Should The Majority Always Rule?

Peyton and I used to play a game each time we watched a movie together. She would pick out the most evil, ugly, mean-spirited character and proclaim that she wanted to be just like them. When we watched High School Musical she declared her undying fandom for the blonde-haired, narcissistic, spoiled-rotten character named Sharpay. On cue I would try to convince Peyton that really, deep down she wanted to be like the smart, kind-hearted, good-decision-making character. With High School Musical I extolled the virtue and appeal of Taylor. She was strong and opinionated; she was on the science team; she was a loyal and good friend. She was Black.

On one occasion we watched the movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory--not the one Johnny Depp made creepy; the politically incorrect one from my childhood. As the ending credits rolled, Peyton launched into her love of all things Veruca Salt. Veruca demanded and her father obliged. She wanted a golden ticket and received it. She wanted an Oompa Loompa and her father said he would try. As far as Peyton was concerned, that girl had more stuff than Barbie!

I started by telling Peyton that she was more like Charlie. He loved his family. He was kind. He was honest, even when he knew there might be a punishment. Peyton stopped me. She said: "Mama, you don't like Charlie. You only like the brown kids." My five-year-old saw a pattern and made an assumption even though I never, ever uttered those words.

When Beth and I decided to adopt a child of another race we knew there would be challenges. I steeled myself for the first time I would hear the "n word." I rehearsed and role-played the situation in my mind. I would start by saying this, then I would launch into that. I would bring the ignorant racist to their knees with my verbal acuity!

I didn't rehearse nor did I prepare for how difficult it would be to find baby cards with a Black child. I had no idea the lengths that I would go to find Christmas ornaments that depicted Black angels or Santas. It never occurred to me that band-aids were made in a shade that more closely matched my skin color than my children's.

Seven years ago when we brought home Peyton from the adoption agency, our family and friends were incredibly generous. Our good friend Ali planned a spectacular baby shower. I opened card after card and present after present. I was stunned at how our friends participated in our joy. The night after our baby shower, I sat down and looked at through the cards and presents once more. Each card was prototypically pink with sweet words and sweet images. And if the card showed an image of a baby, it was White. Blonde curls, blue eyes, White features. Soft, cuddly dolls were White. The princesses that adorned pajamas and blankets were White. Books with puppies and kittens and brightly colored shapes were monochromatic when came to the race of the children.

I am a capitalist. I know that businesses create and sell those things that appeal to the largest group of people. Mass market consumer goods are intended to be profitable. I work in business. Profit is good. Just as soon as consumers demand that baby shower cards and princesses be shown as people of color, it will happen. And in fairness, seven years later things are a bit different. Hallmark has an entire line of cards depicting a diverse set of people. We have found websites and shops where we purchase things that more closely look like our children.

I have learned that I can keep my anti-n-word speech tucked away. I don't need it on a daily basis. Instead what I need is to show my children that they aren't less just because they are not members of the majority. The rule in our house is that we don't buy White dolls, sports figurines or princess crap. Enough other people will buy those things to create diversity in our toy box. When Peyton was younger and into the Disney princesses, we told her she could have a t-shirt or jewelry box or backpack as soon as there was a princess who looked like her. Last fall Disney released the movie "The Princess & The Frog" which starred a Black princess named Tiana. We have yet to deny Peyton a single Princess Tiana item. We have seven years of "no" for which we need to make up.

February is Black History Month. I still see editorials that question the necessity of a month dedicated to the historical accomplishments of Black heroes. The more crass among us inquire about the timing of White history month.

As much as I feel a part of my children, I can never totally understand what it feels like to be part of a racial minority. I read books, listen to lectures, watch PBS specials on what it does to a person's development when they don't have role models who look like them and when they do not see themselves represented in their world.

And, I go out of my way to point out the positive Black role models. After Peyton made that comment about my preference for all things "brown" I tried to swing the pendulum a bit back toward center. I know that the majority of things that my children will see, from magazine covers, to Christmas ornaments, from television shows to children's books will reinforce that the majority is not like them. It is my job to be sure that they know that they are not less. They are not less equal, less smart, less powerful, less innocent, less beautiful.

By the time Peyton was five she was able to pick up on patterns and implied messages of my communication. I cannot imagine all that my children will see and internalize by the time they are adults. I know it is my job as their mama, to be sure the messages of their strength, their intelligence and their capacity for greatness supersede all of those other messages about being in the minority.

Snowblower Justice

The first home that Beth and I purchased was a third floor condo that overlooked a neighborhood of single family homes. The condo was a little over 800 square feet and if we worked together, we could clean it top to bottom in about an hour. We had a lot of disposable time back then. Often we would mix up some cocktails, sit on the balcony and watch the single family home-owners work on their houses and yards. The people directly across the street from us were particularly meticulous. The landscaping was flawless--there wasn't a weed to be found in the lush green lawn. The two and a half car garage was always tidy. The wide, sweeping driveway was perfectly clean no matter the season with nary a leaf or grass clipping or errant snow flake.

One Sunday the neat freaks across the street put up a for sale sign and notice of an open house. Of course we had to investigate the inside of this perfectly tidy home. But we liked the house and what started as voyeuristic curiosity turned into a bid and negotiations and earnest money. Honestly we never once considered that it would be us who were constantly working to keep that house in tip top shape. We saw the opportunity for a big yard, a big garage and a multi-level house in which we could spread out.

In the first days of our first winter in the house I learned that the massive driveway could not be tamed with a mere snow shovel. I needed a snowblower and not just a little electric thing. No, I needed the big daddy of snowblowers. If I were a guy, people would have made all sorts of assumptions about physical inadequacies based on my snowblower.

Not long after we adopted Peyton we discovered that diversity in our neighborhood was largely based on which Catholic church you attended while growing up in the city. There were disagreements about who hosted the best fish fry or Friday night bingo. Most everyone had moved out to that suburb when their city neighborhoods started to change. The neighborhood suddenly felt too small and very wrong for our family.

So just before Peyton's first birthday we moved to another south suburb--one that is considerably more diverse in all the important ways. While our first house was built in a time when two cars in a family were the norm, our current house was built when one car was a luxury and two cars were downright opulent. My current driveway reflects this. Two cars can fit side-by-side but just barely and not if you want to open the car door.

After it snows it is now more than a little embarrassing to start up my massive snowblower. If there are only a couple of inches of snow, I just use the old fashioned shovel to clear the drive. When it really snows, like it did this week, I pull out the behemoth and clear the drive in about 7 minutes. To alleviate my bourgeois guilt about the size of my snowblower, I often walk around the neighborhood clearing sidewalks and driveways.

I start with my neighbors next door. They are two old sisters who are trying to stay in their home as long as possible. Each winter they tell me stories about how they hired snow removal companies and how they'd been ripped off. So they try to shovel themselves. They scoop a little bit of snow and then sit down for quite awhile. I clear their drive and sidewalks in a couple of minutes. I cross the street to the recently widowed older woman. I can't quite meet her standards. No matter what I do she comes behind me with her little shovel cleaning up anything my snowblower missed.

Sometimes I walk down a few houses and clear the drive and sidewalks of a single woman who is an elementary school principal. She leaves her house each weekday before 6 am and often doesn't get home until after 7 pm. After working those kind of hours I imagine it is a nice gift to come home to a cleared drive. She doesn't expect it. I'm not sure she even knows that it is me who does it. It's my gift of compassion.

In my ministry of clearing away snow I avoid those families who I deem to be unworthy. I do not clear the snow of the family with the teen-aged son. Their driveway is rarely cleared and their sidewalks never are. I make all sorts of assumptions about the sort of parents who don't have their kid clear snow or mow the lawn. He was in trouble with the police earlier this year. I secretly wonder if he would have avoided his bad life decisions if he had grown up shoveling snow. I don't shovel the snow of the construction worker who doesn't work during the winter. I did one time and he came to the door to thank me for allowing him to sit in his robe drinking coffee instead of shoveling the snow like his wife had asked. No, my snow removal services are only given to those who I judge to be worthy.

This week I had a lot of opportunity to use my snowblower and therefore a lot of time to think. This week I thought about gifts of mercy that I didn't earn. I thought about times when I was shown compassion when I didn't deserve it. That led me to think about the times when I felt unfairly judged. I thought about wrong assumptions that people have made about me. I remembered that those times were exhausting. I figured out that my gift of compassion loses something when it is only given to those who I feel have earned it. And as much as I shout about hating judgment, I find that I do it on a pretty regular basis.

Judgment isn't always bad. It's good judgment that keeps me from letting my kids ride on the carnival rides at street fairs. Good judgment kept me from ever having my hair cut into a mullet. But judging people's behavior, whether it is about something little like how they care for their drives or something big like how they parent, isn't showing grace and compassion. It is judgment that keeps me disconnected and distant from them. When I judge their character because they vote differently or worship differently or value different things, I get into dangerous territory that rarely leaves room for understanding or reconciliation.

Next week begins the season of Lent. In our church the focus is on giving up a behavior that keeps us from living fully into God's promises and asks us to take on something in our lives that more closely aligns with what what Jesus calls us be. A lot of times I wish our focus was on giving up barbeque chips or fried food. That would be easier. I consider Lent to be a time of spiritual closet cleaning for me. It is a time to look at those things I shouldn't be wearing anymore like that bright red suit jacket with the enormous shoulder pads and big shiny brass buttons. I think this year I will focus on giving up judgment about people's lives just because of some behaviors. Maybe it is time for me to give up judgment and take on mercy. Maybe it's time to get out my snowblower and take care of some other people.

Enough

Today is the two-year anniversary of the day we brought home Emerson. Today we will celebrate Gotcha' Day. I am not a fan of the word gotcha'. I don't like to drop off the endings of words. Someone who adopted a child long before we did thought it was a good word. Celebrating The-Day-We-Brought-You-Home-From-The-Adoption-Agency-And Welcomed-You-To-Our-Family doesn't have the same punch as gotcha'. So until I can come up with a better word, we will celebrate Gotcha' Day.

People who build their families in a more traditional way are able to describe the first moments of life. They describe the cries, the cone-shaped heads, the euphoria and the exhaustion. We can't describe that. So we describe the moment we met. The Cradle is the adoption agency we used for all three of our children. And in all three of our adoptions we were able to make the trek to the Cradle's Evanston location to meet our children a few days before they were placed with us.

In order to enter the Cradle's nursery you have to be buzzed in. You ring a buzzer at the front door and someone comes over the intercom asking what you want. Emerson's birth mother had given her the name Heaven. We aren't allowed to change the name until the actual placement. As far as the Cradle was concerned the baby's name is what the birth mother called her. So I would ring the buzzer and say, "I'm here to visit Heaven. I'd like it to be a relatively brief visit and I'd like to come back to my life afterward because I'm not quite ready for Heaven just yet." Those Cradle employees don't have much of a sense of humor.

Once inside the Cradle, we were led to the "Belonging Room." The Belonging Room has a changing table, a few toys and books for older siblings and the ugliest blue couch in the world. The funny thing is we have the first pictures of all three of our children on the same ugly blue couch. The even funnier thing is that all the people we know who have also adopted through the Cradle have pictures on the same ugly couch. I imagine that the Cradle's interior designer has a slightly warped sense of humor and a goal to see how many homes will have pictures of the ugly blue couch.

Once in the Belonging Room we were asked to wash our hands, put on a smock and have a seat on the couch while the nurses got our baby. It was the same process for each kid. When the nurse handed Peyton to me she was a tiny bundle tightly swaddled in a pink blanket. My first thought was "I've had burritos bigger than you." Bennett weighed in at slightly under five pounds and I thought about his size in relation to bags of sugar. Apparently I think about food when I'm nervous and excited and falling in love.

For the life of me I cannot remember my first thoughts about Emerson. I fear I was thinking of the logistics of three kids. I was thinking that Beth and I would be out-numbered and would need to shift from a man-to-man defense to a zone. I was thinking about reconstructing the crib and if we had remembered to tape the screws to the unassembled pieces when we took it down last time. I was wondering if Peyton and Ben should share a room until the baby was sleeping through the night. I was wondering if Peyton would feel resentful of being moved out of her room. I was wondering if I would have enough energy, resilience, resolve to be the mother of three.

The falling in love part was the same with Emerson. The only time I truly believe in magic is when a Cradle nurse hands me my baby and I instantly fall in love. The moment they snuggle into my arms I lose all reason. I would gladly step in front of a bus to save this baby. From the first time I hold them they are a part of me.

Lately we've been getting a lot of questions about our response should the Cradle call a fourth time. Our children have the same birth mother. After praying for the well-being of my children, my second most frequent and fervent prayer is that our birth mother has made changes in her life. The great injustice of adoption is that for me to experience absolute joy, another woman had to surrender a part of herself. It is always her choice but that doesn't make it less painful. I believe that she would have preferred to have a life that didn't include an unplanned pregnancy. I believe she would have preferred not to make the call to the Cradle. We've never met our children's birth mother but I want to believe these feelings are universal.

One evening last summer Peyton asked about her birth mother. My kids know about adoption and they know their story. Until this moment we had been able to talk about facts. You were born on this date. You were released from the hospital and spent X number of days in the Cradle's nursery before we were able to bring you home. Mama asked the Cradle's nurse so many questions that Mommy was fearful that the people in charge would change their mind about placing you with us.

Until this summer we were able to recite details and it had been enough. Everything we've read and heard says that kids start questioning the "why's" of adoption around age seven. At seven they can conceptualize that in order to be adopted, someone had to give them up. [I am very careful to use positive adoption language. We say "place for adoption" instead of "give up" or "give away." In this instance "give up" is what the kids feel.]

On this night, Peyton asked more than the usual questions about her beginning. She asked the questions that we've dreaded. She asked if her birth mother had other children. Beth and I have a strict no lying to our children rule. It's strict if you don't count stories about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy and whether or not all children really do go to bed at 7:30 pm.

As luck and fate would have it, I was at a meeting that night that Peyton asked Beth the questions. Beth told Peyton that her birth mother was parenting three children. Beth pulled out the adoption file and shared the details of her unknown siblings. We know their names and their ages.

Peyton asked why. Why did her birth mother choose to parent some but not others? Beth explained to Peyton that her birth mother didn't have enough. Beth was careful to NOT emphasize money. She explained that her birth mom didn't have enough time, she didn't have enough energy, she didn't have enough education, she didn't have enough resources. She didn't have enough to provide the life she envisioned for Peyton, Bennett and Emerson. She did love them enough to find mommies who could provide that life.

When people ask what we will we say if our birth mother places another baby for adoption, my first response is that I pray she doesn't find herself in that situation. If pressed, I say our family feels complete. Three children, our three children feel like enough. I fear that I won't have enough for a fourth. I fear I won't remember how I felt when the Cradle nurse first hands him to me. I fear I won't celebrate the first words and first steps. I fear I don't have enough time or energy to make sure the first birthday is special. I fear I won't have enough brain cells left to remember their favorite books or favorite cookies. I fear that I won't be enough.

This isn't about enough money. I am NOT a participant in the "Name It & Claim It" faith movement. I'm fearful that what I'd "name" would be pretty limited compared to what God has in store for me. I do however believe that God provides all the resources I need. That has been true in the past and I have no reason to start doubting it. This isn't about finances. It is about my capacity.

At some point my children will be old enough to ask the next question that I dread. If we are presented with another baby and if we decline, how will we answer the why question? Even if we explain the logic, will that be enough?

Because He Can

Last summer I was standing in front of the house talking with one of my neighbors. Begrudgingly. She is the neighbor with whom I least like to talk. In fact if I'm outside and I see her slowing down in front of our house I often jump on a ladder so as to appear too busy to chat. Best case she doesn't want to disturb me and keeps on driving. Worst case she thinks I'm crazy for standing on a ladder in the middle of the driveway doing absolutely nothing. Either way she keeps driving. She is pleasant enough but I can only tolerate so many stories about her brilliant son. He is always the top reader, top soccer player, top bike rider, top everything. Since I also know her son, I know that in addition to being a braggart, she is also stretches the truth. A lot. On this particular day she caught me without a ladder nearby.

As I listened to her describing her son's latest feat of glory, I used the eyes in the back of my head, the ones I developed when I became a mother, to monitor my kids who were playing in the garage. It was there that I saw Bennett with his little, brown butt bared for the world to see, peeing into the recycling container. I shifted my stance so that I could see inside the garage, maintain a semblance of eye contact with my neighbor and simultaneously block her view of the garage. We have indoor plumbing. Had Bennett walked about 15 feet into the house he would have encountered a perfectly functional toilet. Very disturbing.

I once read that parents should avoid the use of "why questions." Apparently starting a question with "why" puts kids in a defensive mode. I would add that starting questions with "What the hell were you thinking?" isn't much better. Bennett answered with his usual refrain: "I dunno."

Recently I was chatting with one of my friends who sports the same "equipment" as Bennett. He wasn't bothered at all by Bennett's assault of our recycling bin. I asked him why guys do stuff like this. His answer: "I dunno--because we can?"

When Bennett was an infant Beth and I proclaimed that we would raise strong, independent children who were free from gender stereo-types. I wanted my girls to play with trucks and my boy to be comfortable with dolls. [Well, maybe not completely free of stereo-types. I'm not sure I'd push my boy toward ballet. Really, how much "otherness" can a guy withstand?] I claimed that boys were aggressive and physical because parents pushed in that way. Boy, was I wrong.

Peyton is a physical kid. She is athletic, rambunctious, adventuresome. I didn't think any boy could be appreciably different. Allow me to go on record: I was wrong. Bennett has an entirely different energy and operating system. I have a Mac and a PC. Bennett plays differently, reacts differently, expresses himself differently. Earlier this year he got into trouble at pre-school for fighting. His pint-sized nemesis had called him a "feef" [I think the kid meant thief]. I asked Bennett what that meant. Ben's reply: "I don't know but I didn't like it so I hit 'em."

We also swore that we would be a "toy gun-free" house. And we were, until Bennett turned everything into a gun: a carrot, his finger, a stick. The final straw was when we caught him rolling up his favorite chenille and satin blanket--the one he calls "Lovie"-- and trying to fashion it into a gun. We allowed my father to buy Bennett a toy western six-shooter. We told him that he could only shoot bears and Republicans.

During Bennett's 5-year-old check up I mentioned to our pediatrician that Bennett was really starting to display some anger. I asked if I should be concerned. The doctor asked about the occasions that led to the angry displays. I told him it could vary: sometimes it was the seams on on his socks, sometimes it was because he had been corrected for running in the house, sometimes he got angry because Peyton looked at him in a certain way. Using all of his medical training and experience, our pediatrician looked into my eyes and asked: "You realize you are raising a boy right?" He explained that boys don't know how to express sadness or frustration. They only know anger.

Bennett is a mystery to me. It is a blessing and curse that my children are adopted. Sometimes I think it might be easier to say "you act just like your father" or "you take after your uncle." With biological children I think it might be easy to skip past the odd or troubling behavior and attribute it to genetics. I honestly don't know if Bennett does these things because he is a boy, he is the middle child or if he is acting like one of his birth parents. This leaves me to figure out my kid.

In November Bennett turned five. The night before his birthday we were walking hand in hand through the grocery store as we went to pick up the giant birthday cookie he wanted for his pre-school class celebration. We happily chatted about birthday parties and super heroes and sports. We were walking behind a mom and her teen-aged son. He was on the phone talking about girls and parties and cars. His mom chastised him for being on the phone non-stop. The teenager glared at her before slamming his phone in his pocket and storming off. I know I'm only a few years away from that scene and so I cherish these hand-holding moments with my boy.

Ben is perfectly comfortable grabbing my hand while we are walking. A couple of weeks ago he climbed on my lap at a hockey game. Each night we go through a routine where I give him "all the kisses in the world." A couple of years ago he said that I didn't give him enough goodnight kisses. I realize that he was stalling bedtime. When I asked him how many kisses would be enough, he replied: "All the kisses in the world." So each night I give him all the kisses in the world as I tuck him into bed.

Right now I have a little boy who favors super hero boxer shorts, tiny action figures and any toy that includes a sword. He will play princess stuff with his sisters as long as there is a bad guy he can slay with one of his swords. He talks to me about things like whether or not Batman and Spiderman could lift up our entire house. And I've learned to stop asking questions like "Why would they want to lift up our house?" I admit I don't always understand him. I will never understand peeing in a recycling bin or having an obsession with swords. What I do understand is that my boy won't always hold my hand in public. There will be a time when he doesn't want me to tuck him in. I do understand that these things don't last forever.

So I will gladly embrace any opportunity I have to walk hand in hand with him and talk about things I find nonsensical, because I can.

Perfect Shoes

By my calculations I have exactly two moments of parenting brilliance. I have 546,987 moments of pretty mediocre stuff and approximately 364 times when I completely blew it. I am most often fixated on those times when I did something that is sure to make my children's future therapist shake their head but I love to tell the story of how I was super mom on those two occasions.

My favorite story can be pulled out in any number of situations. I can use it to convince people that I am not a complete marshmallow when it comes to my kids. I can be tough! I use it as an example of how my boy needs to feel a lesson and not just hear it. Or, I use it when I talk about the importance of following through with consequences.

When Bennett was in that 2 to 3 year-old range he was fond of removing his shoes right before we left the house each morning. If he were feeling especially cantankerous, he would throw his shoes down to the basement or hide them completely. I tried all the parenting suggestions: I offered rewards for compliance, I tried sticker charts. I tried crouching down to his level and sternly talking. One morning I even dropped my basket and screamed at him. Nothing worked. Finally I threw down the gauntlet: Bennett, if you take off your shoes, you will go to school without shoes.

The thing about threatening my children is that most of the time I have to carry through with the threat. When I throw something out there, I have to be sure I can execute. For example, when I threatened to put the television at the curb if they didn't stop begging to watch it during the week, Beth pulled me aside and threatened me.

As could be predicted, Bennett once again removed his shoes and stared at me with all the defiance a two and a half year-old boy can muster. I gathered my things, zipped up his coat and walked him and his sock-covered feet down the driveway in the slushy snow.

He fussed about his feet being wet and cold. I told him that I didn't understand how that felt since I had chosen to keep my shoes on. He whined all the way to pre-school about his feet. I calmly suggested that his feet might feel a little more comfortable had he worn his shoes.

Once at school, I unbuckled his car seat and had him walk across the ice and snow covered parking lot in his wet socks. When we entered his class he asked what he was supposed to do with the wet socks. I told him it was his choice. I pulled the teacher aside and discreetly handed her the shoes and a pair of dry socks. I told her to let him suffer for a good 20 minutes and then come to his rescue. I hugged my boy goodbye. Tears were spilling down his cheeks by this point. I never raised my voice. I resisted the urge for sarcasm. I wiped away his tears and explained that mama puts shoes on your feet to protect them.

Since then I have never, not once had a problem with Bennett taking off his shoes at an inappropriate time. For one shining moment, I was a rockstar in the parenting world.

Lesser parents, mere mortals were horrified at my actions. They explained that Bennett was merely trying to control a little piece of his world. They explained that by removing and hiding his shoes, he was in effect getting more attention and an extra few moments of my time. Someone even suggested that Bennett was removing his shoes because the ones he had were not "perfect" for him. She suggested that I buy a pair of light up shoes and another pair with his favorite action hero; a pair that closed with a velcro strap and a pair that had to be tied by older hands. According to her, Bennett should have 5-6 options and then choose his perfect pair each day. My first response was to laugh. Then I realized she wasn't trying to be funny. I hate when that happens. I couldn't even muster a reply. She had clearly ignored the "Say No to Drugs" campaign during her brain development years.

Maybe I gave Bennett his first lesson in making a decision based on pursuing perfection versus settling for something that works. I'm not sure if the shoes were his "perfect" pair. They fit. They were appropriate for the season. They kept his feet dry and warm. They did the task they were designed to do.

Early in my career I changed jobs every couple of years. I was determined to find the perfect one. The one where I was compensated appropriately, the one where I was appreciated for my contributions, the one where I wasn't assigned any unpleasant tasks. I changed jobs often. I've been in my current job for almost nine years. It is the longest I've been anywhere. It isn't perfect but it is pretty darn good.

My church isn't perfect. I used to think it was but then I got involved with boards and committees and governance. It's not perfect because we are a bunch of flawed humans who make flawed decisions and we do so with gusto. We seek to do better and sometimes we do. A lot of the time we fall short. We will never get it completely right.

This isn't big news, but I'm not perfect. I am not a perfect employee or a perfect parent or a perfect church member. There are a lot of books that describe ways to pursue excellence and perfection. I think the books often sell a fallacy. There should also be books about how to know when good enough is okay. There should be books and conferences that explain how sometimes the dogged pursuit of perfection leaves you with wet, cold feet.

The lesson that I was trying to teach Bennett was one that I re-learn most days. I could leave my imperfect job or my imperfect church. I just have to decide if the pain of going without is better than the not-so-perfect-but does-the-trick shoes.

A Poor Country Rich With Life Lessons

In what seems like another lifetime I spent about a month in Haiti. I was a college sophomore on a work trip. My parents had generously given me the option of a study trip to Europe or a work trip to Haiti. There are times now when I feel a little twinge of envy as I listen to people discuss their European college experiences. A work trip to Haiti was more of who I was at the time and more a part of who I have become today.

In 1987 thirteen students and two professors spent the Spring semester preparing for the trip. We met weekly to learn Creole phrases, to practice songs that would be sung in the local churches we would visit and to discuss the history and political environment of this small country. Haiti had recently undergone a revolution to overthrow a longtime dictator. In the weeks before we were scheduled to travel there were tense discussions between our worried parents and our university. Haiti had become a country teeming with hope at the possibility of a free future but it was unstable and dangerous.

Upon arrival we were divided for work duties according to our skills. The nursing students would volunteer in a clinic. The men in our group would travel to a remote area to build a church. I was part of the unskilled laborers who would dig ditches. Long after payments had cleared the bank we learned that the only Haitian women who wore pants or shorts were the prostitutes. So I would be digging ditches in a skirt. The skirts were to be longer than knee high and full enough to "preserve modesty." We could expect temperatures to be in the 100 degree range.

It is so trite that I hesitate to write the words-- anyone who goes on a work trip knows that you receive far more than you ever give. I'm not sure that my time in Haiti changed anyone's life. I know it changed mine. Some of the details of the trip are a little fuzzy but the life lessons are crisp.

Our unskilled labor group had the opportunity to help paint a new library. The library was mostly completed and there were only a few finishing touches that remained. The second floor of the library had an open air study area. The columns and railings that would protect people from falling to the street needed painting. In order to paint the the street-facing side of the columns we had to climb over the railing, plant our feet on a six-inch ledge, hang onto the railing with one hand and paint the outside of column with the other. As part of training we learned that any tool we laid down in a common area or dropped from our second story perch would be stolen within seconds. We were each issued one paint brush and told to guard it with our lives. A group of children had congregated on the ground below my painting project. I would like to think it had something to do with my painting skills but it would be more accurate to say that they were placing bets on how long it would take me to fall.

A gust of wind blew my skirt up around my neck. So much for preserving modesty. I was faced with the choice of dropping my paint brush to the crowd gathering below in order to fix my skirt or continue painting and provide them with a good story to tell their friends. The wind eventually died down and my skirt returned to its rightful position. I learned that life is full of tough choices and sometimes despite your best efforts, modesty cannot be preserved.

After long days of digging ditches and painting libraries we were free to explore the area. We found a night school where students paid $5 per month to work on English skills. We struck up a conversation with the headmaster and volunteered to teach the students for a few nights. Twenty-three years later I remember my conversation with Anne-Marie. Anne-Marie was about my age and the most earnest and bright student in the class. As I was packing up materials at the end of one session I casually asked Anne-Marie what she wanted to do once she finished school. I had assumed this to be a perfectly legitimate question for anyone my age.

As she responded her expression was one of resolve rather than wishful thinking or self-pity. She explained that she wanted to be a teacher but that it wasn't possible. With all my American arrogance I told her she was bright enough to be anything. Anne-Marie explained the facts of poverty to me. She was one of many children. She had to work to help provide what little food the family had. There was no time and no money for schooling. It was only occasionally that she would save enough to participate in these English classes. I learned that bright enough isn't always good enough when poverty is involved.

In addition to our work we spent a few days touring the country. One of the highlights was a hike up to the Citadel. Prior to 1804 the French had ruled Haiti. After that revolution a military fortress called the Citadel was constructed in case the French ever returned. I expected the trek to be a nice walk along asphalt path with guard rails. Instead it was a hike up a steep, unmarked mountain path. At the base of the mountain we were encouraged to hire foot guides or rent a horse. I checked out the emaciated, sway-backed horses and opted for a couple of young boys who assured me they knew the best route to the top.

About mid-way up the mountain I proclaimed "I am going to die." My guides were not well-versed in colloquial English and immediately sprung into action. One guide grabbed my hand and pulled me while the second guide started pushing me from behind. "You no die! You no die! We help you!" I learned that when you are overly dramatic you may get more help than you need or want.

For a couple of years during college I was the editor of the yearbook. One of the perks of the job was a trip to Dallas to see the publishing plant. I was scheduled to fly to Dallas a few days after I returned from Haiti. Part of the trip was a formal dinner at the top of a rotating tower in Dallas. After dinner our yearbook company host made a flip comment that this was the best view you could get for $200. We had just spent $200 for four people to eat one meal. One week earlier I was in a country where a family often lived on $200 a year. I excused myself to the restroom and gulped air in an attempt to keep from losing my exorbitant dinner.

While spending $200 on dinner isn't part of our weekly routine, there have been many, many occasions over the years when it has happened. There is rarely a time when I don't think back to that summer of 1987 and that dichotomy of experiences. I'm not certain what I learned with that experience. I know I continue to struggle with the disparity.

Haiti is in the news this week. A massive earthquake has leveled much of the capital of Port-au-Prince. As much as that country had an impact on my life view, I'm embarrassed to say that I haven't been back. I pay a little closer attention when something about the country makes the headlines. This week the headlines are filled with news of Haiti and I am flooded with memories. It is a country with such little resources that recovery from this disaster seems incomprehensible. People with far more optimism than I can imagine describe the Haitians as a resilient people full of hope. I can't imagine holding onto hope.

Today I went through a photo album that I had put together shortly after my trip. My twenty-three year-old notes say that Haiti had an 80% illiteracy rate. Today on the news, the country was described as having a 53% illiteracy rate. Maybe there is hope. I want to believe that my friend Anne-Marie is one of the reasons why. I do not ask God why things like this happen to a people who have so little. It's partly because I'm afraid God will ask me what I have done to help.

Playing Church

When my two oldest children were three and five-years-old they invented a game called "honey and sweetie." I learned about the game one day when they asked to go downstairs to play it. Intrigued, I asked what that might entail. Peyton explained that Bennett would say something like: "Honey, what would you like for dinner?" Peyton would reply: "Whatever you want to make Sweetie." It was their version of playing house. Honey and Sweetie would go through the mundane tasks of life. They would have conversations about who would go to the grocery store and if one or the other would like a cup of tea. I was touched and a little shocked that they had picked up on the language that Beth and I use toward each other. I wasn't aware that we used those names often enough to make an impression on our children. They watch and listen to everything.

A couple of years prior the mother of one of my best friends made Peyton a special doll. I watched Peyton as the doll-making mom described this stuffed craft project. The mom explained that the doll didn't have an expression sewn or painted on the face so that Peyton could imagine what the doll was feeling. Two-year-old Peyton listened intently to the explanation. Once the doll was handed over, Peyton promptly threw it to the ground and stomped on its head. I was a little frightened about Peyton's view of child-rearing. She must have learned that in daycare.

Our kids learn a lot from watching what we do and listening to what we say. The only exception is cleanliness standards. It doesn't matter how often I say "clean your room" or how often they see me cleaning their room, they don't seem to pick up on that. It is sweet to watch them emulate us. Occasionally, when they speak harshly to each other or to their dolls, it serves as a slap upside the head that whether we mean to or not, we are teaching them about relationships and communication with those we love.

When we try to ascribe rules and formality to communion it feels like we are children playing church. I wonder if God watches us and shakes his head that we have somehow missed the point. I suspect God mumbles something like "Oh man, is that what they thought this was about?" When our pastors administer the sacraments they always say something like: "When you eat this bread and drink this wine, do so in remembrance of me." In that sentence, I think the phrase "in remembrance of me" is the important stuff. I believe that it can just as easily be a Snicker bar and a Diet Coke from a vending machine as long as we are focusing on sacrifice and grace and redemption.

If I were to ever write a book, the type of book that requires research and footnotes, it would be about communion. I love the stories of communion. I grew up in a denomination that served communion one time per quarter. We didn't have confession but we did have guilt. My childhood minister would lean over the pulpit, peer into the congregation and ask if we were "right with the Lord." We were warned that to take communion without right relationship would be blasphemy! And there was a fiery pit of hell waiting for blasphemers! My friends and I would look around to see if anyone passed on the sacrament and we would conjecture as to why. I imagined communion in my church was sort of an early precursor to drug testing for parents. Parents would watch their kids to see if they took communion. If they didn't, well that had to mean something was going on. On one particular Sunday I remember being in an absolute panic waiting for the communion trays to be passed. I had mouthed off to my mom that morning. Could I be in right relationship if I didn't honor my parents that morning? Would this one undeserved communion land me in eternal damnation. Communion was stressful.

I vividly remember the first time I attended a worship service with communion at my current church. Pastor Lynn stood at the alter, opened her arms and said: "This is not a Catholic table or a Baptist table. It is not a Presbyterian table. It is our Lord's table. Come, eat." It was said with such hospitality, such inclusion, such love. It is how I now envision Jesus at the Last Supper. It wasn't about threats or damnation. It was about love, about hospitality.

I also love it when things go slightly or even profoundly astray. I love the funny stories of people trying to hold it together when something downright hysterical happens during communion.

Recently at our church we tried to pre-cut and freeze the cubes of bread that would be used for communion. Our regular bread cutter was going to be out of town on a communion Sunday and wanted to prepare prior to her trip. The frozen cubes of soft bread were placed on the brass plates, the plates were stacked and the bread was allowed to thaw in ready position. During communion when the brass cover was lifted off the plates, the soft and now moist bread stuck to the cover, the sides and the bottoms of the plates. As elders tried to serve communion, bread was falling all over the floor. I loved watching the elders try to discreetly pick up the wayward bread before anyone stepped on it. Once they had picked it up off the floor it couldn't be returned to the plate so they frantically looked for a place to dispose of it. Mostly it ended up in pockets or balled up in hands.

A couple of months ago I was in a meeting where we debated who should be allowed to serve communion in our church. The issue was whether or not a non-ordained person could serve communion to a home-bound member during a visit. It is more accurate to describe our church as multi-denominational versus non-denominational. During these types of discussions the dogma and teachings of our past color our opinions and provide a rich diversity. One suggestion was to have an ordained minister bless the bread and the juice just prior to the visit.

One person in the debate questioned: "Would it even count if a non-ordained minister administered it?" I love this person, I respect their opinion but seriously? Would it count? Count for what exactly?

Our Youth Group retreats always include a time of communion. It is by candlelight and is as reverent as is possible given the size of the group and the age of the participants. We rip off pieces of bread and feed it to the person next to us. We hold the cup as our neighbors take the drink of the juice. Communion isn't a solitary practice, it takes all of us to participate. I can't eat unless you feed me.

Last fall during our Leadership Retreat I ripped off too small of a piece of bread and tried to feed it to the high school junior seated next to me. Unintentionally she bit my finger. In her attempts to stifle a guffaw she choked on the bread. It wasn't the type of choke that required the Heimlich--more like the type that causes you to spit out everything in your mouth. I'm pretty sure that my tongue will never regenerate the taste buds I bit off trying to hold back my laughter.

This is the spirit of communion for me. It doesn't matter if we are at Starbucks or a sanctuary. It doesn't matter if you are ordained or questioning your faith. I will look into your eyes. I will feed you and you will feed me. I will remind you that Jesus sacrificed as an act of love and I will ask you to remember that. You will do the same for me. Sometimes, unintentionally you may bite me or I will injure you and the sooner we can laugh together, the better we will be. I think this is what Jesus meant when he said to do so in remembrance.