The Crazy Cousins

   So just the other day I went to the mall to replenish my dwindling make-up supplies.  I've been needing a lot of make-up lately considering James is breaking in four molars at the tender age of sixteen months and we ain't gettin' no sleep round here, ya heard?  Katherine insisted on coming.  Anything girlie and you've got yourself a friend in that little muffin.  While Cory and James spun the stroller way to fast through the racks of clothes, Katherine and I plopped ourselves down at the counter of Clinique.  A very nice lady (with perfect make-up) was quick to respond to her two new customers.
     As I started to chat it up with my Clinique friend, I noticed Katherine was awfully quiet in the chair across the aisle.  As in, if there is more than a 90 second interval between comments from her pretty little mouth, I know we're in trouble.  All of sudden, she breaks the silence:  "Whoa! Mom, look what I just got!", I hear from my little princess.   As the Clinique lady and I look over, Katherine hoists up one of the Q-tips used to apply trial make-up.  But it didn't have any make-up on it.  No, of course it didn't.  It had a huge ball of golden wax perched atop the puffy white throne.  She's OBVIOUSLY not girlie enough.  No more make-up trips for you, my little princess, until you're twenty-one and I can safely leave you at the Clinique counter without legal retribution.
    Of course, that little scenario ended with awkward laughs from my Clinique friend and a complete brain-freeze on my end.   On the one hand, I was tickled that she would see a Q-tip and start plugging away at her ear canal.  I mean, after all, that is what they're used for most of the time.  Score one for ear hygiene.  On the gigantic other hand, though, we're in the middle of the mall for crying out loud.  So my natural tendency to dive on top of her and stuff the dirty Q-tip down my shirt in the hopes that nobody notices anything that just happened, well it seemed a bit difficult to pull off.  So the next gut response was to just ignore, but I know Katherine and she will demand a response.  So if I don't want the soiled Q-tip shoved in my face thirty more times with "Mom, look! Mom, look!", I'd better give the dog a bone.  So, I did.  I swallowed my pride, looked at my beaming daughter and said, "Great job, K!  That's huge!".  And ordered five gallons of foundation in an attempt to cover my extremely red face.
    Of course, as I thought about this later, I was so glad I gave the response I did.  The temptation to shout: "What on earth are YOU doing????" and roll my eyes was strong but I couldn't bear to make her feel like she really did something wrong.  I chuckled to myself, thinking how confusing it is to be a kid and to try and figure this weird world out.  I could so see Katherine eyeing a huge basket of Q-tips and being so proud of herself for cleaning her ears on her own.  How deflating it would have been for me to have crushed her at that point.  It was most definitely the right choice to allow my ego to take the beating instead.
    Seeing the world through the eyes of children is an experience in and of itself.  I am consistently amazed at the rapid pace by which Katherine is able to process things.  Her mind is so much quicker now, noticeably more so than even a mere six months ago.  On the way to church last Sunday, she came out of nowhere with this whopper: "Mom, where is heaven?"  Ummm..... and I'm a theology teacher.  C'mon, Moll, you gotta be able to answer this one, huh?  After numerous stutters, Katherine tried to help me out: "Is it in the sky?" she asked.  I thought that was interesting that she naturally went to the sky.  It is, after all, where many of our ancestors truly thought heaven was- thus, the popular reference to the sky being "the heavens."  But I was struggling to know whether or not I should just stay simple and familiar ("yes, Katherine, it's in the sky") or try to be a little more accurate without being fearful ("we have no earthly idea where heaven is--- Pope John Paul made mention once that it was more of a state of being than an actual place").  Calm down, I didn't actually tell her that.

     I ended up just saying "Katherine, heaven is where Jesus is, and when people die Jesus comes and gets them and takes them there but we don't really know where it is until we die."  Of course, that satisfied her for about twenty seconds.  Then it was "Does He fly to us or does He walk to our house?  Does He have a car?  How does He know where I live?"   I was on the hot seat but trying not to let it look like I was.  I was slightly overwhelmed with trying to help a three year old understand "mystery" (which, by the way, is pretty much impossible) and yet give her the answers to her questions.  Three year olds are very used to getting answers.  Why is the grass green?  Well, cutie pie, there's something called chlorophyll.  Why is the sun hot?  It's basically a giant ball of fire.  And so on and so on.  But when it comes to Jesus, well, there's a lot that cannot be explained so easily.  And my three year old finds that frustrating at times.  And I'm right there with her.
     It seems like the trend in our culture is the quick-fix, the one-liner, the snappy comeback.  If you can't fully explain yourself in a five minute interview that will be edited down to three, well then you must not know what you're talking about.  You're an idiot.  You're hanging onto archaic beliefs- I mean, this is the 21st century, people 
(No. Way.  By golly, let me go ahead and pull my Laura Ingalls apron off and undo my double braids down the side).  Can you tell that last one makes me want to stick shards of glass in my eye?  Okay, sometimes I want to stick it in their eye, yes, but Laura Ingalls would never.  And I'm still way back in the 1800's, thank you.

     It's where people of faith, people who know Jesus is not the God-Man of the snappy comeback, struggle.  Because it's a whole world-view we're talking about- not just the controversial issue of the day.  And it makes me mad when Catholics get a bad rap.  Like, super mad.  People aim their witty arrows at the various beliefs of a two thousand year old Church and try to mock it with snippets of pseudo-sense.  The deepest one goes in evaluating the moral essence of an issue is "Does it make me happy?" and if the answer is in the affirmative, well then, by all means it's a green light.
    In the frustration we encounter in trying to explain ourselves to a world we are increasingly becoming an alien to, we have to be grateful.  Grateful that we have been to the deep, and it's beautiful.  Grateful that, even though we might lose the battle of witty conversation, we will win the war of lasting value and meaning.  We know, even though its still a daily struggle, that to seek the pleasure and happiness of self is often nothing more than a clever maze, taking you down roads that lead to the familiar dead end.  It's the epitome of the smoke and mirrors.  How could it be wrong to go fully in the direction of personal satisfaction?  Doesn't God want me to be happy?

      And again, on a Facebook status or in the comments status under a Yahoo story about God-only-knows-what, it's hard to put the one-liner:  "Of course God wants you to be happy....sort of" or "God wants you to be holy and to find happiness in that" or some other clincher that will transmit profound theological truths and not bore in the shockingly short process.  It just doesn't happen.  I'm not saying profound things can't be said in a line or two but to deal with complex issues in superficial ways is almost always going to be found entirely insufficient.  But, I'll be damned if I don't try.  I am not exactly known to let controversial issues slide by the wayside, if you know what I mean.  I find it nearly impossible NOT to say something on a raging controversial Facebook thread.  The more cutthroat the posts, the more I feel the unbelievable urge to hoist my neck on the chopping block.  But I'm here to tell you it's insufficient.  It's twisted.  It's the speech into the microphone as the ship is going down, only to lose electricity as you come upon your most important point. Galling, I tell you.
    The mystery remains.  For a three year old.  For me.  Even what we do know sometimes can't be communicated in the most comprehensive of rebuttals.  Whatever.  We'll never have all the answers.  Will Jesus come and get you in His Cadillac, Katherine?  He just might.  I have no idea.  Does He know where you live?  Most certainly.  You're his daughter and He keeps a vigilant check on all His girls.  Does God want you to be happy?  Read up.  It's the best, most concise, answer I can give.  Read the whole Bible and get someone who knows a whole lot about the Bible to answer your questions and then you tell me.  Don't read "101 Bible Verses that Seem to Point to the Fact that Yes, God DOES Want Nothing But Our Happiness" or "Five Thousand Ways to Distort Everything in the Bible to Fit the New Religion You Just Founded Upon Yourself."

 
 Those are my answers to the hostile crowd.  Confused about contraception?  Read.  Think the Church is anti-science because of its embryonic stem-cell stance?  Read.  Think the Church treats women like trash?  Read.  And after you're done reading everything you can find your hands on, talk to someone.  Someone who knows a lot.  Someone who seems to think deeply and still thinks differently from you.  I'm not saying you'll change your mind.  Far from it.  But you might think we're pretty modern for wearing aprons and braids.  You just might be surprised that we, indeed, are thinking.  We're not idiots.  We're not your crazy cousins that just haven't quite finished evolving yet.  We just take a lot longer to get to know.  We are a people of the coffeehouse, not the Twitter feed.

Duking It Out

     Isn't it weird how some memories just stick out from your childhood over the years and years of life?  Sometimes, it seems, it's not even the important stuff (or the stuff you thought at the time was important).  For instance, I remember when I was about five and we went to Disney World.  Well, okay, I don't really remember anything about Disney World other than learning to tie my shoe.  Isn't that strange?  Of all the life-changing experiences I had there (meeting Mickey Mouse, riding roller coasters, etc:), I remember learning how to tie my shoe.  I am either really dull or I don't understand how memory filings work.

The cutest little sister in the world

     I remember the first time it became clear to me that Emily was different.  Isn't that weird that I didn't really know all along?  I mean, after all,  I was almost seven when she was born.  Isn't seven old enough to know someone is different?  Not this brilliant cat.  It's hard to communicate to people what it's like to grow up with a sibling who has a disability.  It's hard to step back and look inside your family and reflect.  Because, at least for me, it was "normal."  It's confusing sometimes to separate what I thought was normal from what most people would consider normal.  Does that make sense?  I think, as children, we all grow up thinking that our lives are not really unique in any way.  We don't have the perspective yet, or the experience, to realize that each person has a different way of experiencing the world.  Even in the same family.

Em with her big brother and brother-in-law

     I remember, shortly after she was born, my father called us into my parents bedroom and it was dark.  Not sure if it really was dark or if my memory has painted it such.  My mother was propped up on pillows in bed, crying.  My dad sat next to her and held her hand as he spoke to us very frightened kids.  I don't really remember his exact words but it was something to the effect of "something is wrong with the baby."  No words he spoke could have made me understand the gravity of the situation more than my mother's tears.  I had no idea what he was talking about but I knew we were sad.  I ran up to my room and flopped on my bed.  Interestingly enough, I clearly remember yelling at God in a whisper as fiercely as a little girl can: "Why did You do this to us?!?!  Is it that hard to make a baby normal?!?!  I hate You!"  Looking back, I find it terribly interesting that I had enough of a grasp of the concept of God at that young of an age to know where to lay the blame.  I'm sure the anger of a seven year old was distressing to Him, not because He thought it inappropriate, but rather that even God Himself probably struggles to communicate the intricate weave of a blessing to a child.  Blessings take time and time is a foreign concept to the young.  Just wait, I'm sure He wanted to whisper back.  But no seven year old has a concept of future clarity.  At least this seven year old didn't.

Em loves babies- except when they cry or have a dirty diaper :)

    They brought Emily home and I was astonished to see that, well, I didn't see anything wrong with her.  She didn't have a tail, or only one eye, or even multiple limbs.  What's all the fuss about, people?  To add to the confusion, she looked perfect to me.  If only I could have expressed that wisdom to the adults.  She cried, she pooped, she drank a bottle.  She, in fact, was a baby!  It was a seven year old girl's dream to have all of this real baby gear to help aid my imaginative play as the mother to several unruly children with plastic heads and bodies.   I remember frequently stealing her nice, soft diapers to put on my very hungry babies, much to the consternation of my mother.

    The years went on and Emily became an intricate part of the memories of my family.  I stopped being able to remember, at some point, what life was really like before she was there.  All three of us older kids were very much into sports and Emily tagged along to the gym to watch endless basketball and volleyball games.  Our teammates and the other parents took to her with great affection.  Everybody loved her and it all seemed normal to me.  If anything cruel ever was said or happened, it must have flown blissfully over my little brown head.  

Three sisters and a baby.

   Until one morning.  I must have been around ten, and Emily was three.  My family and I went to Mass and stopped by the grocery store after to pick up hamburger buns (again, why do I remember hamburger buns???).  I volunteered to go inside and Emily insisted on coming with me.  Grabbing the money from my dad, we ventured across the parking lot of the Winn-Dixie.  As we passed through the automatic doors, a little girl was leaving the store with her mother.  I made eye contact with the little girl and realized she was staring at Emily.  She yelled out something to the effect of, "What's wrong with her?" and was quickly whisked out of the store by her shushing mother.  My world stopped.  I remember looking back at the hand holding onto mine and tracing it up to an adorable face with eyes the color of blueberries.  Emily was staring at me, oblivious to the charge of the fellow three year old.  I tried to catch my breath.  

     Part of me honestly wanted to run outside, tap the little girl on the shoulder and as she swung around, yell "Put your dukes up!!!".  No, really, I wanted to beat a three year old up.  Of course, you might say, she didn't know what she was saying.  And, obviously, she didn't.  But it didn't matter.  Emotions came flooding into my heart as I glimpsed for the first time what others really saw.  It was painful.  It was maddening.  I saw with horror that they didn't see her.  In an instant of crossing paths, they didn't see that she was full of clever mischief.  They were blind to the fact that she was hilarious and often left us rolling with laughter.  They couldn't tell that she was loved immensely.  They just saw a difference.  And that made all the difference to me.

Em loves animals, especially dogs and horses.

     I clearly remember squeezing Emily's hand, trying to fight tears that were quickly forming.  We resumed our walk towards the hamburger buns but my mind was on fire. What if someone makes fun of her and I'm not there?  What if they make her cry?  What if they don't understand and think she's something less than she is?  What if they hurt her and I'm not there to beat them up?  The first feelings of intense protectiveness were born.  Never, really, to subside.  I have yet to beat anybody up over it, but my fists seem perpetually clenched at times in dread of the moment should it ever arrive.  

    This is partly where my passion for the special-needs orphans comes from.  Born from that moment when I felt like Em was being attacked, was being viewed as something less than she was.  It's what I see in the loneliness of the children who are hidden away with no one to fight for them.  I try to "put my dukes" up everyday in some small way to fight for these kids.  Don't you see?  In some very real way, Emily's face is on each of them.  I don't need to fight for Emily right now but the ever-present adrenaline from the moment in Winn-Dixie pushes itself to the forefront when I encounter in another what I feared would happen to her.   Where is the mother who will fight for her baby?  The father who rests peacefully at night knowing he has protected the most vulnerable in his care?  I feel an irresistible urge to reach out and squeeze their hands, to let them know I will step in and go to battle for them.  Even from thousands of miles away.  I can't protect each of them like I want to.  I can't be a big sister to all of them.  I can't be a mother, at least right now, to any of them.  But I'll do what I can.  I'll do what I must.  Because, if it was Emily out there in some man-forsaken crib, I'd hope somebody would step up to the plate for her.  These are kids, for crying out loud.  These are human beings.  Each with a unique fingerprint of God Himself.  They are our sisters and brothers whether we accept them or not.

     

Emily caught the bouquet at my wedding, after mowing down several small children.  The girl's competitive, people ;)

P.S.

     Well today, my friends, is the 21st of the month and this is the day we're fighting for Ruslan.  Or cheering for him, however you'd like to think of it.  Today is the day we pull back from the hectic pace of our lives and remember those who bear an ungodly amount of boredom in their cribs day after day after excruciating day.  Far away but intentionally brought closer.  Today is the day we remember a boy who has made very little memories in his life- and we see fit to try and change that.  We, the Baboushkas, find great purpose in trying to change the life story of a little boy with just a tad too many chromosomes to be held in esteem by this weird world we live in.  Never fret, Ruslan, in the world of the Babouskhas, today you are king.

   

    And I dare anyone to find a more adorable member of a royal family.  This picture looks to be from the baby house, when Ruslan was younger and probably better taken care of.  They don't allow pictures once the child is transferred to the institution- or at least they rarely do.  My mind wanders to try and guess what he looks like now.  I try to remain positive.  It's the only way I can keep myself from not getting overwhelmed.  From not collapsing into an adult temper tantrum.  I have to believe he is okay.  Not living a dream in any way, but okay.  He's fed and talked to and maybe, just maybe, tucked in at night?  I desperately stretch my imagination to let my conscience rest.  A survival instinct of the most brutal kind.     

     If you have anything to give, please join us.  Our Ruslan needs a family to start creating new memories with.  He needs hearts who will fight for him.  He's our brother.

Monkey Bars

Guess I needed a wake-up call to make me realize I'm getting OLD.  We just got a new (well, used- I love Craigslist) swing set for the kids.  This thing is awesome.  Here's a pic of the kids attacking it at the old owner's house:

Isn't it great?  Well, let me tell you, the devil himself resides just above those swings.  There's about ten horizontal bars some people call the MONKEY BARS.  I call it the "Armpit Rip."  Katherine asked me the other day what they were for and I was so excited because in my much younger days I loved the monkey bars.  At good ole' St. Peter's school we'd swing across them, ensnare a leg on one bar and pull ourselves up to sit on top of them.  And I didn't gloat about it like I should have.  Because I thought EVERYONE can do the monkey bars.  Not so fast, monkey girl.
    So, to explain to Katherine how the monkey bars work I decided she needed a demonstration.  And, because I lost all humility as I have aged, I wanted to gloat about the acrobatic tricks I could do on this magnificent apparatus.  Cory, my Monkey Bars coach, said it's all about momentum.  So I, being the obedient sort of wife, too his advice and got a running start.  Here's what that gymnastics routine looked like:

Whhhhhaaaaaattttttt.  Of course, you can see that the swings below provided a much needed additional obstacle to moving across a bar or two.  What happened to my upper body strength over the last twenty-five years?????  Have I declined that rapidly?  Is it a lack of upper body strength or, ahem, a burgeoning of the lower half?  My sweet Jesus, don't tell me.  Either answer would make me want to punch somebody in the face.  Although it probably wouldn't hurt considering I apparently don't have much upper body strength anymore.  It was almost more than I could bear.  And then Katherine decides to make me feel better by yelling: "That doesn't look hard!"  Of course not.  Anybody can hang from a bar for three seconds, grunt like a dying hippo and drop.
     So I decided to turn to Dr. Google for help.  I entered "Monkey bars adults" into the search engine and waited eagerly for an explanation as to why I can't swing across one ring, much less ten.  Dr. Google, for the first time in his existence, was silent.  Was I really the first person to ask that?  Why are people not flocking to some ridiculous website to seek answers about the draining of our fountains of youth?  What are you people doing all day?  Obviously not swinging on monkey bars.  How could there NOT be a study that has documented the fact that as people age the monkey bars become impossible?  Where is all of our tax money going?  Thanks, Barack.  Now I'll have to do my own study on it.  From now on, any adult that visits Howat Manor will be required to cross the Monkey Bars as I film it and post it to this blog to show that, indeed, I am not the only struggling monkey out there.  A glass of wine after your performance will be optional, of course.
       Dr. Google did provide some crazy CrossFit junk videos showing people who actually can cross the monkey bars.  They were such show-offs, lemme tell ya.  And yes, I did want to punch them with one of my two gimp arms.  See, I'm not talking about personal trainers being able to do it or bodybuilders or Marines.  Of course the people who work out all day can do it.   Can this lady cross the monkey bars?

I'm gonna say 'yeah.'  Mostly because I do not want her to hunt me down and beat me up and tie me into a pretzel on top of the monkey bars.  But it looks like it's her job to be able to do it.  By the way, do NOT google "body builder woman" and press "Images."  That is just so scary, y'all.
     Sadly, the monkey bars used to be less discriminatory.  You used to not have to have bulging biceps to enjoy them.  They have most definitely developed an air about them.  Just being honest here.  The sad truth is that I can still slide, I can still swing, but I would fail adult P.E. because of that wretched contraption.  My armpits literally felt like they were ripped in half.  How do you strengthen your armpits?  I'm not googling it because I'm still trying to get over the last couple of google images I saw.  Somebody look it up and message me.
     Am I the only one who has lost her monkey bar mojo?  See, I hate to be the whistleblower but I think we need to stare our aging selves in the mirror and decide to make a change.  Because I think we went from this:

to this:

in the blink of a wrinkled eye.  And dude on the ball, I am SO not making fun of you.  I would look like I'm having a heart heart attack, too, hopping on that ball.  And just to let you know, the crowd behind you looks to be enjoying your stress quite a bit.  And you don't look like you're enjoying yourself at all.  Why is bouncing on that ball not as fun as you remember it being when you were ten?  I just don't know.  I have NO answers for you, my friend.  Just stay the course.  Don't let the mockers get to you.  And challenge the lady in the blue shirt to take a spin on the ball.  That is the only way to get out of this scenario with your dignity intact.  She WILL look worse, I promise.  Scrap it if she starts to look blue in the face, though.  You don't want to get sued.
     It's been a rough go, I'll tell you that.  I tried to recapture some of my youthful essence by doing a cartwheel.  The world went black and I got a terrible headache for the rest of the day.  I'm not going to say it's only downhill from here, but if we don't start paddling in the other direction, well, the waterfall is right ahead.  My goal is, by the end of this summer, to be able to cross the monkey bars entirely, while three kids are swinging below.  I told you I dream big.  Either I will accomplish my goal or a small child will be decapitated.  The stakes are high, my friends.  Keep paddling.

P.S.
You know who would LOVE to cross the monkey bars?  Rose, that's who.  Take a peek at this cutie:

 

Four years old and from Latin America.  AND she looks like she could give some serious monkey bar lessons.  

P.S.S.

Cory was adamant that I put this video up.  

Whatever.  He's obviously been doing CrossFit on the sly.

Power

    Well that was one heck of a Lent, let me just say that.  Not sure if the ticker could have taken much more, but God has proven to be faithful as we've ventured out.  It's been five weeks since I first started blogging and advocating for little Colton (aka: "Hopper") on Reece's Rainbow.  It's been a crazy five weeks of begging people to donate, figuring out the best options for raising awareness in our community, and praying more diligently than I've prayed in recent memory.  So much good has happened.  So many people have inspired me.  So much is still left to be done.
   I've been thinking a lot about power lately.  What is power?  Who is powerful?  How can I become more powerful?  Better yet, do I want to become more powerful?  I've had a front row seat lately to the immense power that lays at the feet and in the hands of each and every one of us.  Power to change ourselves.  Power to change our community.  Power to change the world.  I think we often buy into the lie that we're "just" one person, or one family.  What can we really accomplish during our lifetime?  It got me thinking....
    First off, there are the people that adopt from Reece's Rainbow.  I don't know any of these people personally, but they continue to shock me into faith by their unbelievable acts of signing up to take home the weakest and most vulnerable of our world.  I scan the faces of the "chosen ones", the little ones who sparked some kind of intense bond with people half way across the world.  I look at cute little Tony:

Those of you familiar with Tripp Roth's story will probably instantly recognize the ravages of EB already inflicted upon this sweet boy.  And yet, someone picked him.  To be their son.  Someone in this world saw his picture and said, "Ah, yes, that one.  He will be ours."  Take a look at the picture of Tony with his family:

Nestled among loving arms.  A child with a disease so scary, but a family with a heart bigger than any disease.  Can you believe?  Can you even comprehend what it takes to take that leap?  I wish more people knew that these people exist.  They are so darn, well, powerful.  When most people think of powerful, I'm sure they start with the famous examples:  the President, the Pope, Brad Pitt.  You know, the people who have the grand stage.  The people who can get BIG things done.  But my focus is changing.  I'm starting to see the power of the "little people" and what they can do.  Like Tony's family.  They're just a small little family but look at what they've done!  They conquered their fears.  They pushed away their doubts.  They let God do something amazing in them.  And I'm just sitting back and watching this.  Watching God make manifest his glory in the small.  In the weak.  In some small family who said some small "yes."

     More than anything, being a part of this journey so far has led me down the road of believing that we are infinitely powerful.  We have this incredible capability of being supernatural lovers.  We all possess, deep within, the divine spark that can light this world on fire with mercy and compassion if we just let it breathe.  If we just let go of the fears and doubts that extinguish what God can do.  

    When I had just finished high school (many years ago), I ran into a lady by the name of Bunt Percy at a restaurant.  Bunt is the wife of the late author Walker Percy, if you're familiar with his writings.  Anyway, the Percy's and my grandparents were very good friends and so we chatted lightly for a second.  All of a sudden, she asked if I would be willing to come on Fridays to the nursing home with her and a couple of other older ladies to help push the old people to Mass in their dining hall.  Honestly, I really did not want to.  Like, at all.  But Bunt Percy was not one to really take "no" for an answer.  After trying out several excuses and watching her shoot them down with her 4'10"ish self, I agreed to go.  

    Anyhow, I showed up every Friday for the next couple of months and helped these old ladies push old ladies to Mass :).  I met a lot of interesting people and have many stories to share about my experiences there.  But one stands out.  One that I still cannot talk about today with crying (I realize that doesn't say much).  One Friday, as I was heading out to leave, Ms. Bunt stopped me in the stench-filled hallway.  

"Oh, Molly," she began,"would you mind going and staying with Mrs. Parker in Room 122 for a little bit?"

Ugh.  And I had just started to count down the minutes until I would stop having to smell urine and see way-too-long toenails perched on the step of a wheelchair.  Agh.

"Um, okay.  Why?" I asked, trying to come up with an urgent excuse that would require me to leave immediately, like intentionally breaking my leg so I wouldn't have to stay.  You know, like that excuse.

"Well, you see," she replied, "Mrs. Parker is dying and I really don't like to leave anyone dying alone and I have a lunch date with some friends."

Okaaaaaaaaaay.  Wait, what?  Dying?  As in dying dying?  SOMEBODY'S DYYYYYIIIIINNNNNGGGGG???????  In all my Fridays that I had been there, I had never been around somebody dying.  Heck, I had never been around anyone dying in my entire life and I certainly didn't want that first experience to be imminent.   I was seventeen years old and had no intention of starting up a ministry for those about to hit the eject button.  Nevertheless, Ms. Bunt would not listen to my endless protests.  

     I began the walk to Room 122 and started to slightly panic.  What would I say to a dying person? Umm, sooooooo, do you like to read? Scratch that.  Who would want to read as they are dying?  I can't read to a dying person!  Imagine leaving this world to the sound of a seventeen year old reading some trash from a magazine she picked up on the way in here?  No. Way.  That would not be an appropriate atmosphere in the least.  Umm, soooooo, where'd you grow up?  Scratch that.  Who would want to talk about their childhood when they're about to kick the bucket?  Nuh-uh. I was always pretty good at casual conversation but it slowly dawned on me this was not the time for such friendly banter.  What on earth am I going to do?  I thought about just running out.  Or diving head first into a trash can.  Nothing could have been as tortuous as hanging out outside Room 122 waiting to stare death in the face.  I think I even moaned out loud as I opened the door.  I'm sure that was pleasant for her to hear as she lay there about to meet her Maker.

    And there she was.  It was a room for four people and she was in the bed closest to the door on the right.   Propped up on her pillows and dressed in a pale blue nightgown.  Her eyes were closed and her breathing heavy.  I remember standing there for a second just taking her in.  Her long gray hair was matted to her head but was long enough to reach just past her shoulders.  I was desperately afraid.  And then she opened her eyes.  I thought for a second I would just pretend I was a cleaning lady, straighten some stuff up and exit swiftly. But I couldn't.  She smiled and a I approached the bed, in awe that someone dying was actually still able to smile.  I reached out and held her hand and didn't say a word.  Partly because I was terribly afraid of ruining a person's dying moment with something really stupid.  Partly because it was kind of peaceful just standing there.  I started to pray silently with my eyes closed, frantically searching my brain for any prayers that mentioned death.  To my utter relief, the Hail Mary was a perfect fit.  I opened my eyes at one point and saw her bulletin board hanging behind her head.  The bulletin board showed pictures of her on her wedding day and pictures of what looked to be family.  I got sad, realizing she was once a healthy, beautiful lady and now was reduced to shallow breathing in a nursing home bed.   Where was her family?, I thought.  Maybe they were all dead.  They had better be dead.  If they did exist and they weren't here, I might have taken matters into my own hands.

    I don't know how long I stood there.  Not sure how many Hail Mary's I said.  But I will never forget one moment.  The moment this poor lady, taking difficult breaths and struggling to find a comfortable position, opened her eyes again.  Her big blue eyes began to fill with tears and they started spilling down her cheeks and wetting her gray hair.  I was about to let loose my own fragile emotions when she gathered up the energy to speak between struggling breaths.  "Thank you for being here with me," she said.  Whoa.  I realized how scared she was.  How comforting it must have been to have another human being lay witness to your death, a stranger though she may be.  I relaxed.  There would be no words necessary.  No poem would suffice.  All that was needed was a presence and a touch.  And, even at the young age of seventeen, I was able to give that.  

    She closed her eyes once again and lay back peacefully.  I recall that moment, as ironic as it might be, as a moment when I felt mind-blowingly powerful for perhaps the first time.  That, for the first time I could remember, I felt like my life had incredible meaning.  Apart from the grades, apart from the sports, apart from the social stresses of teenage life, I felt a strong purpose in there being a Molly Meredith on earth.  It was a "George Bailey" kind of moment.  What if I had never been born?  That lady would have been all alone.  I smiled at that.  Not in a weird way, but in a way that felt strong and empowering.    

     I'm forever trying to cultivate a realistic expectation of who I can be in this life.  A great mother- I hope.  An amazing wife- it's my dream.  A voice for the voiceless- yes.  Having the honor of being the voice of Hopper has filled my heart in so many ways.  Seeing people respond to his little picture makes my heart go deep, deeper than it's been in a while.  Down into the trenches of the human experience.  Into the sufferings of the silent.  Into the pain of the neglected.  I have crazy dreams for these kids on Reece's Rainbow.  And I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that God can do powerful things in me.  And not only that He can, but that He must.  I will not stand by and let these kids waste away in an institution.  I am no Brad Pitt.  I am no Pope Benedict.  But I am me.  And you are you.  There are small missions and big missions for all of us.  Things that no one else can do.  And if we fail to let God take our lives as His own, those things will not be accomplished.  Never doubt that you were put on this earth for amazing things.  Amazingly small.  Amazingly big.  It really is all the same.

P.S.

It's Heath's eleventh birthday today.  Won't you say a small prayer that somebody will look at him and see their future?  A lady that visited the institution where Heath lives said he was small, dirty and alone.  A raw sob almost bursts out of me when I read that.  But I won't despair.  I'll go on believing the small people of the world will see him one day.  And in his smallness, they'll recognize him as their own.

I Never Said I Was a Science Teacher

Oh my goodness.  You know those times when you can't believe children are actually entrusted to your care?  I totally had one of those moments this week.  And let me just say, I am no stranger to embarrassing moments.  Not even a little bit.  I have so many horrendously embarrassing moments I can recount in my life, that they just stop seeming embarrassing because there's so many of them.  It becomes quite comfortably seen as normal.  Ahhhhhhh.
   So I take the kids and our dog, Boo Boo ("Boobs" for short), out for a walk nearly every day.  It's a nice break for all of us and Katherine makes sure that she fills in the quiet, nature time with incessant talking.  So, we ventured out with both kids in the stroller and Boobs on the leash.  Let me back track a little and tell you that we've been watching a chrysalis (for all you laymen out there, it's a "cocoon" for butterflies.....I think) that has been attached to a branch on the tree in our front yard for quite some time.  This one seems to have a "failure to launch" issue, as it seems like it's been there forever.  But the Howat lepidopterists (those who study butterflies) are holding strong, intent on seeing this butterfly bust out of its cozy home.  So, anyway, we start our walk and as we're trekking it on the sidewalk we come upon what looks like- could it be?!?!?- a cocoon on the sidewalk!!  What luck!  So I figure the butterfly must have busted out and the cocoon fell in the process onto the sidewalk.  Let the science lesson begin!  Eek.  I yelled to Katherine-
"Katherine! Look!  The cocoon!!!"
She got soooooo excited and hopped out of the stroller to take a look.  We both bent down towards the long, brown beautiful cocoon.   I didn't see a hole in it and started to worry that maybe the butterfly was still inside and it had gotten knocked out of the tree by a mean bird or a clumsy squirrel.  Stupid squirrel.
I rolled the cocoon over and inspected every angle for a possible "exit wound."  Nah, notta one.  Hmm......I was lost in this moment of intrigue when Katherine suddenly pipes up:
"Mom," she began, "this smells like dog poo."
"What?" I asked incredulously.
"I think this is dog poo, not a chrysalis," she states matter-of-factly.
I. Was. Aghast.
It was dog poo.
Are you kidding me?????
Katherine starts hysterically laughing and I realize it's even too late to save face.  Whatever.  Get back in the stroller, I growled.  So much for science class.  I think I have definitely sealed the deal that I will never be homeschooling our kids.  Like, EVER.  When the 3-yr old has to tell you that you're basically sticking your hand in dog poo, that's when you know your teaching days are over.
Okay, so, here's a picture of a chrysalis:

And this is dog poo:

Except that's not the dog poo that I touched.  My poo was MUCH more real looking.  And there was only one, um, stalk.  Don't even tell me you don't think that first picture looks like dog poo.  And don't even let me hear you say that the second picture does not look like the first.  If that thing was on the sidewalk, everybody would think a butterfly was about to hit them in their face.  Everybody.  Except my super smart three year old and her impeccable nose.

The moral of this story is that I need to stick with saving special needs orphans from around the world and stop talking around my kids.  So, that's what I'm going to do, people!  Okay, so, let's switch gears.
   First things first, we got Colton (aka "Hopper") to the Sizeable grants list!! Yay!!!  The Baboushkas (our pledge group- you know, like a sorority) have worked so hard and we raised enough money to get him on the coveted list.  I am so intensely honored to be in touch with so many amazing people who care about these kids.  I hope all of you who donated know how much I hold you people up and admire you.  Amazing.  So, as promised, now that we sent Hopper to the "big league", we'll start to fundraise for another cutie.  Let me say, Hopper will always be #1 in my book and I will continue to pray like the dickens that he gets picked.  But since we've put him in a position where he has a good chance to get picked, we're going to put our money on another child to help them get into a better position.  So, without further ado (drumroll please), our new little cutie-patootie that we will be fundraising for is...............
                                                    RUSLAN!!!!

Couldn't you just tickle him to death?  Look at those flashy overalls!  My, my Ruslan, you are too cute for words.  As I've said in a previous blog, my poor Ruslan has already been transferred to the institution- but they have kept him open for adoption nonetheless!  A blessing in and of itself!  Ruslan will turn TEN this November.  And has no idea what a family is (sniffle, sniffle).  He has Down Syndrome and is positive for Hepatitis B.  But, you know what?  I know all that doesn't matter to some families.  You could put that he has three heads and does nothing but spit and SOME FAMILY- SOMEWHERE- would pick him.  It's just how amazing people are.  So, I know, that some family out there is not intimidated by Down's and Hep B.  And we're going to fundraise for Ruslan like it's his birthday until that fabulous family comes along and scoops up this little boy and teaches him the love of a mom and dad.  That's my dream for you, Ruslan!  That you know, even before you lay your sweet head on the lap of Jesus in heaven, that some human being loved you as their own.  I believe in you, kid.  

    And, as always, if you are interested in joining our super-exclusive Baboushka group, all you have to do is say the word!  You can pledge $5, $10, $50- WHATEVER.  We're not extremely, you know, picky.  One day a month we load on the love for a special kid and get the joy of watching his fund virtually explode.  And, get this- we even take MEN!!  Yes, even though I have YET to have a member of the male gender ask to be a part of our group, I know that God, indeed, does work in the hearts of those with XY.  I just know it.  If you would like to change the course of history and be the first male member of the Baboushka group, well, I know the ladies would welcome you.  Wouldn't we, ladies?