The pen is mightier than the sword....

Don't get me wrong, I'm all in favor of stopping the terrorists when they threaten our security or our way of life. I'm pretty fond of my computer and my Starbucks, and woe to them who try to stand in my way. But I have to be honest, the so-called "Gilligan's Island" incident has tickled my funny bone, and I just can't help giggling about it a little.

For those not in the know, a guy from Oregon who was afraid to fly recently got on an airplane to go to Hawaii with his girlfriend. First off, there was a brief to-do over where his bag needed to be stowed, since he was sitting in the exit row, and he was reluctant to give up his bag. I dunno. Maybe he actually listened to that canned announcement in the airport about not letting your bag out of your sight or something.

After that little bit of nonsense was resolved, he engaged in the activity that Americans do best these days - he complained. Mind you, his complaint was a little unorthodox. When I say I'm going to "Write A Letter," I address it to the person in charge, and I get to the point, spelling out what the problem is, and how I want it fixed.

This guy was not exactly an example of brilliance in action. Apparently nervous about flying, he wrote a note on a comment card to amuse himself, signed it, put it into a sealed envelope, and handed it, in the early hours of a long flight, to a flight attendant whose primary responsibility is identifying and dealing with problem passengers.

Check.

She showed him.

They turned that plane right around and went straight back to Oregon, escorted by two fighter jets, where they were met at the airport by the FBI. The first he knew that he was the cause of the change in flight path was when they were snapping his mug shot 20 seconds after landing. Bummer.

My point is not to pick on a flight attendant, the cabin crew, or even the FBI agent on the ground, all of whom, in my opinion, overreacted a little in the stress of the situation. In their defense, and keeping in mind the underwear bomber incident just a few days before that, I am sure they were primed to be on the lookout for any odd behavior, ready to take everything out of the ordinary seriously. I realize it's a lot easier to make the right call sitting in my snug house a thousand miles away from the action, and they were doing the best they could with the information they had at hand.

I'm not even really trying to pick on Mr. Erudition, who obviously needed to pay more attention in his high school comm (stands for communication) arts classes. [Can you imagine how embarrassing it would be if you were the teacher who passed him?] Clearly, he was not gifted with the knowledge that there is a time and place for everything, and an airplane is not a comedy club.

When you read this guy's note, it is not exactly specific. With regard to anything. Well, except for the fact that he is evidently afraid the plane is going to crash, he doesn't want to end up on some remote island like the castaways (this one particularly tickled me, since he looks like that is exactly where he has been the last couple of years or so,) and he likes Mary Ann best!

Brief tangent - just thinking out loud here. I wonder if anyone has ever done a survey of Ginger vs. Mary Ann, and figured out what that means about the chooser. For that matter, how about Gilligan vs. Skipper or the Professor? [I don't see why the boys should have all the fun.] Personally, if I had to pick one, I'd probably go with the professor, because he was the only one that had a shot at actually getting them off the island, and away from the irritating people with whom I would be trapped.

Anyway, my point is to lament the death of common sense in our society, as clearly evidenced by all parties in this particular episode. It's a fatality that I, for one, sincerely mourn.

I received a travel mug for Christmas that came with the following warnings:

-Do not overfill mug as hot liquids can scald.
-Always make sure lid is securely attached before drinking.
-Leakage may occur if mug is tipped over.

I weep for any civilization in which those warnings need to be spelled out.

We are inundated, on an hourly basis, with stupid. We live in fear and trembling, ever vigilant lest something Go Wrong. We are litigious over every little problem, everything is someone else's fault, and nothing falls under the category of "Stuff Happens" any more.

We have doctors doing a bazillion dollars worth of unnecessary tests on patients every year, for fear they have missed something and will get sued. We have fast food restaurants warning us that the hot coffee we have ordered is hot, because they are afraid of getting sued for serving hot coffee. We have fighter jets escorting planes back to the airport because some nut case with a pen is afraid of becoming Gilligan.

There is no need for a terrorist to wield a sword when a pen will bring us down just as surely. It turns out that we are all still afraid of the bogeyman, and he is us.

Living with gratitude....

Today I heard some sad news which reminded me, once again, of how precious and fragile life is, and how fleeting it can be, as well. There is no way to understand the unfathomable; I gave up trying a long time ago. But it is human nature, I think, to look for something positive, or at least useful, that we can take away from each experience. For me, that something is often gratitude.

A couple of years ago, I was asked to write a devotion for a booklet my church was publishing. I was one of many, and I'm sure my offering wasn't the most inspiring. But I thought of it today, and pulled it out to reread, to see if I could glean something from it. I offer it here, in case the words help someone else to make sense of something senseless in their own lives.
--------------------

In Jeremiah 29:11, (NIV) God promises, “’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.’” This verse came to me at one of the most difficult times of my life, when I could see nothing ahead but confusion and uncertainty, where the very foundation of my life was shaken, and I labored in darkness and despair. As I do so often, I was questioning God’s love and intent for me, and He provided me an answer with this verse of hope and promise. This is God’s covenant with us, a direct promise, not just to special people, or even the world generally, but to each person. This promise is the foundation for my life of gratitude.

For me, living with gratitude is not about the big stuff in my life, it is a way of being; it is walking in God’s will in all things, and allowing Him to fulfill the promise He has made to me to prosper me, provide for me, and give me all I need. When I allow God to work His will in my life, I am filled with abundant reason to be grateful, because that is His promise.

To quote one of my favorite movies, You’ve Got Mail, “I lead a small life. Valuable, but small.” In our acquisitive and materialistic secular culture, living a small life is associated with a lack of success, and most people would resent being characterized that way. However, I do, indeed, have what most people would probably consider to be a small life, and with it, small blessings. I am also fortunate enough to know it is those same small blessings that change my life, that determine the difference between a good day and a bad one, that humble and strengthen and give hope. It is small blessings that are the building blocks of my faith, and so, I suspect, it is with most people.

I encourage you to recognize and embrace the small blessings of your life, to walk in God’s will with gratitude, and to allow Him the opportunity to fulfill His covenant with you to prosper you and give you the future He has planned for you.

Wishing you a life of gratitude and peace.

January 3, 1962

Adoption seems to be a hot button topic in our world these days. It is rarely talked about, except in the context of abortion, which is a strange juxtaposition, indeed, but we won't jump into that bed of hot coals today.

Adoption is a tricky topic, one people don't bring up in polite company. People throw the word "adoption" around as if they are talking about pets or belongings, like some kind of blue light special on childhood, instead of real children with real needs and real feelings. The impression is conveyed that the adopted child is somehow not quite up to par, as evidenced by the frequency with which people ask the adopted about their "real parents" or "real families."

I am living proof that adoption is nothing like the popular media portrayal. It is, in fact, a life choice made by people who are giving a forever home to a child in need, and who, in turn, get the child they desperately wanted but, for whatever reason, couldn't get without a little help. Adoption is neither a reality show nor a Jerry Springer episode. It is a lifetime commitment to a child who came into your life by an alternative route, but who is yours every bit as much as one to whom you gave birth. Just ask my mom, since she has one of each.

I could do a long exposition on the stupid things people say to adopted children and their parents, and the ridiculous assumptions that are made. But instead, I will tell you how it looks from the inside out, because for those of us who have been through it, that is really all that matters.

Today, January 3, is the anniversary of the day I became a part of my family. It is a day that we have always celebrated as my "Special Birthday," because there is nothing more special than the day parents and child find each other, however it happens. It is a celebration of the day I was "reborn" into my family of choice, and I, for one, know how lucky I am that it came to be.

My parents had one child, my brother who is eleven years older than me, and a few more failed attempts behind them by the time they got to me. They had been through quite a lot, what with one thing and another, like most parents who turn to adoption, and they were hopeful and terrified through the whole process, waiting and worrying and wondering how it would come out. (Rather like having a baby, really.) Ironically, it turned out to be about nine months between their initial application and the day they first laid eyes on me, but there was a lot more paperwork involved.

Of course, as we have seen in the media, there are adoptive families that don't work out. The public has a voracious appetite for the failures in life, and adoption stories are no different. But biology is no guarantee of success, either, as evidenced by the number of biological parents who have lost their parental rights. On the contrary, the worst parents I know are biological, and the best are adoptive. (Of course, I'm biased, since I'm talking about mine, obviously!)

My mom has always enjoyed telling me the story of the day they got me, because it is a happy intersection of two sad stories which ended with everyone winning, which is usually the way adoption works. You take two parents who desperately want a child, and one child who desperately needs a family, and viola, you have the perfect ending.

My story began the same way most such stories do - a rash moment, a bad decision, and suddenly, a baby was in the works. My biological mother, with the support of her family, decided that she was not capable of caring for a baby at that time, so she decided to give me up to a family who could give me what she couldn't. It is a selfless act, one born of love and concern, and I am forever grateful to her. I have always said that first she gave birth to me, then she gave me life by giving me away to someone who could provide everything she couldn't. She is a mother in the purest sense, because she put my needs ahead of her own, and allowed me to go where I would be best off. At least that's my story, and I'm sticking to it!

My parents, meanwhile, made an application with the state of Minnesota, and went through a vetting process that most biological parents probably wouldn't pass. They had home studies, and had to get letters of recommendation from many people. They opened their home, their bank account and their lives to total strangers to pry and peel away and tear apart in an effort to determine if they would, indeed, be satisfactory parents to a child in need. Obviously, they passed.

It was December of 1961 when my parents received the letter from the state that would change their lives forever. It requested them to come in and meet with their social worker right after Christmas. For some reason, despite already having been approved, my parents panicked, thinking this was the end, and they were being turned down.

They went into the meeting with heavy hearts, believing this would be the end of their quest, only to be told that a baby of their very own was ready to be chosen, if only they were still sure they wanted her. Imagine the racing hearts and the unbelievable joy, as they go from nothing to everything in a moment's time. I have often thought about that moment, and I think it must have been similar to finding out I was pregnant, and suddenly, where nothing existed before, there was suddenly a whole other person in my life.

They received a couple of pictures of that baby that would be theirs, to take home and look at while they thought about what was about to happen. My mother kept them for me, of course, the only pictures we have from before they got me. Looking at them now, they crack me up - I look as bewildered by life then as I often feel now.

They were scheduled for a meeting right after New Year's, on January 2, to meet the baby and spend an hour with her, to see how everyone interacted, and if this was really what they wanted. The story of that first meeting was something I made my mother tell me over and over when I was little, because of course, unlike most children, I came on approval, and they could have said no.

She tells of being so nervous, driving up to the state capitol that day. They brought my brother, Charlie along, because the social workers wanted to assess the entire family, and be sure this was going to be the right fit for me. Charlie brought along a little doll, at the suggestion of the social worker, to give to me, so I would associate him with something good. (At 16 months, your vision of good is somewhat more limited, so they figured the promise of a new toy never hurt to smooth the path towards success!)

They arrived just on time, parked and walked into the building. They were getting into the elevator when a woman came rushing in, carrying a baby, and called to them to hold the elevator. She was obviously late, and my mother loves to tell how she took one look at the baby in the arms of a stranger and knew that baby was hers. She poked my dad, and they emerged from that elevator grinning from ear to ear, because they had already seen their little girl, and their hearts were already won.

When the woman entered the room a few minutes later, apologizing for the way they had first seen me, my mother didn't care. She only had eyes and ears for me, and they reluctantly left me after the allotted time, knowing that for one more night, they would be without me, but then I would be theirs forever.

My mother has always had a touchy stomach, and she said that night she was sick all night, filled with excitement about what the next day would bring. She scoffs, as she tells how they were sent home to consider the commitment they were about to make, to be certain I was truly the one for them, as if, after all that time, they would change their minds. They took the doll with them, so that, on the next day, I would see the doll and be happy, as if getting a forever family wasn't enough for a little girl.

My mother was prepared for a long few weeks of adjustment, and to watch the news, and the handover of adopted children we've been exposed to over the years, you would expect that to be the case. But I am told that I never appeared to miss my foster home at all - I had found my family, where I was meant to be, and frankly, I obviously knew a good thing when I had found it. Sixteen months in foster care was enough for me, and I was not going to mess this up!

My proud parents couldn't resist stopping at the home of a relative to show me off, and so I met my cousin even before I saw my new home. It turned out to be a fateful meeting, since we have been close friends, as well as cousins, pretty much ever since. I have a picture from that day which makes me laugh every time I see it, my cousin and I, two little girls already in cahoots!

Every year on the third of January, my mother would make two little cakes - one for me, and one for my dad, whose birthday came on January 4. I suppose my special birthday eclipsed our celebration of the day my dad was born, but if he resented being upstaged, he never showed it. He died days after his 50th birthday, when I was just a tween, but I am pretty sure I was the best birthday present he ever had, and we packed a lifetime of memories in the few years we had.

If you are ever wondering what really happens in an adoption, I can tell you it is the same thing that happens in any other family. The moment your eyes meet, you become a family, and that is the only story there is. It doesn't really matter whether you are there by nature, or a Chosen Child. You are the child of their hearts, and that is what counts when you are writing the story of your life.

The old becomes new....

Twenty five years ago, I started an annual tradition of taking a picture of our family on Christmas Eve, usually in front of the tree, to include in a family holiday book. When I started the book, I had 25 years to fill, and it seemed like an eternity as I leafed through the pages, figuring out where that book would end, and how old we would be. Christmas of 1984 was the first one. I was 24 years old, newly married, and had just found out I was pregnant with my first child. It was a happy and exciting time for us, filled with anticipation about the wonderful future that was ahead.

Over the years, the family grew and changed, adding first one child, then another. I always assumed that it would continue to grow as we added in-laws and grandchildren to the pages, a chronicle of the happy events in the life of a family. I envisioned that it would be an heirloom for them in the years to come, when they wanted to know how it all started, way back when.

However, life doesn't always follow the road map you drew in your mind when you were young, and things don't always work out the way you expect. For me, the expectation of growing old with someone I loved and who loved me back was replaced five years ago with a new reality, as divorce rent asunder the vows we had made so long ago.

As I have said before, divorce is a painful and difficult journey. It is filled with pitfalls as you try to sort through what to hang on to and what to throw aside for the new reality you now live. What fits a family of four can suddenly feel uncomfortable, the wrong shape or size for a family of three. You are forced to make changes in order to make the new you feel right again, but it's not always so obvious what they will be.

In the process of sorting out my life, I gave away a lot of things that were painful reminders of a past that no longer felt real to me, and which did not fit my new life as a single mom with teenagers. But I realized, even in the moment, that I had to save some of it, because my children would someday want to see a world in which their parents were happy together and loved one another, in order to validate their own lives.

I have not looked at my holiday book since 2004. That winter, I put it on a high shelf, where it has languished in anonymous forgetfulness. I didn't throw it away, which was my first angry inclination. It is, in fact, still there, accessible but unmoved, and not readily available. I don't know if I was afraid or angry or confused or just sad, but it was a painful reminder of all that I have lost, and I didn't want to step on that particular land mine if I didn't need to.

I considered tossing it and starting over, but that felt false to me. You cannot pretend the past away, and the 20 years we were married were a part of who I am, and who we are as a family. But neither have I added to the story - it remains stranded in time, like a capsule of someone else's life. The thread of the unfinished story is obviously broken, and it seemed wrong to document a family gone so far astray. So it continues to sit on a shelf unopened, a testament to how difficult it is to live happily ever after.

I suddenly realized a day or two ago that we have reached that far off final year in my holiday book. It is hard to imagine that 25 years are already history, but my 24 year old son makes clear that it is. I am curious now to peek at the past that will be revealed there. The child with whom I was then pregnant is now older than I was in that first picture, and what seemed impossibly far away in 1984 is now upon us, too soon.

And just as suddenly, I realized that I not only want to look at my book, but to finish it. The young person looking back at me has aged, but also grown up in unexpected ways. By ignoring that history, I am ignoring the very life experience that has made me who I am today.

In this holiday season of joy and rebirth, the renewal of my own family traditions is something more to celebrate. If you haven't kept your own records of your family's holiday traditions, start now! It's a fun way to preserve the present for those who will come in the future, and maybe even for yourself.

Ghosts of Christmas Past....

This week I had the fun and unexpected experience of reliving the past with friends who grew up in the same small rural town in Minnesota where I did, a town where time has not stood still, but the memories have. The recollections were prompted by a Facebook entry and a whiff of scent that is unforgettably tied to happy childhood memories that I thought belonged only to me. It seems they are more universal, and cherished, than I dreamed.

But first, you need some background. (Straight out of Norman Rockwell, I swear.)

The church in which I grew up was one of the hundreds of small, rural Lutheran churches that dot the landscape of outstate Minnesota. Not only was I baptised, confirmed and married there, my mother and many of my aunts and my uncles were, as well. The cemetery which surrounds the church on three sides is filled with family members which have gone before us, including all four grandparents, and most of my great-grandparents. I had my first child baptised there, too. So for me, as for most people who grew up there, it is a comfortable place filled with my own history.

Gol Lutheran Church in 2009.

Back in the 60's, the church looked a little different. Instead of the part of the building sort of growing off the front like it does now, it was a majestic stone church in the classical style, with the double front doors opening more or less straight into the sanctuary, and just a tiny [and in the winter very COLD] entryway between you and the great outdoors. (I tried to find a picture of it as it was, but don't have one available.)

On a side note, for the architectural purists in the reading audience - when the addition was built, the original stone front was preserved, and they built the addition onto it. So we can still see the beautiful entryway as it was, but now it is from inside the toasty warm building. Personally, I think that was inspired.

Anyway, contrary to popular perception, living in Minnesota means you are hearty and stubborn, it does not mean you don't feel the cold. Every time those doors opened, you would feel a blast from the biting wind licking at your bare legs. (Unless you kept on the pants under the dress that your mother made you wear back then.)

As soon as Thanksgiving was over, the moms would get excited, and it would be time to put on the annual Christmas Sunday School program. They would devote countless hours to finding the right program, making the costumes, and whipping the reluctant participants into shape so we would be ready to perform for our proud parents and grandparents, and the rest of the congregation.

These days, I think it's a lot harder for churches to put on the annual event, because they never know how many children will actually show up for it. Families are more mobile, church seems to be less the center of the community, and the annual Christmas program at church is one more thing to check off for a lot of families, I think.

Where I grew up, though, the yearly Christmas program was an Event to Attend, whether you had children or not. Families would arrive en masse, everyone dressed in their Christmas best for one of the most exciting evenings of the year. For the parents and grandparents, I imagine the fun of the evening was in seeing your offspring perform the Christmas story once again, nothing new or different, but moving none-the-less.

For the children, however, the program was something to be gotten through so you could get to the main event - The Presents. Several weeks before the program, the children in each Sunday School class (we had one or two grades per class) would put their names in a hat and each child would get a name for the gift exchange.

The cost was minimal, but that gift was something I looked forward to all year, because it was a gift from a classmate who would always find something frivolous and fun. [Think "champagne" bubble bath, paint by number sets, yoyo's, hula hoops. In the practical world of a Minnesota Lutheran, this was a thrilling departure from the norm.] I still have several of the gifts I received, including a couple of handmade items that a classmate decoupaged for me.

There would be some additional gifts under the tree, as well, perhaps something from your teacher, or another adult at church to whom you were a special child. When the fun was over, and it was time to go home, every child was handed a brown paper bag filled with peanuts in the shell and ribbon candy, and everyone, adults and children, received a shiny Red Delicious apple.

Every time I walk past a display of Red Delicious apples, especially if they are near the door and it's cold outside, I am blasted back to my childhood Sunday School Christmas program. The crisp, cold scent of those apples permeated the entryway of the church, wafting into the back of the sanctuary. When you opened the door to walk into the church, you would be enveloped by the aroma of those apples, a silent signal that something wonderful was about to happen.

The other night, my daughter and I were at the store, and I walked past a display of shiny red apples that were near the door. The combination of that apple scent and the unseasonal cold which resulted in a draft that I felt on my face triggered that memory once again. It was, as it always is, almost euphoric, and I had to share the memories with my daughter, who listened with polite interest, but who didn't really understand the power of it all.

A few days later, I read a Facebook entry written by a friend from that same little rural church, one of wistful recollection for the simpler lives we all led back then. It prompted me to recall the apples and the bag of nuts, which were, in an odd way, truly the highlight of the evening of that Christmas program.

Not only did he recall those bags (turns out his mother ordered the apples for the program every year, of all things, who knew? So I tell MY mother, and she says, oh ya, his mother was the Sunday School treasurer. Huh, you learn something every day, I had no idea, I thought they just magically appeared because it was Christmas or something.... Wait, where was I?) Oh ya, not only did he recall the bags, but he recalled the very scent I was talking about.

I was even more delighted when, a couple days after that conversation, another friend, who attended a different church, chimed in with her own memories of the same thing. Apparently this was a town of Kenyon thing, not a Gol Lutheran Church thing, and there are more people than I realized out there enjoying the same Red Delicious high that I experience at random and unexpected moments.

It struck me, once again, that the most pleasant memories for us were not of the gifts or the trappings of a holiday gone wild, whatever the advertisements of that time (or this time) may have led us to believe. [I remember the Norelco electric shaver commercial, where the shaver was a sled that flew over the snow, bringing Christmas cheer to some lucky guy who would now know the thrill of a closer electric shave, making his Christmas a success.] The most memorable moments of those long ago evenings were the simple gift of an apple and a bag of nuts and candies, handed out by someone's dad at the back of the church as we headed home.

In all the hustle and bustle of a modern Christmas, the meaning in the season is often overlooked in the effort to create the perfect holiday experience. I think my own children, and perhaps someday my grandchildren, will be surprised to find it is the simple experiences, what seem like throwaway moments at the time, that will stay with them, and which they will recall most fondly.

This Christmas, I wish each of my faithful readers, wherever you are, and whomever you may be, a bag of nuts and ribbon candy, and a shiny Red Delicious apple. Spread the Christmas cheer in this hectic week of last minute everything. Remember that whatever is left undone will not be remembered in the years to come. Instead, it is the quiet moments of time together that really matter, and which will be remembered in all their beautiful simplicity. The true joy of Christmas is found not in the trappings of the commercial holiday, but in the humble manger. From my stable to your heart and home, Merry Christmas!