off to school with plenty of hugs and kisses is a nurturer's delight).

Wilson (our youngest) has been taking Claudia's spot in the bed at night. He is a quiet sleeper, and I scarcely know he is there. In the morning he is a charming presence, his capacious smile filling up his burnished tan face, lighting up his crescent-shaped dark eyes. He smiles a toothless grin (he's going to the orthodontist soon to see about his dental challenges) and slowly ebbs into the morning.

As Wilson is stretching into awareness our older son Ricardo (14) comes into the bedroom to ask a question, and seeing Wilson stretching beneath the blankets, takes up a temporary residence there himself. Ricardo, who is quite reserved by personality, enjoys periodic moments of affection. I say periodic because he is not a clingy, touch-feely kind of kid, but if affection is initiated (as I often do with him) it is received in a healthy way. (I continue to be surprised that of all of our kids, with the possible exception of most recent two, it is our sons who grew up in a Guatemalan orphanage whose attachment issues are the most limited. Our kids who grew up in US foster care have fared the worst).

One of the things I value about our family is that (as far as we know) physical boundaries have never been broached, and unlike so many adoptive parents of older kids, we have not had to worry about sexual acting out or other inappropriate displays of physical affection. It is freeing to be able to share physical affection without the fear of sparking some past negative history.

So, this morning, after directives on my part, we begin the three-stage process of transporting kids to school. Our older kids are not quite ready, so I take Wilson and Dominyk to their elementary school first. We chat merrily on the way about weekend plans. Wilson will be staying at a friend's house tonight, and he is excitedly planning his time. Dominyk's plans are what they usually are -- time with his PCA after school and then home. We joke and banter, with paternal correction occasionally interrupting Dominyk's inappropriate word choices. Both Dominyk and Wilson ask, "So, you're going to be home after school today, right Dad?" (The past two days I have been unable to be there immediately after school because of prior commitments). "Yes," is my simple response. "Thank God," says Dominyk, and he bursts into a hallelujah-type response atypical of our stolid United Methodist ways. "Hallelujah, praise Jesus," he continues. It is over the top, as is Dominyk's personality, but I am heartened to think that my after-school presence is that valuable.

Arriving at the school I tell them with exaggerated expression how much I will miss them while they are there. Dominyk teases Wilson for a moment about how dad "loves you," and, as a parting rejoinder for Dominyk as he steps out of the car I say just loudly enough for him to think others hear: "Oh, Dominyk, I love you, too," as I make big smoochy noises with my lips. Dominyk's eyes dart furtively about the playground hoping his sixth-grade acquaintances have not heard; he sighs with relief as he sees no one looking or listening. Wilson says little as he exits the car, his diminuitive figure deftly trotting toward the school.

I return home to pick up the older kids. Our son Jimmy (16) collapses into the front seat. Our four seventh and eighth graders -- Tony (13), Leon (13), Mercedes (13) and Ricardo (14) -- are able to squeeze into the back seat of our 2000 Avalon, and this morning do so without mutual provocation. They have arrayed themselves in the best homecoming apparel they can find since tonight is their school's homecoming football game. Tony's blond hair has become black (the school colors are black and yellow), Leon's black hair has become a sparkly yellowish, Mercedes' tan skin sparkles with some kind of makeup and Ricardo's jet-black hair has been gelled to perfection.

As we near the parking of the Junior High School, I am again questioned. "You'll be home after school, right, Dad?" "Umm, yes," is my response, expecting some form of contemptuous junior high disdain. "Good," is their unified response. "It matters that much to you?" I ask the group, especially the junior high kids in the back seat. "Well, yeah," is their sophisticated affirmation.

What a nice morning it has been. So few of our mornings are this way that to have two in a row like this is a sheer blessing from God.

When the School Does a Good Thing

2008-09-25T11:43:00.000-05:00

Most adoptive parents (or parents of special needs kids) have horror stories about their interactions with "normal" institutions like churches, schools and social services. Even those who are trained for the task of working with special needs issues are sometimes obtuse when it comes to the child in question. Or, it may not be the individual professional in question but the policy of the institution he or she represents.

The good news is that sometimes these institutions do a good thing on behalf of a challenged/challenging child.

A few minutes ago I received a telephone call in my office. It's never a good thing when my office administrative assistant says, "Pastor Bart, you have a call from a teacher at Franklin School." I mean, I know they're not calling to affirm my fatherhood, nor are they inquiring about ways the church can make positive connections with the school or something. They are calling because an incident has occurred that requires parental notification.

After identifying herself, the individual said, "Dominyk was in school today with a pocketknife."

I can't say that I am surprised, because he often leaves things in his pockets that he forgets about. I do at least half of the laundry in our home, so I have railed at him many a time for the rocks, plastic animals, knives, pens, pencils, erasers, gum, YMCA cards, and assorted other trinkets that find their way into the laundry.

She went on to say, "And, as you know, we have a zero tolerance policy for items like this."

"Right," I grimaced, awaiting the next bad news. Like, "You need to come and pick him up," or "he is going to be suspended for three days," or whatever.

"But," she continued, "Dominyk is the one who brought it to our attention. As soon as he realized he had it in his pocket, he came and told us right away. He forgot it was in there. So, we are going to handle this directly with you. Since Dominyk did the right thing we are going to honor that."

"That's very kind of you," I responded. "We appreciate that."

And so, I will need to come to the teacher's room one day soon and pick up the pocketknife directly. There will be no further sanctions for him (or us) because he did the right thing.

And, fortunately, so did the school.

Where Do Polar Bears Like to Vacation?

2008-09-24T21:45:00.003-05:00

Brrrr. Muda.

Claudia is out of town on work-related business for a few days, so it's just dad and the nine (at home) kids. Since Mom's side of the bed has been temporarily vacated there are at least a couple of our kids who vie for the space. Our two youngest, ages 12 and 9, beg to share the bed with me. Our twelve-year-old is simply too restless and animated during the night, so I can't let him sleep next to me. The last time we tried that he kicked me, punched me, pushed me, cursed at me in his sleep, and then fell out of the bed. It was a typical night for him, but a disturbing one for me. He has been consigned to his own bed, which I assure him is "more comfortable because" he's "accustomed to sleeping there."

Wilson has completed his homework in the bedroom (he doesn't want to lose the coveted place on the right hand side of the bed) and now he is finishing his evening by reading jokes (the typical third grade ones) to Dominyk and me.

Wilson: Where do polar bears like to vacation?
Answer: Brrr. Muda.

Wilson: What do you get when you cross a guppy with a monkey?
Answer: A shrimp-panzee.

And the jokes go on and on, for pages. Occasionally we will chuckle. Most of the time Wilson will read the joke ahead of us, offering his editorial helps. "Ya'll are gonna have a hard time with this one," he says, his Texas twang not quite ameliorated by nearly a year of living in the upper MIdwest.

Wilson: What kind of doctors make fish look beautiful?
Answer: Plastic sturgeons.

Wilson: What's an eel's favorite card game?
Answer: Glow fish.

We are having a very nice time, chortling together over the cleverness (and corniness) of what we read and hear. It is a pleasant evening. The innocence of a nine-year-old's emerging personhood is a delight to behold.

Sometimes it's as if God looked at Claudia and me, after raising the first ten of our kids (with varying degrees of difficulty), and said, "Here are your last two kids. You've worked so hard in the past twelve years you deserve a blessing."

And so they are.

How To Improve an Adolescent's Literacy

2008-09-24T21:06:00.005-05:00

Our church has a focused, 30-minute worship service at 5:30 PM on Wednesday evenings, just before our 6 o'clock community meal and just before confirmation groups and musical groups begin their work at 6:30. Tonight as I exit the sanctuary to head toward the community meal (we call it "Wednesday Night Supper"), my thirteen-year-old, eighth grade son, Tony, grabs me by the arm.

His blue eyes sparkling, his freckled face flush with enthusiasm and his scratchy pubescent voice join together as he says, "Hey, dad!"

"Um, yes, Tony," I say a bit distracted by the busyness of the evening, knowing intuitively that any conversation with Tony will be circuitous and at least three times as long as it needs to be.

"Hey, Dad, you have to read this."

I look down as he proffers me a hardback book from his school media center. I am surprised. It is a book four times as long as he typically reads, it is clearly a work of fiction and it is in the detective/mystery genre. The author is James Patterson, with whom I am vaguely familar. I enjoy a good mystery and have listened to (and read in the old-fashioned way) many a good read on my iPhone, including Jonathan Kellerman and Faye Kellerman, among my favorites.

Before I can say anything further he has thrust the book into my hands, a well-creased chapter bookmarked with the generic kelly green bookmark provided all eighth graders by their English teacher so they can record the dates of their reading and how many pages they have finished.

His chubby finger points excitedly to the text where he wants me to begin my perusal.

Jamilla greeted me at the door, lips first, a delicious kiss that warmed me from head to toe. I didn't get to see much of her wraparound baby-blue blouse and black pencil skirt until we pulled apart. ... She sure didn't look like a homicide cop today.

I look up from the text and his eyes meet mine. I say, "Hmmm."

Tony, with urgency in his voice, says, "Keep reading. Keep reading."

And so I do, dutiful father that I am, smiling inwardly at my young adolescent's son first literary experience with a genre designed to smolder (albeit slightly) one's sensuality. I read the three ensuing, lurid pages as he waits for my response. Fortunately I am an open-minded sort of person who has learned over the years to sequester what might be my anxiety, having learned that an anxious parent only creates a more focused (usually in the negative sense) child. I have also, over the years, read material much more revealing than this relatively tame passage, so I am not overly concerned.

It is, I suppose, ironic that I as a spiritual leader of a congregation find myself steps outside of the sanctuary in the lobby area reading fiction that has scintillated my son's prurient interest. I am not a legalistic Christian, and I choose not to overreact. Instead I say, "Wow. What do you think of that?"

"I don't know," he says, his mirth unrestrained.

"Kind of exciting?" I query.

He shrugs his shoulders.

"Let's see. You're on page number 28. I wonder what it's going to be like by the time you read page 80?"

Quick contemplation on his part, a pensive look on his face and his quivering response, "I don't know."

"Guess you'll have to find out, huh? You better keep reading, Tony!"

And with that he tugs the book from my hands, trots off to our Wednesday Night Supper and gleefully anticipates an improved literacy.

Or something like that.

The Interesting Diversity of Cross Cultural Adoptive Parenting

2008-09-24T07:09:00.003-05:00

I am not the best candidate to parent children who do not share my cultural history. It's not because I feel my history is somehow superior to that of others, and I don't necessarily think that those of us who have grown up in what has been a traditional North American majority culture are somehow more fortunate or successful or whatever. I don't disdain the cultural practices of beliefs of others; in fact, I find them intriguing and personally horizon-expanding.

I'm not the best candidate because historically my cultural milieu has been so narrow. I grew up in rural Minnesota seven miles from the nearest town of 600 people. I didn't meet an African-American until I was in third grade when a family into our community from Chicago, a city that could have been a world away as far as our community was concerned. I didn't meet anyone of Hispanic origins until I was in college! And while I had seen (from a distance) Asian-Americans (though typically it was an Asian child who had been adopted by "nice" white people), I had no connection with anyone different from myself. In my extended family, which is really quite large (my paternal grandmother gave birth to thirteen children over the course of 25 years) the most diversity we had was when an uncle divorced and married a woman from another part of the state. She brought her children into the marriage, and we all knew they were different (although for the life of me right now I wouldn't be able to say how).

So, then, it is always interesting when my monocultural roots catch me off guard. After all these years it shouldn't happen that way, but sometimes it does. I like to think that because I am the adoptive parent of children from several different ethnic and cultural backgrounds I am prepared for most anything, yet there are moments when I am surprised. Like last night, when I was having a conversation with Wilson, our nine-year-old son whose origins are Asian (his birth grandparents emigrated to the US around the Vietnam era, when they were refugees from Laos). Here's how the conversation went:

Wilson: [Watching TV, having seen something about insects] "Dad, back in Texas we used to have grasshoppers this big [he shows me with his fingers the measurements, about 2 inches in length and 1 inch in height]."
Me: "Yeah? That's big, not like here in Minnesota."
Wilson: "Yep."
Me: [In jest] "So, do you like eating them?"
Wilson: [A pause to think]. "Nah. It's been a while. We used to eat them when we lived with our grandma and grandpa. They're pretty good with salt."
Me: [A big chagrined for the cultural faux pax on my part] "Interesting. Ummm, I don't think you'll be eating too many of them here."

Wilson just smiles, and I slink away in a cloud of self-imposed culturally insensitive regret. So, yeah, I really need to exercise better judgment before speaking, unless I am prepared for surprises.

Me and Jesus

2008-09-23T08:06:00.002-05:00

Our family is one tinged with Christian faith. I am reluctant to say that we are a "Christian family" because I'm not sure that is very accurate. I'm not even all that sure what a "Christian family" is anymore. I say "anymore," because there was a time, harking back to my single days more than twelve years ago, when I had a pretty clear picture of what that meant. It meant that the parents were faithfully engaged with their walk of faith, utilizing "teaching moments" to instill the warmth of Christian meaning in their eager children's lives. It meant at least once a day eating together as a family, praying together at the meal, and sharing a devotional thought (including a Scripture passage) before dessert. It meant people in the neighborhood recognizing something distinct about said "Christian family."

Now don't get me wrong. We have, in many ways and at many times, done all of the things I've just described, except maybe for the neighbors recognizing something different part. (Over the years in different communities and with different neighbors they have noticed something different all right, but it hasn't necessarily been our distinctive faith lives). And on a regular basis we still do our best to impart our values to our kids, but like most parents for whom faith is central, it is often a dispiriting process. Philosophically, I have observed two extremes, both of which I have wanted to avoid.

The one extreme is the "Christian family" so faithfully committed that children growing up have little choice but to rebel against the strictures and hypocrisies so often afoot. I have met so many parents over the years who have done their best to "lead our kids to Christ" but in the process have pushed so hard that they have lost two relationships ... their parental relationship and their spiritual relationship with their children. This is the extreme I was most familiar with in my earlier Christian days when I was centered in more conservative communities of Christian faith.

The second extreme is the church-going family who feels their responsibility is to live a moral life, but to let their children choose completely for themselves whether they will adopt this pattern of life or not. In the mainline Christian circles I now inhabit it's the "well, I'll bring my kids to Sunday School when they're young and to confirmation until they confirm their faith, but after that it's their choice." Now you tell me, how many 15-year-olds will decide on their own that they want to be faithful participants in a church or further engage their spiritual lives if this is completely their option. I mean, most good parents don't let their kids choose after ninth grade whether to go to school or not (even if it is legal, and even if they have a job). The extreme version of this laisse faire approach is little more than spiritual child neglect, in my opinion.

But I struggle with how to best interpret faith in my family. I struggle with this, and I am a pastor, trained in the traditions of faith, regularly involved in opportunities to form my own spirit, fairly disciplined about developing my own interior life. It has been so very difficult over the years to become less an instructor and more of an observant guide in my children's faith lives. I have come to realize that faith that is dictated is no faith at all, it is simply acquiescing to a more powerful person's desire. This approach could well be akin to spiritual child abuse. I have no desire to so inflict faith upon my children. I want to impart it, not inflict it.

And what that means is that often I have to let them make their own choices (not without my input, however) and constantly remind them by my actions and attitudes that they are precious children of God, growing in their lives (spiritually and otherwise) as they learn from experience.

This morning at our house has been an odd one. Several of our usually more compliant children have been slow to move and get ready for school. Our crabby teenage daughters (13 and 15) have been more civil than usual. In fact our older daughter who has been so challenging over the past three years was listening to Stellar Kart's "Me and Jesus" this morning in her room. This is not her typical listening fare. In fact, as I passed by her bedroom, I had to stop to make sure I was hearing correctly. I was. This is what I heard:

When there's nowhere else to turn
All your bridges have been burned
Feels like you've hit rock bottom
Don't give up it's not the end
Open up your heart again
When you feel like no one
Understands where you are

[chorus]
Someone loves you even when you don't think so don't you know you got
Me and Jesus by your side through the fight you will never be alone on your own you got me and Jesus

After all that we've been through
Be now you know I've doubted too
But everytime my head was in my
Hands you said to me
Hold on to what we got
This is worth any cost so
Make the most of life
That's borrowed
Love like there's no tomorrow

As she trotted off to school this morning I heard her happy (?!) voice saying, "Good bye, Dad." She hasn't offered me a farewell in weeks, so it was a little shocking.

I have to admit that even after thirty years of faithfully following God and intently developing my spiritual life, I am daily befuddled by the mysterious ways of the Almighty. How I, or any parent for that matter, ever is able to impart spiritual faith to his children is beyond me. It is such a dense and complicated web, but it must somehow start with each of us. My children cannot, by osmosis, acquire my faith life. I cannot, by force, make them accept what I have come to understand as truth. But together maybe "me and Jesus" can get something done when it's all been said and done.

Another Tale of Two Brothers

2008-09-12T19:02:00.003-05:00

For nearly twelve years I have pondered the lives of our sons Kyle (now 21) and Mike (now 19), who joined our family early on at the ages of 11 and 8, respectively. Kyle entered our home full of rage and noncompliance, diagnosed with Conduct Disorder. (At the time we didn't understand our diagnoses very well and thought that CD was less serious than Oppositional Defiant Disorder; it didn't take us long to realize our misunderstanding. CD is ODD to an extreme level). Mike, Kyle's birth brother, joined us with numerous diagnoses, the most challenging of which (FASD) was not officially diagnosed until he was thirteen.

Those who met both boys in the early years predicted that Kyle would be our most challenging child, and that Mike would surely come around. They were only partially right. Kyle was very challenging, and Mike only became progressively less reachable. Today Kyle is a college graduate, teaching a third grade class. His biggest difficulties have been resolved, and he will undoubtedly be OK. Mike may never get there.

Ironically I received communication from both boys today, an email from Kyle (from his classroom) and a letter from Mike (in his jail cell).

Kyle's subject line was "quick word." I opened the email to find this message: "is the base word of 'repeat' really 'peat'? that makes no sense at all. Kyle"

I had to chuckle, because it so represents Kyle's personality. He is pretty much a take-charge, use as few words as possible, let's get it done kind of person. He had a question and so he asked me. There were no pleasantries, no other information, no niceties.

My response was equally as direct, though perhaps more prosaic: "Dear Mr. Fletcher: The origins of 'repeat' come from the Latin repeto which means literally "to do again." The Latin verb "to do" is "peto" ... so yes, the base word would be "peat" but only as it means something in Latin, not from English. Your Language-Savvy Father."

He makes me smile. Although I would love to hear more from him on a regular basis, I am satisfied with even a simple email like this that reminds me he thinks his Dad still has some value in his life, even if it is as language resource.

Mike's letter arrived this afternoon from a nearby County Jail. "Hey, Pops, how's it goin? Well I'm still in lockdown. I've spent 27 days in lockdown at this jail so there really isn't any point in coming to try and visit at all. They like to play their mind games with me."

I read Mike's first several sentences and smile, as I do with the brief email from his birth brother, but for different reasons. I smile with sad recognition that little has changed for Mike, who has been in treatment centers since the time he was fourteen, in legal custody since he was eighteen. Every time it is the fault of the institution. It is bad staff, or unfair guards or impossible rules. Mike seems impervious to change. I try to remind myself that Mike's FASD diagnosis accounts for much of his challenges, and I cannot help but think how his life might be different if his birth mother had chosen not to drink. For whatever reason his older brother was not so affected, but Mike was. To see two boys with the same genes and having had the same adoptive parents for the same length of time move in such different directions in life saddens me.

It saddens me because I love both equally, differently but equally. I want to believe that each have the same opportunities to succeed, but I know they do not. I want to believe that if I could do for Mike what I was seemingly able to do for Kyle there would be a similar outcome. But they are different, brothers conceived in and born from the same womb, but affected so differently because of what happened in utero during those precious first nine months of life.

Mike's letter continues. He tells us that he needs a place to live where there is no drinking or drugging if he's ever going to get out on parole. He asks us if we can help him with that. He requests a family picture, mentions the daughter of a neighbor he remembers and says, "Could you let her know [that] I'm in here and maybe she could be my pen pal?" Thinking of his future Mike tells me that he will get his GED when he gets out, and wonders if "I would get something for it," appending "don't think I'm being materialistic."

Oh, Mike. We've been down these roads so many times before. We've repeatedly allowed you to move into our home, only to have you steal your siblings' video games and your parents' video camera and iPods. We worked to find a place for you to live a year ago and within three days your drug friends were hanging out there, and you had to move. And no, Mike, we don't think our neighbors would want you to solicit their daughter to be your prison pen-pal.

It's so tragic. It's like receiving the Christmas list of a ten-year-old, a child nearing adolescence who hopes (but doubts) that there is a Santa Claus, but wanting to make sure asks Santa for a gift, just in case. Developmentally, Mike is probably about 14 or 15 now sitting in a jail cell designed for those twice or three times his age. But the law only recognizes chronological age, taking no account for brains that were damaged due to no fault of their own.

And so Mike concludes by telling me what he is able to do. "Well, I weight about 170 now. I've been doing my push-ups and sit-ups and I'm up to 1500 push-ups and 700 sit-ups a day. ... Hope to hear from you soon."

Two boys. From the same womb, yet different, one that was safe and one that was awash in alcohol. From the same adoptive home of nearly twelve years. And two such different paths. WIth one thing in common.

Their father's continuing, though frustrated, commitment and love.

"Life Is Hard and Cruel ...

2008-09-09T15:13:00.002-05:00

and I have learned that in this world some things are impossible." With these words the love-struck, but unrequited, lieutenant in the classic film Babette's Feastbids the beautiful young woman farewell. She is one of two daughters, both of legendary beauty, who are held captive by her father's ascetic religious views. In this pious family the daughters are held so closely in parental grasp that the man in question knows his future is impossibly bleak.

I must confess that on occasion as a parent I echo the lieutenant's sentiments. There are moments when I feel like I should back out or away, but my commitment has already been made. Like any other sane person in the world there are times when the pressures of being a parental role model of morality and hope are nearly too much.

I must imagine that it is frustrating to most parents when the values they consider fundamental and foundational are ignored or repudiated by their children. I shouldn't be surprised that my children should be any different than others, but there are times, even after all these years, when I think to myself, "Good grief. Why can't this kid see how much better her life is because she lives with us?" I reflect upon what I know of their early years of abuse or neglect and wonder why it seems so difficult for them to own the values of our family.

Our values are sound, and I think, reasonable and positive ones. We are connected with our kids, we follow their progress in school, we show up at their sports or other events, we spent time with them on the weekends. We do our best to know where they are, who are they are with and what they are doing. We have also learned that we cannot control what they choose to do, and that's what is so hard.

I don't feel the need to control them, but it pains me to see accumulated choices leading some of them in directions that could eventually become irreparable. There are always consequences to our choices, and sometimes those consequences haunt us forever. My concern is lost, of course, on those who refuse to hear or for whatever reasons are in a place where they have to find out for themselves.

And I understand that, really I do. I know all about adolescent development and the need for exploration and self-differentiation and all the rest. But the difference between the theories I have learned over the years and my children is that, well, these are mychildren. These are not some random adolescents out in the world; they belong to me. I have claimed them.

But they are not mine. They never have been. From the beginning they were God's, and until the end they will remain God's children. The challenging thing is that for at least some period of their life they have me as one of their parents. I cannot simply shirk responsibility and say, "Well, these kids belong to God, and I'm sure they'll find their way." There are moments when parents need to be deeply involved in their children's lives, and times when they need to stand a distance. The challenge is knowing when is the right time for which, especially when you parent children who have attachment or other emotional issues.

As I was pondering the Lieutenant's words, and realizing once again that I do not have the option of simply moving away forever and starting over in some fantasy place a world away, I was interrupted by our youngest son. I say "interrupted," but that has more force than I mean, because his presence is always such a blessing.

I stopped typing to hear him ask, "Hey, Dad, guess what the neighbors are having for dinner?"

"I don't know, Wilson, what?"

"Fish," he said with his eyes lighting up. (Wilson is a consummate lover of fish and other types of seafood).

"How do you know that?"

"I watched him skinning them," was his response.

"Well, that's pretty telling, isn't it?"

"Mm. Hmmm. So, what are we having for dinner, dad?"

"Porkchops."

"Oh. Even better."

Maybe life isn't that hard and cruel as I sometimes think!

Adoptive Parenting Payback

2008-09-02T21:40:00.002-05:00

Since we welcomed our two newest boys into our family late last October, I have been waiting for the "honeymoon" to wear off. With nearly every other child or sibling group joining our family we have experienced, at some point or another, an emotional blowout of major proportions. In one way or another there came a point when attachment issues or other emotional challenges reared their ugly head. Those flare-ups are emotionally debilitating, causing adoptive parents to question the wisdom of ever assuming that role.

But we simply have not had such an experience with our two newest sons. They are now thirteen and nine and are surprisingly emotionally healthy. I attribute their emotional stability to several factors.

(1) They have an older birth sister who provided diligent care when they were youngsters. Although their birth mother was unable to provide much care due to her chronic chemical dependency issues, the older sister provided a consistent emotional presence for her younger brothers. She was, de facto, their primary caretaker.

(2) During those years they had the benefit of an extended family. Although they were unable to be parented by their birth grandmother for a number of reasons (economic hardship and the cultural challenges associated with first-generation Americans), they were connected with extended family.

(3) When placed in foster care they were maintained in the same home, together, with an older birth brother. They had consistent contact with their older birth sister, and they had the benefit of being with the same foster parents for a length of time. There were not numerous disruptions in their lives, so they didn't have to re-learn (or attempt to) trust every few weeks or months.

Both of our sons are affectionate, considerate and are attaching easily with us. We have dealt with attachment disordered kids for so long that I marvel at how easy it really can be for a child to love a parent. We have dealt with manipulative behaviors surrounding attachment for so many years that to enjoy two children who genuinely, naturally accept "new" parents is a sincere blessing. For all those through the years who have questioned our ability to parent or assumed it was our parental inadequacies that resulted in the attachment issues of our adopted children, I am pleased to know that it really has not been about us. We have offered Wilson and Leon the same welcome and care any of our children have received, and their response has been so natural, so "normal," that I find relief and comfort to parent emotionally healthy children.

Wilson, who will be ten this December, is small enough (in stature) to qualify as a five-year-old, and as our youngest has assumed that role with felicity. He is not embarrassed to hold my hand in public and enjoys teasing Claudia by refusing to do so with her, although when he is cold at a soccer match he can inhabit her sweatshirt without hesitation.

It feels like God is rewarding us with a little adoptive parenting payback. In words it might sound something like this: "Thank you, Bart and Claudia, for taking on the first ten I sent your way. Parenting is never easy, although it is always rewarding. And here are two more to remind you that sometimes parenting is not that hard."