Routine Maintenance

Twelve days ago my dad was joking on the phone about his upcoming gallbladder extraction and the importance of jettisoning parts off the side of a sinking ship. Twenty-five pounds and four nights in the hospital later, he is still twinkle-eyed although the laughter around the house has a serious undertone. Everyone is aware that the tentative moments in ICU nearly changed the end of this story. I was in Disneyland for the most grim days and burst back in the door with three kids and some dance music as he was contemplating solid foods and walking around.

“It is amazing how 120 pounds of kid can change a morgue into a party,” he said, smiling.
“Glad you feel that way,” I responded in between threats as to what would happen if Sis squeezed the baby one more time. “She screams every time you do that! You need to listen to her! Take two giant steps back or else.”
I turned up the music before the retort.

On the last night of my visit we sat in the semi-dark discussing the ailments and pending procedures that are part of mid-life, even for those who like to ride their bikes and eat whole grains. “Dad, it sounds like you are in that awkward phase of routine maintenance that hits somewhere around 90 thousand miles. And the question is always the same: do I go ahead with expensive repairs or start shopping around for something new?” My mom laughed out loud, so I kept on with my irreverent word picture. “Out of warranty but not yet a classic. It is a tough spot.” Insolence is one of my unspoken family roles, but even as I sat there making light of a scary situation I prayed and prayed that my dad would live to be 100. I wanted to cite for God, as if he did not know, all the things that my Dad has been doing that are making a difference with the least of these. But I thought better of it, remembering other amazing souls in our circle that are fighting to stay a little longer or are already home. When it comes to the big ‘Whys’ there is no point evoking logic. So I just prayed. Prayers of thanks and prayers for healthy days.

“You did it: you changed wild lament into whirling dance;
You ripped off my black mourning band and decking me with wildflowers.
I’m about to burst with song;
I can’t keep quiet about you.
God, my God, I can’t thank you enough.
Psalm 30:11-12 (Msg)

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.

Wrong Line

Suitcases were crammed sideways into the back of the wagon to accommodate a child in the pint-sized optional third row. We were headed to the airport with plenty of wiggle room for traffic and a donut stop. I double checked the itinerary and panicked when the departure time was a half hour earlier than I had remembered. I sped to the airport imagining missing my flight and having to unpack the dirty clothes now soggy from commingling with wet swimsuits and sandy shoes. Lines were long. I scooted the duffle along the ground, fighting with the roller bags as I zigged and zagged my way towards the friendly agents. A quick kiss for grandma and grandpa and the three kids and I were up the escalator towards the single-parent circus show that is security with preschoolers and a runaway toddler.

We huffed and puffed our way to the gate where people were queued and waiting. The man ahead of me handed the gate agent his ticket, which beeped in protest under the barcode scanner. “Sir, do you have a different ticket? This one is for Sacramento.” He mumbled. She repeated herself and I studied the back of his head for clues about his age, situation and cognitive capacity. It was finally decided that Sacramento was his destination and she pointed him towards the baggage claim with questions about whether or not he was meeting anyone who could help him.

I smiled sympathetically, with only traces of condescension at the corners. He turned and stepped out of line and I handed the agent my wad of tickets. She ran my ticket under the scanner and then I heard the beep of rejection. There must be some mistake, I thought. Clearly I know where I am going. “Ma’am, this flight is to Seattle.” I smiled and nodded my head, pleased to be getting closer to home. “Ma’am, you are not on this flight. Your flight is at the next gate.” I blinked. Frowned. She handed back the wad of tickets. My little ducklings fell in line. I looked for the first time at my ticket and its corresponding gate, extracted myself from the line and commenced with the walk of shame. I kept my eyes down to avoid the pursed lips and shaking heads of those traveling without children. Like my husband says, people with small children do not go on vacation. They take trips.

The Happiest Place on Earth

Back we go to the Happiest Place on Earth...

Words

The card my mother-in-law sent me for Mother’s Day was a Hallmark slam-dunk. And she added some generous words of her own. The whole thing reminded me of a favorable story that was published about my family when I was a kid. My mom would often read paragraphs from the glowing portrait, close the magazine and sigh, “Someday I want to meet these people.”

My mother-in-law is gracious in nature, but it also helps that she lives two states away. We always have fifteen hours notice when grandpa and grandma are coming, which is enough time, for even the lowliest among us, to wash the kitchen floor and the children. I kept the card and put it on the mantle, hoping to grow into it someday. And I thanked her the next time we talked.

“That was a really nice card you sent me. I don’t think many daughter-in-laws get treated that well.”
“I don’t really think of you as a daughter-in-law,” she answered.

I have played that part of the conversation over in my mind, embarrassed every time that I pitched my gratitude low and away. But embarrassed or not, her response was beautiful. And it makes me want to do right by the clan into which I have been bound by holy matrimony.

In the book of Ruth, much deserved credit goes to Ruth and her stunning, famous speech: “Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if anything but death separates you and me.” Naomi, the mother-in-law, who changes her name to reflect her loss and deep sadness usually gets chastised for sulking. She may have changed her own name, but what she calls Ruth is consistent throughout: daughter. Powerful words. Words that inspire.

This evening as I was riding the bike, full of eagerness to grow into a better version of myself, I prayed in earnest about our upcoming family vacation. I literally prayed that God would give my mouth two weeks off; that I would be just hands and feet for fourteen days, mutely and selflessly looking out for the needs of others. I prayed and prayed. And pedaled and pedaled. Literally pictured myself peeling potatoes in sackcloth with a placid grin. With four minutes to go, I shifted into a harder gear for the yellow jersey finish, demonstrating a final burst of sweaty faith. The chain jumped right over the largest ring and tangled itself with purpose, sucking up underneath the crank arm. A short but potent bad word slipped from my lips. Twice. Nobody heard me, but as I wiped my grimy, greasy fingers on my shorts, my shoulders slumped. “I give up,” I said. And unofficially began the trip, humbled, if not without words.

“My dear brothers, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry . . .” James 1:19

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

Jesus for Breakfast

It is sunny today. I managed to swing my legs out of bed and into my tennis shoes and snuck out the door leaving the baby and her dad playing kissy face in an otherwise sleeping house. Birds were chirping. All was bright blue and green. I started shuffling down the trail and thanked God for the chance to give him the firstfruits of the day. But talk of firstfruits made me think of breakfast and I spent the next two miles dreaming about what I would like to eat when I got home. It was not an exercise in reality as our fridge is in need of re-supply, faithfully cooling not much more than two dozen eggs, a block of cheese and a gallon of milk.

And since I am prone to sacrilege, I starting wondering what breakfast food best represent Christ himself. Is he Cheerios with skim milk? Clear brand recognition. A favorite with the kids. Sensibly healthy. Approved by the National Heart Association. Or maybe he is granola with yogurt. Lots of interesting little fibrous twigs, nuts and berries sprinkled over spoonfuls of the good kind of bacteria. I was secretly hoping he could be a ham and egg bagel with cheese. It’s hard to make a case for Christ as white bread and cholesterol. But the psalmists did describe God as hearty and satisfying. Then there is the whole category of super foods. Avocados: good fats and omega-everything to keep the gears of my mind oiled and moving and ward off belly fat.

In the end, I could not decide. But I do know that God asks for our firstfruits, not because his fridge is empty but because it is good for us. Like breakfast. When we meet him early and bring our best we are rewarded with loaves and fishes that magically last the whole day. With leftovers.

“Bring the best of the firstfruits of your soil to the house of the Lord your God.” Exodus 34:26

Excavators

A new road is being cut through rolling farmland at the edge of town. We have been watching the progress at 25 mph. But today there were two giant excavators near the road and so we parked and sat down on the curb to watch. All were mesmerized by the size and power of the yellow beasts with monster claws, systematically digging, arrogantly erasing the place of the tall grasses, scoop by scoop. Dump trucks lined up to accept the earth and transport it on eight wheels somewhere else. There was a process, which became clear to us bystanders in retrospect. Teamwork, movement, and smoke.

Since we only drive by periodically, it seemed like the yellow giants had cut away the hill with great speed. And in the context of time and the years, maybe centuries, that it took to build that hill out of glacial silt and traveling dust, the progress was indeed shocking. But as I sat and watched one thing became clear. Even though the machines were Herculean and complicated, they still moved the dirt one scoop at a time. Even giant excavators are bound, like the rest of us, to the physical realities of matter, time and space. There is no short cut for moving a hill a mile. Christ understood this as he was saying goodbye to the twelve and explaining their need for the Holy Spirit. He told them that all he had to give would bend and crush them. That time and the Counselor were needed. That it would take a lifetime to learn what he was ready and willing to teach.

And so I asked for patience. For myself. With my children. And set myself down again, squarely in the middle of the process.

“I have more to say to you, more than you can now bear.” John 16:12

Bubble Gum

Mister loves gum. Really loves it; asks for a new piece every time we get in the car, which means he could has five to ten pieces a day if I let him. A year or so ago, while he was staring out the window of the van, watching the telephone poles that connect us to the next town and Wal-Mart, he announced, “The world is whole full of bubble gum. I wish it rained bubble gum.” I could just picture him in his bubble gum heaven, catching what fell from the sky in his little hands and blowing bubbles as perfectly rounded as the back of his head.

While I was downstairs yesterday, Mister hit up Daddy for ‘da tind dat isn’t spicy, da pink one, da one dat tastes duud.’ Before I rounded the stairs I could hear the smacking. Like a herd of cattle in a spring meadow. Chewing with force and conviction and open mouths.

“Hey guys, remember, if I see or hear your gum I take it,” I reminded, in the interest of both manners and sanity.
Sis looked at me, and said, with saliva easing from the corner of her mouth, “Dad says that right after you got married you told him to stop smacking his gum.”
“Did you say that?” I asked my husband.
“How else would they know?” he smirked.
“Mister thinks Dad should get to do whatever he wants,” Sis added helpfully.

I rolled my eyes. It was a sugar-free mutiny, approved by nine out of ten dentists. I knew I could not win. I would have to patiently wait for Monday morning and the end to weekend power sharing with Dad. Monday morning would be gum free. Monday morning Dad would stroll out the door and pass Mean Mommy on her way in. Drab cleaning clothes. Stern face. Worn hands and sensible shoes.

The rest of the day I kept seeing a vision of my husband on Day Two of marriage. Fresh faced and hopeful. Ready for adventure. And I began to make a mental list of all the things he did not know he signed up for. Not because I was dishonest or misrepresented myself while we were dating, but because the process of building a life together kicks up dust. And how could I have known I was allergic?

And I thought of the passage from Philippians that was read at our wedding and has been worn and oiled by subsequent re-reads. It lays a foundation for beautiful relationships built on humility, sacrifice and the example of Christ. Who, I am sure, was not a gum smacker. I can almost guarantee it.

“Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.” Philippians 2:4

Planting

This is the summer Sis will learn to ride her bike. Maybe. The training wheels are off. It is time. But since she began walking she has spent most of her moving moments looking to the right or the left. This has brought her into bruisable contact with trashcans, poles and sharp, spackled corners in more than a handful of states. And to ride a bike, you must look forward. Concentrate. Point your nose in the direction you want to move and smash the pedals like you mean it. In her training wheel days Sis saw much of the periphery. Gravel and ditches. To ride she will need to find a point on the horizon and focus.

I recently read that farmers of old would employ such a strategy when in the field. In order to till and plant straight rows they would choose a tree or building in their line of sight before starting the engine, never looking behind to check their progress. Because looking behind makes for crooked rows and crooked rows, especially visible with a bird’s eye view, are difficult to harvest.

So it is for farmers and the rest of us. The tree of life, tall and majestic offers shade on the horizon. And Christ himself is seated there, in shady repose, waiting patiently. And when I keep my eyes up and my shoulders squarely facing my Maker, the furrows I prepare for seed are straight and long and promising.

“Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith . . . “ Hebrews 12:2