Sun Breaks in the Rainy City

On Filtering Media: Parenting Fail

2011-04-19T22:31:00.000-07:00

My six-year old son, Duzi is one of those kids who memorizes movie lines and then quotes them at the most random moment possible. In the car, at the dentist, at the doctor’s office, at the bus stop, and at baseball practice, he always has a one liner ready. He uses movies to practice American slang. Lately, he’s been experimenting with the words “sucker” and “dude.” As in, "Dude, can I have some eggs?" And, "Duuuuude - is it chore time?" And then, my favorite one - especially when he says it in public - is, "That's right, SUCKER!"

The kid will repeat anything. We sort of accidentally let him watch a movie about tornadoes that the older kids wanted to watch, completely forgetting about the foul language contained therein. The next day, as we pulled up to the grocery store, I overheard Duzi playing with his cars in the back seat. One car said to the other, “OH SHIFTS!” The car then proceeded to get sucked up by a fake tornado. I was 1) Thankful that he mispronounced the bad word and 2) Very aware that I need to closely monitor this kid’s media exposure.

So, we recently took all three kids to see RIO – the new cartoon movie about the birds.

Duzi told me that it was the funniest movie he had ever seen. He also told me that about Soul Surfer…so I’m not sure that his is the most discerning voice.

I’ve never really felt the need to view kids movies with such scrutiny, but here we are. Actually, truth be told – I sort of hate kids’ movies. Unless it’s The Incredibles. I like that one.

In spite of my aversion to kids' movies, I did like RIO. It’s a beautiful movie, colorful, alive, and the songs move. Will-I-am gives a great performance as an Angry Bird (his “romantic” song had the entire theater laughing - especially Duzi), and Tracy Morgan is classic as a bird-friendly-bulldog. The bad-bird Cockatoo was frightening and funny, and gets his just reward in an appropriately comic way. The monkeys are fantastic, and the bird-club-rave-slash-gang-brawl was brilliant.

A little…dare I say…racy for a kid’s movie? Blu bounces off a bikini’d buttocks, and the final Carnival costumes are flamboyant and buxom…accurate, I imagine, to Rio’s culture, and a stark contrast to the “MinniSNOWta” life that Blu lived until he was transported to Brazil. But just a tad…racy. Also, the plot line of getting the McCaw’s together so they could mate is a bit of grown up theme, and could cause questions for young viewers. (ie. Caleb asking us, “How does the information get from the daddy to the baby in the mommies tummy?”) Compared to Rango, there is no tobacco consumption that I noticed, but there are some adult themes that might need to be unpacked.

There’s the Howerton take on Rio.

There are not any bad words in it.

Heroes

2011-04-11T23:53:00.000-07:00

We all need heroes. Humanity has made heroes out of some of the least likely candidates. When a person is converted into a hero in society’s collective memory, the individual is elevated to the highest places. Children’s books are written about them, statements they supposedly uttered are logged into online quote sites. Something about having heroes helps us live better, work toward goals, and care a whole lot more about each other.

But, the truth about heroes is that they are heroes because they struggled. They are heroes because of adversity. The overcoming adversity part is the part we remember, the part society celebrates. We sort of skip over the excruciating pain part. All kids dream about becoming heroes, because of the glory involved, not because of the pain that precedes victory. As an adult, I understand the pain involved in hero making and my first instinct is to run from it. To run far, far away.

The other night, the three kids and the husband and I went to see the Bethany Hamilton memoir “Soul Surfer.” We all knew the basic story (Duzi was briefed on the way to the movie and escorted to the concession stand by Dad during the shark attack scene) and our family absolutely loves the island of Kauai, where the story takes place. We had all read Bethany’s memoir, “Soul Surfer” several years ago and knew that Bethany survived having her arm bitten off by a shark while surfing. We knew that she ascribed her survival and subsequent recovery (including a career in professional surfing) to her relationship with God.

So, we were very excited to see the motion picture version. Here’s the Howerton review:

The story is powerful. The acting was mediocre. The raw emotion of the story came through in spite of some less than stellar acting moments. My children came away utterly inspired by the courage and tenacity of Bethany Hamilton. That said, we’d see it again in a heartbeat. I can’t think of many movies these days that authentically inspire. Even with the poor acting and a touch of lame special effects, we loved it.

I do think, though, that Bethany herself is even more inspiring than the movie rendition of her. I came across this video of the real lady and I sort of wished the movie had been a documentary. Bethany sounds like a surfer because well, she is one. A really good one.

Oh, and if a movie is ever made about me, I’d really like Dennis Quaid and Helen Hunt to play my parents.

On Being the Pastor's Wife

2011-04-07T22:06:00.000-07:00

I have always had an interesting relationship with my role as a pastor’s wife. Some days I like it –mostly those are days when the role has felt fulfilling, when I get to speak into the life of our church, when the role has given me an opportunity to help or pray with someone in pain. Other days, the role feels like a shoe that just doesn’t fit. A shoe that gives you blisters or squeezes your toes too hard. A shoe that stinks.

Every pastor’s wife I’ve ever met (and I’ve met a lot) has struggled with the dual nature of the pastor’s wife role. It’s simultaneously exciting and fulfilling and really, really hard. Pastor’s wives discuss these things when they are alone with other pastor’s wives. Tomorrow, I’m teaching a series of workshops (with my good friend and fellow pastor’s wife, Neely) at the Northwest Ministry Conference - for pastor’s wives. We taught it last year (not that we have this thing wired – we are seriously a pair of the least likely pastor’s wives one could imagine) and were astounded by how isolated and depressed many pastor’s wives feel on a daily basis. Well, not astounded exactly. Having had our own moments of struggling in the role, we identified with them in a big way.

Things that contribute to the pain inherent in the pastor’s wife role vary. But, the list that follows is what we heard from a packed room of pastor’s wives last year. Here goes:

There are expectations from members of the congregation and community that the pastor’s wife will be a certain way, that her children will behave a certain way, and that she will never struggle or hurt. These expectations are not always spoken – usually they are implied. She is to dress a certain way, smile a certain way and meet needs she has no clue are there. There’s little room to express individuality. Often pastor’s wives feel pressure to meet expectations without having any real authority within the church context. One woman called it “impotent authority.” Also, they report struggling with guilt when they grow tired of hearing praises about their husbands while no one knows their name. The most honest in the group of pastor’s wives said that being “the wind beneath their husband’s wings” was great, but not all there was. Almost every pastor’s wife had experienced some kind of severely wounding betrayal brought on by lost friendship or church politics gone badly. It was also reported that there are many people who want to befriend pastor’s wives in order to know the pastor or simply be close to what they perceive as power. And, mind you, the pastor’s wife job– in most denominations – is not a paid position.

In short, this is a hurting group of women.

The core message I hope to communicate to other pastor’s wives tomorrow, and one that I still re-learn on a daily basis, is that your primary role in life is NOT to be an exemplary pastor’s wife. Your role is NOT to meet the expectations of your congregation, friends, or husband. Your role is to simply let God love you. Your role, as is the role of any Christian, is to serve out of your unique passion and giftedness. This sounds so simple, right? Unfortunately, it’s not. Whether the church a pastor’s wife is in is big or small, people are constantly watching. This pressure can feel stifling, restricting and lonely. And, when it comes down to it, exhausting.

I’ve never really fit the mold of the 1950’s pastor’s wife. And, actually, I’m quite proud of that. I have opinions on politics and theology that can be very different than my husband’s (gasp!). I am an INDIVIDUAL with my own complicated, intense faith. From the beginning of our ministry journey, I’ve set pretty clear boundaries about family time and have tried to participate in ministry as I felt God calling me to – instead of basing my service on other people’s expectations. Well, most of the time. Avoiding other people’s expectations can be a hard one. Especially when you are a people pleaser.

I wanted to blog about this because I wanted people to know that pastors and pastor’s wives (who have names!) are real people. Real people with hurts, hang-ups, dreams, issues, and spiritual struggles. Real people who don’t want to be put up on that impossible pedestal. Real people who sometimes fight with each other. Real people who will disappoint you ('cuz we're not Jesus).

Lest anyone interpret this honest post the wrong way, let me qualify some of the complaining with this - I love my husband and believe wholeheartedly in his gifting. I am a committed follower of Christ who is daily working out her salvation with fear and trembling. And, I am content to live in the tension.

Free Stuff Friday (VIP tickets to Soul Surfer Screening)

2011-03-31T22:50:00.000-07:00

Once a week, at least, I have dreams about the island of Kauai. Usually, I'm dreaming that we've moved there and have become an uber-mellow hippie family that grows avocado and pineapple in the front yard. We don't have jobs in this dream, or responsibilities of any kind. No one calls us with an emergency and really, no one even knows where we are. I think this is officially called escapism. When I wake up, I'm reminded that Kauai is for vacation, when we can afford it - meaning when we can mooch a free place to stay and pay for airfare with miles. And, that Seattle is for real life, where we snowboard, hike and generally commune with the giant trees.

White sandy beaches, aquamarine sea, and consistent sunshine are pretty awesome selling points, however. So, when I heard that the Bethany Hamilton story was coming to the big screen, I was pretty excited. Bethany is a surfer from Kauai who survived a shark attack as a young teenager and has lived to not only tell about it, but to inspire scads of people around the world to overcome adversity. And, my 11-year old daughter Alex is a big Bethany Hamilton fan. Alex read Hamilton's book, "Soul Surfer," and identified with the surfer's faith and perseverance in a big way.

I was even more excited when I was offered the opportunity to attend an advanced screening of the movie with my family AND give away 5 free tickets to my blog readers.

Spring in Seattle is always slightly disappointing. One sees flowers blooming, but isn't guaranteed a sighting of the sun. So, SOUL SURFER, the movie will bring me the Kauai fix I desperately need, albeit without the tan.

April 6th at AMC Pacific Place in Seattle at 6:15pm. Winners will receive a SOUL SURFER mystery gift pack, as well.

Leave a comment to enter. Winner will be randomly selected and announced on Monday morning.

Good Luck!

Smacked

2011-03-24T00:02:00.000-07:00

Every spring that I’ve lived in Seattle, on the first consistently sunny day, the same thing happens in my soul. As I start to sweat, saying to myself, “Oh my gosh – I think it’s at least 60 degrees right now and where are my sunglasses that I bought last summer?” the tough, weathered skin around my soul begins to shed. During the Northwest winter, callouses form around this Southern California girl’s soul for protective purposes. I can live through winter as long as careful measures have been taken, as long as I have clear expectations. You know, like – "Don’t expect to see the sun until the 4^th of July. Then, if Spring ends up being awesome, you’ll be super surprised and subsequently love where you live."

For the first 5 years I lived in the Great Northwest, I loved the irony of the rain, the melancholy, sort of literary feel it had. Year 6 brought some impatience with the weather, and this year, year 7, the protective barrier around my soul had to become downright leathery to endure the gray. I love blaming the weather for whatever emotional state I’m in. It’s so convenient. You know, it’s not the crazy adjustment of becoming adoptive parents or the often ludicrous challenges of living as leaders of a church – it’s the weather.

But, today there was sun. Lots and lots of sun. The blanket of gray that loves to cover the Puget Sound migrated somewhere else – hopefully to a place that needs rain, hopefully to a region experiencing a gigantic drought. I’m incredibly willing to share our weather with the needy. I’m compassionate like that.

Today, I could see the mountains. Really, really see them. In the sunlight, they are their own private shade of blue and the snow-capped peaks look ethereal, almost like a cartoon.

With the sunshine today and said shedding of callouses around the soul, I was surprisingly smacked in the face with joy. Just totally and unexpectedly SMACKED. The joy I experienced under the blessing of sunshine didn’t just look like a big dopey grin. I cried like a baby this afternoon. I should qualify this statement - I actually did an ugly adult cry. Not cute at all. I had several epiphanies about parenting, which made me laugh and then cry again and then inexplicably hiccup. When I say, “smacked with joy,” I mean that I was flooded with all kinds of emotions, the sum total of all being powerfully positive.

Something about the gift of warmth and sunshine forced an encounter with things the leathery winter soul had been staving off. Things like, I know Duzi has some sensory issues we need to deal with, but oh my gosh I can’t believe how far we’ve come. He is my son and I am his mom and all I can think is MIRACLE. He drew this picture in our driveway with chalk today.

Things like, Caleb needs some alone time with his parents – he just asked how the “information” from a mom and dad “come together” to decide what a baby looks like. YIKES. Time for some intentional discussion.

Things like, in a few Springs’ time, Alex is going to wake up a woman (OK, she’s only 11 but today that seems really old), and WOW how did the time go so fast.

Under the sunshine today, I felt overwhelmingly grateful. I may have shouted out “Thank you, Jesus!” a few times in public. I'm charismatic like that (OK, not at all - the sunshine made me do it). If you were at Greenlake today, that crazy, muttering runner was me. I took this pic of Greenlake this morning on my phone.

It's gonna rain tomorrow. But, I think I like living without callouses on my soul.

"You're Adopted"

2011-02-07T23:17:00.000-08:00

Duzi and I had an interesting experience in his Kindergarten classroom this morning. Every Monday morning, I volunteer to help with centers. For the third time this year, one little boy in the class felt the need to announce loudly to me, within earshot of Duzi,

“I know Duzi is adopted. My mom told me Duzi is adopted. You just adopted Duzi.”

This particular kid is actually very sweet, very innocent, and also very precocious. The first time he announced Duzi’s status as an adopted kid to his fellow Kindergartners, I patiently smiled and replied,

“Yes, Duzi is adopted. He has a mommy and daddy, just like you!”

He also told me he wanted to have Duzi over for a play date. The second time this kiddo mentioned this information loudly during class, I dismissed it, chalking up his comments to the fact that Duzi was probably the first adopted child he had ever met, if not the first black child. Today, though, when he announced the exact same thing, several other kids chimed in, saying things like, “I didn’t know that!” and “What’s adopted?” This time, I was supremely annoyed.

Duzi heard the whole conversation and reacted by coming over to the table I was at and demanding, with a gleam in his eye,

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

He was making his silly-crazy-I want a laugh-face, which told me he didn’t know how to navigate the situation and that he felt really uncomfortable. He is obviously aware that we are an adoptive family. This wasn’t news to him. He was being sarcastic (evidence that he is a Howerton).

I had to smile at my son. If he could articulate his thoughts like a grown-up, I think they would read like this, “Duh! Of COURSE I’m adopted! Thank you SO much for stating the obvious. I am already aware of this fact and so is my mom. I don’t know you very well so, when you announce this to the class over and over again, I feel marginalized and SUPER PISSED.”

I might be projecting my own thoughts here.

I ended up hugging Duz and kissing him 10 times on the lips right before suggesting kindly to my table that they not report things about one another to the class, that they should only share their own news.

When I tucked Duzi in to bed tonight, he remarked, very seriously,

“Mom, everyone thinks I’m new.”

We talked for a long while and in his Kindergartner way, he expressed how frustrated he feels when people single him out, whether it be for positive attention or negative. We talked about how he used to be new to America, to Washington, to his family – but that now he is not new. He’s a son, a brother, a grandson, a cousin and a student. He belongs here.

He’s ready to be treated like any other American kid.

I understand that I cannot expect other, non-adopted 6-year olds to innately understand how a simple declaration about adoption can make an adoptee feel stigmatized and inferior. I don’t think this little boy meant to hurt anyone’s feelings.

I’m debating whether or not to call the little boy’s mother and invite her over so we can chat about the whole thing over coffee. I think I will. When I think about what I knew and didn’t know about adoption 5 years ago, even 1 year ago, I only have kind thoughts about this family.

In the meantime, I’m trusting that God’s grace is vast enough to protect my little man’s heart.

Angry Birds and the Superbowl

2011-02-04T16:26:00.000-08:00

My family (husband included) is absolutely obsessed with the game, Angry Birds. As I write this, my husband is informing me that I’m “under-selling” the addiction. Apparently, it’s even worse than I thought. I am not a huge fan of video games and try to limit the amount of time my kids spend on technology. I usually prefer that my kids engage in other brain stimulating activities like, I don’t know, READING. But, I’m not gonna lie, Angry Birds has come in handy when we’re sitting in the waiting rooms of doctors’ offices, waiting for basketball practice to finish, or enduring other usually banal experiences.

I don’t quite understand why these birds are so angry. Looking over my shoulder, the husband is now informing me in a very condescending tone, “you would be angry, too, if your eggs were stolen by limbless green pigs with mustaches and construction hats.”

OH. Now I totally get it.

For all you Angry Birds fans out there, make sure you watch the Superbowl, or at least the commercials. Angry Birds has partnered with the upcoming animated film from Twentieth Century Fox, RIO, for a special treat. You can read about it here:

“This Sunday, Twentieth Century Fox’s upcoming animated motion picture event RIO will make Super Bowl commercial history, when the 30-second RIO spot becomes the first-ever to air with an embedded code.

Super Bowl fans in the United States watching RIO’s new commercial spot are invited to find the frame with the embedded code that will in turn direct them to a special level on ANGRY BIRDS, Rovio’s blockbuster game, which recently entered into a first-of-its kind partnership with RIO. That level will take you to a RIO sweepstakes.

The sweepstakes winner will attend RIO’s world premiere in Rio de Janeiro on March 22. That same day, Fox and Rovio launch the highly anticipated “Angry Birds Rio” app.

The spot will be available across the web, including youtube.com/rio, after the Super Bowl.”

You're welcome.

Six Months

2011-01-31T22:35:00.000-08:00

The night we became a family....

I was driving around town today, dropping one kid off at basketball practice, fielding incessant questions about volcanoes from another, ignoring one child’s complaints about the lunch I had made, and trying to remember if I’d left the oven on, when I suddenly realized that we’ve been home, as a family of five, for over six months now. Six. Months.

I cognitively knew that we had been home for that long - we just had our final 6- month visit with our social worker. But, the emotional realization of it came today, at a random, very typical moment in the car. Something Caleb said about volcanoes and something Duzi said, with a big, naughty grin, to antagonize him made me realize how far we have all come in this business of becoming a family. I mean, my kids all know each others’ buttons and here they were, pressing them like regular siblings, in the backseat.

Usually, when they intentionally annoy one another, and in the process royally irritate me, I pull out a line like, “That’s IT. Everyone look out a window. NO talking or making any sounds for 5 minutes. I’m SERIOUS.” Today, though, I let the banter continue. Surprisingly, the conversation didn’t descend into fighting or tears. It instead became uproarious laughter. I think one of the boys farted.

Listening to the three of them laugh really hard TOGETHER was beyond awesome.

Then, after I tucked the boys into bed tonight, I paused at the door to listen for any shenanigans. This is what I heard:

DUZI (trying hard to conceal laughter): “Good night, Ca-Ca!”

CALEB (not trying quite as hard to conceal laughter): “Good night, Doo-doo!”

Ca-Ca and Doo-Doo are currently sleeping soundly and their mom is feeling really thankful.

Whitewashing and Fashion Magazines

2011-01-27T10:59:00.000-08:00

It's common knowledge that fashion magazines touch up photographs of models. If this is news to you, I'm sorry to have to break this to you; the faces you see on covers of magazines in the check-out counter at the grocery store are no more real than cartoon characters. Jennifer Anniston really isn't that thin. The Kardashian cheekbones don't look like that in real life. Images in fashion magazines are conjured by artists, manipulated and carefully sculpted to deliver a message - mainly that you will never look like this but, you should try as hard you can to.

The process a model goes through to be deemed photographable and the subsequent manipulation of the photograph are well documented in this video that Dove did as part of it's Campaign for Real Beauty several years ago.

Recently there has been some new controversy over the doctoring up of photographs of minority celebrities appearing on the cover of magazines. Elle Magazine recently featured Gabourey Sidibe, winner of two Academy Awards for her performance in the movie "Precious," and and Aishwarya Rai, Bollywood star and former Ms. World, on it's cover. Both actresses have accused the magazine of whitewashing their photographs.

There are rumors of lawsuits and Elle magazine has defended it's portrayal of both women, claiming that their photographs hadn't been touched up any more than any other cover model that had appeared in the magazine.

This controversy has been very disturbing to me. Unfortunately, depictions of models influence how we, as women, see ourselves. As much as I tell my daughter that the images are false, that they have been doctored, that they are cartoonish, they will on some level influence how she feels about her appearance and about the appearance of others. I intentionally do not have these magazines in my home but, she inevitably sees them in other places. My black son will also be exposed to these images and will not find anyone who looks like him.

An important part of healing racism in this country is to show honest, unaltered pictures of race in the media.The message that Elle communicated when it lighted the skin of Sidibe and Rai, is that white is right, that light skin is more desirable, that there is only one way to be beautiful. The real problem is that our culture has bought into this - lighter models yield higher sales. The solution seems relatively simple: LET'S STOP BUYING THE MAGAZINES.

I'm interested in your thoughts...

Auld Lang Syne: A Third Grader’s Reflections and Resolutions

2011-01-11T11:01:00.000-08:00

Caleb, my fearless, dirt under his fingernails, eccentric eight year old was asked to write an essay responding to the prompt, “Ring out the Old and Ring in the New!” The prompt asked him to write about his three favorite experiences in the last year and about three things he hoped would happen in 2011. I’m sharing it with his permission. He was quite proud that I thought his essay worthy of posting on the blog. He feels “published” now.

“Pssst! Would you like to hear my writing prompt? It’s about the three things that I loved about the past year and three things I hope will come in 2011! Wait! You have to hear this for yourself!

The first thing that happened in 2010 is that our family decided to adopt a child from South Africa. His name is Duzi. He fits right into our family! So, if you haven’t adopted yet, it’s hard but fun. So, why don’t you give it a try?

The second thing that happened in 2010 is that the USA troops stationed in Iraq were sent home! I think that is important because they fought in wars for our country. So, we should honor them. Let’s get a move on!

Did you hear about the earthquake in Haiti? Well, my aunt Kristen and her family were trying to adopt a boy named Kembe but, then she was trapped in Haiti with Kembe! So, we did everything in our power to help her and Kember get home. But, thankfully, they are home now!

What I hope happens in 2011: I hope that Haiti gets cleaned up and people are all right. I also hope for world peace. Because, I want no war, no violence – so people can live their lives better and not have to think of safety. I also want to help my church as a New Year’s resolution and get baptized so I can have a career as a pastor like my dad.

Did you like my writing prompt? Well, I did! So, now you know my writing prompt.”

Notice his nice paragraph structure and proper punctuation (the English teacher in me places a high value on these things).

One always hopes they are parenting well. One always hopes that their kids are really absorbing the important things, really internalizing compassion and kindness. This little writing prompt was a gift to me because Caleb, like most 8 year old boys I know, can be quite the antagonizer in our house. He gives me a run for my money just about every day. When I lay down at night, I often pray, “Lord, give me patience,” and it’s primarily Caleb that I need it for. I'll not go into the big fit he threw while working on the final draft of this essay.

But, this prompt gives me a window into his heart and I really, really love what I see. The wisdom of calling adoption “hard but, fun” amazed me along with how he beseeched others to also adopt. I had no idea that he was paying attention to the fact that US troops were sent home from Iraq. Looks like I’ll keep listening to NPR in the car. And, with the anniversary of the earthquake in Haiti coming up, he’s recalling how scared we were for Aunt Kristen, her baby, Karis, and son, Kembe. I love his goals – he might end up being a little bit let down by the lofty World Peace one but, I’m not going to crush his spirit just yet.

I’d say this kid is paying attention and I’m so relieved. Tonight, when he fights me about doing his homework, going to bed, or melts down about something random, I’m going to relax and remember how important it is to keep my eyes on the big picture.

Honoring Grief

2011-01-07T16:38:00.000-08:00

Before our 5 year-old son came home in July 2010, I devoured blogs about adoption, attempting to glean wisdom and encouragement from other families that had been knit together through adoption. I read blogs and articles written by both waiting families and blogs written by adult adoptees and I talked with close friends who were adoptive parents. Since we were adopting an older child with special health needs, our adoption agency required lots of hours of training on issues like attachment and helping children heal from abuse and neglect. I even had a few meetings with doctors in our area.

So, when we entered the adoption process we felt ready. We felt empowered and we quickly grew impatient. Naturally, we wanted our son home as soon as possible. We didn’t want to lose any more time with our precious boy. While we waited for paperwork and visas and permissions and rubber stamps, it dawned on me that our son, Duzi, had no idea we were coming for him. We were prepared and ready, and his world was about to change dramatically, with no input from him. While the situation he lived in was very loving and nurturing (www.ithembalethu.org.za), it was not ideal, not a family, and not a good permanent home for him. Still, it was HIS home. It was what was familiar to him and what he knew. I knew there would be great joy when we were finally united, along with significant grief.

And, now, after being a family for six months (look at the picture above - what a cutie, huh?), we’re working out lots of grief. The depth of the grief has been surprising. The grief comes from missing people he loved in South Africa, from wishing we had come to “fetch” (his word!) him sooner, from realizing that he’ll never meet his birth mother, and from a general sense of loss. In the midst of the grief, we have awesome snuggle time, popcorn fights and some pretty epic wrestling matches. Joy and grief live side by side in our house.

What I want to communicate in this post is that the story isn’t over when an adopted child finally comes home. Too often I get the sense from very well-meaning people and from waiting adoptive families, that they want to hear a story with a neatly wrapped happily ever after bow on it. Let me be clear, our story IS a happy one. We really are basking in the miraculous power of adoption. But, it’s been hard, too.

Lately, I’ve been reading blogs and social networking status updates from adoptive families on waiting lists for babies. Each time the family moves up the waiting list, they tweet excitedly and express how much faster they wish the process was going. When I read the updates, I have conflicting emotions. First, I’m excited for them and join them in wishing that the wait would be shorter. The waiting is so hard, so nerve-wracking, so draining. And then, I realize what moving up the waiting list actually means. It means that a biological mother will be separated from her biological child – usually for reasons that are rooted in poverty and disease – and my heart breaks.

I’m not sure what I want the adoptive parents to say in their status updates instead. But, I can’t shake the feeling that the loss the child will experience is not being considered.

As adoptive parents, we need to honor the grief our future children will experience and the grief our current kids are experiencing. Coming home will not “cure” a child, even if the child is a baby, from the loss that all adoption stories begin with. Coming home is the beginning of the healing process, not the end. Honoring the grief, really acknowledging it, is the first step in helping to heal our kids’ broken hearts.

I’m a brand new adoptive parent and am learning how to love my new son one day at a time. I definitely don’t have his whole parenting thing wired.

Rockin' Mama Challenge

2011-01-04T10:03:00.000-08:00

The first week of January is always, always marked by our well-meaning resolutions to lose weight, kick a habit or just be better somehow in the coming year. Several years ago, I wrote a post about resolutions, our failure to keep them, and how I was not going to fall into the usual trap of striving for accomplishments. Instead of asking myself what I wanted to do, I asked myself the question, who do I want to be?

Well, this year I’m asking that question all over again. We’ve come through some rough and joyful transition this past year and, now that we’re emerging from the chaos, I feel like I have some room to really think about who I want to be in the coming year. I really do want to lose weight. I really do want to get back to triathlon training. But, the thing I want most is connection – with friends, with my husband, and with my children. I want to be a person in meaningful relationships with others.

As I contemplated that, I came across an amazing challenge from a good friend and incredible adoptive parent named Lisa who blogs at A Bushel and a Peck (I guest-posted for her today – you can read my post entitled “Honoring Grief” here.) She has eleven children. Yes, you read that correctly. Eleven. Seven biological and four adopted from Ethiopia.

Here’s the “Rockin’ Mama Challenge” from Lisa:

“Many of us are mothering children who came to us with broken hearts; it stretches us and sometimes we doubt our ability to help them become whole. In the nearly four years since our adopted children joined our family, we have sought many avenues of healing for them. One of the simplest and most profound means of encouraging attachment we’ve found is rocking our children in our big “Ugly Chair.”

On December 20th I began a personal challenge to rock Honeybee 15 minutes each day. It has not been easy, in fact, some days it is quite difficult — but I am hopeful.

Join me in the Rockin’ Mama Challenge! (Rockin’ daddies also welcome)

• Join the challenge by clicking HERE.

• Rock your child for 15 minutes each day for 28 days. If possible, these should be consecutive days, but don’t let that stop you! Since starting the challenge, I have already missed two days. The perfectionist in me is tempted to give up, but the benefits of rocking cannot be denied, even when days are missed.  Some children cannot tolerate being touched and held for 15 minutes. You may want to try five minutes at a time with a goal of fifteen total minutes per day.

• Rock your child alone. Honeybee says, “no other kids allowed!” No phone, no books, no computer, no distractions.

• Keep a daily journal of rocking. All you need is one line to say how many minutes, what time of day, what you did – did you sit silently, sing, eat a cookie together, chew gum? Record any impact or change you see in your child’s behavior — and in your own, even if it is negative.

• Email me once each week or so to share what you are learning; email it to challenge@onethankfulmom.com. You can send a copy of your rocking journal, excerpts, a summary, or a one sentence observation.

• Start today, start New Year’s Day, start whenever you can. It is never too late to join the challenge. I will officially close the challenge on February 14th (time to start holding your hubby), so that I can collect the lessons you shared with me.

Please share this link ( http://bit.ly/hWiC2O ) on your blog, twitter, facebook, etc. Encourage others to join us.

http://www.onethankfulmom.com/best-of/rockin-mama-challenge/

I’m committing to this! Starting today, I’m going to rock Duzi for fifteen minutes for 28 days. I’m also committing to “rocking” my two big kids – by snuggling them at bedtime, curling up to read together, or rocking them, if they’ll let me.

Join me!

The Christmas Report 2010

2010-12-31T10:27:00.000-08:00

The last few weeks have been a blur of cooking, shopping, wrapping, sledding, and hanging out together as a family. Here are some highlights of the Howerton Family Christmas.

Duzi's first time tubing in the snow. He was not used to wearing so many big clothes so spent most of the day in the tube making us pull him everywhere, earning the title, "Snow Slug."

Sledding and snowball fights on private property. We got kicked off this hill 30 seconds after this photo was taken. Notice Mike in the background, trying to get one more run in before the Sheriff could stop him.

Caleb's going through a huge Harry Potter phase. Also a huge frat boy phase.

Mike and I bought the same Children's book for each other - the longer we're married, the more we're morphing into the same person.

Alex kickin' it in her new peace hat.

Christmas morning - Duzi was slightly excited. Honestly, we should have just given him this car and called it good. The other presents really didn't matter much to him after this. He was in little boy heaven.

Kids slept together in the playroom on Christmas Eve. Only took 1.5 hours for them to fall asleep. Listening to them laugh together has been my favorite part about Christmas.

Our Christmas Eve culinary experience with good friends. We've been sucked in to the Hamer family tradition. I spent a significant amount of time regretting this decision - in the form of upchucking well into the night.

Alex is so OVER her brothers.

Alex's marshmallow fondant sugar cookies

Duzi the pastry chef

Caleb's had a few too many Christmas cookies.

Duzi's 6th Birthday was in mid-December. Only three kids got hurt.

Happy New Year!

Decorating the Christmas Tree

2010-12-19T00:02:00.000-08:00

Last year, when we decorated our family Christmas tree, it felt very bittersweet.

Each ornament we placed on the tree reminded us of a unique Christmas memory, a joyful milestone in the Howerton family, an acknowledgment that the kids were another year older or simply that the flimsy egg-carton photo frame ornament had survived another year in storage. The ornaments invoked memories like - five years ago, we lost power until after lunch on Christmas day. For some reason, the red ornament reminded me of that. Three or four years ago, Caleb prayed for snow in the wee hours of Christmas morning and we sort of laughed at him. UNTIL IT STARTED SNOWING. Now, when Caleb prays we tend to pay more attention. The snowman ornament reminded me of that. While we decorated the tree last year, we were simultaneously celebrating our family whilst grieving for the missing parts.

Last year’s Christmas celebration was bittersweet because it was the first year I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that our family was incomplete. We were smack in the middle of the adoption process last December and we all felt Duzi’s absence. We put his picture in a Christmas ornament in a hopeful yet, grieving sort of way. We prayed for him when we hung it on the tree - we prayed that God would bring our son home to us sooner rather than later.

This year, Duzi hung that ornament on the tree himself. He smiled really big when he saw his photo, from way back when he was 4, positioned in a Christmas ornament on HIS family’s Christmas tree.

While Duzi celebrated the idea of his first Christmas with his forever family, he also grieved for his beloved foster family in South Africa. The holidays are structured to be mile markers, watermarks – the time when one takes inventory of how life is unfolding. The time when one both rejoices and grieves. And, at 6 years old, without being able to articulate why the holidays invoke grief, he grieved. And, we let him. He grieved in his own unique, 6-year old way but I know him well enough now to identify when it’s grief and not just disobedience.

I hesitated to write this post because I imagine that most people want to hear a neatly gift-wrapped, clean adoption story that casts the adoptive family as heroes and the adopted child as the instantaneously healed victim. The truth is that there is tremendous hope that co-exists with grief in the same moment.

Nothing is neatly wrapped, but everything is being redeemed.

The Art of the Well-Scrubbed Christmas Letter

2010-12-13T22:36:00.000-08:00

We’ve all received them. Little Ginny won the spelling bee, Fred made the dean’s list, Dad got a big bonus, and Mom manages to cook gourmet, Martha Stewart-esque meals every night while working at an important job and volunteering in the kids’ classrooms several times a week. Even the dog’s accomplishments are listed – Rover just loves his daily 10-mile runs with mom or dad and even saved one of the kids from choking. The English rose garden in the yard might be mentioned. Some photos of the family vacation to Hawaii are included in the montage - along with a photo of the brand new car.

Every time I read such a token, cliché Christmas letter, I wonder, naturally, what’s being omitted. Based on my experience in ministry and with my own family (immediate and extended), I know that there are lots and lots of things people don’t want to write about in the Christmas letter.

What we don’t read in most Christmas letters is that (note, these are generic examples – check my Christmas letter for the real Howerton ones - although the photo posted is real). Johnny just finished his second rehab program, or that Mom suspects that Dad is a workaholic or addicted to pornography. No one mentions that Mom had an affair or that grandma is an alcoholic or that Aunt Margaret’s breast cancer is causing them to doubt their faith. We don’t read that parents are exhausted and in need of a break or that the family is depending on the local Food Bank for survival. We don’t read that anyone in the family is hurting or struggling or grieving. Instead, we see photos of families at their best - smiling, matching, and very put together. Readers are meant to envy how well the Joneses are doing.

I must confess, I’ve written this “all too put together” Christmas letter myself– sans the bragging about the spelling bee and dog (if you’ve smelled my dog, you’ll know there’s no way to brag about him.) In years past, I have definitely sent out a scrubbed clean recap of a year in Howerton family life. Most years, I’ve just sent a card and a photo, not knowing how to be honest and authentic without scaring the hell out of people. In a stark rejection of the Great Christmas Letter Expectation, I haven’t sent anything out for the last two years.

What’s incredibly ironic about the modern state of the Christmas Letter is that the story of Jesus’ birth, the very reason for the holiday, is not a very put together story. I’m pretty sure that Mary’s parents wouldn’t have sent out a Christmas card with a caption that read, “Our 14 year old magically got pregnant and then gave birth near farm animals! Merry Christmas!”

The whole point of Jesus’ birth is that messiness is redeemable – that there is healing and hope, that you DON’T have to have it all together, that you can come as you are. Honestly, in Jesus' economy, messiness wins.

It's when we think we have it all together that we're in trouble.

Resurfacing

2010-12-07T21:54:00.000-08:00

I woke up yesterday morning with an incredibly strange, light-hearted feeling. If you’ve read some of my previous posts, you’ll know that I haven’t felt at all light-hearted lately. We’re in the midst of some big, hard transitions – in our family, in friendships, and even in our church. My life has definitely not been void of joy, however - quite the opposite. I’ve felt intensely happy and intensely broken, often in the same breath. Living with such intense emotion all the time leaves me feeling sort of heavy (not a veiled Back to the Future reference), as you can imagine.

But, yesterday, when I opened my swollen eyes, expecting my body to groan in rebellion to the offensive clanging of the alarm clock, I instead felt immediately ready to take on the day. I felt light. I even had the teensiest little spring in my step.

It reminded me of the Disney movie Wall-e, when the white robot, Eve, finds a singular tender green plant, and that one little shoot is enough to eventually bring the entire human population back to earth. I felt like there was some promising new growth in my soul yesterday, some new source of oxygen to fuel my journey.

I made lunches, made breakfast, got kids off to school, volunteered in Duzi’s Kindergarten class, called a few friends I haven’t talked to in months, got some work done for the job I’m still pretending I have, and generally felt great – and by great, I mean more like myself.

Adoption, Life Transition, and Ministry are all like a roller coaster – unpredictable, with significant highs and lows. Today I’m paying attention to the small steps of progress, to the little plant taking root.

I’m resurfacing slowly, and it feels pretty darn good.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

2010-11-23T21:15:00.000-08:00

Since we moved to Washington nearly seven years ago, we’ve made it back down to California almost every year for Thanksgiving to celebrate with our families – both sides still reside in So Cal. (By the way, they are all still pretty mad at us for moving,). Each year, airfare has become more expensive – even when I’m organized enough to book tickets early (Um, I wasn’t organized this year). To complicate things further, using miles to buy tickets has become increasingly difficult, as the number of miles needed to purchase a ticket around the holidays has doubled. I have looked into every possible alternative transportation option including but not limited to 1) the train (just as expensive as flying), 2) a boat (virtually impossible unless you own your own yacht) and 3)hitch-hiking (not exactly safe with kids).

That was a lot of background information to justify why I decided to drive 1,200 miles, one way, from Seattle, WA to Orange County, CA with three kids for a very short visit. Um, we still have to drive back (this is a truth I’m avoiding for now). This year, both because airline prices are outrageous and because we’re still paying off adoption expenses, we decided to spend some quality time hanging out in the forced togetherness that only a road trip can deliver. Well, let me clarify, the kids and I decided to drive. Because of his church responsibilities, Michael got to fly down. Alone. More on this later.

Knowing that making the drive by myself, as the only adult in the car, would be disastrous, I begged and pleaded with family members for help. My amazing sister, Jamie, agreed to fly up and help me make the long trek south. I’m pretty sure I’m now required to be her indentured servant for life. Indentured servitude is automatically owed when someone saves your life, right?

We left on Saturday after a soccer game and a basketball tournament. All in all, the drive really wasn’t bad. The kids had i-pods, books, movies, Leap Pads, and drawing materials to keep them occupied. Jamie and I had our podcasts of NPR’s This American Life, and Radio Lab. When we started, I had hopes of making the drive in record time, powering through sore backs and bottoms, to somehow earn a gold medal in the category of moms-on-road-trips-with-kids. The kiddos cooperated quite nicely with this plan until they were tired. Past 8pm, the bickering and picking at one another started. So, Jamie and I decided to abandon my record-breaking goals and spend the night at a cheap hotel 2 nights in a row. Clearly, this was much better than enduring the sibling rivalry drama in the backseat.

Whoever was sitting in the middle seat seemed to get picked on by the other two. The drama sounded something like this:

Caleb: (sitting in the middle): DUZ-IIIIIII!!!!!

Alex: (Using patronizing older sister voice) Caleb, you don’t have to yell.

Duzi: (Smiling) Yeah, Caleb.

Caleb: (Exasperated) Stop it, you guys!

Duzi: (Pokes Caleb in the back)

Caleb: MOM! Duzi just poked me!

Alex: Caleb, I think you should calm down. (Eye Roll)

Duzi: (Pokes Caleb again)

Caleb: (Slugs Duzi in the shoulder then pinches Alex on the leg)

Duzi: (Shocked) That really hurts!

Alex: Caleb, you’re so immature! (Eye Roll)

Me: Time to stop at a hotel.

Jamie: Yep.

We arrived a day late, but the trip was awesome. We jumped on hotel beds, ate lots of greasy food, played in the snow at rest stops, and were thankful for each and every gas station restroom.

We’re introducing Duz to his cousins and are enjoying the sun. My kids are a little big upset with me for “forcing” them to leave home during the first snow of the year but, since they spent half the day in the swimming pool, I’m guessing they’ll eventually forgive me.

Meanwhile:

Michael’s flight was supposed to leave Seattle at 7:40pm last night. I wasn’t bitter that his journey would last 20 hours or so less than ours, but I was a teensy bit jealous. I was counting on him to arrive, take over the parenting post and let me take a nap. However, because of the Seattle “blizzard” (Seattle just doesn’t know what to do with a few inches of snow) his flight was canceled. He was then re-routed to another airport. When all was said and done, my poor husband arrived 7 hours later than planned, at 5 o’clock this morning. His tale of lost luggage, late shuttles, and airline bureaucracy seriously trumps any complaints I could possibly launch. Needless to say, I didn’t get the nap and we’re both exhausted today.

But, we’re finally here – all together. I can’t wait to sleep in one big pile tonight.

Vice-President

2010-11-16T17:34:00.000-08:00

Today, my ten-year old daughter, Alex, delivered her much anticipated campaign speech for the quintessential role of Vice President of the Cottage Lake Elementary Student Council, to a gym full of elementary school students.

During the last two weeks Michael and I have worked as her campaign staff, designing posters until midnight, playing the part of the enraptured audience when she practiced her speech, helping her strategize her core messaging and discussing what would happen if she won and what would happen if she lost.

My favorite poster, designed by the candidate herself, features a cut-out photo of Alex with a speech bubble that declares, “Peace and Justice for All!” One of her posters even had Christmas lights on it ($1.99 battery operated string from Rite-Aid).

Her speech evolved from discussing her love of ice-skating and puppies to a real discussion of what leadership gifts she could bring to the table. It really was a fun process to watch. This morning, she woke up early, asked me to straighten her hair, practiced her speech, and insisted that we go pick up her new glasses at the eye doctor before school (the ones she was wearing had been bound together by scotch tape for a month – fair enough.) Mike let her borrow his special black leather folder that he uses for his notes when he performs weddings and funerals (he’s a real pastor, not the internet kind) so she could hide her marked up, crumpled speech and look professional – it was kind of like witnessing the passing down of an heirloom.

At 11am, I tucked myself into a folding chair in the back of the gym and waited for my baby girl to speak to the masses. I’m pretty sure I was more nervous than she was – not in a stage mom kind of way – just in a I-want-to-protect-my-child-at-all-costs kind of way.

While her tiny head barely made it over the podium, she knocked it out of the park – or at least that’s what this audience member thought. My favorite line was, “ My favorite subject is writing, and… I love puppies.” My next favorite line was, “I will do everything in my power to make this school a better place – more exciting and fun for everyone.” My third favorite line was the clincher at the end, “I would make a good leader because I have hope.”

She clearly gets her optimism from her father.

Oh, and she won.

Here's the very rough video I took of it - minus the first 10 seconds (I couldn't get the thingy to turn on.)

Messy

2010-11-13T22:16:00.000-08:00

Before Duzi came home, while we were still gestating in the paperwork pregnancy process that is adoption, I had the incredible opportunity to glean wisdom from friends who have adopted. Most of these friends attend my awesome church. Some of these sages are in my very own family. I’ll never forget what my friend, Kathleen (mother of 5-- 3 bio, 2 adopted), told me about parenting adoptive kids from traumatic backgrounds. Over lunch one day, she said, simply, “Adoption is messy.”

She didn’t say it in an intimidating way – she said it in an honest, encouraging way – in a setting realistic expectations kind of way. I took her words to heart and began trying to adjust my expectations. Even though I had read lots of books and blogs on adopting older children, I knew that I had romanticized the process to a certain extent, and I wanted to prepare for reality.

The truth is, I don’t think any parent, biological or adoptive, can truly prepare adequately for the arrival of a new child. You learn on the spot, adversity becomes your teacher, and you cry a lot. Most often, you learn by making mistakes. The addition of Duzi to our family has been wonderful and hard at the same time, just like the other two times we’ve added children to our family.

But, we are definitely encountering new challenges - challenges that are unique to adoptive parenting. I haven’t blogged since August. I’ve avoided writing because I haven’t known how to articulate just how messy our life has been. I’ve hesitated to write about the chronic messiness of our new family life because 1) We are supposed to be a poster family for adoption, 2) I don’t like feeling vulnerable, and 3) Denial is just more comfortable sometimes; It’s a pretty awesome coping mechanism.

Here’s my full confession: I’m exhausted and am dropping balls all over the place. I’m forgetting things. I’m not doing a good job caring for important friendships in my life. I’m having a very difficult time processing any adversity that pops up outside our family life. I’m grieving for my new son and all that he’s lost in his young life. I believe God uses adoption as an incredibly transformative, redemptive tool but, all adoption stories begin with loss – and I’m grieving for his loss.

The grieving is what caught me by surprise. Mike and I have traveled all over the world, visiting orphans and street children in unimaginably poor communities and slums. I thought we had grieved for these injustices. I thought we were appropriately outraged.

And then, we started grieving these things for our son. Our SON. We’re committed to protecting his privacy and to allowing him to tell his own story when he’s ready. But, as you can imagine, there was a significant portion of his life that was lived under very unjust circumstances.

Strangely, this has thrown me for a loop. We knew all about his story before he came home. The story itself wasn't a surprise. But, as we bonded with him and really became his parents, the story we had memorized felt different. Now, I’m incredibly angry about what he’s lost and profoundly sad about it - in ways that feel paralyzing and incapacitating sometimes. For the first time, because I am an upper middle class American woman and have lived a life of privilege, I am seeing injustice through the eyes of a mother, and it has wrecked me.

So, if I haven’t responded to your emails, texts, or voicemails – I apologize.

I’m a mess.

I do think that this mess is holy. And I know God is at work, doing His usual thing - redeeming pain, transforming our mourning into gladness, making a way in the desert.

My Tatted Up Granny

2010-08-28T22:48:00.000-07:00

In honor of my grandmother's 80th birthday,I'm re-posting this. Happy birthday, Grandma Betty!

My 78 year old, churchgoing "don't smoke, drink, or chew and or go with guys who do" Grandma Betty went and got herself a tattoo over the weekend.
Yep. A real tattoo. On her shoulder. At a tattoo parlor. She was wearing her "God Bless America" t-shirt. Huge bald men with pierced noses and eyebrows and tattoos covering 80% of their bodies got my little old grandma all tatted up.

Like a teenager, she waited until my parents went away for the weekend to call my sister with her crazy plan. Delighted to be part of the mischief, my sister Andi (she's the baby of the six sisters) picked her up, drove her to the tattoo parlor and PAID for it HERSELF. Apparently Grandma Betty was quite the celebrity. She got hoots and hollers from passersby and talked the artists ear off the WHOLE TIME. Not a surprise if you know my Grandma. She's even gonna be on the tattoo parlor website.

Oh, and the tattoo was of Betty Boop. Betty. Boop.
Grandma Betty Lou was born in August of 1930, the same month and year that the little black and white cartoon made her debut.

Transition

2010-08-25T23:20:00.000-07:00

We have been home for a solid month. It’s hard to believe that Duzi has been a Howerton for almost two. At the two-month mark, we’re still smack in the middle of big-time transition. Since I’m a writer and a dorky former English teacher, my favorite definition of the word “transition” is a literary one (Webster doesn’t have an adoption specific definition of the word – go figure). Webster says that one kind of transition is “a passage in a piece of writing that smoothly connects two topics or sections together.” In an essay or article, transitions glue your ideas together - they occupy the space between. This is the phase our family is in. We’re living in the realm of the between, We’re attempting to connect two separate life experiences, to create space to allow one song to segue into the next. I have no idea how long transition officially lasts and I am unsure what the next song sounds like but we’re content to hang out in the middle for now.

When I look back on our first weeks together, the video in my mind plays back the awkward interactions of strangers -- eager parents and a reluctant, shy little boy all trying their best to find common ground and understand each other’s accents. We were all so polite and nervous. What’s crazy, though, is that during those first days, I was absolutely certain that bonding was going quite well, that the authors of the countless books on attachment would be impressed with our progress. I visualized the adoption experts giving me a gold star on my Official Adoptive Parenting Chart. I really like gold stars.

The memories of our initial weeks together are not negative – not at all. They mark the precious, exciting, emotional beginning of our life as a family of five and I will cherish them forever. But, now I can say, with 2 months of adoptive parenting under my belt, that things have gotten SO MUCH BETTER.

We’re no longer strangers. We have a foundation (one that is still a work in progress) and he trusts us. I know the things that make him tired, the foods he doesn’t like, what he does when his ears are bothering him, the face he makes when he’s telling a whopper, that he likes to wear pants in the 90 degree heat, and that he really, really loves French fries. Things moms know about their kids. And, he knows things about me. Things sons know about their moms. He knows that the morning is not my most glamorous time. He knows that if he grins really big, I will likely not give him a time out for taking the Hot Wheel from his brother.

In the beginning, he did not want Mike or I to snuggle him at bedtime or touch him very much at all. He didn’t know us and here we were giving him baths, trying to tuck him in to bed, and telling him to share toys. If someone suddenly interjected themselves into my life and started bossing me around, I don’t think I’d, you know, take it well. Now, though, Duzi depends on us for very long snuggles at bedtime and his favorite place to be during the day is in one of our laps. And, he doesn’t wipe our kisses off – well, actually, he only does when he wants to be chased.

If in just two months, my love for this child has grown this exponentially, then I am eager to see what happens in the next 6, 12, or 18 months. Let me be clear, things haven’t necessarily gotten easier, just more familiar and real. I mean, really, is parenting ever easy? Is it ever just a walk in the park? My oldest is 10 and I don’t think I have ever uttered the sentence, “Parenting is just so easy.” We face challenges on a daily basis with all three of our kids.

In spite of challenges, we’re all making progress. When I ask Duzi, “Who loves you?”, he points at me with an emphatic grin and then recites, “And Daddy, and Alex, and Caleb, and Scoutie (our dog)……and God.” I always add that his other family at Ithemba Lethu, the incredible children’s home where he lived for 3 years, also loves him.

When I ask him, “How much do I love you?” He says, “Bigger than the mountains and the sky.”

The exciting thing about transition is that it prepares the way for the next part of the essay. I can’t wait to read the next paragraph….

Miracles

2010-08-02T23:28:00.000-07:00

Now that we’re home, I feel the need to fill in some gaps of the story of our adoption journey. So much has happened in such a short time frame, that I fear I will forget the earth-shaking miracles we witnessed if I don’t write them out.

The process of getting our son home from South Africa was not an easy one. We were the first American family to obtain approval to brave the adoption process in South Africa in nearly 8 years. After leading a few church mission trips to the country, and seeing the incredible need for adoptive parents, we felt called to adopt from SA. Note that when we received permission in November, we merely received permission to try. There were no guarantees. There are lots of reasons Americans weren’t allowed to adopt from South Africa, and lots of reasons we decided to try anyway…. e-mail if you want details about adopting from South Africa. It’s a long, complicated story, and I’m still not entirely certain that we succeeded in ironing out the numerous kinks in the process for other American couples to easily adopt from South Africa. But, we tried. And, I hope our case will be catalytic in helping South Africa and the US forge a working adoption agreement. I’m seriously crossing my fingers on this one.

Since November, when we heard that the South African government would consider an American adoption, we’ve known that the process would be difficult. We understood that we’d be charting an unknown course, blazing a trail, if you will. And, our assumptions have been proven true. We had the guidelines of the Hague Convention on International Adoption to work with but, the US and South Africa did not and do not have a working adoption agreement. We’ve had to wrestle with government entities, fight hard against the negative stereotypes that precede Americans in the international community, and research our butts off.

We spent a lot of time praying and crying, filling out paperwork, and praying and crying again.

At every stage of this process, we have literally witnessed miracles. Miracles. I do not use the word “miracle” lightly. Sometimes when people use the word, they actually mean “coincidence” or “luck” – as in “It was such a miracle that I got the parking space in front of the mall” or “I got out of a speeding ticket, I’m so lucky.” These phrases are uttered flippantly and are not miracles.

The fact that I tucked my newly adopted son into his own bed tonight is a FREAKING MIRACLE, people.

Here’s one story to prove it.

Toward the end of our month long stay in South Africa, we were feeling desperate. There’s nothing quite like waiting aimlessly with three anxious children on documents in a foreign county with poor government infrastructure, that you need in order to go home. After repeated promises from our South African social worker that good news was on the horizon, we continued to hear nothing about the progress of our paperwork (new birth certificate and passport needed for US immigration), even though South African courts had already granted the adoption, for 24 long days. On Day 20, we decided to go to the US Consulate for emergency counsel. We knew that the Consulate had no control over the South African government’s policies and processes but, we didn’t know what else to do. I mean, when you’re an American citizen and you’re in trouble, you go the US Embassy, right?

We arrived at the US Consulate in Johannesburg on a Friday afternoon, all three kids in tow, looking wretched, and were able to speak with Someone In Charge. She was very sympathetic, took a surprising interest in our case and offered to “make a few phone calls.” She was clear that she couldn’t promise anything, that there wasn’t any official channel through which she could help us obtain the necessary documents. But, she said she would review our file and see if there was anything she could do.

We left feeling encouraged, if only for the fact that someone in government was nice to us. I will never know what phone calls were made, or how this supervisor helped us behind the scenes. But, by Monday afternoon, we received word that all the documents we needed would be ready within a few days.

I have never felt so patriotic.

We wept with joy and relief and incredible gratitude and made our appointment for the final Visa interview. On the date, after 3 hours at the US Consulate, when all the documents had finally been turned in, the same Awesome Woman called our name and Mike and I approached the window.

She told us that Duzi’s Visa had been officially approved, with a smile. We thanked her profusely, did a family celebration dance, and then Mike took the kids outside to play while I waited for the printed documents.

She called my name again and handed me the official sealed envelopes we needed to bring our son home to the United States and said something like, “Congratulations. I’m very happy for your family. I must say, I took a special interest in your case because well, I’m adopted.”

We talked for a while longer (I was trying very hard to repress my sobby, hicuppy, ugly-cry voice) and, if there hadn’t been a panel of bullet-proof glass separating us, I would have hugged her for a very long time. It probably would have been one of those long, socially awkward hugs.

This is just one tiny little piece of the story of the giant miracle we’ve witnessed......

Home

2010-07-26T06:40:00.000-07:00

We’re home. We arrived at the Seattle airport at 10pm last night and drove home. Today, we woke up in our own beds and ate breakfast, lunch and dinner at home. We played in the sprinklers, drew pictures with sidewalk chalk, played with trains, did yard work, ate dinner (thank you, Francine!), walked the dog, and started unpacking at home. Today felt completely surreal. I have imagined Duzi’s first day home ever since we started the adoption process. After my sparkling, blissful Brady Bunch daydreams about adoption, I was always careful to remind myself that the superficial world of happily-ever-after-narratives and cheesy Disney channel sitcoms in which we live is seldom accurate, that reality can often be disappointing.

Not today.

Watching Duzi play in the yard, in the playroom, and in his bedroom was just pure awesomeness. He confidently walked around the house, exploring the place he had long dreamed about. We rode bikes, brought out the Slip n’ Slide, met neighbors, and collectively basked in the security, familiarity, and promise of home. Although Duzi has been in his new home less than 24 hours, it is clear to me today that he knows what home means. After eating breakfast this morning, Duzi looked at me with a very serious expression and said,

“Mom, I just have a family.”

After swallowing a huge lump in my throat, I replied,

“You do, buddy. Duz, we have been waiting for you for a very, very long time.”

He smiled really big and then ran outside to play with Alex and Caleb.

Heading Home

2010-07-19T02:47:00.001-07:00

We're headed home on Friday!

Today we found out that all the documents we need are, in fact, ready. I expected we'd hear maybe one piece of good news today. Turns out, we had the perfect trifecta of good news this morning. Birth Certificate? Ready. Tuberculosis sputum test results? Ready and Negative. Visa Appointment? Scheduled.

Can't tell you how much we appreciate your prayers. God moved a huge mountain.

Since lots of you in America will have the pleasure of meeting Duzi soon, he wanted to introduce himself.....

Complications

2010-07-15T23:12:00.000-07:00

We're running in to some significant obstacles here in Johannesburg, South Africa as we struggle to obtain the necessary documents and medical tests necessary to bring Duzi home.

I'm writing to ask for your focused prayers as we wait on disorganized agencies here in South Africa to produce a birth certificate. Our adoption was the first one processed in the entire country that is subject to new legislation enacted on July 1st and no one seems to know the new proper procedure for delivering this very simple document.

Also, we are encountering difficulty with Duzi's TB test. He's tested negative in both the skin test and the chest x-ray but, apparently the CDC in the United States is requiring a sputum test. This test adds considerable delay to our visa process, as final results can take up to 6 weeks. We are hoping to hear today that the CDC will waive the requirement.

We're headed to the Consulate today to beg and plead our way to a visa.

No matter what happens, Mike, Alex and Caleb will be home on July 23rd. If we don't have a visa for Duzi, he and I will be staying in South Africa until we can get one.

We need your prayers desperately as we try to navigate these unpredictable waters. We're feeling very discouraged and VERY ready to come home.

I will try to update the blog when I have more information....

Breakthrough

2010-07-10T14:29:00.000-07:00

Tonight, my littlest man and I had a breakthrough.

Duzi has been a member of our family since last November when we started the adoption process. I have felt emotionally connected and very much like his mom since then. He didn’t know us, though. He didn’t know that an American family from Seattle wanted him desperately, and that they were fighting hard to be united with him. Mike and I have had months and months to prepare for the adoption. We’ve read books, taken classes, prayed, and gleaned wisdom from other adoptive parents. And, we’re grown-ups. Duzi, though, at just 5 ½ years old, had just ten days to prepare for the biggest life change he’s known so far.

Since he joined our family physically on June 25^th, he and I have had our ups and downs. I’ve been ready to mother him from day one. By “mother,” I mean hold his hand, snuggle him at night, dry his tears, feed him things he likes, talk him though hard days, fight off anyone who tries to hurt him, and generally dote on him excessively. On day one, I was ready to be the person he ran to for comfort, encouragement, and safety. But, on day one, Duzi wasn’t quite ready to hire a new mommy and I realized that this process wasn’t about me.

These first few weeks, we’ve done fun things together: playing, laughing, tickling, wrestling, watching movies, coloring, and reading books. While we’ve had a blast and there have been many, many significant moments of connection, he’s also been exhibiting some rejecting behaviors with me. He’s not overtly rebellious, not at all. I almost wish he was! Instead, he refuses to hold my hand when crossing the street (he wants Alex’s hand instead), tells me to go when my tuck-in at bedtime lasts too long, and recoils when I rub his back. And most significantly, until tonight, he hadn’t cried.

His attachment to Liz, his foster mom, was (and is) powerful. He was well loved at Ithemba Lethu. Incredibly loved. While he always knew, having seen countless other children in the home be adopted, that his “real mom and dad” were coming someday, leaving behind the life he’s always known and the love he’s always been covered by, has been difficult. On our flight from Durban to Johannesburg, he said, “Look, mom! I can see Ithemba Lethu!” Later that night, he asked if we could adopt his best friend, Thandeka, and mentioned that we were now very far away from her.

Since then, we’ve seen that he loves to play pretend. What 5-year old doesn’t? When he’s pretending to be Ben-10, he can talk about how his friend, Duzi, is feeling. When he’s pretending to be a baby lion, bear, or cheetah, he can let us, as the mommy and daddy lion, bear or cheetah, snuggle with him and care for him. In pretend mode, I can rub his back, kiss him, hold his hand, and feed him. Somehow, the simple story of an animal family is less complex, less intimidating, and makes sense to him. Really, I think I could win an Oscar for my performance as a Lioness.

Tonight, though, the real Duzi and the real mommy connected. Earlier this evening, I had to put him in his first time out, or rather, time in. I’ve been putting off some discipline stuff simply because we’re living in limbo, not at home, staying at other people’s houses, and unsure of when normal life will begin. Duz was having a hard time listening and obeying, so I took his hand and said that we had to come inside and sit down for a while together. We sat together in time out/ time in for 3 minutes. I explained how much I loved him and that part of the mommy’s job was to make sure her kids were safe. His eyes welled up with tears and I picked him up in a gentle mommy cheetah hug and sat down. He quietly cried on my shoulder for forty minutes. When I saw his first tear, my own tears flowed freely. We sat in the chair and cried together. After the three minutes, he knew he could go play, that he could leave my lap of his own free will.

But, he decided to stay.

Together, we grieved and bonded, expressing pain, joy and apprehension all at once. He let me comfort him and rub his back. And then I gave him ice cream.

I realize that this is the first breakthrough of many, that our relationship will likely be 3 steps forward, two steps back.

But, he’s sleeping next to me right now, and I couldn’t be more grateful.

Living in Limbo

2010-07-05T07:43:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, our new son, Duzi, boarded his first airplane. It was a short 45 minute flight but, to him, it was the most exciting thing in the entire world.

Here he is, meticulously looking over the safety information after the flight attendants gave an incredibly fascinating and informative pantomime of safety procedures.

After Caleb and I convinced him that we wouldn't crash, he chewed some gum and smiled for the camera.

We're now in Johannesburg, trying to meet the US requirements for an immigrant visa for Duzi. It's a long story but, we are now waiting for the Department of Home Affairs here in South Africa to process Duzi's new birth certificate with his new last name on it. This can take anywhere from 1 day to 3 months. When we have this piece of paper, we can come home.

We have very much enjoyed our time in South Africa. We've loved living in Duzi's world, learning about his heritage and story, getting to know his caregivers and advocates, and connecting with friends here. Honestly, there is no hospitality like South African hospitality. If you're not careful, you'll ingest so much tea and eat so much cake, that you'll shake uncontrollably with caffeine jitters and not be able to button your jeans. We have been very well taken care of, as has been the case every single time I've been in South Africa. With the World Cup happening here right now, the entire country (this represents a staggering amount of different people groups - there are 11 official languages) is collectively hopeful about the future and committed to showing South Africa's best face to the international soccer community. We've had the privilege of being in South Africa during a significant and impactful time in the country's history. We love South Africa, it's our son's motherland and we plan on coming back whenever we can.

But, we're very ready to come home now. We're ready to introduce the Duz to our regular family routine and to what his new normal will look like. Right now, we're eating out in restaurants, going on mini-safaris, watching movies, and generally having a blast. I'm certain that Duzi thinks he's landed the Daddy Warbucks family. That said, we're actually bonding in incredible ways without the pressures of our busy Seattle life. We've had meaningful family time and have been able to meet parenting challenges without distraction. And, let me tell you, there have been challenges.

Challenges so far (at least the ones I'm willing to post):

1)While welcoming Duzi into our family, Caleb has felt very nervous and a tad bit jealous. He is determined to prove that he is older than Duzi and more proficient at just about everything. He has needed constant reassurance that we know he's "big" and that we will not treat him like a 5-yr old.

2)Alex has said she just "misses time with mommy." She has felt the need to over-mother her brothers when they disagree or when she feels I'm not performing well enough as a disciplinarian.

3)Duzi is overtly independent at times, rejecting the love and care of mom, and strikingly dependent at others, insisting that he "must be carried." He has bonded quite easily with dad and sister, but is having a hard time viewing me as his new mom. This is actually good - it means he has been well cared for and attached to his foster mom. I'm not hurt - I completely understand. But, I think this challenge makes me all the more eager to get home and start taking care of my new baby where I best know how to do it.

4) I'm also having considerable anxiety about Duzi's ears. He gets chronic ear infections but is currently fine and healthy. I'd really like to board the plane to America without Duzi's ears acting up. Hint: RIGHT NOW WOULD BE PERFECT!

I'm not complaining, just venting and trying to be real.

Truth is, we are loving where we're at, challenges and all. Loving, loving, loving it. I just finished a wrestling match with my two sons. I'm proud to say that I can, for the moment, still take them both at once.

Pretty sure I'll have a sore neck in the morning but, it was definitely worth it.

Goodbye

2010-07-03T12:32:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a very emotional day. It was our goodbye day. All week, we’ve been dropping by Ithemba Lethu (Zulu for “I have a destiny”), the children’s home where Duzi lived for 3 years, immersing ourselves in his world and asking lots of questions about his life, needs and routines. We played in the garden, followed Granny Liz (Duzi’s amazing foster mom), around and spent time loving on all the other kids. At one point in the week, Caleb emphatically reported that the next child we were going to adopt was a 2 yr old little girl named Stella. He spent all his time at Ithemba Lethu taking care of her – he even helped give her a bath. I didn’t have an answer for him about whether or not we could adopt her. But, I didn’t exactly say no.

Ithemba Lethu is a joy-filled place. The children there are loved beyond comprehension. The staff members are dedicated to providing the best possible environment for orphaned children and they pray for the kids like crazy. Duzi was well loved and nurtured there. My son was prayed for every day. The staff believed in him, took him to swimming lessons, gymnastics lessons, and preschool, and poured life into him through every interaction. He was the big man on campus.

So, you can imagine why saying goodbye to Ithemba Lethu was incredibly difficult. There was happiness and celebration in the goodbye, as it meant that Duzi now had a family. There was also a tremendous amount of grief and loss in the goodbye. As painful and hard as grief can be, it is also a necessary, healthy part of any transition and we didn’t want to skip over it.

We decided to take Granny Liz, and 4 yr. old Thandeka, Duzi’s close friend and roommate, to lunch before the official goodbye. Before the lunch, Duzi and I went shopping for presents. He picked out some fancy lotion for Liz and a Princess Carriage Set for Thandeka. He gave the ladies their gifts with a proud, proud smile.

We returned from lunch to say our official goodbyes at Ithemba Lethu. Liz sat down with Duzi and gave him a gift of her own – a book about Durban that included photos of all the places she had taken him during his three years in her care. As we lingered in the garden, the Ithemba Lethu staff trickled out, one by one, to form a semi-circle around the garden gate. The Children’s Transition Home is just one arm of IL’s ministry. They also work in the local townships with primary students, educating kids about HIV/AIDS and about their incredible importance to God. All the youth workers who staff this program, and who have been quite influential in Duzi’s life, were there.

We walked out of the gate and the youth workers broke into powerful, joyful song and dance. They were singing in Zulu but my heart understood what they were saying. They were praising God for his provision and generosity and speaking blessing over Duzi. Duzi was absolutely thrilled, in his shy, quiet way, that so much attention was being lavished on him. With some gentle prodding from me, he made his way through the crowd, hugging each adult and each child, while the singing continued. All on his own, he kissed one of the babies tenderly, and I just wept.

Mike and I, and half the staff, were a soggy mess of tears. It was beautiful, painful, and holy all at once.

We eventually made our way to the car and drove away. We looked behind us, and 5 of the youth workers were following, huge grins on their faces, sprinting down the street after us - singing. Duzi exclaimed with glee, “They are chasing us!” And I replied, “You’re right! That’s how much you are loved.”

Mike and I cried the entire way back to our hotel. And then some more tonight.

(Again, having trouble uploading photos - check out the facebook profile for pics! - Jodie Gordon Howerton)

Finalized

2010-07-01T13:38:00.000-07:00

Today we had our day in court. After months of battling the unknown, completing massive mounds of paperwork, and praying a lot, we became the official, legal parents of Mduduzi Ezekiel Howerton. While it ended very well, our court appearance, like many parts of this process, did not go exactly as planned.

I actually wasn’t anxious about our court date. I was under the impression that it was a rubber stamp sort of formality, that the right paperwork had been submitted and necessary permissions granted. We were excited but sort of felt like Duzi already belonged to us, that we belonged to him, and that he was already a permanent part of our family. The night before court, we tried to explain to him what was going to happen in front of the magistrate. He replied, “But I am already Howerton!”

Before court, the social workers in charge of our case prepared a luncheon for us, as they do for all adoptive families before their court appearances. Usually, the lunch is lighthearted and filled with excited, hopeful conversation. When we arrived, however, the room was filled with tension and uncertainty. Our primary social worker asked to have a word with us outside. Really, that’s never a good sign. There were problems with our case, we were told. There were glitches caused by the passage of new legislation that went into effect THAT DAY. There was a letter we needed that was going to be faxed, and there was a chance that the adoption would not be approved that day. If it wasn’t approved that day, there was no telling when it would be. They didn’t want to scare us; they just thought we should know. You know, in case. We were the first international adoption that this new law would apply to. The social workers had never encountered these obstacles with the courts before.

Michael and I took in the news with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. We had done the paperwork correctly and passed every rigorous screening and test. We had believed that the big hurdles had already been overcome. We weren’t ready for another obstacle. We bravely and empathetically thanked our social workers for keeping us in the loop and then found some privacy to PRAY. Helpless, we cried out to God for answers and intervention. I stepped into the bathroom to wipe the soggy black mascara from my cheeks and then we re-joined our celebration luncheon.

While we ate, the social workers flitted about, taking phone calls outside while nervously pacing back and forth. Shocked, and over-reacting quite a bit (as I have a habit of doing), I tried to imagine telling Duzi that we could not adopt him, that this whole week had been a mistake, that we were going to America without him. I tried to imagine telling Alex and Caleb. In that moment, the Mother Bear came out in me. There was NO WAY I WAS GOING TO HAVE THOSE CONVERSATIONS. AND THERE WAS NO WAY ANYONE WAS TAKING MY SON.

I thought about the hundreds of people praying for us, the miracles we’d already seen, and decided to rest in the knowledge that God had destined Duzi for our family and that He had a plan. I don’t mean for this to sound noble. Seriously, I didn’t have any other choice!

I remained tense but was able to shed maybe 70% of the anxiety, which is exceptionally good for me. With faith, we traveled to the judicial building in Durban for our 2:00 appointment. For an hour and a half, the social workers advocated on our behalf with the magistrate, imploring the court to do what was in the best interest of the child, which clearly was to let us adopt him. After 90 minutes of waiting in a tiny room, all three kids were going a little nuts. OK, a LOT nuts. They were ready to climb the walls and I’m fairly certain were considering a hostile take-over of the building. Finally, finally, finally, we got word that the magistrate was going to sign off on the adoption but wanted to see us first. All five Howertons immediately filed into the magistrate’s office and sat down.

She was very kind. She was a mother. She asked us questions about why we wanted to adopt and why we wanted to adopt from South Africa. She had read our file and knew I had 5 sisters and that Michael’s brother had adopted two boys. She asked Duzi if he knew why he was there. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, believing correctly that he was already a Howerton and all. She asked Alex and Caleb what they were most excited about in getting a new brother, told them to say hello to Mickey Mouse and THEN SHE SIGNED THE ADOPTION DECREE.

There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that God showed up in court today. There is no other explanation, no other way I can explain the miracle we witnessed. God has moved mountains in every stage of this process and has always known that Duzi would be our son. I can see his sovereign plan and yet, am still incredibly surprised by it.

We are rejoicing tonight. Our good friends hosted a celebration dinner for us tonight, complete with champagne. We celebrated big and are now completely exhausted.

We still have some obstacles to overcome. Well, one really. We need a new birth certificate for Duzi with his new last name on it – this is a US immigration requirement and could take a week to get. Or, it could take a month. The sooner we get this, the sooner we can come home. Will you continue to pray for us?

I just tucked all three of my kids in bed and am feeling very, very happy. And exhausted.

(for some reason, I'm having a hard time uploading photos to blogger. to see the latest pics of the Howerton clan, log on to my Facebook profile - http://www.facebook.com/jodie.howerton )

Meeting Duzi

2010-06-29T11:59:00.000-07:00

I’ve been trying to get a blog post together since last Saturday night. So, so much has happened in our family since then, that I haven’t had a clue where to begin and I haven’t had more than five minutes to jot my thoughts down. A lot of our story is going to remain private – just for us. But, there are some moments I simply must communicate to avoid bursting.

My last post told the story of our victorious appointment at the US Embassy. The following day, we travelled to Durban to meet our son. I’ll pick up from there….

The night before we left for Durban, I didn’t sleep very well. Meaning, I didn’t sleep AT ALL. I knew that the next day we were to board a short, 1 hour long flight and then be driven to meet our son. Our son. I had no idea what to expect, so I stressed about the coming day all night long. I’m sort of good at stressing – it’s almost like I have a degree in Freaking Out. Here’s a sampling of thoughts that occupied my sleepless night: Will he like us? Can I really do this? Am I a good enough mother to do this? How will Alex and Caleb deal with the changes in our family structure? What if I can’t remember how to take care of a 5 year old? What if he doesn’t bond with me? What if I can’t bond with him? Anxiety and anticipation, coupled with jet lag, do not make for peaceful dreams.

Exhausted, and hanging by a thread, I spent the entire next day snapping at my husband and kids, and wistfully remembering the way the world once looked through the blessed lens of a fitful night of sleep. Michael, Alex and Caleb were also very, very tired. I could not believe I was going to meet my son with such an incredible deficit of energy. I had pictured the moment when we would become a family and it looked a lot more like running through meadows of wildflowers in the pristine sunlight than showing up with blood shot eyes and a suitcase full of anxiety.

And yet, I was completely unwilling to delay our meeting. I couldn’t think of any malady worthy enough to put off meeting my son. On the short flight to Durban, I prayed like a maniac for energy and then passed out for 40 minutes.

Long story short – we rallied. Once we landed, pure adrenaline kicked in and absolutely nothing could have prevented us from meeting our son/ brother. When we arrived at Ithemba Lethu, the children’s home where Duzi has been well cared for for the past 3 years, our little man was waiting expectantly by the door. Wearing a yellow Ben-Ten T-shirt and black jeans, he smiled shyly at us as we bolted out of the car. He’d seen our pictures and recognized us instantly. Alex and Caleb made it to him first. Mike and I made it just after. We hugged him repeatedly and began the work of becoming a family.

It’s been 5 days since our precious Duzi joined the Howerton family. We couldn’t be happier. He’s an amazing, amazing kid that keeps us laughing. We’ve had moments of pure joy and moments of hard transition. God is clearly and completely present through it all.

Thank you all so much for your continued prayers. We feel them.

Can’t wait for you to meet the Duz.

Introducing Mduduzi Ezekiel Howerton

2010-06-27T11:32:00.001-07:00

Progress

2010-06-24T19:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, we met with our South African social worker for the first time. We met her at Impilo, the children’s home that she founded (our little guy isn’t at this home – he’s in another city – we travel to Durban on Friday). We offloaded our mammoth cargo of diapers (to the great relief of our children), toured the facility, and flirted unabashedly with all the babies. There were 12 or so babies and toddlers lined up in a row of cribs, some crying, some sleeping, and some flirting with us back. I watched Alex and Caleb take in their surroundings and realized that this was the first time they had ever been in an orphanage. Wide-eyed, they took in the scene, trying to process the concept of so many babies without parents all in one place.

When we left Impilo with our social worker to go to our first appointment at the US Embassy, Caleb said, “Mom, can we adopt one of these babies, too? I’m really good with them. They love me….” I told him we would have to see.

Our first visa appointment at the US Embassy went incredibly well. Since South Africa doesn’t normally adopt out to the United States, the US Embassy here is unaccustomed to processing adoption paperwork. And, apparently they have a reputation in South Africa of being “difficult.” We didn’t know what to expect. Turns out, they were ready for us. They had our file, knew us by name, and were smiling. They even simplified the process a little bit. We’re hoping that there will be many more adoptions for them to process in the future!

We fly to Durban on Friday and will meet our son on Friday afternoon.

Thanks, everybody, for your prayers. We can feel them in a very tangible way.

On Our Way

2010-06-22T16:17:00.000-07:00

We’re on our way. I’m sitting on the plane as I write, filled with wonder that this day has actually arrived. Paperwork has been approved, bags have been packed, preparations have been made, and we’re actually on our way to see our son. It feels surreal, dream-like.

We were up late last night packing, cleaning and generally flitting nervously about. The air was pregnant with anticipation and if I’m being honest, a little bit of anxiety. Alex translated her nervous energy into helpfulness, asking repeatedly what else she could pack or clean. Caleb’s nerves came out in loud sound effects and a teensy bit of orneriness about whether or not I had packed his favorite tattered and stained red bathing suit (FYI - I gave in and packed the wretched thing). Michael was mostly mellow, like always.

Unfortunately, my anxiety turned into a short temper and I may have had to issue some apologies this morning.

In spite of our nervousness, we did manage to relish a few moments of the preparation. When we tucked the kids in last night, we realized that it was our last night in the house as a family of four. So, Mike and I snuggled up with the Alex and Caleb and lingered an extra long time in their rooms. We marked the moment in our minds and allowed the full emotion and excitement of adding to our family wash over us.

Highlights from the Airport this morning:

1) We saw the first bit of divine intervention when we checked in at the airport today. We shared that we were traveling to pick up our adopted son, and the ticket agent checked our bags all the way through to South Africa. We were supposed to pick them up in Atlanta and go through security again. Those of you with kids understand what a HUGE pain in the butt that would be.

2) Because we delight in growing the character of our children, we thoroughly embarrassed

Alex and Caleb by hand carrying packs of diapers through the airport. We’re bringing them to the orphanage to donate. Let’s just say neither child would allow me to photograph them anywhere near the diapers. My taunts of, “Come on, let me put this on Facebook…” were in no way amusing to them. They acted like the diapers had been laced with arsenic.

It’s such a relief to be sitting on the plane, knowing that everything is done - or if it’s not, there’s nothing I can do about it now.

Now, only 22 more hours of travel to go.

Nesting

2010-06-10T15:51:00.000-07:00

In the weeks before Alex and Caleb were born, I took on many of the characteristics of OCD. In spite of being 9 months pregnant and exhausted, I remember cleaning things I had never even known could get dirty, arranging and re-arranging picture frames, cabinets, and closets, and then worrying that our life would never ever be scrubbed clean enough to deserve a new child.

At the time, I was under the impression that hormones produced by pregnancy had taken over, that crazy irrational nesting was a phenomenon exclusively related to physiological chemical reactions linked to the upcoming birth. “The human body is truly amazing, “ I thought. “Mothers are hard-wired to prepare for the arrival of a baby, hard-wired to create a safe space for their offspring. ” 8 years ago, when my son was born, I knew very little about adoption and could not have predicted that it would be God’s plan for our family.

I now know first hand that biological pregnancy is not the only way to produce these mysterious nesting hormones. For the past 9 months, we’ve been in the process of adopting a 5-year old little boy. And, the entire time, I have felt very pregnant. And, for the past month, have once again been bussling around the house, obsessing about whether or not things are organized or clean enough to be worthy of our new son.

We head to Africa to meet our son in less than two weeks. I have an irrational task list longer than you can imagine. It includes but is not limited to: Cleaning out gutters, cleaning the garage, training the dog, losing 10 pounds, weeding, sterilizing bathrooms and cupboards, and ridding Alex and Caleb of any and all bad habits.

Notice that packing our bags is not even on this list. That’s on another list.

I'm coming to terms with the fact that everything might not get done. Besides, we should probably introduce him to what regular life is like in the Howerton home instead of the scrubbed clean, well-sanitized version. The truth is we're pretty messy. :)

Stream in the Desert

2010-06-07T22:16:00.000-07:00

We’ve been busy making plans. Lots and lots of plans. Coordinating an international trip and an international adoption in a country that doesn’t usually do adoptions to the United States requires lots of formulating, concocting, stipulating, and well, trusting. (By the way, if you know where we are adopting from, please do not mention the country in any blog comments you might make. We’re still in top-secret mode!)

In the last two weeks, I have had conversations with airlines, adoption agencies, embassies and State Department employees, hotels, concerned family members, car rental agencies, my boss, and school office staff. As crazy and hectic as all this sounds, it has actually felt really good to be working off of an active task list. I’m not good at waiting. Waiting is passive and inefficient. I know that King David wrote many Psalms about the glory of waiting on the Lord. There are many lessons to be learned while waiting. But, if I’m being gut-level honest, I much, much prefer being actively engaged in tasks that could result in bringing our son home sooner. I get that waiting is an inevitable part of the adoption process – I just happen to not like it very much at all.

So, here’s the skinny on our adoption process. We are traveling on June 22nd (Robbers, thieves, or burglars – be warned! We have studly house-sitters and a fearless guard dog) to finalize our adoption and bring our son home. The kicker is that we need to be gone for a solid month. Since we are pioneering a process in a country that is more or less brand new to US adoptions, there are some rusty, inefficient elements of the affair to contend with. But, we’re fighters. We are not leaving the country without our son.

At first, the prospect of being gone for so long and spending so much more money freaked me right out. But, details are falling in to place. Peace is reigning in my heart. And I am reminded daily that this adoption was supposed to be impossible.

Apparently, God is doing His usual thing and making a way in the desert. When things seem hopeless, He performs inconceivable miracles. When you’re all dried up and out of solutions, He shows up and provides one. (Isaiah 43:19 See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.)

God specializes in moving mountains. This we’ve already seen.

I can’t wait to post pictures of our little guy. Look for them on July 1, 2010.

Hello? Hello? Is this thing on?

2010-05-30T21:23:00.000-07:00

It’s time to address the Big Elephant in the Blog – my not blogging. Perhaps that’s not the best metaphor. I’m actually rather scared of elephants. Nevertheless, I must state, at the beginning of this post, that I’m pretty certain that, due to complete blog silence, I’ve lost most of my readers (please, please come back!!!).

I’ve been absent from blog cyberspace for quite some time. I have a whole list of legitimate reasons, some of which are quite compelling and will elicit great sympathy from you, and some of which can be chalked up to general lameness, insecurity, and borderline laziness.

I have retreated into a protective cocoon of late. A myriad of issues including but not limited to, adoption delays, health problems, church stuff, getting a new job, and trying my best to be a mom and wife in spite of the toll these other things have taken, has compelled me to cut out things like creative writing and well, working out at all.

Thanks to the good news we’ve received with regard to our adoption – we get to pick up our son on July 1^st! – and some medication (don't worry, I'm not dying), I’m feeling more emotionally and physically healthy and somewhat ready to brave the blank page once again.

So, if any of you are still out there, I'm gonna try and give the blog another shot. I promise to at least post more regular adoption progress updates and lots of pictures of our son after our July 1st court date. Stay tuned!

Natural Talent

2010-03-04T10:27:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, my kiddos performed in the school talent show. Caleb did a lip sync/ dance number to "We're the Chipmunks" (he was Theodore - wearing the green shirt) and exhibited a troubling tendency to fall down again and again. We're having him checked out for vertigo.

Alex sang and danced to Hannah Montana's "You'll Always Find your Way Back Home"- she choreographed this little number all by herself.

One thing is for sure, my kids aren't shy.

There were forty acts in this talent show. Forty. Just thought you might want to know that.

Limbo

2010-03-03T09:59:00.000-08:00

I have always heard that the adoption process is a roller coaster. Cognitively, I knew this when we entered the process. After witnessing the process of many friends and reading the blogs of lots of adoptive parents, I understood that there are highs and lows, periods of waiting, and occasional snags. I had done my research and felt ready for the ride.

Until of course, OUR process hit a delay. This, I was NOT emotionally prepared for. Turns out being cognitively prepared for something is WAY different than being emotionally prepared. Things were going very well. We received a court date and scrambled to organize our lives to be across the sea at the end of March to get our son. Then, BOOM. One teensy tiny little piece of paper is missing and it turns out that this paper is a non-negotiable requirement for getting him a US visa. In other words, we can’t bring him home without it. And, this paper that no one knew was important until NOW, could take three months to get.

So, we could be traveling in two weeks or, we could not. At the moment, we’re in limbo, what I like to call adoption purgatory, not quite sure when we’re going to make it into paradise. Lots of families have waited longer than us. There are other adoptions that are more complicated, that have been surprised by more speed bumps. I get that this is par for the course. But, that doesn’t make our process feel any easier. I finally, truly, feel like we’re part of the Frustrated Waiting Families Adoption Club. I would have much rather become a member of the Our Adoption was Easy and Smooth Club. I would have probably been the founding member.

So, we are back to waiting. Or not. We’re keeping site of the fact that God has a plan, that he knows and loves our little guy infinitely more that we ever could. And, we’re really, really praying for a paperwork miracle.

Support Beams

2010-02-26T11:04:00.000-08:00

We had the good fortune to travel to the balmy island of Kaua’i (notice the apostrophe – I’m pretty much a local now) last week. We try to get to Hawai’i (again, notice apostrophe) every February to escape the gray doldrums of living in the Pacific Northwest in the winter. Mid-January, our Southern California blood starts demanding we get it some Vitamin D. We use our companion tickets for airfare and my in-laws graciously cover the accommodations. So, the trip really is almost free, if we refrain from eating out too much while we’re on the island. Almost free paradise is my kind of paradise. We were in Kaua’i when we got the news that we can go pick up our son at the end of March. The news felt surreal, dream-like. We weren’t expecting this news until at least mid-summer. I e-mailed a few friends about the news but mostly just walked around in a daze induced by tropical landscape and shock. Toward the end of our trip, I was finally able to blog about it somewhat articulately to announce the news to the world (see previous post).

On the island of Kaua’i, there is this gigantic, abandoned old hotel right on the coast. The Coco Palms was the oldest hotel on the island and the world’s most famous Polynesian resort in the 50’s and 60’s. Elvis himself stayed there and scenes from his famous movie “Blue Hawaii” were filmed there. When Hurricane Iniki struck in September of ’92, the hotel was badly damaged and was closed down indefinitely. Repairs were deemed too expensive. Today, the windows are broken, the roof is rotting, and the lagoons in the coconut groves are now swamps of algae and moss. Left to rot, the building is totally uninhabitable but for tours. What fascinates me most about the Coco Palms, is that all the support beams are still intact. The building is still standing. The exterior is falling apart, but the skeleton of the building, without maintenance, has held it up stalwartly for the past 18 years.

There’s a point coming, I promise. Bear with me….

We returned from vacation this week and have set in motion all the plans to travel to Africa and re-organize our lives to transition into a family of 5. I’m not gonna lie, I’ve had a few meltdowns. I’m emotionally overwhelmed. I have also never felt so supported. My handy thesaurus gives these synonyms for “support”: hold up, bear up, prop up, keep up, brace, shore up, underpin, reinforce, buttress. This week, I’ve felt like the Coco Palms. My exterior is cracking and everything inside feels chaotic and unkempt. But, there are these incredible support beams holding me up, making sure I don’t collapse.

Support Beam #1: This week, one of my best friends went rogue on me and organized a fundraiser for our air travel to Africa. I say “rogue” because I would have said no if she asked me for permission. I have this character flaw of super-independence that prevents me from accepting help. Neely, being one of my best friends, knew this about me. So, she didn’t ask. She raised enough money to cover one whole plane ticket. People came out of the woodwork to purchase raffle tickets to support us.

Support Beam #2:

I literally can’t keep up with all the e-mails from people offering us air miles. People have also offered to paint, clean, make food…You people are incredible!

Support Beam #3: I can FEEL people’s prayers. In the midst of my little breakdowns, I have this amazing sense of peace, that everything is going to work out, that we are under the amazing umbrella of God’s grace. My breakdowns are just a normal part of the process…. I think. J

Support Beam #4: My friend, Daniele Ott, who is also a professional organizer, is going to help me get the house organized and ready for another kiddo. She came over last night, took a look at things, and reassured me that we could get everything done in 2 days. She’s going to hold my hand through the whole thing and whip my house into the most organized state it’s ever been in. You really should hire her. She’s a freaking genius. When she left, I felt a huge weight fall from my shoulders.

I am so humbled by these support beams that are shoring us up, keeping us stable and strong.

So, thank you everybody. Thank you so, so much.

Dear Brother....

2010-02-24T09:05:00.000-08:00

Caleb's second grade class, taught by the incredibly compassionate and organized teacher, Mrs. Lein (Mike and I cry at least once a month because she's written something kind on Caleb's papers), just did a unit on letter writing. Each student had to choose one person to write a letter to. They learned about addresses, salutations, proper comma placement and postage. I was at school the day the anxious, beaming second graders marched, single file, to the school mailbox and proudly inserted their first official piece of US Postal Service mail. I stood back and watched from a distance, knowing that, for Caleb, mailing the letter had a much more profound meaning.

Caleb chose to write his letter to his new brother. We brainstormed at home about what he might write and came up with a word bank to help him when he wrote in class.

This is what he came up with:

"Dear Brother,

How are you? I have a lot of cars!

You might be my brother.

Do monkeys steal your food?

You will have a great school to go to.

We will have cousins.

We have a class pet. He is a rat.

His name is Whiskers. :)

We have snow sometimes.

We have a dog. His name is Scout.

I have baseball, soccer.

We will have an awesome time.

Love,

Caleb

I feel like I must explain the comment about the monkeys. Each time I've traveled to Africa, I've seen monkeys in the trees in both suburban and rural communities. The little rascals are pests, known for stealing food off people's plates or fruit off counters in homes with doors left open. That's why Caleb asked that question.

Here's the picture he drew:

Caleb and his new brother are on the left and new brother with monkey is on the right.

INCREDIBLE News

2010-02-21T12:07:00.000-08:00

We have some incredible news to share. This is not your run of the mill incredible news. This is over the top, mind blowing incredible news. This is news that has sent us to the moon and back several times over the last few days. Over a year ago, I wrote a blog about our heart for adoption, about how we felt God strongly calling us to expand our family. You can read it here.

So, people, here’s our news: WE ARE GOING TO PICK UP OUR SON THE LAST WEEK OF MARCH. THAT’S FOUR WEEKS FROM NOW. We started the adoption process in October of 2009 and now, just a short 5 months later, we have a court date. If you are at all familiar with normal international adoption processes, this is really, really fast. My husband’s brother’s family waited over two years. Other friends have waited eighteen months.

This is so fast, that we find ourselves a bit shocked, a bit incredulous. Suddenly, we’re talking in terms of weeks and not months, days not years. We’re as ready as we can be emotionally (at least we think we are). We’re not ready logistically. We need clothes and shoes for a six year old. We need to shuffle the rooms around in our house. Caleb and his new brother will trade rooms with Alex. She has a bigger room that’s better suited for two kids. We need to paint the new bedrooms. We need some new furniture. Our playroom needs to be organized. Alex and Caleb need passports. We need to book some plane tickets. WE NEED OUR PAPERWORK ON THE US SIDE TO FINISH PROCESSING.

We are shocked by the timing, but I have a feeling God isn’t. We haven’t had time to fundraise and adoption is expensive. Divine, holy, and amazing but, expensive. We thought we had 4-6 more months of waiting time to come up with some cash. Ironically enough, though, in the last few weeks before we knew how quickly we would need to travel to pick him up, God has come through in terms of random gifts and unexpected contracts. Again, God isn’t surprised.

To make things even more exciting, there’s a little thing called EASTER that’s coming in the first week of April. Mike is a pastor. Easter is like Super Bowl Sunday for clergy. He’s scheduled to speak at 5 Easter services. Count them, 5. I can see God kind of laughing in his elbow at the fact that our court date is just 3 days before Overlake’s Easter services start. It’s kind of like a divine practical joke. He’s going, “Guys, how much do you trust me?” And we’re like, “Well, OK, a lot.” Considering that this adoption wasn’t supposed to be possible, and that it happened in a nothing short of a miraculous time frame, I think it’s a safe bet to assume God already has a plan.

OK, deep breath.

So, now I’m going to go out on a limb here and articulate a few needs that we have. I’m not good at asking for help. My husband would probably pen that sentence a wee bit stronger. Something more like, “Jodie NEVER asks for help. You have to hit her over the head with it, HARD, to get her to take it.” But, in all honestly, I can’t pull this one off on my own. So, friends, (gulp) here goes.

We need help with a few things:

1) We need clothes! If you have any hand-me-downs left from your boy kids, size 6-7, we could sure use them! I have already given away most of Caleb’s old clothes. If you have any shoes, size 13-1, we could use those, too! These are guesses at his sizes, as he’s apparently in the middle of a growth spurt.

2) We need airline miles! We have decided that it is important for our whole family, Mike and I and Alex and Caleb, to travel to pick him up and get to know his world. Plane tickets to another continent are INSANELY expensive. So, if you have any miles you can donate, we’d really appreciate it. That’s an understatement. We’d probably kiss you full on the mouth. We’re looking for airline miles that work in partnership with Alaska Airlines or Delta. You can e-mail me at jlhowerton@hotmail.com if you feel like you have some miles to spare.

3) Your prayers. We are in brand new territory, here. We have prayed about this A TON and feel God is leading us with his miraculous power, we’ve done our reading, done our research and home studies but, when it comes down to it, we have never adopted a child before. Please pray for our family’s transition and our new son’s transition. He’s going to be leaving a place he’s loved and felt attached to and moving in with us. Pray for his heart, pray that he will be able to grieve as he needs to, and pray for any attachment issues that may arise.

I can’t post a photo of our son online until the adoption is legally finalized. But, I can tell you this. He’s awesome.

We are blessed. We are excited. And we are so, so thankful for your love and support.

Waiting

2010-02-02T14:41:00.000-08:00

We’ve spent the better part of the last month making copies of our birth certificates, getting physicals, being interviewed by social workers, and installing more smoke alarms. We’ve filled out questionnaires about parenting, watched hours of training on trans-racial adoption, read books on attachment, given over our 3 years of tax forms, and prayed a lot. Finally, after many trips to the notary and the post office, I’m happy to report we have finally mailed off all our official adoption documents. Phew.

I’m simultaneously ecstatic and terrified.

Now, we wait.

People keep asking me what our timeline is, when our son will be home. It’s absolutely maddening that I have to answer truthfully, “I don’t know.” The process is out of our hands and in the hands of 2 government beaurocracies. Every day when the mail truck arrives (at precisely 3:22pm) I bolt outside to get it, hoping there will be some receipt or communication that will advance us to the next step. You know, the going to pick him up and bring him home step.

I have liked being busy with the paperwork. I like tasks. Collecting documents and checking things off made me feel like I had some degree of control over the speed of the process. This waiting part feels just the opposite. I feel out of control and restless. It’s like being forced to take an intermission right in the middle of the most suspenseful part of a movie. It’s like someone just hit the pause button on our life.

Now that I’m not busy with the details of the process, I’m free to feel all these things I’ve shoved to the side in the name of efficiency and expedience. I’m afraid I won’t be the right kind of mother, the kind he needs. I’m grieving for the losses he has already sustained in his young life. I’m worried about our family’s transition and about his health. I’m worried about attachment and all the unique things that come with trans-racial adoption. I’m even worried about whether he will like the dog.

The benefit of feeling all these heavy things is that I know how to pray. Waiting is teaching me to pray and allow God to minister to my insecurities. The praying is supplying peace. Sometimes.

I’m still going to run out to greet the mail truck in 47 minutes.

(Because we’re participating in a pilot program, we aren’t free to discuss where we’re adopting from at this point. I can tell you in person if I see you but I’m not supposed to write about it online.)

Relief or Tragedy Tourism? The Church's Response in Haiti

2010-01-27T14:36:00.000-08:00

For the past two weeks, I’ve been riveted by the stories coming out of Haiti. I’ve read stories that bring me to my knees, stories that make me shake my fist in anger, and stories that make me feel incredibly hopeful. It’s been interesting to watch different responses to the disaster. Between the Haitian government, NGO’s, foreign governments, the UN, independent churches, and missionaries in Haiti, everyone seems to have their own unique take on how to best help the Haitian people. At times, it has seemed that there is no clear leader, no clear entity ultimately in charge of the relief effort.

I think it’s crucial for us, as Christians, to evaluate the church’s response to the crisis.

In the days following the quake, the biggest needs were clearly recovery, search and rescue, and serious medical help. All the organizations mentioned above flew in almost immediately with these resources. But, the runways were clogged. Too many planes, not enough space. Our church partners with an organization called Medical Teams International. MTI immediately sent two planes filled with medical personnel and supplies to Port au Prince but, were unable to land. There was no space for them to touch down. Two planes, filled with life saving supplies and doctors, were diverted to the Dominican Republic.

Yet, on the runway, sat helicopters and planes of many non-essential personnel. Reporters. Spectators. Even some pastors from the United States. The reporters were there to break news, to show the world what was happening and, I’m sure, to boost their network’s ratings. The pastors, who possessed neither medical skill nor any knowledge of Kreole, were there to…pray? Some teams of pastors were there with their own personal film crews. Award winning film crews. Taking up precious space on the runway.

Since the quake, I’ve been following the blogs of several missionaries in Haiti, and, time and again, they’ve clearly stated that people should not journey to Haiti to “help” if they did not possess immediate, practical skills that could be used in a catastrophe. They urged people to give money to the organization of their choice and to Pray. Everyday they beg for prayer. One missionary family has a hospital in their living room. In the midst of their hectic efforts to save lives, they’ve made a few snarky comments about the reporters who never leave the airport…..

The question I’m raising is this: How should the church respond in the crucial days following a disaster? The team of pastors and their film crew did capture some very poignant images of the suffering and, using the footage in their churches, were able to raise hundreds of thousands of dollars for their own relief efforts in Haiti. Seeing images of their own pastor standing with victims next to the rubble really brought the tragedy home for people.

The other question I’m asking is : When are the church’s efforts to help really just tragedy tourism?

I’m not clear on the answer to this. I’m obviously leaning toward the conclusion that pastors should have waited to get their footage….but, on the other hand, because they struck while the crisis was still on the front page, they were able to stir the generosity of their congregation.

I’m interested in your thoughts….

Homecoming

2010-01-26T14:57:00.000-08:00

I’ve tried to write a blog about Haiti every day for a week. Each time I sit down, I stare blankly at the computer screen, having no idea where to begin. I still don’t know where to begin but, am hoping that somehow this post will come together.

Part of me thinks that the world doesn’t need another blog about Haiti written by someone who wasn’t there for the earthquake and who, for that matter, didn’t know much about Haiti before the disaster.

But, this story is about my family and it has a happy ending. So, here goes.

On January 12^th, Michael was home working on that week’s sermon, and I was working on a writing project. Michael yelled up to me that there had been a 7.0 magnitude earthquake in Haiti. At first, I didn’t understand the urgency and strain in his voice. It took me a full sixty seconds to connect that our sister-in-law, Kristen was IN HAITI, with her nine-month old infant, Karis. They were there visiting a little boy named Kembert, whom Kristen and her husband Mark had been trying to adopt for a solid two and a half years. They’ve visited him dozens of times at Heartline Haiti’s orphanage.

Even once I realized that Kristen was in Haiti, I still didn’t immediately understand the gravity of the catastrophe. There weren’t many photos of the devastation up on CNN yet. I grew up in Southern California where earthquakes were very commonplace, expected occurrences. So, I didn’t feel very afraid.

Until I started thinking about building codes in Haiti. Until I started realizing that 7.0 is a huge, huge number when used to describe earthquakes.

Then panic set in. I started scouring the news for information. Mike called his brother in Southern California to see if he had heard from Kristen. Thankfully, she had been able to leave him a voicemail just after the quake to let him know that she, Karis, and all the kids at the orphanage had all survived. We were relieved, to say the very least. You can read Kristen's account of the events here. The next day, we were unable to contact Kristen. For twelve hours we heard absolutely nothing from her. The home in which she was staying had no power and phone services were not working. I was so afraid.

Long story short, Mark and I and many other friends called and e-mailed the State Department, commercial airlines, and anyone we knew in Haiti, just in case they could get a message to her. It was amazing to witness Mark’s tenacious efforts to save his wife and daughter. He organized a small army to advocate on their behalf. There were plenty of horrifying, grotesque, tragic images on all the news channels at this point and we were panicking. We sent out e-mail requests, Facebook posts, and tweets, asking for prayer. And, people prayed. They prayed hard. Not just for Kristen and Karis and Kembert, but for the entire country of Haiti.

On Day 3, the US government evacuated Kristen and Karis to safety. Without Kembert. Because his adoption was still in progress, and hadn’t been finalized, Kristen had to leave him at Heartline. The State Department responded to Mark and I’s phone calls and e-mails within 24 hours. I am feeling incredibly patriotic these days. We are very lucky to live in a country that comes to get you, in the heart of a catastrophe, when you’re in trouble.

As soon as Kristen was on the plane, Mark started project “Bring Kembert Home.” Turns out that the small army he had organized had more work to do. We began advocating for humanitarian parole for orphans in Haiti who were in the middle of being adopted when the quake struck.

Within 24 hours of being home, Kristen was wanted for interviews on 3 local TV stations, CNN, and MSNBC. She told her story and advocated for humanitarian parole. The campaign for humanitarian parole for Haitian orphans went viral. People all over the world were writing letters, signing petitions and praying. Senators got involved, Governors responded. Even the White House stepped in to both approve and speed up the process.

All that to say, Kembert is home. HOME.

I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that our campaign influenced our leaders. Democracy worked this time, and I want to thank ALL of you out there who helped us. So many of you took up the cause and fought with us. So many of you hit your knees and prayed with us. I can’t thank you enough.

You can view Kristen’s interviews here, here, and here.

You can view Kembert’s homecoming here.

The Howerton Family is incredibly blessed today. Incredibly thankful. And still cognizant of the millions of desperate, hurting people in Haiti. If you haven't done so yet, please give. See my previous post for some reputable organizations to give to.

It's a strange thing to simultaneously celebrate and grieve.

You should also start reading this blog. The Livesays are a missionary family that has lived in Haiti for 5 years. Their home has been converted into a hospital. The stories they are telling beat anything I've seen on the news. Please commit to praying for them as they attempt to be the hands and feet of Jesus in haiti.

More on Haiti tomorrow. I have all sorts of opinions to share about news media, missionaries, and what helping Haiti really looks like….

Thursday Morning Haiti Update

2010-01-14T07:15:00.000-08:00

We were in contact with Kristen and her baby, Karis, in the wee hours of the morning today. We were able to give her information about two potential flights out of Haiti to Florida. She has an internet connection, for now. She was able to blog about her experiences this morning. She is safe and has food and water but is very emotionally shaken. Dead bodies are lining the streets and tremors continue to roll through the island. You can read her blog here.

Please continue to pray for the Haitian people. And when I say pray, I mean, hit your knees right now.

Please GIVE. Please give generously to one of the following organizations.

You can follow the missionaries Kristen is staying with here. This morning, they blogged that the best way for non-medical, non-Creole speaking people to help is to give money to an aid organization.

Heartline Ministries This is where Kristen is, it is the orphanage they are adopting from. Heartline is setting up makeshift clinics in the streets to treat the injured.

World Vision already on the ground

Samaritan's Purse already on the ground

Medical Teams International team arrives in Haiti today.

Overlake Christian Church We will take up an special offering on Sunday - or you can donate online and designate "Haiti" on the memo
Red Cross already on the ground

You can follow the missionaries Kristen is staying with here. This morning, they blogged that the best way for non-medical, non-Creole speaking people to help is to give money to an aid organization.

I will post more updates when I get them....

Latest Update On Kristen in Haiti

2010-01-13T19:38:00.000-08:00

We have had no communication with Kristen for over 12 hours. Power, phones and internet are all out. If you are in communication with ANYONE in Haiti or anyone with the ability to contact someone there, please relay the following information from Kristen's husband, Mark.

Mark here: I have not had any contact with anyone in Haiti for about 12 hours. It seems they lost their phones and internet connections. We are working hard on options to get her and Karis out, but we have no way to communicate these plans with her. If anyone gets in touch with her or any of our friends in Haiti pass on this info:

- Kristen's flight on American Airlines has been cancelled. The 1st AA option for her is on the 21st, she has a confirmed seat.
- She's book on a Spirit Airlines flight on Sunday the 17th at 2:55.
- If she can get to the Airport tomorrow before 4pm, there is a cargo supply missionary flight that she can take... "MFI Missionary Flights". They have her info and are expecting her.

I'm very concerned and because we have no communication... at this point it may be best if she goes to the US Embassy.

I haven't mentioned anything to Jafta or India and plan on holding off for while, so if you see me with the kids please respect that. The problem is, they know something's up and are bouncing off the walls.

Thank you all for you continued and fervent prayers.

Prayers Needed for Sister-in-Law in Haiti

2010-01-13T12:12:00.000-08:00

My sister-in-law, Kristen Howerton, was in Haiti with her infant daughter and soon to be adopted son when a 7.0 earthquake struck. She has been in contact with her husband, Mark, and all three are safe. The Livesays, the American missionaries she's with are also OK. The children at the orphanage made it out of the building safely. You can read updates from the Livesays at http://www.livesayhaiti.blogspot.com/ or http://twitter.com/troylivesay . They are updating as often as they possibly can in the midst of power outages and general chaos.

This picture is of Karis and Keanan, taken just hours before the earthquake.

There are no commercial flights out of Haiti until at least the 17th. Kristen doesn't have a seat until the 21st. Please join me in praying for her and all those surrounding her.

We are thankful and relieved to hear Kristen, Karis, and Keanan are OK. But, there are thousands of people who are not OK, thousands that are still buried in the rubble. Haiti is already the poorest nation in the world, with 80% of its people living below the poverty line, on $1-$2 per day. The country was desperate before yesterday's earthquake. What little they had has been demolished. There are simply not enough resources within the country to address the overwhelming devastation.

Please consider donating to ANY of the following humanitarian relief organizations that are already on the ground there, building shelters, freeing people buried in concrete, distributing supplies, and helping counsel the grief stricken.

Heartline Ministries (This is where Kristen is, it is the orphanage they are adopting from)

World Vision (already on the ground)

Samaritan's Purse (already on the ground)

Medical Teams International (team will arrive in Haiti tomorrow)

Overlake Christian Church (We will take up an special offering on Sunday - or you can donate online and designate "Haiti" on the memo)

Four Hamburgers

2009-12-12T21:38:00.000-08:00

(Durban, South Africa)

At first glance, the Zulu children we met on the bus en route to Ithemba Lethu’s leadership camp were just like any other seventh graders we had ever met. They boarded the bus with tremendous enthusiasm. They were full of life and noise and a certain pre-teen angst. They were excited to be with their friends, armed with bits of junk food, slightly insecure and were chatting about celebrities and rappers. If one didn’t already know that the children were from one of Durban’s poorest townships, that most lived in tin shacks, or that many were being raised by siblings just a few years older than them, it wouldn’t have been immediately obvious that these kids differed from suburban American youth.

As the weekend progressed, we began learning more details about their lives. One child’s parents had just died. Her mother died of AIDS and her father was murdered by human hands. She was now living with an aunt who didn’t want her. Several of the children were being physically abused on a regular basis. School was not a safe place for the kids because teachers hit them with pipes.

As we sat down together for meals, I began to notice that the kids were consuming food in massive quantities. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were provided at the camp and to our American team, it was typical camp food. Palatable but, far from gourmet. I ate enough to sustain me but wasn’t interested in going back for seconds. As I pushed food around my plate, the kids were inhaling every morsel of food on their plates. They went back for seconds, thirds, and fourths. They had an astounding affinity for ketchup. A 65 pound boy sitting next to me consumed four hamburgers in a row.

We were keeping the kids incredibly busy with soccer games, jump rope, swimming, late nights, and obstacle courses. “They have really worked up an appetite,” I rationalized. “They are almost teenagers, after all.”

As the weekend continued so did the pace of the eating and I began to wonder how children could possibly consume so much food without becoming ill. I mentioned the spectacle of food consumption to one of the youth workers and she replied, “When they get home, they will only have pap and sweet water. They’re eating as much as they can here because there’s little food at home.”

Her words felt like a sucker punch to the gut. The food I was turning my nose up at was an incredible, luxurious, excessive feast for the children. They were eating like mad because they didn’t know when they would get to eat again.

I’m still not sure what to do with this or about it. It’s an injustice I feel overwhelmed by and powerless to correct. All I know is that God called me to this place at this time to interact with these children. So, I interacted and I encouraged. I prayed for them and tried to love them.

In the midst of their dire circumstances, thanks to the efforts of the Ithemba Lethu team, the kids are learning to become leaders, learning to make different choices than their parents. I cannot for one second label these children as victims. The term connotates powerlessness.

And these children are not powerless. They are survivors and heroes.

I can't wrap this post up in neat bow. I have no clue how to end a post like this. Sometimes we need to live in the tension....

A Direct Approach

2009-12-08T22:06:00.000-08:00

While helping myself to the free samples of perfume and lotion at the duty free shop in London, I spotted this on every single package of cigarettes and cigars. Blunt, but true.

Presence

2009-12-07T01:29:00.000-08:00

I'm spending the first half of December in Durban, South Africa, leading a team of incredibly wonderful people from our church on a missions trip. I was here last December, with another amazing team. After a flight cancellation, three airplanes, layovers across the globe, and 4 solid days of ministry with school age Zulu children, I'm finally sitting down to reflect, process and, well, blog.

Our mission here is to support a local organization called Ithemba Lethu. Ithemba Lethu means "I have a Destiny" in Zulu. In truth, the wonderful staff of IL could survive without our help. We are not here to save the day in typical American, independent cowboy fashion. Quite simply, after seeing the incredibly way they are changing the world, we begged them to let us participate, to literally ride their coattails. We wanted to get in on what they're already doing and thankfully, they said they could use us.

Ithemba Lethu works in the public schools in the townships, educating school children (beginning in grade 5) about the risks of HIV/AIDS and about each child's immeasurable value to God. They believe you can't do one without the other. The kids have grown up in poverty with little to eat and little to hope for. They do not actually know their infinite worth to God when they start the program.

42% of pregnant mothers in Cato Manor are HIV positive. Forty-two percent. This means that 42% of infants are at risk of contracting the virus in -utero or during birth. If the children living in Cato Manor do not contract the disease in infancy, there is a very large chance they will contract it later in life. The townships in South Africa have one of the highest rates of child rape in the world. These children are in danger every day, all the time, of contracting the disease that has spread like wildfire in their midst. The children know all about HIV/AIDS. They see it everyday, lurking in the shacks of their makeshift community. They have lost parents, aunts,uncles, friends to the disease.

We went away to camp with 140 school age leaders from the local township schools and the incredible Ithemba Lethu staff youth workers. The kids spoke Zulu and a little English and the Americans spoke English and absolutely no Zulu. The goal of the weekend was to hang out with the kids, teach them that they matter, and introduce them to the love of Jesus. We had all kinds of plans. Crafts, beads, balls, jump ropes.... But, when it came down to it, we ended up sitting around a lot, trying to break through the language barrier. We sat with them during meal times, we sat with them during activities. We sat at the piano, teaching them basic notes. We sat and smiled. We had a few significant conversations and we cheered like insane fans during their outside competitions. We walked with them on the beach and showed them how to make bracelets. Then, we sat with them some more. By nature, I'm a task master. I like having to-do lists and outlines. I began to wonder what we were accomplishing. Admittedly, I'm not very good at sitting, resting or just being present.

It just seems terribly inefficient.

Turns out, the sitting around was the best possible gift we could have given these kids. Our very presence, our unrelenting efforts to sit next to them and turn jump ropes for them communicated the very thing we had hoped. That they matter, that they are worth the time of a few crazy Americans. And that God loves them. We gave them the gift of presence. We showed up and stayed. Much like God shows up and stays with all of us. Presence is not something one can quantify or measure. You cannot represent it through statistics or pie charts.

We'd appreciate your prayers as we head off to another camp today.

I can't wait to spend some quality time just sitting around.

Try not to cry, I triple dog dare you...

2009-11-13T17:31:00.000-08:00

Poor Sportsmanship: The Elizabeth Lambert Story

2009-11-07T10:36:00.000-08:00

Until this week, no one in the media knew who Elizabeth Lambert was. Women's college soccer rarely makes the front page of the sports section in the United States. However, through a series of brutal fouls committed by Lambert in a televised match, she is now extraordinarily famous. Elizabeth Lambert is now a household name. Her conduct gives the term "sore loser" a whole new meaning. She was suspended for her conduct, which you can view below.

I grew up playing soccer and now coach my ten year old daughter's soccer team. Good sportsmanship is a HUGE priority for me. I try to lead by example and make my expectations of positive conduct known at the beginning of each season. And, my girls are great. I mean, really great. My parents are great, too.

A few weeks ago we played a team that did not demonstrate good sportsmanship. Playing this team was like playing a bunch of biker chicks with serious criminal records. They consistently fouled my girls and even drew blood from two of them. That day, we had a parent referee, so most of the dirty offenses went uncalled and unpunished. And, don't get me started on the cheating. Or the other coach's do-whatever-it-takes-to-win attitude. She was like the evil sensei from Karate Kid.

The worst part was, they won the game.

After all of it, the blood, the elbows, the high kicks, the uncalled offsides, my girls marched right up to them and shook their hands. They were frustrated and felt bullied, but they shook their hands. I was tempted to stay on the sidelines, hands firmly in my pockets. But, I too shook their hands and managed to get the words, "good game," out of my clenched teeth.

I was feeling pretty ticked off about the game. Apparently, I kept talking about it all night. As Mike and I were walking into a party later that evening, he said,

"Babe, promise me you are not going to tell every single person at the party about the game."
"OK, sorry. I promise."

I only told 3 people. OK, maybe 4 but, it helped me feel better.

The video below makes me wish our game had been televised.

It goes without saying that this behavior is inexcusable.
I have a few questions, though.

Why was she permitted to stay in the game? It appears she received one yellow card for kicking another player in the head. The other offenses went unpunished. Why did the referees allow her to keep playing? More importantly, WHY DID HER COACHES keep her in the game? Lambert is culpable here, but so are her coaches for allowing her to finish the game. If one of my players demonstrated behavior like that, they would be off the field immediately....

OK, rant over. I'll post something happier tomorrow. :)

Baby Steps

2009-11-05T19:42:00.000-08:00

I love-hate the old 90's film, "What About Bob." Every time I watch it, I laugh out loud, mostly in a nervous, really uncomfortable, I'm-not-sure-what-else-to-do, kind of way. The character, "Bob," is horrifically neurotic. He has OCD to the nth degree. He won't touch anything without cleaning it and his fears and hang-ups outnumber even the most terrified cartoon character. His only salvation, his only pathway through the bog of his own psychosis, is a pop psychologist who has penned a trite self-help book called "Baby Steps." Bob, like a desperate leech, latches on to the concept and begins to see improvement. He can suddenly take elevators by taking one baby step at a time. He can walk out of his living room because all he has to do is take one step, and then another step. Bob's obsession with the book leads to more uncomfortable, neurotic humor and the audience can chuckle because the scenario is just too absurd to be real. WE are not that crazy. WE obviously have better boundaries. We don't need to take baby steps. Right? RIGHT????

This week, I am identifying with Bob on a whole new level. I'm not about to stalk anyone, don't worry. But, as of late, I have wondered if Bob-like neurosis was in my immediate future. We have made some huge, gargantuan life decisions that initially sent me into a spiral of pure bona fide nuttiness. In an economy that isn't any one's friend, we have decided to embark on two separate but, strangely connected adventures. First, we are pursuing an international adoption that we aren't at liberty to discuss in detail but, is likely going to cost a whole heck of a lot of money, and second, we are going to seriously increase our giving to our church, which is completely, literally committed to making a dent in global injustice in the next 3 years... I'm not writing about this to brag. I'm not writing about this so I can gain some kind of saintly favor from God.

I'm writing about this because deciding to commit to both was really HARD. We came to the commitment by taking teensy little baby steps and by crying and negotiating with God a lot.

And then, after safely jumping from lily pad to lily pad, we just dove in head first, right in to the pond. Faith is, after all, being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. (Hebrews 11) I guess you could say we've done a big, joyful belly flop.

Committing to 2 very pricey endeavors on a pastor's salary is just plain scary. Scary but, exciting. Invigorating, actually. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, I know that we are risking to affect change on a global scale, that our sacrifice means something in the grand scheme of things.

So, I guess I'm writing to encourage you to do your own belly flop. You get extra points if it makes a loud smacking sound when you hit the water. :) It stings but, you know you're alive.

You know you're getting older when.....

2009-10-22T22:27:00.000-07:00

Let me begin this post by saying that I’m not technically old. Early thirties is not old. I’m younger than my husband and younger than a lot of my friends. In fact, my very good friends/ neighbors were teasing me about being the young one on the block last Saturday night (You know who you are, Grandma). I can literally feel some of my readers rolling their eyes at the title of this post as they think, “Oh, just wait. You have no idea what old is. You’re practically a teenager.” Fair enough, fair enough. But, I still have some complaints.

Lately I’ve had these humbling moments that scream, “You are AGING.” Generally speaking, my knees hurt when I run, my metabolism is slowing down, loud restaurants irritate me and I have no clue what movies are out or what new band is worth listening to. I don’t know if these are the result of aging or motherhood but, I’ve been able to explain them away. A cold day explains the creaky knees, the metabolism just needs me to take more vitamins, intolerance of high volume at restaurants just means I’m tired from a day of raising kids…

I cannot, however, continue to explain away my fading eyesight. That sounds a bit dramatic. Rest assured, I’m not going blind or anything. But, let me tell you a little story.

I have been trying to find a job. Well, not a job-job. I was a high school English teacher in my pre-Washington life (and a damn good one, if I do say so myself!) But, now I'm a full time mom, pastor’s wife and Chief Community Volunteer. I volunteer at my kids’ school, I coach a soccer team, I’m leading a service trip to South Africa, I speak at conferences at our church…. A job-job would not permit me to keep those crazy commitments. So, I’m searching for the perfect job that would let me keep my current life the way it is. Stop laughing.

My dream is to write and get paid for it. That and change the world for free. I’m working on both crafts but, have been focusing on the former this fall. I’ve read books on marketing oneself and how to pitch your stuff to editors and how to tolerate massive amounts of rejection. Also have read the books on writing the most killer resume ever. Bear with me, this is all part of the back story of aging, I promise.

The easiest way to get paid for the penned word is copywriting. So, I decided to try my hand at it and found a few web sites that act as the middle man between writers and clients. They find the work, which is half the battle, and then hire you to write really boring copy for them. I took the bait and signed up. They were promising 20 cents a word, which is a REALLY good rate for writing boring copy. I wrote my little heart out about topics such as “Understanding Financial Responsibility Law” and “Including Pet Coverage in Auto Insurance Policies.” According to my calculations, I was about to receive an $800 check. And then, I enlarged the print on my screen. What I thought said 20 cents a word, ACTUALLY said $.02 a word. That's right, I COULDN'T SEE THE 0 in front of the 2. People, that is 2 pennies per word. My check shrunk before my eyes. Instead of $800 for 10 hours of work, I would be paid $80.

I have an appointment with the eye doctor next week.

No Risk, No Reward

2009-10-20T14:27:00.000-07:00

Last week, my husband jumped out of an airplane.

For a sermon illustration.

He's done lots of things for sermon illustrations. He has used real fire and real chain saws to drive a point home. He uses the verbal illustration most often. He talks about me, his kids, and his friends in sermons all the time. He once tattled on me to the whole congregation, claiming that I was a cusser, a foul mouthed human being. The congregation laughed and I had to answer a thousand questions about the incident in the hallways after the service. In my defense, I uttered one small word (not even a really bad one) in front of my kids and they delighted in repeating it over and over. They told daddy and a sermon illustration was born. I must not here that sometimes the stories in his messages are stretched the ever most teensiest bit.

This time, though, the point he was trying to get across could not be done from the safety of a stage or from behind a pulpit. The message was too big, too risky, too important. He called me week before the stunt and I could tell something important was on his mind.

"Hey babe," he said.

"Hey."

"How's your day going? Are you having a good day?"

"Yes. I am...Why do you ask?"

"Well, um...I was wondering what you'd think if I jumped out of an airplane...."

"HUH? Wow. Well, someday I think that would be fine."

"Friday, I want to skydive on Friday."

I was dumbfounded but, excited for him. We're generally a risk taking family. We do roller coasters, we hike, we do marathons and triathlons. Skydiving was way riskier than any of these things but, I said it would be OK as long as I could be there.

After all, someone would have to collect his broken bones if the chute didn't open.....

So, Friday, the kids and I traveled to the airport with Mike to watch him fling himself willingly from a perfectly good airplane. Here's a quick snapshot of paragraph 2 of the waiver he had to sign.

In case you can't read it, it says "Jumping out of an airplane is a very dangerous thing to do. Please do not ever say that we told you skydiving is safe. It is not." It goes on to list the different injuries one can sustain from skydiving, "broken legs, angles, wrists or fingers," "death from hitting the ground too hard."

So he signed it and boarded the airplane after we read this quote on the wall,

The kids and I watched his plane take off, watched it disappear in the clouds, and watched a tiny white speck plummet toward the earth. I was mostly calm. At least that's what my kids would tell you. Inside I was desperately trying to quiet the raving lunatic telling me that I would never see my husband in one piece again.

When the parachute deployed we could see and hear him clearly. He made it down safely and I was able to breathe normally again. You can watch the video below.

RISK! from Overlake Christian Church on Vimeo.

So, why did he jump? What was the point he was trying to prove? Overlake is heading into a huge, mind blowing vision campaign. The campaign itself is not mind blowing but, it's goals are. Goals like 1,000 slaves set free, 2,000 orphans adopted into loving families, 1,000 churches planted, 50 Community Health Centers to combat HIV/AIDS......

We're asking our congregation to give of themselves in a way that many of them never have. We're asking them to take this risk with us and give of their time and resources in sacrificial, radical ways. We're asking them to trust God.

These things, my friends, are why I let my husband jump out of an airplane.

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Holding Hands in Public

2009-10-06T13:59:00.000-07:00

Today I dropped my 9 –year-old daughter off at the Jr. high bus stop.

Our school district offers violin lessons for 4^th graders at the local Jr. high before school. 4^th graders are to ride the bus with the Jr. High kids, take their lesson, and re-board the bus, which drops them off at their proper elementary school. Because I’m really very afraid of Junior High kids (I spent a year teaching 7^th grade Spanish), I debated whether or not to just drive her to the school myself, sparing her the bus experience. She’s so tiny and sweet, I rationalized. Those kids will eat her alive. Plus, how will she be able to find the music room when she gets there? I mentioned this plan to Alex and, horrified, she replied, “Mom. There. Is. No. Way. You can’t drop me off.” She wanted to do this herself. She assured me that she’d sit near the bus driver and that if she couldn’t find the music room, she’d find a teacher and ask for help.

Plus, she didn’t want to be seen with her mother holding her hand at the Jr. High. I can be overbearing that way. You know, trying to hold her hand in public.

I reluctantly agreed to let her ride the bus.

Alex has been looking forward to the start of violin lessons for weeks. She’s been “practicing” with her half size violin and bow and trying to figure out how to properly tune it. Mike and I have politely listened to the squawks and squeaks of the tiny instrument, playing the part of the rapturous audience because of the delighted face Alex wears when she plays it. Well, I played the part. I think Mike really was rapturous. His love of our kids is big and unabashed. He loves them like crazy and is their chief cheerleader. He’s permanently proud of them.

I have learned to take ibuprofen before the concert of scratchy strings and loud whistling begins.

I woke Alex up early this morning and she stumbled out of bed with unusual compliance. She usually loathes the morning time. Today, however, she was excited. She carefully chose her outfit, took a shower, and asked me to blow dry her hair. She fussed over which shoes to wear and insisted her glasses were crooked. I fixed the apparently crooked glasses and watched Alex continue to bustle around the house as if she’d had one too many cups of coffee.

“She’s nervous,” I pointed out the obvious to my husband.

“Yeah, “ he replied, “Don’t worry. I’ll walk her to the bus.”

Alex must have overheard this exchange because when I went upstairs to check on her progress, she whispered,

“Mom, I don’t want Daddy to walk me to the bus.”

“Why not, honey?” I asked, surprised.

“I don’t know,” she fumbled and then looked at the floor.

Remembering her desire to not be seen holding my hand at the Jr. High, I could see her imagining Mike bestowing his big, unabashed love on her at the bus stop in front of the older kids.

“Oh, I said. “OK. How about if I drive you down and you can get out of the car when the bus comes?”

“OK, thanks Mom,” she answered with a sigh of relief.

I broke the news to Mike that his little baby girl didn’t want him to walk her down. It hurt his feelings. When I gently told him that she wanted me to take her, his shoulders fell and his face took on a pained expression.

Alex and I rushed out the door and drove to the bus stop. When the bus came, she flew out of the car and called out “Hi!” to the Jr. High kids in the most innocent voice I’ve ever heard. She threw me a grin and waved wildly as she boldly boarded the yellow school bus.

I came home and sat down on the couch next to Mike, remembering the days when I didn’t want my own parents to hold my hand in public. I tried to comfort him. I tried to explain that, in a way, Alex’s desire to go it alone on the bus is proof that we’re raising her well. The love we provide, the boisterous, full, crazy love Mike provides on a regular basis has helped create a strong foundation of self-confidence. She wasn’t rejecting us or being rude, she was testing out her independence. She wanted to see if she could get on that bus without her cheerleaders and their boisterous hugs.

He understood but, I think he still felt sad.

Tonight, when there are no Jr. Highers looking, I’m going to hold her hand tight. And Mike’s going to make a big fuss over her violin playing. Then, we’re going to hug her repeatedly.

She might be a little embarrassed but, that’s just the kind of parents we are.

Supersonic

2009-09-28T15:00:00.000-07:00

(Another re-write of an old post... :) )

Last night, my 5 –year old son Caleb and I found our selves alone. My oldest, Alexandra, was at a sleepover and my husband was at a class reunion in California. We had scads of uncalendared time before us, which is a rare occurrence in our house. We are usually overscheduled: piano, Taekwondo, soccer, school, doctor appointments. Free time is like a clear diamond, precious and rare.

As I pulled away from dropping Alex at her friend’s house, I had an idea.

“Hey, buddy,” I pitched excitedly to the back seat, “Wanna go on a date with me?”

“Sure, mama!” Caleb accepted with a small shy smile.

“OK, Buddy, pick anywhere you want! Wait…but just not Chuck E. Cheese, Ok?"  I loved supporting the idea of kids being kids but didn’t love the migraine I knew I’d take home with me.

He thought for a minute, knitting his eyebrows together and concentrating very hard. I began trying to silently guess what his choice would be. I was banking on ice cream, fast food, or the Lego store. His face suddenly lit up and he said confidently,

"Mama, I want to eat at your restaurant. I want to stay home with you and play."  

Shocked, I replied, “Are you sure buddy? No Cold Stone, no McDonald’s? No Lego store?”

“Nope. I want to go home with you.”

“OK,” I fumbled, “It’s a date!”

How could I say no? Even with the tantalizing promise of mint chip ice cream and chicken nuggets, he opted for solo time with me. He wanted to eat food that I made. Not excited about the prospect of dragging out ingredients and deciding how to assemble them into something edible, I said,

“Bud, I think mommy’s restaurant is kind of, well… closed. What if we go through a drive through and eat the food at home on the front lawn? How about a picnic?”

“Yeah!” he shouted enthusiastically! I was grateful for the compromise. Now he had the best of both worlds. Fast food and hang time with mom.

When we got home, I laid out a thick blanket on the green grass and we had our picnic underneath a bright blue cloudless sky. We played "superheroes" while we ate. This game consisted of my son inventing 2 Superhero good guys and one Superhero bad guy. He and I played the good guys and we pretended there was an evil villain lurking in the shadows, ready to take over the world. And, of course, between bites of greasy French fries and chicken nuggets, we just had to stop him.

My superhero’s name was Supersonic. Ironically, the name Caleb chose for me had nothing to with anything “sonic” or remotely related to sound. It just sounded cool. My powers consisted of Laser Vision, Super Strength and Nostril Power. Oh, and I could fly.  Caleb had his own host of powers I can't fully recall, mostly because he kept adding new ones every fifteen seconds. But I do remember the bad guy had Super Ultra Vomit Power.  

We sat in the sunshine, Caleb talking and imagining at a dizzying rate. Not a surprise if you know my son. He has never been short on words or creativity. He narrated a complex story line as I patiently nodded and listened, throwing in a "Wow!" or "Cool!" or "No way!" at appropriate moments. I also threw in "One more bite," and "Watch your drink!" a few times.  

 At first I thought I was giving Caleb the gift of my time, that he was the one benefiting from our game. Then, I realized, sometime after Vomit Power Man tried to douse us in puke and I warded him off by blowing with my Nostril Power, that I was the one who needed the playtime. The reality that he's growing up hit me like a ton of bricks. I greedily soaked up the time with my son, trying hard to memorize every detail, every nuance of the experience. His small white teeth, his thick dark hair, his little dimple, his wide smile, his pudgy fingers, the sparkle of adventure in his eyes.

I know there will be a day when he doesn't want to play superheroes with me on our front lawn, when eating at “my restaurant” will not be his first choice. The value of these moments, these stolen seconds of unscheduled time with my son, is incalculable. Someday, when he drives off to college, waits for his bride at the end of the aisle, or becomes a daddy himself, I will pull out this memory, dust it off, and remember the little boy who wanted to eat at my restaurant and play superheroes.

Tricking the Tooth Fairy

2009-09-23T09:10:00.000-07:00

My baby...

2009-09-21T13:42:00.000-07:00

I'm proud to announce the arrival of the newest member of our family....

Tooth Tragedy

2009-09-15T21:27:00.000-07:00

(This is an old post I'm in the middle of re-writing for a shot at publication....Enjoy!)

After 2 months of wiggling and jiggling her tiny bean of a tooth, my eight year old daughter finally, officially, lost her 7^th tooth. She diligently twisted and turned it until every last thread of tissue was disconnected.

The whole process of tooth loss is a bit nauseating for me to witness. First your child announces that the tooth is loose. Then they begin to play with said tooth incessantly, desperately trying to speed up the Tooth Fairy’s visit. They push it around with their tongues, wiggle it with their fingers, and eat apples with stunning regularity. Gradually, the tooth begins to dangle, sliding around the pink gum in acrobatic 360 degree turns. The "pop" sound a tooth makes when it is finally pulled is very distinct and turns my stomach, just a little, every time I hear it. Weirder than watching your child lose a tooth, is watching the new gargantuan permanent tooth fill up half your child's tiny face. We all have those photos of ourselves in elementary school with gaping holes in our smiles. We also have photos of ourselves with large beaver teeth occupying a startling amount of space in the 4x6 image. The arrival of Beaver Teeth marks the beginning of the infamous Awkward Phase that no childhood has been able to successfully avoid.

I digress. Alex wanted to pull the tooth all by herself . In the small bathroom, my husband Michael, my son Caleb, and I all crazily cheered her on like she was just moments away from a gold medal.

“You can do it, Al!”

“Twist it to the left! Ok, now to the right!”

“Almost there! Just do it! Just do it!”

In one swift, epic moment, she bravely pulled the dangling tooth with her right hand. The sheer force of the determined gesture sent the tiny tooth flying from her tiny hand into the great abyss of the upstairs bathroom. It felt like we were watching the scene unfold in slow motion, complete with the slowly drawled scream of “Noooooooo!!!!” as the tooth flew through the air. The upstairs bathroom has white hexagon tile. I immediately knew we were in trouble. Tiny white tooth on tiny white tiles.

Alex started crying hysterically. Deeply worried that the tooth fairy would not come if there wasn’t any tooth, she mouthed over and over “I just gotta find it. I just gotta find it…”

Mike, Caleb, Alex and I frantically, painstakingly scoured the bathroom on our hands and knees. We went over every square inch of tile, sink, tub, and rug.

No luck. Alex’s tears started coming faster and I knew full blown hysterical sobs were near. 

In a hopeful attempt to assuage her fears, my husband quipped, "Honey, the tooth fairy knows you lost a tooth, don't worry. She always comes, no matter what." She didn't buy it. She looked at him incredulously and cried harder.  Strike One.

It was my turn to take a crack at calming her down. I said with my very best mommy-means-business-face, "Alex, really that's enough. Come on, honey. Stop it right now." I stepped back, hoping my attempt at discipline had done the trick. In response,  the tempo of the sobbing sped up and tone of the crying morphed into a loud shrieking sound. Strike Two.

I knew we were on the threshold of total and complete devastation. Bedtime was approaching and unless a miracle happened, our 20 minute tuck in would turn into a 90 minute one. The 90 minute tuck would result in a grumpy morning the next day. The grumpy morning would turn into a grumpy day. Basically, total family misery was at stake.

I was out of ideas. Desperate, I began praying, “God, please, please, PLEASE, let me find the STINKING TOOTH.” On the cusp of a third strike, I suddenly remembered that I still had some of her old teeth from the last time the tooth fairy visited. Not quite sure what to do with old baby teeth, I had thrown them into a junk drawer that contained other stuff I didn’t know what to do with. With lightning speed, I ran into my bedroom, grabbed the old tooth and hid it in my palm.

I did what any self-respecting, desperate mother who wants to put her kids to bed on time would do.

I lied.

I pretended to find the tooth on the bathroom floor.

I said with a little too much enthusiasm, “Honey, let’s look one more time on the floor. I didn’t really look very well behind the toilet……Oh my goodness! Look! I found it!” I triumphantly held the old tooth up, sucked in my breath, and waited.

She bought it.

The tears dried up and the post-sob hiccups eventually subsided. I took a picture of her new, toothless smile, wondering just when the permanent Beaver tooth would break through. Alex and Caleb were in bed on time and the tooth fairy left a buck under her pillow.

I fell asleep that night to my husband’s words, “You’re a genius, you know that?”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” I replied.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Especially when the tooth fairy’s involved.”

Loopholes

2009-09-11T13:21:00.000-07:00

Human beings are hard wired to search for loopholes. It’s in our nature to painstakingly seek out shortcuts. Webster defines a loophole as “an ambiguity or inadequacy in the law or set of rules.” My children are forever testing the household rules, searching for the perfect ambiguity to exploit.

For example, we have a rule that the kids may only play video games if they have done their homework and then their daily reading. They are awarded video game and computer time based on how long they have spent reading. It’s a minute for minute exchange. Twenty minutes of reading can be redeemed for 20 minutes of Wii or DS time. Simple enough, right? As I crafted this rule, I was proud of its straightforwardness and confident in its clarity.

I had no idea just how complicated this system could become. My kids, who love to read, immediately started trying to poke holes in my rule. They peppered me with questions. Can you read in front of the Wii while someone else is playing? Do you get reading time if you read signs while riding in the car? Does it count if someone reads to you? Do you get extra Wii time on birthdays and holidays? Can you borrow your brother’s reading minutes if you promise to lend him some next time? Does daddy have the power to override this rule when mom’s gone? What happens if you “accidentally” play for too long on the Wii? Are there any times where your reading can count for double?

We have had long discussions about the Reading/ Gaming exchange rule. So much, that

I am considering hiring an attorney to draft a legal contract so that all parties are clear on the terms of the agreement. My children have no idea how much Wii time they’ve missed because of time spent discussing procedures and parameters.

I find myself searching for loopholes as well. My kids learned from the best. Just how important is it for me to meet that deadline? Do I technically have to pay that bill on that date, or is it just a suggestion? Do I have to do that tempo run, or can I just run easy? I find myself wondering if the time I spend searching for shortcuts ends up being more time consuming that just getting the job done.

I have often used my own fears and insecurities as a loophole.

“I feel called to go to Africa, but I can’t afford it.”

“I really want to be a writer, but I’m too afraid of rejection.”

“I want to work out but, I’ll never stick with it.”

“I’d like to start my own business, but it’s just too risky.”

My fears let me off the hook but, they prevent me from really living. I wonder what a life without loopholes, without fear and excuses, would look like. I'm willing to give it a try.

Somehow, though, I don't think my children will quit searching for ambiguities or inadequacies in the laws of this house anytime soon.

Godmobile

2009-09-08T12:07:00.000-07:00

This past weekend we went to the fair. There’s always a salt of the earth kind of quality to state fairs. They draw a colorful crowd to say the very least. My favorite part is the food (actually that’s the only reason I agree to go): fried twinkies, hot scones, grilled corn on the cob, kettle corn, elephant ears, giant turkey legs, and the latest creation, chocolate covered bacon. I didn’t make that last one up.

We walked around taking in the sights, deciding which neon carnival ride would make us feel brave and daring but the least ill, and avoiding a few seedy characters I’m pretty sure I saw on America’s Most Wanted. Does anyone else wonder how safe rides operated by toothless meth users are? We toured the livestock barns, got to pet some piglets, and decided that of all the barns, the swine barn smelled the absolute worst.

Toward the end of the night, we happened upon a little trailer called the “Godmobile.” In big read letters, it read “Are you going to Heaven? Free two question test reveals the answer!” I immediately felt irritated with the Godmobile. Before I begin the rant, let me say that I’m sure that the intentions of the Godmobile creators and its staff were good. They want people to know God. I also want people to know God.

But, I have to question the basic methodology. The Godmobile isn’t coming at evangelism from a place of love or grace or relationship. It begins with a gimmicky scare tactic and a not so subtle threat of eternal condemnation. What on earth is attractive about that? I watched people walking by pointing, laughing, and shaking their heads. I could almost read their thoughts. “Another nut job Christian.” I wanted to chase after them and shout, “Not all of us are like that! Not all Christians want to judge you and condemn you! Come to my house for coffee! Let’s have a beer!” I continued to watch the Godmobile for the next 10 minutes and no one, I mean no one, got in line to take the free test.

I really believe that HOW we represent Christ matters. I’m sure the Godmobile staff entered into a few good conversations with people at the fair. But, I wonder how many more people were turned off to the idea of following Christ. How much damage was done?

Many of you who read this blog know that I’m a Christian, a pastor’s wife even. I follow Christ, not out of fear, obligation, or intimidation. I follow him because I have been profoundly changed by the grace and love I have found in my relationship with him.

So, I’m curious to know your thoughts on the Godmobile…….

Discuss…..

Gettin' my blog back on...

2009-09-08T11:53:00.000-07:00

I’m casting off the lackadaisical days of summer and getting my butt back in gear. The kids are back in school, all the visitors have headed home, the sun has gone away and it’s time to focus. I’ve been avoiding any kind of writing for several months now and am embarrassed by the fact that I left that dorky cycling rap video up for the last month. The only people who liked that thing were my dorky cycling friends (love you guys by the way.)

It’s like I’ve been broken up with my computer, avoiding it’s pleas for attention because “I just needed to work on myself.” Don’t worry, we’ve worked it out, I’ve apologized and it’s taken be back. Don’t know if it’s willing to let me wear its letterman’s jacket quite yet, though. Trust takes time to rebuild, guys.

So, I’m avoiding no more! I’m gettin’ my blog back on! Now I just have to think about what to write……

And, I am officially a cycling GEEK

2009-08-13T18:49:00.000-07:00

The fact that I just spent 10 minutes laughing out loud at this video can only mean one thing.

Yep, I'm a dork.

Standin' Up for the Stache...

2009-08-09T19:26:00.000-07:00

At OCC, we're studying Nehemiah and standing up for what is right, for is true.

There's nothing quite like standing up for the stache...

I don't want to gossip but,

2009-08-04T23:21:00.000-07:00

Nothing like conviction on a Tuesday night....

Sometimes Justice is Hard to Calculate.....

2009-07-28T18:48:00.000-07:00

Last week in Phoenix, an eight year old girl was brutally gang raped. The perpetrators had no elaborate scheme or meticulous cover up. No real plan. They simply decided one day to lure their little neighbor into a shed by offering her gum, hold her down and rape her for 10-15 minutes. They were immediately arrested at the scene of the crime, after another neighbor heard hysterical screaming and called the police.

The “gang” consisted of young boys, ages 9. 10, 13, and 14.

The victim and the perpetrators were all Liberian refugees. You can read the full story here.

After learning that their innocent daughter had been sexually assaulted, her family did the unthinkable. They disowned her. Instead of outrage at the perpetrators or a fierce desire to see justice done, the family embraced a cultural relic still present in many African and Middle Eastern countries that pronounces female rape victims Guilty, responsible for the violence they were powerless to fend off or flee from.

The father told a case worker and a policemen in her presence to “take her,” that he “didn’t want her back.” His daughter, bloodied, bruised, and severely traumatized had become, however implausible to most Americans, a symbol of cultural shame. Thankfully, the Phoenix Police Department is committed to seeking justice for this little girl, even while her family chooses to blame her.

The President of Liberia, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, involved herself personally upon hearing of the crime. She chided the girl’s family, beseeched them to seek counseling, and assured the world that Liberia is moving in a cultural direction that values women and decries sexual assault. She then asserted that the perpetrators, the young boys, have to pay the penalty, but we also want to make sure that they are counseled ... that they will have an opportunity to change and become useful citizens, not only in the United States but when they return home."

The 14 year old boy is being charged as an adult. The 9, 10 and 13 year olds are being charged as juveniles. Being charged as an adult means that the sentence will be harsher, longer, and the record permanent.

Delivering justice seems fairly straightforward at first glance. The perpetrators should pay. They should absolutely pay for their crimes. They should be harshly sentenced and given the maximum penalty. The victim was only 8 years old, after all. Then, one remembers something crucial and even more horrific; They are only little boys. Boys only a few years older than my own son. Boys, refugees, that were likely exposed to rape and sexual violence before arriving in the United States. It is highly likely that their childhoods were not filled with Sponge Bob, Toys R Us, good parenting, and sound moral teaching. As refugees, it is likely that these boys all but raised themselves. It is entirely possible that the boys were recruited as Liberian rebel soldiers.

These little boys, the perpetrators, are victims in their own rite. It is easy to imagine that the boys are suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Most refugees could be easily diagnosed with PTSD.

So, what’s a justice system to do? Should the goal be punishment, or rehabilitation? Sentencing or counseling? A combination of both?

Obviously, the little girl needs counseling and a family that will love her and introduce her to the Creator who restores all things broken. She has been wounded physically and emotionally in the most horrific way possible. I basically think she should come live with me. In all honesty, I’ve been having dreams about telling this little girl how valuable she is, how perfect, how pure. I OBVIOUSLY believe in adoption. More to follow on that….

Don’t these boys need the same thing? Wouldn’t the best thing be for their innocence to be restored? Shouldn't some one inform them of how valuable they are to the Creator?

The more important and pressing question is this: What is the Church to do? With the 8 year old rape victim, the little boy perpetrators, and Injustice everywhere?

I know this. Churches are EVERYWHERE. How does the Church mobilize to prevent this tragic story from enfolding in the FIRST PLACE?

I’m not offering any answers. Not just yet.

I’m extremely curious about what YOU have to say…….

Consequence Free Adultery?

2009-07-15T15:58:00.000-07:00

I have a huge bone to pick.

Yesterday, while reading the latest TIME Magazine, I happened upon an article highlighting the latest trend in dating/ matchmaking sites. Wait for it....SITES THAT INTENTIONALLY FACILITATE EXTRA-MARITAL AFFAIRS. Sites that overtly CAPITALIZE on troubled marriages and tantalizingly advertise that "...humans were not made to be monogamous" and "your secret is safe with us." They lure married men and women to their site promising to find them the perfect adulterous liason, even charging their clients' credit cards under a neutral, unsuspicious name. Adultery on the internet is not a new concept but, the brazen unapologetic nature of this new brand of internet cheating has me shocked to the core.

Thankfully, the tone of the TIME article was a condemning one. The author was nearly as incredulous and angry as I in his treatment of the topic. Upon reading about these sites, a strong, metallic taste filled my mouth and my stomach turned instantly queasy.

Marriage is hard enough without sites like these, falsely promising consequence free infidelity. The promise, however, is a false one. Adultery is never consequence free. Affairs are messy, explosive, volatile things that leave shards of glass and shrapnel everywhere. Just ask anyone who has cheated or been cheated on. Just ask the kids of the cheaters. Co-workers, friends, family, and neighbors also find themselves picking shrapnel out of their skin in the aftermath of an affair.

My husband and I have been in ministry for 15 years together the most painful things, besides death, that we have counseled people through is extra-marital affairs (both the online and flesh and blood kind). They are painful when exposed and painful when they are secret. There are always far reaching consequences and devastating casualties. And, the secret never lasts long.

While touting the amazing features of his site, the CEO of one of these companies was asked by the TIME reporter, "How would you feel if your wife used this site?" He answered, "I would be devastated."

She's a Pastor

2009-07-06T20:38:00.000-07:00

Last night, one my closest friends officially became a pastor.

The elders, pastors, and leaders of our church were on hand to ordain Lynne and testify in public that she had gone above and beyond all the requirements necessary to earn the title. She has faithfully run our missions programs for 7 years, mentored countless people, taught classes and Bible studies, and, oh yeah, she just completed her Doctorate degree.

In truth, Lynne has been one of the most caring, qualified, passionate pastors I have ever met, for the last 25 years. Working in a variety of ministry settings, she has consistently labored to show people Jesus, to bring freedom from oppression and justice to the poor. She has sat in meetings, often the only woman present, and used her God given gifts of leadership in spite of the belief of some that women shouldn’t have a place at the table.

Nothing much will change about the way she ministers, now that the name plaque on her door can officially read “Pastor Lynne Ellis.” She’s always given it her all, regardless of the fact that the title was previously unavailable to her simply because of her gender. She ministered with passion and a fierce love of Jesus Christ because she understood that the calling on her life was from God, whether validated by an institution or not.

But, last night, with scores of friends, family, and church members in attendance, Lynne’s years of service were validated. My husband is the Lead Pastor at our church and, as he prayed over her, I wept. I wept because I was proud of my friend. I wept for the young women watching who witnessed a ceiling being blasted out of their lives. I wept for the old women watching who, while sighing deeply, had something healed in their hearts. And , I wept because I’m proud of my husband, who strongly, publicly, believes in women in leadership in the church.

My daughter (9) and Lynne’s daughter (4) sat together watching the service and cheering for Lynne. The girls stared up at Lynne, faces proud and smiling, totally unaware of what an historic day they were witnessing. To them, Lynne has always been a pastor. My son, Caleb, took in the scene as well, asking, “Mom, why are you crying?” I responded, “Because, buddy, I think Lynne does a really good job.” “Oh,” he said. “Cool.”

Lynne’s ordination is an important milestone for her but even more so for women in general. Her ordination repeals a cultural limitation and announces that women are valuable, that they can be leaders, and that God uses them in powerful ways. It also counters some misguided theology of several churches in our community here in the Northwest.

One male leader in particular frequently clarifies that the target of their ministries, the very reason they exist, is to reach lost men. He rails against a “chickified” church and insists Jesus would have spent his Saturdays watching football and drinking beer. I understand that men in Seattle need Jesus. I get it.

But, so do women.

As a woman who happened to be born with leadership skills, I feel hurt by this rhetoric, excluded and marginalized by it. It pains me to realize that in this particular church community, my gifts would not be valued or utilized to their fullest extent.

With Lynne’s ordination, I believe the message both men and women in our congregation and in the larger community will receive is this: There is a place for women at the table. Women are an essential part of our target audience. Jesus died for them, saves them, and empowers them with his Spirit to change the world. No ceilings. No limitations. Only freedom.

Mike read the following quotation from John Stott, an esteemed Christian theologian, during the ordination. "If God allows women with spiritual gifts (which he does), and thereby calls them to exercise their gifts for the common good (which he does), then the church must recognize God's gifts and calling, must make appropriate spheres of service available to women, and should 'ordain' (that is, commission and authorize) them to exercise their God-given ministry...Our Christian doctrines of creation and redemption tell us that God wants his gifted people to be fulfilled not frustrated, and his church to be enriched by their service."

Suffice it to say that I'm more than stoked to be part of Overlake Christian Church.

So, Lynne, I’m proud to call you my friend and even prouder to call you my pastor. Thank you for hanging in there and seeing this through. Thanks for inspiring my daughter, who I believe might just be President one day. J

Last of the 70.3 Photos…

2009-06-27T21:09:00.000-07:00

More photos of the big race….the last ones, I swear! One might feel the need to relive the experience to help partially heal the lingering psychological wounds…

Mile 7 of the run, feeling better
Finally done!

My awesome parents and sister! Best cheerleaders on earth!

Starting the run…seriously hurting…
Fifteen year old volunteer helping me get ready for the run…I couldn’t move my fingers or arms very well……so cold!
Out on the bike course

Lori, Liz, Sheri…such studs!!!!