If God Had a Name, What Would It Be?

A Joan Osborne tune “One of Us” sung at church today had me thinking about all the ways that Wonder shows up in my life. Lately I have been feeling so challenged by my daughters’ adolescence and yesterday I rose before the sun to have some peace and quiet. Of course, that only led to tears and as I looked out my bathroom window, there was a beautiful red cardinal. It made me smile and took away the angst I had been feeling. These wonderful birds have shown up so many times in my life, just when I need them. The cardinal has been like an old friend calling out of the blue on a day when I have particularly needed someone outside of myself to make me smile.

If I were to name God, I would name her/him “synchronicity.” In those magical moments that come with friends or something in nature, or even a book or poem I open to or hear, I see and feel God’s presence in my life. My mother was an identical twin and as children we were constantly aware of the special communication she seemed to have with her sister. Picking up the phone to call her, her twin would be on the other line. Showing up at an extended family event, they would sometimes be wearing the same dress, or at least the same color. Even as a child these magical events seemed to bring the sense of Spirit to me more than most of what I felt at Mass. Although, I believe I felt the transubstantiation of the elements much more because I had experienced these moments of Spirit in my life.

In synchronicities, even those that come from the stories in sacred texts, that suspension of the ordinary is just enough to give me a moment’s pause from the mundane. It is in those moments that I find myself reveling in Spirit. As a child in Catholic school I had heard the story of Jesus walking on water many, many times. The emphasis in the story by the priest or pastor who was recounting it was always on Peter and his lack of faith that makes him fall as he is attempting to get to Jesus further away.

The first time I heard someone tell the story from the perspective of the disciples in the boat being the people who were unsure of their faith and not Peter, I began to smile. Peter got out of the boat. His faith was strong enough that he tried --- sure he faltered, but he got out of the boat!

This morning, again thinking about raising two girls by myself, I read a passage from Raphael Cushnir in a little book called “Surfing Your Inner Sea: Essential Lessons on Lasting Serenity.” The writing I opened to was titled, “you can’t do it wrong.” I laughed quietly to myself upon opening the reading and remembered the story about Jesus walking on water. A decade ago I wondered if I was doing the right thing, having fostered my daughters for a year, I was adopting them. I was getting out of the boat and my faith has wavered many times since then.

That lack of faith seems particularly acute just now, but here was this essay reminding me that I can’t do it wrong. With each “failure” I am learning, with each day, I am becoming more grounded in ways to take care of myself and them. So I say it inside to myself: “I can’t do it wrong.”

Letting go

When I grabbed the skillet of corn bread out of the oven, I realized that the oven mitt I was lifting the pan with was not insulated enough. I could feel my skin burn, but I had two choices, I could drop the pan, risking burning my legs and the floor, or continue to lift the pan and place it on the stove top. I chose the latter. Loving and raising children who came to me from foster care has been like that. I know my hand is burning, but I can't let go. As a foster parent of these two precious girls I went to all of the required family meetings in the hopes that their birth mother would be able to care for them. My hand burned as I comforted them when they came home from visits, their (doll) babies bruised and battered and in need of band-aids. My hand burned when in therapy they each shared information to the therapist that indicated that someone had sexually assaulted them. My hand burned when at the termination of parental rights hearing, their birth mother did not even testify as to her capability to care for the girls. My hand burned when it was clear that my youngest needed special schools and by 7th grade, a wise older teacher called, with worry in her voice, that there was something seriously wrong with my oldest daughter. There were neurologists and psychologists and psychiatrists who came in and out of our lives. I hung on while we searched for answers. More meetings, hospitalizations, residential care. As teens my hands blistered when they accused me of abuse and then took it back. It's been 15 years and some months and now, because the youngest turns 18 in a few days, I have to let go. The way that I have been advocating and speaking for and holding the system accountable for these two girls comes to an end, three days into January 2017. She has told me that she will make her own decisions, threatening to leave school before graduation even though she is just a few credits from a high school diploma in June from the special school I have written about before here. I can't blame her. Her older sister is 19. After a rocky four years, and a schizophrenia diagnosis, she signed herself out of her residential facility at 18 and began living with an Iraqi war vet with a drug problem. Then she found her birth mother and ran from that relationship, taking her pregnancy with her. She has now found her birth mother and is living in Kansas City with her mother, her mother's husband and her first baby since she lost one to murder and two to the foster care system. The troubled young woman who gave birth to these children is still challenged. According to my daughter, she sleeps a lot of the time and is heavily medicated. My heart aches for her as I see her in my mind's eye, clutching this new baby and welcoming the child she grieved for all these years. How can an 18 year old who will now have the power to choose her destiny, stay in school? My youngest is in touch with her sister and has talked with her birth mother and other family members on the phone. Only a few credits away but a lifetime of ache for her birth family is pulling her away. As a foster and adoptive parent, we get 9 or so weeks of training, and if we are lucky, a lifetime of opportunities to hold on no matter how bad it burns. My 19 year old calls me regularly and I hope that she finds some comfort from my presence in her life. But everything changes, even for those who are mentally ill, at 18. I can only let go, hoping we will have many opportunities in the future, to make bread together. When they first came to me, I was going to do two things: teach them little songs that would comfort them at times of trouble and let them know that God lived in nature -- and God's love is in every sunrise, every flower, every beautiful day. I am sad and relieved and fearful for them, as any parent is for their children. But I must let go. Their next step, is their own.

The Sounds of Graduation

When the four graduates came down the aisle of the gym in their caps and gowns (different colors representing the schools which represented their home district), to the traditional graduation march, a tiny knot caught in my throat and I felt the heat of tears well up in my eyes. They weren’t kids I knew, I was there for my daughter, who unbeknownst to her was getting an award for “Most Improved.” The room was full of the cacophony of special needs kids and their parents. care-givers, teachers and friends. I smiled to myself to hear all of the sounds, which my daughter would complain about later and call, “attention seeking behavior” or ASB. Her “ASB-ing” as she would call it, has been in check for awhile and so she has been less tolerant of it in others. While these particular graduates were unfamiliar to me, I knew something about the steps they may have taken prior to the short walk down the gymnasium floor. The nights of flying books and lamps, food splattered in rage on the walls and ceilings, late night tears and assurances that “even though you are different, you are still ok.” As the advocate for my special needs daughter, I recall the countless begging conversations to public school personal to let her go on the class trip, the museum outing, and the final school dance. I remember the countless meetings, the goal setting in her Individualized Education Plan and the trips to mental health personnel to seek answers. I regret the nights I lost my own temper with her frequent but inconsistent outbursts over something someone (often me) said or didn’t say. I remembered the nights I held her as she sobbed about being different. We are an army of un-unified advocates in this room. Adoptive parents, grandparents, birth parents, foster parents, reunited parents and relatives, sharing the room with teachers, behavioral support personnel, school administrators, youth support specialists and counselors. We haven't always seen eye-to-eye in how to help the children we love, but when it comes time to honor the little award winners in each class, we all clapped and many of us cried together. This special school is a hodgepodge of students with a variety of challenges; many have started out their lives, as their guest poet shared last night, “learning about life the hard way.” Neglect, abuse, and poor parenting are commonplace. Some of the youth in the gym with the graduates are still struggling with finding consistent care-givers. These are the kids still in the state’s foster care system. A girl in my daughter’s class won two awards, one for kindness and caring to others and another for leadership. Still in the foster system, no one and everyone clapped especially loud when she retrieved her awards. Some kids at this special school are not victims of poor parenting but were born with autistic spectrum disorders of some kind, challenges that public schools just can’t handle very well. Others developed some of those same challenges because of non-existent parenting or early child abuse and neglect. At the end of the night, the four graduates stood in front of the room and moved their tassels to the other side of their mortarboard and walked proudly out to the computer generated graduation march. Some of us cried, some of us cheered, and some of us let out our best Attention Seeking Behavior sounds.

Beyond Big Grief

What is the kind of grief that takes your breath away? Is it the suddenness and then the shock of it? It seems like that kind of grief is the most difficult to accept. I’ve known the kind of grief that seems to kick you in the chest and make it hard to breathe for a while. But I also have known the road back. Today, my life is filled with many people I might have lost track of if not for Facebook. Twin daughters of one of my best friends when I lived in Kansas City just lost their father. He wasn’t old, only 60, or sick. I don’t know the circumstances but he died suddenly. He was a gentle man. The first time I met him he was playing the guitar on the front porch of a battered women’s shelter. He had a big toothy smile. He sounded like a Kansan, not quite southern, but not quite northern either. My friend eventually married him and they had two really sweet twin girls. Since FB I have gotten to learn about their lives again after losing track of them first when they went to grade school and then again when they were in their later primary grades. The last time I had run into them was around their 10th or 11th year. They were decked out in their softball uniforms in a Panera with their grandfather, who I had met many times. They had those big smiles. They are out of college now, making lives for themselves. I was grateful I had the chance to know them when they were first born through those very early school years. Tonight I remember them as the busy little girls they were, playing on the couch, watching TV, and laughing. Tonight too, I am remembering my own experiences of that take your breath away kind of grief and the day-to-day effort it takes to breathe normally again. It does happen after awhile and there will always be that remembering of the big grief. But past that breathless place, is the joy and for them, the man with the big smile.

Just This -- Living in Gratitude

Her big brown eyes shown with loving softness as she grabbed her seat belt and looked at me. She didn’t say “Thanks, mom, for picking me up in the rain.” (She would normally have to walk home from school the four blocks to home.) But her eyes said it all. I see a board member at a cocktail party this past week and she says, “You know, you are really great at boardsmanship, I was telling a friend how well you handle our meetings…” Someone interrupts us and we move on to talking about other things. This morning I step out into the crisp Fall air after a good overnight rain. The air is damp with the smoky smell from my neighbor’s chimney. All my Autumn plantings have gotten a good soak so I won’t have to drag out the hoses. It is Thanksgiving week and I am reminded of all of the ways I feel gratitude. In a book by life coach, Martha Beck she talks about the importance in those moments to acknowledge those feelings with “Just This.”

I realize my life and probably everyone’s lives are filled with those “Just This” moments – a smile, a kind word, a sunset, a flower, a cloudless sky, the touch of a hand, an “I love you mom” hug. We probably miss as many of those moments as we get – maybe more, worrying about the future, worrying about the past, living in the fear we are not enough or sometimes, too much.

I have been there, clouded by what’s on my to-do list. Sometimes it’s because I am too focused on what I want to happen instead of being in the moment, absorbing and being grateful for what does happen. Holidays are like that. In my head as I make up the menu and shop for groceries I think about what I want our Thanksgiving day and dinner to be. It probably won’t be anything like what I imagine, but it might be better. If I can stay present to the day, acknowledging and being totally in the moment, there will probably be so many more “Just This” opportunities. So this Thanksgiving week, I give thanks for all the little things and some bigger ones: a great place to work, a community of people who believe the world can be a better place and work toward that end, a dedicated and fun staff, beautiful daughters, loving family and friends. I remind myself today and this week to find all of those “Just This” moments that are born of total presence.

Many Faces of Terror

In 1886, novelist Joseph Conrad wrote: “Few men realize that their life, the very essence of their character, capabilities and audacities are only the expression of their belief in the safety of their surroundings.”
Consider these numbers: 1 in 3 females will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. Women experience about 4.8 million intimate partner-related physical assaults and rapes every year. Children who witness violence are more likely to suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and were at greater risk than their peers of having allergies, asthma, gastrointestinal problems, headaches and flu.
The commemoration of the attacks of 9/11 reverberated on the airwaves all weekend. Somber and solemn sitting in my living room watching television, I was grateful to be an American citizen proud of my country and the community we created post 9/11. It also reminded me of all the victims of family violence that I worked with for the first 15 years of my career, and survived myself. I couldn’t help but think of the women and children, day in and day out who live with terror.
I watched as firemen, police and emergency workers shared their stories on the front lines of the days and weeks following the attacks looking for survivors and then bodies. I listened while some of the first responders recounted their sleepless nights, restless days and struggles with finding inner peace long after they left Ground Zero. I went inside the Trade Center with the cameramen who were following the life of a probationary fireman at the time of the attacks and how incredibly hard it was for all of them to get back to a normal life after 9/11.
And I kept coming back to the child with the phone cord bruises around his neck and the countless faces of women with broken noses and teeth, arms, fingers and legs. I remembered the days and nights I would lie awake thinking about someone I had just met in the shelter, wondering if they would make it out for good from a relationship that was an everyday nightmare. I recalled the woman who couldn’t stand to hear the door bell ring and the child who couldn’t hear loud noises.
Terror is terror. A plane, a fist, a closet, a no way out. It is awful, horrible, catastrophic, sick and more. It makes us afraid, angry, sad, confused, and terrorized. It is violence; violence that makes our world shrink as we come face to face with the expression of our belief in the safety of our surroundings. If Conrad is right, no wonder women struggle to feel more than the world’s reflection of who they are would have them believe.
9/11 introduced terror to those of us who had not been intimately acquainted with it. In our new understanding perhaps can come compassion and commitment to help one another, to remember what being a neighbor means. The first flight I took after the tragedy the pilot spoke over the loudspeaker and asked us to introduce ourselves to each other. Maybe if we could do that everywhere, we might interrupt the terror that still hides in our homes.

Good Intentions: Eliminating Terror with Terror

“So they killed that guy?” My 13 yr. old said to me as we drove to school with National Public Radio playing in the background on the morning after learning of Osama Bin Laden’s death. Before I could answer she said, “Cause, like, he was in another country. Is it OK to just go into another country and kill someone?”
“Ah, well, yeah, I wondered that too, honey. That is a really great question because it doesn’t seem right does it? What I understand is that the US Military went there to capture him and he fired on them and they fired back and killed him.”
“Is it like normal to have world wars that last this long?” my youngest said with thoughtfulness. “Because don’t wars just like usually end in a couple of years? Is this normal?”
“Yes, this has been a long bunch of war-like conflicts. But there is a lot to it.” (I could feel them both slipping away from the conversation now and I found myself drifting, too.)
At 12 and 13 years the Iraq presence and really all of the Middle East presence, is all they have ever known. They were watching the Lion King video the morning of September 11th. The conflicts have been a part of their whole lives, much like the Viet Nam war was for me growing up; always in the backdrop of whatever was on the world stage until I was old enough to have an opinion about it. Of course, there were other domestic conflicts too: civil rights, women’s rights, the murder of JFK, Malcolm X, Martin Luther King and Bobbie Kennedy among many others that lost their lives fighting for voting rights or protesting the war on college campuses. I remember how afraid I was during the Cuban Missile Crisis, asking my father from my six year old view of the conflict, if we were all going to die.
My daughters’ questions point to their way of seeing the world, not with bravado but with some sense of order or justice. I feel the fears in them that our actions bring up—the randomness that it implies. If we can go somewhere and shoot someone, can’t someone else do that to us? Sure this guy isn’t sanctioned by any vote of the people, he isn’t elected, but might another group of people see the actions of a President of the United States as invasive and come here to do the same?
My sister was working in the World Trade Center on September 11 and she made it out that day. Would I be unable to hear the angst and fears of my daughters if my baby sister had been killed? I have mixed feelings today. I believe in our system of justice that calls a person innocent until they have been proven guilty. In a world of terrorism, perhaps that is naïve to hold on to that standard. What is acceptable I wonder then and what just furthers the energy of terror so rampant now in our world? My daughters’ questions remind me how fear begets fear. When is it OK to break the law, even international law and what ultimately will it bring us?