Be Carried

Yesterday the kids made a list of things babies should know about their parents. Mister was the first to make a suggestion. And he did not need any time to think of his answer. “Let them carry you,” he said.





I keep thinking about the words of his heart, so ready on his tongue. My baby knows something about being carried. He was carried on the back of his mother as she tended to soil and hearth. He was carried away by a social worker, when his mother knew there was nothing left to give. He was carried up and down the alley at Horizon House by the Nurse, who said he refused to be comforted, howling through sunrise and sunset. He was carried by me – the Embassy, airports, the streets of Wiesbaden and Chicago. We did not bring a stroller or even a backpack with us to meet our baby. We knew – or someone told us – that our child would need to be carried in our arms.

At first, Mister did not let his Daddy pick him up. And we respected that. We trusted that there was time for bonding, and we could be patient as he learned to trust us one at a time. But after three weeks at home, one day my husband picked Mister up and headed downstairs. I listened to the protests dampen as they rounded the right angles between upstairs and down. Then it was quiet. And then there was giggling. Now, that moment – being scooped up into Daddy’s arms – is one of Mister’s favorite stories to tell.
“Remember when I didn’t want Dad to hold me but he picked me up and we went downstairs to play?”
“I remember,” I smile.
“Ya,” He says patting me on the back.

Now he is 54 pounds. When he falls asleep in the van, I have to wake him up to walk instead of carrying him inside. If he falls asleep when we rock, I have to wait for his Dad to come by and take him to bed. When he asked to snuggle on my hip during singing time at church, I have to say no. He has gotten to big to carry.

So now we hold hands, which will soon be uncool. When we no longer hold hands maybe we will walk side by side. And talk on the telephone.







My dad once told my husband to carry the kids whenever they asked, warning that the window of time for carrying is shockingly brief. He was right. My babies are growing up and out of my arms and into a world that asks much of them. So, Mister’s timely word to the babies of the world feels sweet, wise and old like his soul.

Be carried.



“Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.” Isaiah 46:4

Forever Family Day

Yesterday we celebrated Forever Family Day. It is our family's own little holiday where we remember that by marriage, adoption, birth and the grace of God, we became an “us”, and that process and covenant is something worth celebrating. Sis wrapped up things we already had and gave them to us as gifts. Mister chose the balloons. Peanut ran the impromptu hallway relay races naked, and everyone laughed until we cried. It was a good day.

Often, when I feel really grateful, I think of the second book to the Corinthians, where the writer bursts out in praise to God for his indescribable gift. Because I love that verse and because the language is overly familiar, I looked up a parallel translation from Eugene Peterson. The Message says that generosity to others produces in the giver an “abundant and bountiful thanksgivings to God. This relief offering is a prod to live at your very best, showing your gratitude to God by being openly obedient to the plain meaning of the Message of Christ. You show your gratitude through your generous offerings [to] everyone. Meanwhile, moved by the extravagance of God in your lives, they'll respond by praying for you in passionate intercession for whatever you need. Thank God for this gift, his gift. No language can praise it enough!” (9:12-15).

And that is our story. We have been carried, buoyed, fed and loved by so many generous hearts. And so we understand that a celebration of “us” involves a desperate gratitude for the village that has made us who we are and has prayed us into being.

So, my heart says, “Thank you, Jesus, for making us a family. And thank you, Jesus, for the circle.”

The Girl Who Held Me

Today I asked my son to color a picture for his birth mother. I am preparing to send her some photos and I think he is old enough to participate in that process. I don’t plan to read him the letter I wrote. But if I were her, I would want to see the things his amazing little mind does with a pen, and see the way he prints his name in large, wiggly block letters that slope off the page. So I asked him to draw something. He was hesitant, but finally conceded when I suggested he could sit with me at my desk – the one that is ineverywayofflimits every other day. So I typed and he drew. Then he heard that his dad was outside with tools and he disappeared.

When I found him later helping his daddy, I asked him to tell Dad what we had been up to, hoping to encourage him to think and talk more about the other mama in our lives. “Who you making a picture for, Mister?” my husband asked. “I am making a picture for the girl who held me in her tummy,” he answered. He said it sweetly and with some reverence. Holding someone in your tummy is a big deal. And I love his choice of words. She did hold him. Close. Tenderly. As long as she could. It was a good choice of words.

But she did more that hold him in her tummy. She was his mother. And that is something that hurts my little man a little too much to talk about right now. It is hard enough for him, I think, to make space for a second woman who bravely and lovingly gave him the gift of life. But pregnancy is not parenting. The event of birth is not parenting. Parenting is making food and washing clothes and singing songs and kissing bloody knees. Opening up his heart to the truth that someone else loved him in that way pushes his little heart to the edge of a deep canyon where parents sometimes disappear for reasons that just aren’t good enough. Today my son was willing to let someone love him and hold him before he was born. But he was not willing to draw a picture for a mama.

All of this silently breaks my heart. All of it. She is an amazing woman who did her best and then made a sacrifice I shudder to think about. She was his mother. And she was good at it. She loved him and he loved her back. And all of that, at least today, was too much.

Mister is teaching me that sometimes we can only hold fragments of the whole. And that is okay. Even God knows that we can’t be left alone with all the truth in one day: “I have many more things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now.” John 16:12.

So I will write the letter. And he will draw the picture. And we will pray that those two pieces of paper, fashioned in love, find their way into the hands he and I both secretly dream about when we are sleeping.

Superman

This is Superman. He has a magic flying cape and, like all true heroes, he also has a trusty, albeit seldom-clothed sidekick, Superbaby.





Superman is always telling us about his amazing powers. At bedtime a few nights ago he took my face in both of his hands, and very seriously said, “Everything you and Dad know, from every day and every night, I knew before I was born.” Amazing.

And this morning at breakfast he informed his older sister that he could see through walls. She was skeptical. So he proved it. He looked right through the dining room wall and into the garage.

“Well, then what do you see?” She challenged, snipping off the edges of her words.

“I see a whole lotta junk.” He answered, putting the issue to rest.
She was not astonished.



But I, his mother, find him absolutely incredible. This week, Mister has been attending a morning tennis camp, out of reach of his sister’s shadow. He made it known that his coach said he is “super-duper good at tennis” and watching him walk off, tapping his racket against the concrete and strutting just a little, has me thinking back.

Three years ago, this month, I was dreaming about this boy with a crinkled two-inch photo of him in my pocket. We had been matched and were at the mercy of the Ethiopian court system, praying like crazy for the call that would tell us we made it through court before the Ge’ez New Years holiday and additional months of waiting. Of course, I only remember the experience from my own perspective and was struck by Mister’s telling of the same story to a friend the other day with whom he shared his “special book”.

He sat next to her and carefully turned the pages, relating all the details of his life before us. “This is a picture of me when I was so sad. I was all alone.” I thought about interrupting to remind him that he was never truly alone. The beautiful people who provided transitional care had loved him and walked him up and down the alley while he screamed. But then I thought better of it. If he says he was alone, he was alone; and in a way I hope he never is again. He continued his story, looking at our friend with his saucer-serious eyes, brows raised up and towards each other. “I was all alone and very sad, so I ordered a family.”

He ordered me. Of course.

We have never used that type of language to talk about adoption so his comment caught me off guard on first hearing. Then I moved his words closer to my heart and felt their warmth. He ordered us. He is the protagonist of his own tale. Powerful. In control. Getting what he needs in this life when he asks for it. Choosing a family to bless with a fierce and constant love and a giggle that throws his head back as it bubbles out.

Amazing.

I hope he always tells his story this way, swapping out little words for big ones but leaving himself at its center.

Three years ago this month I was waiting for Superman.

Under the Avocado Tree

We met these women under the shade of an avocado tree. They came to greet us and to rest from their work, bent to the earth with babies on their backs. They are in the second year of cultivating a pineapple plantation, with seed money provided by Rwanda Partners. The daily goings-on in this cooperative are deeply complicated in the aftermath of the 1994 genocide. There is no one in Rwanda who escaped the effects of the horrors of that year. Many of the women who work the pineapple plantation lost husbands by machete during the genocide. Many others lost husbands to post-genocide incarceration. The younger ones can tell dark tales of lost youth and the desperate lengths they went to without family and/or community after 1994.

I expected to be impacted by the Rwandese women I knew we would meet on our trip. I was not surprised to be inspired by their bravery or moved by their sacrifice. But I was caught off-guard under the shade of the avocado tree by a tender, aching remembrance of our family’s birth mother, inspired by the visions of the young Rwandese mothers with their babies. I watched as these beautiful women unwrapped their children and carefully set them among the folds of their skirts in the tall grass. I tried not to stare as one particular baby in front of me contentedly gummed a crust of bread and played with the edges of his mother’s skirt.

My own son, from the day he was home, would expectantly cling to my shirt and crawl onto my lap to snuggle. Even at four-years old and forty pounds he would be happy to be carried in my arms almost anywhere. The first time he buried himself in my chest, adjusting the neckline of my shirt so that his cheek could be against my skin, I knew in my heart that this was a gift to both of us from his birth mother who kept him close and fed him from her heartbeat for nearly two years. But watching these mothers, so attentive to their babies, was a vivid, bitter-sweet vision of the beauty and loss that lies at the beginning of my son’s story. I blinked back tears and whispered a sincere prayer of thanks for the opportunity to share an hour of afternoon shade with these women. And then I thanked them, in tearful, broken sentences, for showing me again, the beauty of a close and quiet love.

Career Plans

Mister has taken an interest lately in the myriad career options available to someone of his amazing and diverse skill set. It started at the dentist a few months ago. He gave the hygienist the stink-eye as she reclined the chair and propped his knobby knees up under a pillow. He folded his arms and looked away when she asked him his name. But as soon as she was gone he turned to me and said, “When I grow up, I want to be a dentist.” I agreed that he would be a fantastic dentist, with his attention to detail and mechanical interests. I made a big deal of his announcement and asked him to repeat it at the dinner table for Dad.

Soon the career options began rolling out of his vivid imagination. Each day brought exposure to new people who do interesting things for work. Mr. Dave came and spent a few weeks tearing out gold-foil linoleum and installing new toilets. Mister decided he would build his own house. The Easter bunny delivered a train conductor suit. Cranes and bulldozers broke ground around the corner. The baby got an ear infection. Conductor, construction worker, doctor – the list of careers grew.

Some of the career choice announcements have had awkward timing. I took Mister with me to present at a conference. We drove with my colleague in his hybrid Honda, drinking tea from recycled plastic tumblers. As we talked about my colleague’s decision to become a vegetarian out of a need to align his academic interests in eco-criticism with his family’s carbon footprint Mister piped up from the back. “When I grow up I am going to buy a canon so I can kill some animals. I think we should kill a dad chicken and a mom chicken and a pig. And then we should eat them.” Gulp.

After a trip to the zoo he decided he wanted to grow up to be a cheetah. And a mama lion.

I love the flexibility of his mind. I love that he does not know that his choices (cheetah excluded) have competing academic programs that force young people into rigid, debt-loaded tracks. I love that he sees himself as smart and capable with hands that are ready to build. But the richness of his imagination is made even sweeter by the reality that I share the dreams of this precious son with another mother. Every time he adds a new job to his list of options I think of her and the short conversation we had almost three years ago next to the window that framed dilapidated shanties and shoeless children under a raw sun. I had asked her what she dreamed for this son and her answer was immediate and simple. “I want him to grow up to know God, get an education and do good and important work.” I had nodded and promised to do my best to feed his heart by a steady diet of prayer and opportunity.

And so when he began dreaming for himself about his future, I looked back. And prayed, asking God to whisper into her ear about the colors and textures of the dreams she first placed in his heart.

I tell him that I am proud of him.
I tell him he is able.
I tell him I love to hear about his plans.

And the other day, at a stop light, I turned around and told him that his beautiful dreams make his first mother proud too. “Yah,” he said quietly, tipping his chin up proudly as he turned to look out the window at a fire truck driving by.


"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

Identical

This afternoon my children were taking turns crying about bee stings, rug burns and situational injustices. Just when one would stop, the next would produce tears and reasons to claim the sacred space of Mother’s Lap. Mister had just wiggled himself into a comfortable cocoon when Sis spoke up. “I can leave if you want so that you and Mister can have the belly button talk.” I asked her what she meant, knowing that she was flexing her skills of espionage and making a bid for entrance into a conversation that I had previously told her was none of her business. “You know,” she said. “The talk you and Mister had about identical cords and how moms feed their babies when they are in their tummies.” Before I could invest myself in cognitive processes aimed at distilling her true intentions for bringing up the subject, the whole world was once again sucked into the tethered space between biological mother and child: the identical cord. A significant mispronunciation. The first and true tie of identity. Whoever chose ‘umbilical’ may have missed the higher lexical mark.

A few weeks ago, when Mister had asked me if he had a belly button, my heart had broken and bled with the weight of his understanding. “Who cut it? How did it get cut?” These are important questions, albeit detractors from the one question that lays burning under the surface. A belly button is a beautiful scar that reminds us that we passed from the protection of the womb to a place of independence. We breathe with our own lungs and feed ourselves at mealtime. But it is a scar nonetheless. A scar that tells us that before we stood alone, we were part of another; our birth a miracle, but a miracle completely dependent, growing in deep shadow, and requiring sharp scissors of separation. The question is not, “Who cut it?” but “Where did it go?” What happened to the cord of life by which bone and marrow came to be? In it’s absence it feels that things important- no, things essential- have been left behind.

Maybe as he grows I will tell my son that he cannot see the very center of his belly button because it is ever tunneling back to first loves and the rich earth of beginning. I hope that he will grow to see this scar, similar in appearance to that of all his classmates, as his glory. Both because it reminds him that he made it out into this beautiful blue earth to bless both dawn and dusk with his tender touch and seeing eye and because it tells a story, only he knows deep in his soul, of a beautiful love.

The Ocean

I unzipped the bag of laundry made dirty by eight days of camping. It smelled of damp fog, sand, smoke and sunscreen, the well-balanced aroma of time spent at the mouth of God’s great ocean. The days leading up to the trip were tearful and heavy with my son’s deepening understanding of the losses of adoption. My husband and I held him while he cried. He looked so small. But then we headed to the beach, and the beautiful thing about the ocean is that it is big- big enough to remind us that we are all indeed small. In the same way that we cannot say for sure where the blue of the water and the blue of the sky really meet or count the grains of sand that peacefully sift between our fingers, the ocean speaks in rhythmic waves of the breadth and breath of God. It was the perfect place for a lost boy and his mama.

I watched him run with abandon and a wide grin through the shallow water away from me with all the confidence of a soul at rest in the arms of his Father, which is where, of course, we were. When we were waiting to adopt Mister I found a quote that spoke to me and just today fell out of its hiding place in Leviticus. Madam Jeanne Guyon says, “If knowing the answers to life’s questions is absolutely necessary to you, then forget about the journey. You will never make it, for this is a journey of unknowables- of unanswered questions, enigmas, incomprehensibles and most of all, things unfair.” And I was reminded of a preacher once who questioned the value of questioning God. He suggested, and I think he may have been right, that we would find the answers to our ‘Why’ questions wholly unsatisfying. In the same way that the pain of an injury is not relieved in the least by the surgeons explanation of anatomy and physiology, our hurts can not be soothed by explanation, but rather by the tender, and often silent, hand of God.

So I watched, with deep, deep satisfaction, as he ran and smiled and splashed. And I was thankful.

“Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom of God!
How unsearchable his judgments, his paths beyond tracing out!
Who has known the mind of the Lord? Or who has ever been his counselor?
Who has ever given to God, that God should repay him?
For from him and through him and to him are all things.
To him be the glory forever! Amen.”
Romans 11:33-36

Forever

Last night I told my son a whopper. And I told him it again this morning. I am sure I will tell it to him tonight when I tuck him in to his bed. I told him I would be his mom forever and that he had nothing to fear. These are promises I do not have the power to keep. And so I beg the Lord, even as I write, to see the broken heart bleeding through the ribs of this little boy I love and let me live to be ninety-nine. Not because I am worthy or qualified, but because I am here and these are the arms he has known.

We came home from celebrating our anniversary last night to find Mister agitated and arguing with the babysitter, with whom he had been sharing his special book. He was showing her the first photo we had of him, wrinkled from its place in my pocket during the months between referral and travel. When he saw us he frowned and started sharing his frustration. “I do not have two moms. I just have one mom. She said I have two moms.” My husband thanked the sitter and I scooped Mister into a tight embrace to discuss what, to him, was more than a semantical disagreement. I have been trying for over a year to facilitate Mister’s understanding of adoption in ways that help him piece together his feelings and his place in our conspicuous family. Our conversations have been slow and sometimes he has simply met my attempts with confident argumentation, assuring me that he did grow in my tummy. But last night, as I rocked him and he looked at me, his face washed in confusion and fear, I knew he finally understood his loss and I watched the dark clouds of that loss roll across his brow, a near eclipse of the security he has felt in the almost two years he has been home. I could visibly see him thinking: if it happened once, it could happen again.

And so I looked him in the eye and told him I would be him mom forever. I told him that it is okay to be sad, but that he had nothing to fear. I pressed his head against my sternum and promised safety. And we rocked. Finally I asked, “Do you want to talk about this anymore?”
“No,” he said. “I just want you to sing me a song.”
“What song would you like?” I asked.
“The Lord Is My Shepard,” he answered.

That is the song that I sang to him first: as we rode the bus to the embassy; after the coffee ceremony at whose end I pried him from the arms of his favorite nanny; as we boarded our flight home. So, last night, as he was nearly drowning in the words I gave him to make sense of his hurt, we began again at our beginning.

This morning I had to wake him up and immediately he was sobbing. And he made it clear he would not be going to science camp, so after we dropped off sister, we went by daddy’s office for some chocolate and reassurance. My husband crawled into the back of the van and covered Mister in a long embrace, whispering in his ear. I pretended not to watch as our son cried and snuggled his daddy, letting the chocolate in his hand melt and run down his fingers.

There have been other times I have oversold myself. In seeking gainful employ I pictured the version of me I hoped I could grow into with the wisdom of years. At the altar of marriage I made promises, in earnest, that I knew only the grace of God could cover. But nothing has brought me to my knees like the fist of my son, clutched tightly to my shirt. And so I ask for the privilege to walk beside him for a long, long time.

“I love the Lord, for he heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy.” Psalm 116:1

Left Behind

I left the piles and lists and sat down with the big kids to snuggle and read while our baby tyrannosaurus was napping. Someone chose, No Matter What, by Emma Dodd, a sweet little story about an elephant and his mama. We own it because it was on a ‘good adoptive reads’ list somewhere and while we were waiting for our son I spent most of my anxiety at Amazon.com. The story is not about adoption, but it is about the unconditional love of parents for their children. Both illustrations and rhymed text are simple, exploring the different feelings any kid has throughout the day.

The page that says, “I love you when you are sad” shows the baby elephant on the far left, alone and blending in to the grey rain. After we had turned the page, Mister spoke up. “Turn back, I have to show you something.” We turned back and he explained, “Dat boy’s dad walks too fast. Dat is why his is sad and crying and by himself.” I looked again at the thick line of black pen that outlined the elephant and only vaguely distinguished him from the rain all around. I saw him through the eyes of my son and felt the things Mister knows rend my heart.

He understands getting left. He does not understand the pain of loss or the heavy emptiness in the lap of his first mother. He does not understand her choices, her sacrifice, or her love for him. He cannot. Not yet, maybe never. But he does understand rain and loved ones who get too far ahead.

When we met our son and realized that our very presence caused him tearful anxiety, we agreed that one parent would touch and hold him first, giving him time to get to know us and respecting his fear of us as strangers. The first night we were all together he slept between us in our bed. I woke at one point to feel him crawling onto my chest and patting my face. He sat on my lap on the plane and I carried him through the many airports by which we hop-scotched home. He would not touch or sit with daddy but if we got more than five feet away from my husband in a crowd, Mister would protest. So he clung to my neck and we traversed the crowds, willing my husband with his gaze to stay close. It was weeks before he let daddy rock him to sleep but even in those early moments Mister was fiercely loyal and empathetic, his heart a tender shoot.

And so I pray, as I have since before he came home, that God would grow roots deep down into his fertile soul. Roots that feed a beautiful tree, that may sway but always stands: in wind; in rain; growing good fruit in season; providing shade. I pray that he gets to know his Heavenly Father who will never leave him or forsake him, but walk tall, strong and able a half step ahead all his days.

“Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the LORD will personally go ahead of you. He will be with you; he will neither fail you nor abandon you." Deuteronomy 31:8

Music

I read about the following account this week and the truth and beauty of the story has lingered in my soul, drawing like a magnet the unfettered wounds that had been left to roam and haunt. The famed violinist, Itzhak Perlman, was giving a concert. Having contracted polio at the age of four, Mr. Perlman walks slowly with crutches, leg braces and a signature gait. Audiences expect, yet are still moved by, the strength and integrity Mr. Perlman brings to the stage. On this particular evening, he had set down his crutches, as is his ritual, and arranged himself to play. Early in the first piece one of his violin strings snapped. The conductor halted the concert and the audience held their breath, anticipating the effort it would take for this master to walk off stage and replace the string.

Mr. Perlman was said to have sighed, as a mischievous grin began working from the corner of his mouth. Then he replaced the violin under his chin, signaled the conductor, closed his eyes again and proceeded to play with expert abandon, willing the beauty of four strings from three, drawing the audience into a rapture of skill and passion not previously known. The concert ended in thunderous applause. The palms of the audience burned from clapping their appreciation and awe. When the noise finally settled, Mr. Perlman spoke, with the same genuine smile that had crept across his face as he inspected the broken string. “Sometimes you must find out how much music you can make with what you have left.” The crowd roared again as Mr. Perlman slowly set down his violin, rose from his chair and walked from the stage the same way he had entered.

I often hear adoptive parents talk about how God made their children for them, intending from the beginning, that they be the ones to know, love and nurture the little souls for whom they would walk a thousand miles. I understand and respect the heart behind the words. But as I watch my son’s understanding of the world grow, I also see that he is becoming more and more uncomfortable talking about his adoption. We still talk about it; because I know on the other side of this valley is wholeness, free of shame or mystery. But I cannot accept or tell him that God designed his trauma. I can, however, describe for him the reality of where we find ourselves: hand-made instruments under the chin and in the grip of the Great Musician, capable of make something high and grand out of our days together.

“ . . . for I am the Lord who heals.” Exodus 15:26

Melanin II

Mister has added some swagger to his stride lately and the parents, if not the siblings, are amused. After two years under his mother’s apron, he is showing his face and evidence of his Ethiopian name, which means Dominator. His first father gave it to him at birth and we have been waiting to see the blessing of his name manifest.

And like food and wine, swagger has a perfect pairing: trash talk. Ever since the melanin experiment and Mister’s realization that he was the undisputed owner of a ‘most’ his speech has been dominated by comparisons. Almost everyday I pour a glass of milk for his lunch and he guzzles it like a co-ed in a bar. “I’m a big drinker. Sis is a tiny drinker.” It is not enough that he is great. His daily efforts at greatness are focused on chipping away at the legs of the pedestal on which she sits. He shows us his muscles and points to the places on his arms and legs where he stores the proteins and vitamins of foods recently digested.
“Mister, all that healthy food is making you so strong!” I comment. He tips he head and shrugs.

“Ya, I am detting so big and tall. And Sis is so short.”

“But she is still taller than you.”

“Ya, but I am older dan Sis and taller dan Sis because I can touch her neck.”

In matters of comparison, the scientific methods, which he otherwise employs, are tossed aside. The tree we planted for him is growing faster than hers. His scooter is bigger. So are his feet. And his bed. And his burger from McDonalds. He runs faster even when he comes in second.

Yesterday, in a scaled-down replay of The New Deal, Papi asked Mister to help move some five pound weights from here to there. I helped him with his shoes. “I see why Papi asked you to help since you are so strong,” I said as I tied. “Ya, I am very strong and I have big hands,” he said spreading his little fingers in front of my face. Later I heard him talking to his great-grandma, who had stooped to see what he was working on. “Dranma, you tan not do dis job. I am helping Papi. Your hands are too tiny.” I smiled and thought about her hands, which have scrubbed and volunteered on multiple continents.

And tonight, during a casual game of Saber-Tooth Tiger on the trampoline he scratched Sis. “Mister! You scratched me and it hurt.”
“Sorry, Sis,” he offered with appropriate remorse. Then he added, “My hands are so big.”

And most comparisons circle back to the original topic. “Ya, I am a big drinker. And I have the most melanin.” Brown skin is his trump card. His secret weapon. A positive part of his budding identity and a diamond in his pocket. And I smile hoping that next time the kids on the playground tell him he has to be the bad guy because he is Black, he will use the tools of confidence and voice that he has been sharpening at home.

The Bunkhouse

All three of our kids sleep in the same room. Mister had his own room in the original design. But the original design did not have a baby sister in it, and that major addendum has been cause for a few significant adjustments.

When I found out I was unexpectedly pregnant I shook my head. The first few shakes were filler shakes while I lined up the real issues in my mind that warranted a tense and ill-placed laugh. Mostly I was just so glad that this unexpected baby had waited long enough for us to be matched with the adopted son we had been praying and dreaming about. But then there were all the issues of timing. Would our paperwork pass through the court system in time for us to bring him home before the long Ethiopian New Years holiday, the one where paperwork and babies get jammed up for months? Those would be telling months for the secret we had not planned on keeping. Then there was the issue of traveling in a malarial zone. I was informed that if I was bit, I would survive but wee bitty baby would not likely be as lucky. “Well,” I said, to my passport-less international travel partner, “If you want in this family you better hope we don’t get bit because I am not choosing one of my babies over another, so I guess you just have to come along.” And I told God, as I drenched myself in repellent, that the rest was up to him, as if he did not know.

Once Mister was home safe and perfect and adjusting well, I invested my worries in his upcoming transition to ‘middle-child’. As I would rock and sing to him my heart would break over the thought of him having to share my lap. I could bring myself to tears thinking of having to divide this special time with someone else. What made this emotionally asinine was the fact that he was not an only child. He was already sharing his mama with the three-foot bully whose shadow he gladly wore like a jacket. But I worried anyway.

Then she was born. Nine pounds of greedy love wrapped tightly in the generic hospital blankets that receive all babies born there. Hours later, Mister walked right into the hospital room, found a seat on the couch and held out his hands. We handed him his baby and he held her carefully and sweetly for the better part of an hour. I had woefully underestimated both the soul of my son and the hand of God in my life.

I have been studying them lately. Storing up in my heart the manifestations of love and bonding between the children, which I am charged to facilitate but really have no power over. And now that Peanut is mobile and primitively communicative the moments are even sweeter. Especially between brother and his baby. She feeds and delights his soul in ways that I never could and stares into his bed, making pterodactyl noises after naptime, thinking she can rouse him from the crumpled pile of boy-shaped blankets. “Brother is not in there,” I tell her as I lift her from her crib. So she wiggles out of my arms and waddle-stomps off to find him. I steal a kiss as she goes, though I know it was not intended for me.

Tonight they three went to bed at the same time, which is unusual. So, the baby stood at the rail of her crib, with her cubby arms crossed and supporting her chin, forcing her ample cheeks to scrunch around her nose. And the kids on the bunks faced her as she held court, puckering her lips and blowing kisses. “Ear ou go. Nie-nie. Ear ou go. Bye-bye.” And I watched his face. And the light in his eyes. And I prayed with my whole body that these three live long and in each other’s company.

“Save your people and bless your inheritance; be their shepherd and carry them forever.” Psalm 28:9

Endurance

For our Birth Mother, the day after Mother's Day:

It was rainy season, so she walked an hour to meet us, slippers sinking into the mud to suck and slap with each careful step. She was wearing ceremonial white, hiding a jaw set to absorb loss under a gauzy shawl. For fifteen minutes we would share a table and a few words. Words of respect and promise exchanged for dreams and aspirations filtered through a translator. Damn it, I thought. I think we are the same age, opened our eyes to this earth the same day but in different worlds. Mine opened to hold a pen and a hand as I crossed the street to school. Hers opened to receive the ageless tools of farming and a baby before her fifteenth birthday. And now our hands meet in an embrace that will transfer the sacred word ‘Mother’ from one breast to another. Damn it, I thought.

I think of her everyday, and dream of our next meeting, after the rainy season. Where she brings the older children who defied Malaria and I bring the younger ones who came by plane. In my mind I beg her to endure like the land. To move with speed and outrun the hyena. To stand with the strength of the high stone mountains. To put motion and stillness together in the dance that will ward off the statistics of life expectancy and the harsh realities of coffee beans and chat grown without water in agonizing years of drought. Please. Please. We need to meet again. To exchange at least once more the words of hope and dreams come true. To stand together under a hot and blinding sun and watch, as mothers do, our children playing, flashing their teeth and flexing their muscles.

"But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." Isaiah 40:31

Haile

My kids watch this video regularly. Very regularly. Or at least they used to watch it. Now when they hear the music they line up against the fireplace in a Pavlovian trance and wait for Haile and Tyson to signal the start of the race. Then they run up and down the hall, wilding swinging their arms, faces set in the seriousness of competition. They smile when Haile smiles. They pat each other on the back. They love it.

And so do I. It is so fun to have an Ethiopian hero ready at the click of a mouse. Haile Gebreselassie, famed Olympian and exceedingly nice guy, has become a part of our household culture and a personification of speed and character. In the hall, at the park, on a walk: it is always the same. “Look at me! I’m Haile!”

Catching his breath and resting his hands on his knees, Mister, always ends a showcase of speed with, “Haile is fast like me.” To add to the fun, Jason and I randomly met Haile at a roadside café in the state where my son was born and took a picture to prove it. So, Haile, along with being fast and friendly, has his arm around dad in Mister’s special book. And is part of his story. And another reason to be proud of his beginnings.

Jesus and Fire Dog

Mister has his own room, but prefers “chumber” parties with the sisters. In his room there is a custom-Papi-made Fire Truck bed, complete with working lights and a steering wheel. Papi delivered the Red and White behemoth the week Peanut was born. It had to be assembled in Mister’s room and faces the door (which no longer opens all the way) posed and ready for duty. For weeks Mister would fall asleep with outstretched arms, hands tightly gripping the steering wheel. The fire bed was coveted real estate until Peanut moved upstairs. Suddenly the party was next door and Mister was not to be left out. And so he claimed the top bunk and the “chumber” party became standard sleeping arrangement. Except for naptime. When the big kids require naps, all must sleep separately, lest the otherwise napping babe stand at the rail to smile and trade a volley of dinosaur noises with the giggling preschoolers. Sis appreciates a little time alone in the guest room. It helps that the spare room is full of all the big kid’s choke-y toys. Sometimes it sounds as if she is playing dollhouse in her sleep. Or dreaming of dressing paper dolls. Every once in a while I hear the pitter-patter of sleepwalking.

But the mention of naptime brings tears and protest from the son. Immediately his saddest-thing-I-ever-heard face hijacks his beautiful smile and a steady string of whiney notes dribble from his lip. Paramount is his protest against being alone. “I don’t like to be by myself. I will be so sad. I will be so lonely.” I tuck him in anyway and remind him that God is always with him.

Sniffles and growth spurs have precipitated more frequent napping lately and Mister has gotten wise to my rebuttal. On Thursday, as I leaned in to kiss his pouting lip, he blinked his curly lashes and told me, “But Jesus and I will be so sad.” Turns out he finds his spiritual company lacking. In fact, he has been describing the presence of God in many of his stories these days. Stories of sunny skies and victories usually involve “Jesus and I” doing this or that. But retellings about the dark of night and the lurking mongoose begin with a significant character omission. “Last night when there was “flashes” (lightning) and I was so scared and Jesus wasn’t with me . . .” God gets credit for the good, but feels absent in times of trouble.

And I ponder the perspective of my little old soul. And his feelings about the things that go bump. And his honest disappointment with God for not looming larger with a sword to vanquish. In his short years there has been at least one defining moment when he needed rescue and it did not come. My prayers for a son were answered. His birth mother’s prayer for a surrogate were answered. But his prayer appeared to meet the ceiling of an unfamiliar room in an orphanage and dissipate, the water spots on the ceiling left from tears rising, not the steady rain seeping in.

I love this boy and I love the God of healing who is working in our family, tenderly walking with us even when we don’t feel his presence or find the rescue we had reached out for. So I tuck him in. Promise that God is worthy of his trust. And Sis, who is always listening adds from across the hall, “Don’t forget you also have Fire Dog!” Fire Dog joined our family shortly after Mister; chosen after a stranger at the arcade bestowed a small fortune of tickets into the laps of my children, who stood on tiptoe to stuff them, wide-eyed with frenzied greed into the counting machine. Sis squandered her half on shiny princess plastic. But Mister, after careful survey chose Fire Dog, a soft Dalmatian that fits just right under his arm to snuggle against his chest while he sleeps. And he sleeps deeply. He always has. In the arms of Jesus and Fire Dog, the God who he is unsure of and the gift of a stranger, who quite possibly could have been acting as his proxy to deliver real, tangible comfort to a little boy.

“I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.” Psalm 4:8

Melanin

Mister and I were snuggling in the rocking chair last Tuesday. It was a rare moment without sisters hovering and squeezing out the silence with a constant stream of shared feelings and authoritative concessions. “Brother, it is o.k. that you are snuggling Mom right now. I had a turn before breakfast so it is o.k. that you are having a turn right now, even though it looks like your turn is longer than mine turn and when I was snuggling, Peanut was also on Mom’s lap, so I didn’t get to snuggle Mom by myself the way you are right now. But it is o.k. because I know I will have more turns. It is no big deal. Even if things don’t seem fair every single time, I am o.k. with it. It is no big deal."

This Tuesday there were no sisters, so we rocked in silence. And when we tired of that, we flexed our muscles and inspected our hands to see whose were bigger. “I grow every night while I am sleeping. My hands are probably bigger now,” Mister informed. We checked. Palm to palm. I curled my fingertips down over his and smiled.
“I’m still bigger, Son. You better keep eating healthy foods.”
“Maybe my thumb is bigger. Put you thumb like this,” he said, giving a thumbs up. I obliged and we silently rocked. “I think you should change your skin to be like my skin,” he said plainly.
“I would like that,” I replied, dipping my head down to meet his. “It would be fun to have our skin match,” I agreed. And kept rocking.

I appreciated his honesty. And was glad both that he is aware of his beautiful brown skin and able to talk comfortably about his feelings. I did not want to stuff down his comment with lots of words, dismissive or comforting. So we rocked.

Mister mentioned skin color again at lunch yesterday, between bites, waving his fork in the air and teetering near the edge of his seat. “Who has brown skin like me?” He asked, then stuffed a bite in his mouth.
“Good question. You tell me, Son. Who had brown skin like you?”
“The President.” Anther bite and a long pause. “And Dr. King.”
“Anybody we know?” I asked.
Everyone participated. We went through a long list of famous people. A short list of friends. Our favorite characters from the books we like to read. We talked about Ethiopia. Mister slid off his chair and returned with a picture of the two of us from our first day together. We are smiling in profile, watching something in the distance.
“What about the kids in your favorite book?” I asked.
“They have brown skin too!” He jumped up and down.

While I was putting lotion in his hair this morning, he wanted to review again.
“I have golden brown skin, same as President Obama. And Jesus.”
“That is right,” I agreed, smiling. The only representations we have of Christ in our home are the ones I purchased in Addis. They are framed and hang in the dining room. Jesus, donning the meticulously cut Afro of Ethiopian folk art in three separate and famous biblical scenes, presides over our meals. Sometimes the kids talk to him. Sometimes they count the disciples, touching the glass with their sticky fingers. Sometimes they forget he is there and set him a place at the table.

In support of my son’s curiosity we did a little science over lunch today. The big kids knew something was up when I got down clear glasses, in lieu of kiddy plastic, and set them at their places. I poured the milk and we talked about its color. Then we added a drop of food coloring. Stirred. Repeated, discussing the change and strength of the color. Then they tasted the milk, which of course still tasted like milk. And we talked about skin and melanin. We touched each other’s hands, noting temperature. We pinched and stretched the skin. Talked about what happens to each of us when we get a scrape. We democratically decided that our skin is actually the same, with different amounts of melanin. Just like milk is milk, even when it has one, two or ten drops of Yellow #5. I explained that more melanin means more skin color. “And I have the most!” Mister said, puffing out his chest.

Only A Pigeon

We recently acquired, Only a Pigeon, by Jane Kurtz. It is a story of an Ethiopian boy and his bird. The watercolor illustrations bring to life the streets of towns made familiar on our drive through the land of my son’s birth. The other night the big kids and I sank our weight into the worn and splitting cushions of our couch, covered our toes with special blankies and read the book together for the first time. “In Ethiopia, a land of ancient churches and castles” it began. Sis gasped. Mister grinned. “This book is about ‘Opia!”

They were like stones resting against my ribs, soaking up the story and the watercolors with silent reverence, broken periodically by astute, old-soul observations. “That lady is in my special book!” Mister pointed to the white-shawled figure in the distance on page two. I have read repeatedly that adopted children often feel driven in an endless, primal search for their birth relatives. The ‘How-To’ manuals mention this as explanation and defense against the hurt feelings of the adoptive parents. And in my heart I understand the insatiable desire for biological connectivity. I, too, look for representations of myself in the wider world. I, too, want to be connected in ways unexplainable by obligation.

He found her. Immediately. In the background of the second page. He recognized the ceremonial white shawl from our only photo. “That does like her, doesn’t it?” I affirmed. And we kept reading. He also noticed that the cobblestone wall on page six looked distinctly like a crocodile. In fact, I finally had to turn the page after lengthy speculation on the part of my wee scientist as to why “dat man” was sitting on a sleeping Croc.

As I was closing the book, Mister sighed contentedly and asked to look at his special book. We poured over the pictures together, taking turns telling the story. We talked about trees and Haile Gebrselassie. We spoke again the names of important people and discussed the process of hand-roasting coffee beans. It was only a pigeon. But it gave us one more chance to talk about our life and looped one more thread through the patchwork we’ve been stitching together.

Birthday Flowers

Mister celebrated his birthday last week. There was breakfast in bed, the opening of gifts, a party at the local science center and some tulips I purchased to remember his birthmother. He chose red. His favorite color. I hadn’t decided if I would mention their significance this year, but rather begin a tradition of remembering the beautiful thing she did when she brought this amazing boy into the world.
But then we were having lunch and talking about the flowers and it just seemed right. “Mister, these flowers are for your birthday. We bought them to remember that your birthday is special to someone else too. “ I spoke her name and asked if he remembered who she was.
“Ya, she is in my special book.” He said
“That’s right,” I coaxed. “Do you remember why she is important to our family?”
“I grew in her tummy,” he answered plainly.
“That’s right.” I smiled. “And the day you were born was special to her, too. Since she can’t be here with us, we have flowers to remember.”
“If I use my imagination I can see her sitting right there,” Sis offered as entry to the conversation.
“Wow, Sis. That’s neat. What is she doing?” I asked.
“She is just sitting there. Not moving. She doesn’t say anything.” She answered.
“Interesting. Mister, what do you think she would say if she was with us today?” I asked.
Without hesitation he looked at me, raised his eyebrows and quickly sucked in his breath, just the way his mother had in the few moments when we sat together looking at pictures of our son. It caught me off guard. “That’s what she would say,” he repeated. Time stopped as I looked at his face and tried to understand the depth of what he was communicating to me. “She would say that about the cupcakes”. Cupcakes were the highlight of his birthday. He was pretty sure they would be the first things she noticed.
It was sacred space. Maybe deep down he remembers her voice, her expression. Or maybe he drew from his biology and experiences a response to fit the moment. Either way, for a blink, she was with us. On his special day. And I was grateful.

Looking for Home

An early evening errand put us at the bottom of the hill shortly after the workday whistle blew. We waited to enter traffic, watching the constant stream of headlights move towards the setting sun as if it was a homing beacon. Stern and weary faces were barely visible, weak sunlight reflecting off the windshields. Mister broke the silence, “Everyone is trying to find their home, Mom.”

“Yes, Son, that is God’s truth.” I answered, chewing on his profound words.
He spoke what his heart knows already, joining centuries of poets and philosophers, who have described human need and human pain in the struggle to be known, safe and finally at rest. Finding home is an important thread in the story of our family. The embedded truth, that we are only visitors here, is the spiritual foundation on which we construct our communal life; walls, windows and roofing providing temporary shelter while we learn to love and serve each other with the days we have been given between here and glory.

Every car trip since his great discovery has been seasoned with a repeat of the conversation. He looks seriously out the window and wills the other drivers to subconsciously share their feelings with him. And then he reminds me that they are searching. Crammed into the Jetta with matching pony tails; smoking alone, with the windows up in the rusted sedan; wearing traditional dress from another country, weighted down by the uphill climb, grocery bags straining in clenched fists; back to the wind at the bus stop, stiff with cold and waiting. All looking for home.

Today at lunch, we discussed again the delay in our beginning together. “I grew in your tummy,” he offered in casual conversation. I gently reminded him that he did not, and asked if he remembered the name of the woman whose tummy he did grow in. We said her name. We got her picture down again and gave her a kiss. This time his brow wasn’t furrowed. I asked if he wanted to keep her picture in his room, so he could look at her and kiss her anytime he liked. “Yes,” he said. “Put it down low, where I can reach it.” I promised I would.

"Hear my prayer, O LORD, and give ear to my cry; do not be silent at my tears; for I am a stranger with You, A sojourner like all my fathers. Psalm 39:12