hurtful thoughts

Four summers in a row we upended our lives and brought three foster kids from a Belarussian orphanage to live with us. It was hard. It was fun. It was heartbreaking. It was fulfilling. It was exhausting.

As we've joined countless other Americans watching footage of all the illegal immigrant children now in our country who have overwhelmed the processing centers and the border offices, I once again checked into being a foster parent, wanting to specifically request some of these kids. Mikalai's words still ring in my ears: You have a big house with no kids. We're kids with no family. Why can't we stay here?

And I want it to be that simple.  I wish there was no such thing as red tape and regulations and home studies and fire inspections and laws...just simple supply and demand. It makes me angry that any Susy Q can become a Mom, but for me to adopt or foster I must attend parenting classes, have every inch of my home and personal life invaded, submit to a physical and countless interviews, fill out reams of paperwork, have a background check and a fire chief come inspect my home, and in North Carolina for fostering we'd have to include little fire escape route exit charts for each bedroom (you know, toddlers and primary age children really read those), and then I can only put only child in a bedroom. It doesn't matter that Henrietta has five children and lives in a two bedroom house and that we've requested a sibling group, we're still only allowed one child per bedroom. 

So kids will continue sleeping on floors and in cars, and our bedrooms will remain empty because someone deemed themselves authority they do not deserve and mandated ridiculous requirements. (And yes, I know there is a reason for those requirements and deep down I somewhat understand, but it's still overkill.)

And as I listen to all my conservative friends who are supposed to show mercy and compassion to the downtrodden and remember "how this country was founded", I'm reminded of how this nation was formed of immigrants and unwanted, so much so that we mounted this poem at the entry port to welcome people:

New Colossus  by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

And now this country that was once a "light set on a hill" says no to women and children who are sick with TB and scabies, who come from countries torn apart by drug wars and risk dying just to get here to this land of promise, and we with our huges houses that has empty beds and bedrooms and pantries loaded with food say "We can't afford you. Go back."

When President Nixon criticized Chinese leaders for not allowing people to leave their country, their response was, "If we open the doors for anyone to leave, will you open your doors to let the flood come in?"  And according to my Chinese students, that was the end of the conversation.

I do think rules should be followed. But there should also be a humanitarian factor in place, as well as some common sense that exists (unlike some of our foster parenting rules).

We reap what we sow, and if you sow your seed correctly, the harvest is always greater than the planting.


Mikalai's words still ring in our empty house: You have a big house with no kids. We're kids with no family. Why can't we stay here?

a tough row to hoe

We take so much for granted.

The last few years we've heard a lot about teenagers, kids actually, who have faced so much more than any child should have to face by the time they reach 18.

Some of them are in foster care. Others are in group homes. Either way, at age 18, state funding stops. A few of the lucky ones are allowed to stay on with their foster parents, but most either don't or can't.

Can you imagine graduating from high school and suddenly facing life with no finances, no car, and becoming responsible for everything - a place to live, a vehicle, food, living expenses - on a high school diploma? Most of them attempt to attend a community college, but the completion rate for such students is very low.

There's no loving Mom & Dad to send a care package when the semester gets tough. No card with a check in the mail from a concerned person in your home church. When that car breaks down? There's no Dad to come fix it while you drive his to your part-time job.  And when illness strikes 4 months into your first semester? There's no Mom to bring you home to see your family's general practitioner, nor help you make a decision about sitting out the next semester or hanging tough. School loan? There's no one to co-sign or back you up.

Every year as I hear these stories, my heart breaks for kids like this.

I had the privilege of attending a private, Christian college. One of the girls I worked with in the cafeteria was from a children's home. She was one of the sweetest, hard-working, and devout believers I met during my four years. Had it not been for the South Carolina churches and women's group helping out, there's no way she could have made it through. But for me, one of the saddest things to witness was watching her search for "home" during the holidays. The directors of her home allowed her to stay in their personal house with them since she was no longer eligible to stay in home dorms. I know how difficult it was for me for my parents to move while I was overseas and come home to a strange place, but I cannot imagine the void of wanting to go home for spring break or winter holidays and there simply be no definite place or people to go home to.

Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world. James 1:26-27

Not sure what the answers are, but we're praying for a young man who is desperately praying for scholarships so he can attend a pharmacy program at a state university. He's being realistic and has applied and been accepted at a local community college in case the funds don't come through for his dream. He's also working and saving money now for the months ahead when he's on his own. If he doesn't receive positive word in the next month, I may ask you to join me in praying about how you can sacrificially help this young man who has a dream, but no parents to help him fulfill it. Some days it seems everywhere you turn someone is asking for money. Wouldn't it seem worthwhile to help someone who's NOT asking for it but clearly needs it?

rat race

crazy dream with 20 kids
happily disobeying, chattering Russian.
I am screaming to no effect,
yelling like my mother times 10.

obnoxious sound that pulses on,
my body moves and fights to find that stupid little switch.
the day begins
and i pray for grace and wonder why on earth
we should ever rejoice for this day that God has made;
he must increase and right now i really wouldn't mind if
i decreased to the size of a bug so i could crawl somewhere and hide.

another day of crazy tasks and things that everyone must do
to meet their deadline while the clock keeps ticking tocking
taunting that we may not finish.

i want to find that stupid book they call the simple church
and put it on someone's desk and ask them if it's a farce.
these projects are only paper; soon to be trash
and yet someone somewhere thinks it must be perfect
or that we simply cannot function without it.
i bite my tongue and swallow the words.
daring them to try it and see if they die -that
might be a satisfying thing to say but it
would not be prudent, as dear mom would say.

the printer jams; hit that wall and turn around;
i smell the cheese of freedom and fight to
make a hole, only to turn around and find the trick;
grab the key; run the next lap and clean my desk;
done, finished or not

head for home and see the bucket-
that white thing used as a seat
and sometimes a shade by the
homeless dude who's graced the
intersection of 401 and 10/10 for as long
as i've had this job and who called
the church when he went to the hospital
'cause the college boys here stopped to talk
him about jesus one day and he said they were
the only ones who really cared about him;
his bucket had fresh flowers and top and a home-made sign:
DAVID
3-xx-1962
2-22-2009
was this the guy?
or did someone else die here and use this guy's bucket
as a makeshift memorial?
i wrack my brain for an answer to the last time i saw him,
and can't recall.

a vapor

a piece of paper with a marker for his memorial

head home to the one who puts up with my random
thoughts even when he's tired and tackle chore and head to church
and am reminded to "just do it" and head home to go to bed
and hear the buzz and start a day

and this time start with praise...just do it.

judgmental

On Fridays at work, it is normally just in underlings. I think the Youth Pastor works Fridays to supposedly keep us in line (or maybe they just want a pastor on duty), but there's no other department head there.

About an hour before going home, my co-worker and I were hanging posters when someone started knocking on the glass doors. I looked up and there was this very rough looking man. He looked homeless. Linda goes and starts to open the door, and I whispered, "Linda, NO!" She laughed, then replied, "He goes to church here." I felt so ashamed. Yet at the same time, even though there were two of us and I've had a self-defense class a while back, I didn't feel safe letting in a creepy looking man with just me and a a sixty something year old woman. In retrospect, would I have reacted the same way had he been young and clean cut? Or a teenager?

It also reminded me of the homeless man at the corner of 1010/401 - the one who holds the Disabled sign but looks healthy. One day last week he was wearing shorts, and I about gasped in horror. His ankles were the same size as his calves, and his feet were so swollen they were about to pop. When he turned to face the next lane of traffic, I saw a deep gash on the back of one calf that had clearly been bleeding some. I wanted to sob, pack him up, and take him to the hospital. Yet I gave my normal wave and kept going. Bobby's always reminding me that not all handicaps are visible to the eye (like when someone takes the only wheelchair accessible parking spot and walks to the door without a limp). I don't have any answers for the right way to deal with such situations, but I don't think they're going to go away anytime soon.

absurd

The other day at work we were discussing the homeless men who frequent 1010/401. One of the three will periodically change his sign to list his various ailments. One day he simply wrote, Please Help. Disabled. It really made me mad. If he's well enough to stand at an intersection for several hours and hobble in and out of the car lanes, he could sit or stand at any of the various dry cleaners who always have a HELP WANTED sign and receive the clothes, throw them in the basket, and pin the tags on them. That doesn't take much more strength than holding a sign all day. While it might not give him a home, it would provide for his meals and basic necessities.

One of my co-workers was driving down Hammond Rd (which turns into Timber Dr), when she saw a homeless man at an intersection. She had just ordered a combo meal at Wendy's, and thought, "I really don't need my fries." She had already taken a bite out of her cheeseburger. She rolled her window down, and handed the man her fries. He looked at her, and said "No thank you. I don't eat fries. But that cheeseburger sure does look good." She stared at him a minute, pulled the fries back in her window, and rolled up her window. He continued to rant, "Must be nice to have a cheeseburger. I sure would like to have a bit of cheeseburger."

Now, I know the Bible says we're to go the extra mile, but somehow I'm like my coworker...that's just plain wrong. I whole-heartily agree with the Biblical principle that if a man doesn't work he doesn't eat, and this extreme pickiness of a beggar just seems absurdly demanding. I told Bobby the other day that in two years of working at MBC, I've yet to drive past that intersection without being greatly disturbed and bothered. And his response was "I hope you never get indifferent to such situations." Maybe he's right, but I think I'd feel a whole better if I just had a reasonable solution about what to do.