Ten Years with B.Lake

I missed an important milestone last week.  April 18th was the anniversary of B.Lake’s arrival in the United States – his “Gotcha Day”.  Missing a Gotcha Day is not a big deal at our house, honestly.  With five children, birthdays are hard enough to stay on top of without adding more holidays.  But this was not just any Gotcha Day.  April 18, 2012 marked the 10th anniversary of B.Lake’s homecoming.  Ten years.

I helped out with an adoption training seminar last week, telling prospective parents what it’s like to adopt and parent internationally or transracially or, in our case, both.  At one point I held up a photo of B.Lake taken at the orphanage before he came home.  It got the same reaction it always has – “Ohhhhh!!!  Look at those eyelashes!”

In the winter of 2001 I was looking for Creole language sites online (my brother was preparing to go to Haiti on a mission trip).  I stumbled upon a photolisting for an orphanage in Port-au-Prince, and there I saw a photograph of a little boy with plump cheeks, serious eyes, and the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen.  He was gorgeous and he seemed to leap off the computer screen and ask if I was ready for another child.  Yes.  Absolutely.

The adoption process was unpleasant, to put it mildly.  The orphanage directors assured us that it was a breeze to adopt from Haiti.  “He’ll be home in three to five months,” they said.  A year and a half later we finally traveled to pick up our son, and in the meantime Cheesy had come to us, unexpectedly.  This meant that we added two children to our family in five months – one a newborn, the other a very confused and traumatized three-year-old.  I don’t recommend it unless you have a very strong constitution.

When Mr. Right and I  adopted Striker in 1998 we opted not to travel to India.  Having her escorted home was given as an option, and I’m a bit of a wuss.  We weren’t seasoned travelers; I worried that the combination of travel in a very foreign environment and caring for a child we’d just met would be too stressful.  Escorting is rarely offered as an option in international adoption these days, and I understand why.  Seeing your child’s birth country is a valuable experience, providing information that you’ll be able to share with them as they grow older.  But my instinct that such a trip could be stressful?  I wasn’t wrong about that.  We traveled to Haiti, and our few days there were the longest of my life.  I remember them as days soaked in tears and sweat and urine (we were ill-prepared for the fact that B.Lake was not yet potty trained).  Mr. Right got food poisoning; the people we worked with in Haiti did not seem entirely trustworthy; the poverty of the country was emotionally overwhelming.

I have two particularly strong memories.  One is of a grueling seven hours spent at the American Consulate, waiting for some Very Important Document without which we could not take B. Lake home.  The Hot Wheels and gummi bears that I’d packed pacified B.Lake for only the first few hours.  After that he was wild with frustration and anxiety – and so was I.  A few people gave me looks that communicated their disapproval of my parenting.  I wanted to beat them senseless.

The other memory is of a night at the airport in Port-au-Prince.  We were scheduled to fly home that day, but a storm shut down the entire airport.  It was very late, we had no idea where to go, and I was just….done.  Mr. Right held up well, but B.Lake and I sat down on the floor and wept together.

Did you know that if your child is hysterical enough the flight attendant won’t make him fasten his seat belt on takeoff?  At least that was the case with B.Lake, when we finally left Haiti the next day.   He was literally foaming at the mouth with terror, wetting himself (and me) constantly from the stress.  I have always worried too much about what other people think, but that day I just didn’t give a #%&*.  I wanted to get home, and keeping up appearances was the last thing on my mind.

In the Miami airport, B.Lake was pulled out of line for a TSA screening.  Naturally.  At the St. Louis airport we learned that our luggage was missing.  Of course.  It was, to put it bluntly, the trip from hell.

Sometimes you come through an experience and think, “I would never go through that again!”  Well, maybe not again, but it was certainly worth it the first time.  Parenting B.Lake has not always been easy.  To quote another parenting veteran, “mistakes were made.”  I’ve always blundered my way into things with too much confidence and too little preparation, and adopting B.Lake was no exception.  He was developmentally delayed, learning disabled, malnourished, grieving.  I was busy, tired, impatient, harsh.  I failed him in 101 ways, but somehow he hung on.  He didn’t lose the essentially kindhearted nature we saw in his first weeks home, when he constantly kissed baby Cheesy on the head.  She was getting much of the mothering that he desperately needed at that moment in his life, but he didn’t resent her.  He adored her.

B.Lake is finishing 7th grade.  Academics are still a challenge for him, but his teachers genuinely like him.  He is a strong and disciplined athlete in cross-country, wrestling, and track.  He’s also turning into a ladies man: “They come to me, Mom.  I don’t go to them.”  It’s probably the eyes that get them.  He still has those eyelashes, along with something we didn’t see in those first photos – a blinding, beautiful smile.

The problem with the church is me

If you are part of the “institutional” church, as I am, it’s hard not to feel defensive these days.  The church seems to be under constant criticism, if not outright assault.  This is nothing new, I suppose, but what once seemed a steady stream is starting to look more like a flood.

For convenience sake, I’ll date the recent trend to Jefferson Bethke’s spoken word poem Why I Hate Religion, But Love Jesus.  Uploaded to YouTube in January, the poem now has over 20 million hits and launched a thousand blog posts.  It’s hard to hear the poem and not think that the target is not really religion – an amorphous concept – but the modern church.  And so those of us on Team Church wrote blog posts shooting holes in Bethke’s poem, and we were mystified by the number of people with whom it seemed to resonate.

But that was not the end. In recent weeks Newsweek ran a cover story by Andrew Sullivan titled Follow Jesus and Forget the Church  (my fellow bloggers Travis Scholl and Christopher Keating have written responses);  and at the Huffington Post author Diana Butler Bass wrote about The End of Church.  Blogger Rachel Held Evans launched a series of posts on reasons for leaving the church, and reasons for returning.  The conversation continues, with thousands of comments by this point, many of them from Christians who are sharing their own reasons for leaving the organized church behind.

Mind you, this is not a discussion between believers and unbelievers.  It’s a widening gap between churched Christians and unchurched Christians.  And if you think “unchurched Christian” is an oxymoron, I hear you.  I tend to agree.  Being adopted into the Body of Christ is one of the gifts of salvation.  Why would you intentionally cut yourself off from the richness that is the church?

Well, that’s my reaction at this point in my life.  But I do know what it’s like to want to leave.  A decade or so ago, I had plenty of reasons to leave the church.  I was hurt in ways I thought would never heal, I dreaded going to church week to week, and I fantasized about leaving it all behind.  That’s an old story, and not a very interesting one, because ultimately I decided to stay.  Over time the anger subsided, hope returned, and – surprise! – I ended up responding to a call to vocational ministry.

So now I’m the ultimate church insider, and it makes perfect sense that I defend the system.  I take attacks on the church personally in a way that is hard to deny and easy to explain.  I’m building my future around the church:  I have a vested interest in its survival.

I have started several blog posts on this subject, and they’ve all been very defensive.  In one way or another, they’ve all reminded Christians that Christ loves the church and we should be a bit more circumspect about bashing it; that not everyone in the church is miserable, or blind, or a power-mad leader trying to hold onto control.

And then yesterday happened.  My two youngest daughters were talking to me about a friend who hasn’t been to our church lately.  One of them said,  “I know why she stopped coming.  No one ever talked to her mom.”  Shields up,  I immediately went into self-protection mode.  “Well, really,” I muttered, “If she wanted people to talk to her, why didn’t she just talk to people.”  But I didn’t get the shields up fast enough, I guess, because I also knew that what my daughter said was true.  This young mother – very reserved – have I ever said more than “Hello” to her?  I don’t think so.

As soon as I unwittingly allowed that though in, I remembered a young man who was attending the adult Sunday school class I teach.  He’s smart, and outspoken, and always livens up the discussions in class.  I like him very much, and I miss him when he’s not in class.  But he’s been missing for several weeks and I’ve done….nothing.  Not a call, not a card, just nothing.

That launched a deluge of memories, of sympathy cards never sent, and calls never made, and church dinners at which I sat with the same group of friends every time.  I don’t mean to be thoughtless and self-absorbed.  In my own head it’s always about being too busy to chat as I zip from task to task at church; too forgetful to follow up with people who are hurting; too hungry for time with my own friends to divert attention to others.

Wow.  That’s not good.  Even when I’m trying to put the best possible spin on it, I still sound thoughtless and self-absorbed.

I’m not suggesting that I’m the reason for the decline of the American church.  Or maybe that is what I’m suggesting, in a way.  In 1910 the London Times asked a number of authors to write on the topic “What’s wrong with the world?”  G.K. Chesteron submitted the shortest response:  “I am.”

Christians leave the church for a variety of reasons – doctrinal, structural, emotional, and more.  Those of us who stay are often so hurt by their leaving, or so threatened by what we think it says of those who stay, that we can’t hear what they are telling us.  We stop our ears, invalidate their experiences, and tell ourselves thaeverything is fine.  I keep standing up and telling our church what a loving, supportive, inclusive community we are, when the reality is that I don’t even exemplify those qualities myself.

The church in America is not fine.  I am not fine.  The situation is not hopeless by any means, but we must remember how the gospel works:  you can’t get to the good news without the bad news coming first.  Nothing gets better until I confess my own failure.

What’s wrong with the church?  I am.

Much Ado About Whedon

Joss Whedon speaking at South by Southwest last month

I  miss blogging.  I remember those long, lazy days last year when I was posting several times a week.  Sigh.  I don’t think they’ll be coming back anytime soon.  Late winter and early spring were eaten up by the classes I’m taking online – in combination with the usual stuff of life at home and church.  I have the rest of April off of classes, but I’m trying to make headway on another project, something wonderful but overwhelming.

This year I’m speaking at the Imaginarium at Cornerstone.  That’s a dream come true, folks.  And I get to speak on an old favorite subject, the works of Joss Whedon.  It makes sense in light of the release of The Avengers, which he’s directing.  And Joss fits nicely with the overarching theme of Icons and Images that the Imaginarium is offering up this year.

I should have started preparing for this gig last summer, when I found out it was a strong possibility.  But I tend to live my life by triage, and until the seminar was a 100%, locked down certainty there were always more immediate tasks demanding  my attention.  It was only a couple of months back that I got the final word that I’m on the Imaginarium schedule.

So.  Two-and-a-half-months out from Cornerstone I’m reading and watching and writing as fast as a I can.  I rewatched  all of Firefly, and Dr. Horrible’s Singalong Blog, and I’m watching select episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel.  I’m trying to decide whether to tackle Dollhouse again.  I didn’t enjoy it the first time and quit after the first season.  But I’ve heard from a number of sources that season two redeemed the series.  Maybe.

I love the Whedonverse, but I’m starting to feel a little drunk on it.  I will keep to myself how many times recently I’ve dialogue from “Firefly” in normal conversation; it’s a little embarrassing.  And I’ve started to spot all sorts of minutiae in the shows that I didn’t see before, including bloopers.  You know you’re in over your head as a fan when you consider blogging about the mistakes in a favorite show.  I also think that the woman in charge of special orders at the library is starting to hate me.  Every week I stop by with another list of books I want her to find. Does she ever wonder why I need all these books on the work of Joss Whedon?  You know what would be fun?  Next time I should ask the librarian if she can track down Joss’s home address and cell phone number.  That will leave her wondering.

Today I’m taking valuable time away from Whedon because I just really, really wanted to get a post up.  But then it’s back to work reading a couple of articles about the concept of evil in Joss’s work, and figuring out what clips to use in session one.  And yes, I’m still trying to cook and do laundry and make sure my children don’t go feral on me.  Mr. Right has been enormously helpful because he knows how much this means to me, and he enjoys this stuff himself.  He even loaned me his Fray trade paperback so that I won’t have gaps in my knowledge.  And of course, we’ll be going to see Cabin in the Woods and The Avengers.  And mustn’t forget about Much Ado About Nothing, whenever that’s released.

That’s where I’m at, and who knows when I’ll post again.  But I’ll leave you with this, should there be any other pitifully geeky fans out there.

The Nitpicker’s Guide to Angel, part 1:
Season 1, Episode 1, 38:40 – Hello, lighting guy in jeans and sneakers!
Season 1, Episode 2, 27:30 – Hello, camera people wearing wristwatches!

If I had time to write about movies, I’d write about “Higher Ground” and “The Tree of Life”

The Tree of Life

But I have no time.  Again!  It’s very frustrating.  Makes me want to swear in Chinese (I’ve been rewatching Firefly lately).  It’s so rare to find a movie that gives real weight to spiritual questions and is a truly great piece of cinema.  To see two movies that can be described thusly in less than a month is like striking gold.  Both movies were robbed of Academy Awards, and I’m not the only person that says so.

I haven’t given up hope of writing about Higher Ground and The Tree of Life at some point.  I’ll be on break from classes during April, so perhaps then.  Although I’ve also declared April my personal Whedon-cram month as I prep for Cornerstone.  Wait.  I haven’t mentioned that, have I?  Never mind, that’s for another post.

So for now…you should watch “Higher Ground” and

Higher Ground

“The Tree of Life”.  Then, when I finally write about them, you can argue with me or agree with me in the comments, and it will be more fun.

P.S.  One of my friends says “The Tree of Life” may be his favorite movie of all time.  Another friend says that it’s the stupidest movie he’s ever seen.  How can you resist watching that?

It’s never too late to be sorry

Consider this, from Harold Camping:

….We must…openly acknowledge that we have no new evidence pointing to another date for the end of the world. Though many dates are circulating, Family Radio has no interest in even considering another date. God has humbled us through the events of May 21, to continue to even more fervently search the Scriptures (the Bible), not to find dates, but to be more faithful in our understanding.

We have learned the very painful lesson that all of creation is in God’s hands and He will end time in His time, not ours! We humbly recognize that God may not tell His people the date when Christ will return, any more than He tells anyone the date they will die physically….

We tremble before God as we humbly ask Him for forgiveness for making that sinful statement. We are so thankful that God is so loving that He will forgive even this sin.

That’s refreshing.  If God honors a “broken and contrite” heart, who are we to hold in contempt what seems to be a genuine confession?

Harold Camping is an old man.  I hope he lives the rest of his days with the comfort of knowing that he, like the rest of creation, is “in God’s hands”.  Recognizing our position makes it easier to live with the unanswered questions.

The entire statement from Camping can be found here.

Repost from Jesus Creed: “So we cancelled it all…”

I saw this video posted at Jesus Creed yesterday and I just can’t get it off my mind.  The video is a product of the Episcopal Story Project.  It’s like a Rorschach test, I guess, because the reactions in the comment section at Jesus Creed were all over the map.  It hits a little close to home for me, being a woman in ministry, believing that teaching is my primary calling.  I think the line about people not wanting to have “leisurely conversations” about Jesus is the one I find most troubling.

There’s much we don’t know about this church and this pastor, but just taking her story at face value, it’s worth thinking about.  Is this symptomatic of what’s happening in most churches?  And if so, is it a problem?

Bee reads. I watch in wonder.

I mentioned in a post a few months ago that Bee was having a hard time with reading.  That was a bit of an understatement.  I talked to many of my friends about this – seeking advice from homeschool moms, friends who are teachers – and I often heard variations on, “It will happen.”  It will click.  Some kids just take longer to learn than others.  Be patient.

Well, I was being patient, I think.  In fact, I started to worry that I was being too patient, waiting too long to identify the problem that was holding things up.  I’m not much of a worrier as a parent.  I’m the mom who says, “Let’s wait this out rather than going to the doctor,” or “I’m not forcing her to wear a coat.  If she freezes maybe she won’t argue  about wearing one next time,” and “He’ll be fine.  We’ve all got a few scars from childhood, don’t we?”

That’s me.  So when I say, “I think something’s wrong,” it means I’ve been ignoring warning signs for all long as humanly possible.  I’ve also watched four other children in our family learn to read, and I know some things about how that typically works.  So when my extremely bright, thoughtful 7-year-old was still laboring to sound out “dog” at the end of “Go, Dog, Go!”, I really felt something was amiss.  It was also painful to hear her confidence sinking.  She would report to me with a combination of admiration and perplexity that younger friends were reading chapter books.  “But I can’t read.  I hate reading.”

I won’t give you the long version.  The short version is this:  I began to suspect dyslexia but was still in my avoiding-paying-a-professional mode.  I found some strategies online for teaching children who are dyslexic and followed the easiest possible suggestions, involving lots of homemade flashcards and lots of colored markers.

And it happened!  Something clicked.  It’s been about a month and Bee is reading to me now.  Not chapter books, but she’s certainly conquered “Go, Dog, Go!”, as well as “Green Eggs and Ham”, “The Foot Book”, “In a People House”, and many other classics.  She’s also reading the instructions in her math book (she’s a math whiz), and reading signs we pass on the road, and just generally discovering that there are words everywhere.  She’s stopped saying that she can’t read.  She’s stopped saying that she hates reading – and thank God for that, because that’s one of the saddest things anyone can say, as far as I’m concerned.

Was I worrying over nothing?  Was it all just a matter of time?  I don’t think so.  I think something about those flashcards and those bright colors triggered something in her brain to see words as more than jumbles of discrete symbols that were out to make her life miserable.

And so I say thank God for the Facebook friend who mentioned the website, and thank God for the website where I found help, and thank God for the little blonde sitting next to me as I type who is so radiantly proud of herself as she reads to me this morning.  We have some catching up to do, and I suspect reading may never be the easiest subject for her.  But Bee is reading and it feels like a miracle.