The Death of A Child: Holding God's Hand Tightly

In an email yesterday, a friend who lost her son in a climbing accident recently wrote to me the following:

That dark valley of the shadow of death does say we walk through it,
but we can't always see through the tears,
so we are trying to hold His hand tightly.

I cannot fathom what my friend is experiencing. As a mother, I fear the loss of one of my children more than anything. Those moments when I sent my little girl off for her first overnight, the first time I handed the keys to the car to my son, the first time my son climbed a mountain and when he went to Africa, alone, at the age of 19.

But the picture her words create in my mind is the only one that I feel I would have comfort in. Holding tightly to God's hand and having faith that He will walk you through the valley of darkness. I am certain I would have moments when I would want to lie down on the valley floor and weep. In those moments, I would hope that God would carry me and restore my strength.

Suze Orman would be Proud Part 2: Refrigerator Postings --Teaching Kids Not to Impulse Buy

Our culture makes it easy to want things now -- credit cards, no down payments on homes. We know where that has gotten us. But, we saw it in our kids, too. Wanting that item they saw on TV or that their best friend just got; asking for things while shopping because the cool packaging caught their eye. So, how do we teach kids not to impulse buy?

Our recipe was simple: A piece of paper, a magnet, and a refrigerator.

If the kids wanted something, they had to write it down on a piece of paper and put the date on it. We then posted the item on the fridge. It stayed there for two weeks. If they still wanted the item at the end of two weeks, they could buy it-- assuming they had enough money. See earlier post "Suze Orman would be Proud: Kids, Money, and Financial Peace."

Our kids rarely ended up buying the items posted.

I don't remember where we learned that trick, but I am grateful for it. It helped the kids and, over the years, it has helped us, too. Nothing like writing down that you want a $15,000 car and posting it on the fridge for two weeks -- only to decide that you really didn't need it or want it that bad after all.

Thin Space

I seek the thin space
I find peace there
God reveals himself

Vulnerability envelops me
For there, my heart is known
I cannot hide in the pews silently

There I am stripped of worldly coverings
And I meet face to face
Eyes and heart open

I do not live in the thin space
But I return here often
For I long for this place

In between heaven and earth

Suze Orman would be Proud: Kids, Money, and Family Peace

Suze Orman would be proud: Kids, Money, and Family Peace.

Teaching Kids about Money: Tip Number 1 – Decide what categories of things you think your kids should have to make a purchasing decision about, give them an annual budget, and help them plan. Best thing I ever did as a parent. Here’s why.

I remember dreading going to the store when my kids were young—I don’t mean infants or toddlers, they were easy then, they didn’t know how to beg me to buy them the cool foods or the nifty toys they spotted at the check-out stand. They didn’t know how to negotiate, and negotiate, and negotiate again. They also hadn’t been mesmerized by the toy companies that relentlessly targeted kids in their TV commercials.

So, the kids learned to want. To want this or that cool action figure. Or that awesome new truck. Or that lovely new video-game. Or, just about anything they set their eyes on.

It wasn’t that my kids wanted any more—or any less—than other American kids (or adults). But, the shopping excursions exhausted me. Come to think of it, the pre-shopping build up exhausted me, too. “When are we going to the store again? “ “When we go to the store next, can I get the new [fill in the blank awesome toy that all my friends have]?”

I hated sounding like a broken record. “No.” “Please don’t ask.” “Sorry, I don’t have the money for that right now.” “You’ll have to wait for a birthday and see if you still want it.” “We’ll see.”

Aside from these shopping related interactions with my kids, life was good. So, I decided we needed to find a way to fix the problem. The problem: the kids and I were in a struggle over what the boundaries were with money. And, it wasn’t appropriate or practical to sit down and have a heart to heart about the value of money, how much we had to spend, what it means to want v. need. Let’s face it, it would be nice, but that is just not the reality with kids.

So, my husband and I wrote down all those things that we provided to the kids that were important to the kids and us, but that were essentially “wants” not “needs.” The list included: clothes, other than school clothes and the basics like coats, shoes, undies, and socks; summer camp tuition; movies and other activities with friends; dining out; books; toys; gifts for friends and family; and, a few others (depending on the age and gender of the child).

Next we added up what we spent annually on these things and then sharpened our pencils – what should we be spending on these things?

Once we calculated the annual dollar amount, we figured out how that money was spread out over the year. What were monthly expenses or allowances and what were larger annual expenses—like camp tuition. We did this because we wanted to give them a “lump sum” in their bank accounts to cover expected expenses that they would not have time to save for this first year. As I recall, we started the program in January, but tuition for camp was due in February, and we had already planned for the kids to attend camp. So, we started them with the camp tuition in January. The next year, of course, they had to save for camp tuition and other large expenses.

So, we gave the kids an annual dollar amount, gave them a “lump sum” (about 3 months worth) up front, and then gave them a monthly “allowance.”

The next--and final-- step was talking to the kids – explaining the plan, why we had it, and laying out the rules. Kids like rules – bright line rules provide a sense of security. And, for my kids, it made them happier. We sat down with the kids explained the plan. They were excited. And, they liked the rules:

They were responsible for certain types of purchases and activities. We gave them the list.

We told them that they could not ask us to purchase for them any of the items on the list.

We gave them a list of what certain things cost – like movies, camp, shoes, ski lift tickets.

We told them that when they ran out of money they could not ask for more.

We helped them figure out how much they would have to save every month to buy certain items or to have enough set aside for camp or other large expenses.

We told them that we were not going out to dinner unless everyone in the family wanted to pay for their own. Or, if a child wanted to take the family out to dinner with his or her money, that was fine.

We told them that we would always shop at the grocery store from a list. They could not ask us to buy foods at the store that were not on the list. But, they could buy the items themselves—if that was what they wanted to spend their money on.

The result: no more conflict over money. Period. Shopping was relaxing. We had no pre-shopping build up.

The kids often asked us to help them figure out what they could afford to buy – and when they bought things, they learned to shop for bargains. This also opened the door for us to talk about saving for big purchases or giving to a charity or church, which both of the kids chose to do. I remember when my son wanted a new pair of swim trunks – which we didn’t think he needed. So, he went shopping. He found a few pairs he liked and ultimately bought the pair that was on sale for 40% off. He was so proud of himself and his purchase.

The money plan was rewarding for us all and gave us all much more peace and certainty around money issues!

I’ve shared this idea with several friends – one told me I saved her life. A bit of an overstatement, to say the least; but, I smiled when she told me, because I remember the sense of peace this plan gave our family. Suze Orman would be proud!

Love Haiti

This week, the world has joined together for the people of Haiti.  The long suffering this country has endured,  turned to tragedy this week when a 7.0 magnitude earthquake struck near the capital city of Port-au-Prince.  In a country with no building codes and a poorly developed infrastructure, the devastation has been beyond my own understanding.  People buried alive in buildings, no water or electricity.  For those injured, no basic medical care, and no anesthesia or pain medication or even aspirin.  I feel as though I can hear the wailing in the streets--moaning in pain, wailing in grief, crying out to God or man or anyone who will listen.

The world has listened and help has come.  But it has been difficult and slow and not enough.  The airport was severely damaged and the roads are damaged and blocked and there are few heavy machines to move the debris--and those that are there, are focused on trying to remove debris of fallen, occupied buildings, in hopes of finding survivors.  Help has come, but it is not enough for every man, woman, and child in Haiti.  More will die.  More will suffer.  And the poverty and disease that has plagued the people of Haiti forever will continue.

It is overwhelming what this tiny country needs. As if its needs were not enough before, this earthquake--God's handy work--made them unfathomable.  Needs so great that the world could not ignore Haiti any more. 

I have found that I long to help.  And, I long for news--small pieces of good news. News of doctors helping even one person.  News that a mother is reunited with her child.  News money, and supplies, and help is pouring in. I long for this news and I thank God.  Such devastation shows the human capacity for love.  The capacity for compassion and hope.  The capacity for faith. And, it reveals the fragility and resilience--all at once--of the human spirit.

But, why does it take unfathomable tragedy to open our eyes -- to love Haiti?  Haiti has needed the world to stand up and take action for decades.  I worry that, in a few days or weeks, the world--myself included--will forget Haiti.

We just can't.

But we are so comfortable and so far removed from Haiti.  It is as though we are looking down on it from mountaintops.  It is distant and tiny and beyond our reach. Haiti's circumstances are beyond our understanding.

But the truth is, we can't forget Haiti.  We need to sustain our love for her people and her culture.  Dr. Paul Farmer, the founder of Partners in Health, a non-profit organization that has worked extensively in Haiti, is a model of what should be done. His organization operates on the basis that the obligation to those who face such tragedy is both medical and moral--that we should treat the people of Haiti the way we would treat a member of our own family--or ourselves--by doing "whatever it takes" to make them whole.

I am inspired by their work and their mission.  I'm not a doctor, so I don't have the medical skills to help. I'm not a search and rescue trained disaster relief worker.  But, I am capable of humbly stepping up to try to be in some small way the hands and feet of Christ. I can be part of the team that stands beside Haiti and do whatever it takes.

In his blog post this week, Dr. Dan Diamond, who arrived in Haiti yesterday with Medical Teams Northwest, reminds me that the work of each person, in any capacity, is significant.  He describes what an honor it is to be one of the people going to Haiti to help on the ground there -- yet, he sees not his sacrifice, but the sacrifice and efforts of others who have made it possible for him to go:

"Going on a trip like this is similar to being an astronaut on the space shuttle. As the rocket is beginning to rumble and lift off of the launchpad they must be aware of the fact that they are the fortunate folks that have the honor of the ride. They know full well that they didn't build the rocket. It takes an army of people to make a relief effort like this even possible. Thank you to the folks at Medical Teams International for their never ending commitment to being there when they are needed. I am blessed by your work and pray that we will be a blessing to the people of Haiti."

And so, I pray now for the people of Haiti. And, I am thankful that the world has demonstrated its love for Haiti -- to relieve the suffering of so many.  And I pray that we all--individually and as nations--will find the capacity to sustain our love for Haiti whether we serve as "astronaut" or one of the "army of people" who prepares the way for the astronaut.  I pray that we will do whatever it takes for as long as it takes.



If you are interested in reading the inspiring story of Paul Farmer's work in Haiti, please read Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder.  It not only tells of Farmer's work, but illustrates the model for effective and efficient efforts to truly create sustainable and meaningful change.   Farmer's organization, Partners in Health, based in Boston, can be found at  pih.org


If you are interested in following Dr. Dan Diamond's blog and work in Haiti, please follow this link to his blog at:
 http://www.powerdyme.com/dan-diamond-powerdyme-blog.html

Seeking God's Face

Several years ago when my son went to summer camp, I remember thinking that when he came back he had changed.  Really changed.  I don't mean he was so filthy that I didn't recognize him or that he simply needed a bath to soak off the layers of wilderness that encased his suntanned body.  It was as if the wilderness had changed him from the inside out.  The impression sticks with me even today. I remember watching him and thinking that he had been transformed. He left as a young boy who had grown up being taught about Christ's love and returned as a young man who now knew God--who understood what it meant to seek God's face. There was a peace about him and an exuberance.  I can't describe it, really.  It just was.

This wasn't an ordinary summer camp adventure.  The program was sponsored by a camp where my son had spent many summer weeks in his younger years. The camp had every possible draw for young boys--a skate park, motor bikes, paint ball, a lake with a huge slide. But this year, this program was new and it was exclusive: 8th grade boys only.  And, it was limited to a handful of them. The plan? A group of young men would take a group of younger soon-to-be men out on a 3 week wilderness trip.  White water rafting, camping, rock climbing, mountain climbing.  But the trip was more.  I don't know the specifics of the daily activities--eighth grade boys just don't tell their moms that much--but at the age of 20 my son finally shared with me that it was the first time that he stood on the top of a mountain and wept at the beauty of creation. Until that moment, I didn't understand that eighth grade boys had that capacity.

These young men who lead the trip understood.  As we dropped our son off at camp that first evening, all I could think about was that these were middle school boys who laughed most vigorously when one of their bodies expelled a loud noise or a plug-your-nose kind of odor and they were proud of it.  They were silly and loud and completely oblivious to the fact that their moms were holding back tears because their boys would be out of communication with them for longer--much longer--than they ever had been.  But, the young men who took these soon-to-be-men to the wilderness of western Washington knew what made these middle school boys tick.

While I don't know the specifics of the trip, except the names of the places they traveled and some of the young men and boys who traveled with my son, I do imagine what it was like.  Lots of vigorous exercise and learning new skills that required the boys to overcome their deepest fears--water, heights, repelling.   Shear exhaustion. Lots of laughter. And evenings around a campfire in reflection about the day and God's plan.  I imagine that is what the trip was like because those are the ingredients that seem to help us, as spiritual beings, to draw closer to God so that He might reveal himself.  And, those are the moments when we feel free to speak and think because we develop a trust with those we are with. We can let our guard down--we don't need the mask that we put on for the rest of the world. These are the moments that we need--whether we are middle school boys or middle aged women. These are the moments and relationships that, if we look, allow us to see the heart of God. We need the wilderness moments.

I do find those quiet wilderness moments alone, in the early morning hours with my cup of coffee. I find those quiet wilderness moments alone when we go to the beach and I have a chance  to walk in God's creation, alone with the wind in my face, and the waves deafening the world around me.  It's just me and God and his creation. It is then that I seek and can find God's face. These are my wilderness moments, but they are wilderness moments of solitude with God. The relationships that would help nurture me and sustain me -- the fellowship with others that Christ wants for me--are few.  I am too often in the wilderness alone. God reveals himself when I am alone.  But, in wilderness moments with others, I have seen how God reveals himself differently.  I have see him reflected in the lives and hearts of others. I need that. I need to know that God shows up and lives in the hearts of others around me. I am keenly aware that I need that and I long for those times.

But, that longing has been overshadowed by my fears.  I blame myself mostly for being in the wilderness alone rather than with others.  I have not been intentional enough about seeking out moments and relationships with others who are on this journey of life.  It's been about time, but it has mostly been about fear.  Fear of being vulnerable.  Fear of being rejected.  Fear of being judged by Christian women because sometimes I doubt and question my faith.  Fear of being judged by Christians because I am married to a man who is not a believer.

With God alone, I know I can doubt and know he loves me anyway. With God alone, I am comforted and assured that I am married to the man I am supposed to spend my life with and love deeply despite our spiritual divide.  With others, particularly Christians, I don't know that they will love me anyway.  With Christians I don't know that they will understand my marriage.  The wilderness feels safer alone.  My fears have been stronger than my longings.

My fear is based on experience.  In my own brokenness, I have failed to love fully and accept others fully and they me.  Those nails of rejection and judgment have left deep and permanent scars that only God's love and grace and mercy can wash away.  I have been hurt and hurt others.  And so, I have built up a wall, one brick at a time.  Slowly at first. But it became easier. Easier than risking letting others know who I was and easier than risking letting God reflect himself in all my vulnerability.  Easier than trying to seek God's heart in others. 

But now, I am weary.  Weary of carrying the cross of fear on my back.  Weary of not fully knowing God.  The longing now overshadows my fears.  And so, I venture out into the wilderness with others and I seek God's face one moment at a time.  Removing one brick at a time. But it is hard.  For I am not the only one who has chosen fear over longing.  I stand in the pews or attend church gatherings.  I see masks and walls and barriers of various shapes and colors and sizes. 

Those young men who took those loud middle school boys into the wilderness were wise. They were intentional in developing their relationships with these boys and God showed up and revealed himself. They knew the importance of seeking wilderness moments and experiencing wilderness moments with others. I may not get a 3 week outdoor adventure in the wilds of western Washington's rain forests, but I need to intentionally seek God's heart in others.  And so, into the wilderness I go seeking God's strength so that I may have the capacity to risk what I have feared. So that I may love others and know God in ways that I have longed to know him all these years.

Adoption, Hope, God, and Heritage

I'm adopted. I was proud of it as a kid because it made me different and people always asked me about it.  What did I know about my birth mom? Why were you adopted?  Do you have any siblings?  It was cool, at least on the surface. 

I remember driving home from a trip to visit my Grandmother.  For some reason my sister, who was 22 months older and also adopted, wasn't with us.  Dad was driving the green 1970-something sedan, Mom sat in the front passenger seat, and I sat in the seat directly behind her.  From the safety of the back seat, where mom would have to turn around to an uncomfortable position to look me in the eye, I finally found the courage to ask.  "Mom, what do you and Dad know about my adoption?"  I could see Mom take a breath and she turned a little.   "What do you want to know?" I don't recall what I said then -- but I know I wanted to know anything they knew.  Every detail.  I hated that I didn't look like anyone.  I wondered why I was left handed and blond.  I wanted to know if I had siblings or a father that knew about me.  I wanted to know if my mother cried at the drop of a hat like I did and whether she loved sports and ice cream or was afraid of the dark.

So Mom told me all they knew.  Very little.  They were told that she was single and had moved to the Seattle area to work for the phone company when she found out she was pregnant.  Her fiance was Catholic, but had been killed in an accident of some kind. She had gone through classes to become Catholic before they were to be married, but the accident cut things short.   Mom didn't know if my father ever knew about me.  I was offered to another family first.  But, the attorney told Mom and Dad that when the family found out I was Irish and 1/32 Cherokee Indian, they decided they didn't want me -- they didn't want a "mixed race" baby.  So, the attorney called Dad at work the day I was born and told him there was this little girl that needed a home.  He left work early to tell Mom.  They decided to take me.  That was all they knew. Who knew whether any of it was true.  And, it really didn't answer any of the questions I had.

A few years later, a guy I dated for a short time while in college, asked me, "So what is your heritage?"  I remember it vividly.  I lived in a beautiful sorority house.  When male visitors would come by to see us, there were only a few places we could visit.  The favorite was a small window seat in a small alcove in the front entry of the house.  It had dim lighting and had just enough room for two people to sit and visit.  When he asked me the question, I thought it was rather harmless and I jumped at the opportunity to share with him my adoption story.  When I was done telling that young man my story, such as it was, he said.  "Wow.  So you really don't have any heritage." To him, it wasn't cool that I was adopted.  Not even on the surface.  The message of his response, at least as I took it at that moment was: heritage matters, you don't have one; therefore, you don't matter.  That comment haunted me for years.  And, in some ways, I think it became a subtle but significant force behind who I sought to become. 

If I didn't have a heritage, then I would create my own. I didn't want to ever feel insignificant because I didn't matter in someone's eyes.  In hind sight, of course, that young man, whose name I even struggle to remember, probably meant no harm.

At 22, I began the search for my birth mom.  I attended a meeting hosted by an organization called Washington Adoptee Rights Movement (WARM).  I remember it was in this room in a building on the port of Seattle.  It was dark and sterile and cold.  But a friend came with me, which gave me some comfort.  I don't recall much about the meeting except there was information about searching in Washington.  A few people introduced themselves -- as birth mothers or adoptees -- and told stories of their successful searches and reunions.  I felt hope and a longing to know my birth mother.  A longing to know my heritage.  A longing to thank my birth mother for this life.  I could hardly wait. 

I also remember a statistic I learned that night -- only 5% of birth mothers don't want contact with their children.  Wow.  It never dawned on me that my birth mother might be among that 5%.  But she was.  I did a search, through a confidential intermediary--which is how you get access to closed adoption records in Washington.  It took several years to get to the top of the list to be assigned a confidential intermediary, but after that the waiting was less than a year.  The intermediary petitioned for my adoption records to be opened.  Based on that record, she learned my birth mother's name and eventually found her.  She called me the night she made the phone call.  My birth mother was terse.  She had never known I was a girl.  She wasn't married currently, but had been.  My birth father had been the love of her life.  There had been an accident.  He never knew she was pregnant.  No one in her family--including her mother, who was still alive--knew about me.  She was never able to have children after me because of complications following my birth.  She didn't want to meet me.  She didn't want to tell me anything.   She didn't want to know anything about me. 

I learned a little bit more about her -- she was blond like me and about my height and build.  She was raised Baptist and was the youngest of seven children.  The first and only one to go to high school.  Her father had died from heart disease.  My birth father was Catholic.  One of two children.  An athlete.  His father had died of TB.  The file indicated I was a "mixed race" baby.  (are you kidding me, mixed race, really? who isn't mixed race?). That was my heritage. 

I grieved for a long time.  I felt a deep sense of loss because I would never know either my birth mom or my birth father.  I cried, I was angry, I was hurt. I longed to know them.  Deep down, I kept up hope that she would change her mind.  I knew she was alive so I had reason to hope.

Several years later, after I had children, I even convinced the intermediary to try to contact my birth mom again.  Maybe now she would want to know me.

The intermediary found her again--it took a while, she had changed her name.

But this time, my birth mother slammed the door. It was none of my business. Any of it.

My hope ended.  As painful as that was, it was what I needed.  I had closure even if I had no information.  I was who I was, in part, because I didn't have a heritage.  I needed to move forward and respect my birth mother's decision. 

While I moved forward, it took several years for the pain to fade.  A woman's retreat is where the veil of pain was lifted and I finally found peace. I remember that moment. In a time of reflection following the events of the day and time spent meeting with a guest speaker, I had an epiphany. I felt a flood of joy and peace come over me and the words, "you are a child of God."  I had heard those words spoken before, but I never really considered their significance to my life. I am first a child of God, and only second a child of a woman who had no room in her life for me or the child of a man and woman who chose to love me and raise me. My heritage was God's heritage. I can think of no better Father than the one who loves me unconditionally.

While I still rest in the comfort that I am a child of God first, I still carry the old tattered me around.  The me who strove to do well, strove to impress, worried about what others thought.  The me who worked so hard to create a heritage or legacy that I could point to as mine--seeking the praise and acceptance of others.  But I've been slowly shedding that weight. I remember that I need to rely on God more and seek His purpose for my life. I stumble with the weight still, but He is present, and He catches me if I look to Him for help.

And, now, I am more certain than I was as a child that being adopted really is cool--after all, it was part of my Father's plan for my life.