Hopper

The orphan insanity continues!  Just to fill in those who are interested: My older sister, Amy, had signed up to be a prayer warrior for Bernadette.  Who's Bernadette, you ask?  Just the most adorable fifteen year old imaginable.  Take a peek:

Wwwwwhhhhaaaattttt!!!!!  She was so excited to have her picture taken.  Of course, we would never have guessed based on that spectacular smile, eh? Bernadette currently resides in an adult mental institution in Eastern Europe.  She will be turning sixteen in November and would be considered an "adult" in the eyes of the State and therefore not be available to be adopted.  Each region in each of these countries has their own way of doing things.  While some regions forbid adoptions once the child turns four or five, others make exceptions.  For example, the little girl at the adult mental institution in the Diane Sawyer video named "Masha" has recently been put up for adoption.  The director of the institution made a special exception in her case because of her newfound fame and put her up for adoption on a trial basis.  Pray, pray, pray that Masha gets adopted!  Anyhoo, after a couple of weeks of incessant tears over Bernadtte, we just received word that a family will be officially committing to her soon!  O my gosh!!!  Some people are AMAZING.  Now, all credit to my sister, she was preparing to speak at a church this weekend about Bernadette and has cried the tears of a mother over this child.  Amy would have committed to Bernadette herself but the country Bernadette resides in forbids single women to adopt.  Whatev.  All hope is not lost, though.  Some sweet family saw her picture and fell in love.  We look forward to following this family's journey to pick up their beautiful girl.  Bernadette, you will not spend the rest of your life in an institution.  YOU, my friend, will be part of a family.  Where you belong, girl.  Sniffle. 

The news front on Colton isn't quite as dramatic.  Pleasant but not dramatic.  I received an updated picture of him.  Let me pull out my virtual wallet and show you:

Always dressed in green, this little one!  Therefore, I have affectionately nicknamed him my little "Grasshopper" or "Hopper" for short.  Everybody knows I love me some nickname action.  Hopper seems a bit thinner here.  Not sure if that's just because he's older or if I should definitely hit the panic button.

They had BETTER be feeding Hopper or I might just lose the last couple of marbles rolling around in my spacious cabeza.  Of course, it also worries me a bit that he's laying down in both photographs.  And then there's the obvious fact that he's not smiling in both photos.  As you can see, I worry about Hopper like he's my own.  Every night I tell my guardian angel to tell his guardian angel that he has a secret admirer.  Hoping the message isn't lost in translation.  He obviously doesn't look like he's just heard he has a secret admirer, now does he?  Hmmmm.   I want so bad to pick him up and hold him and say, "Hopper!  Why the frown, little guy?" or "Hopper!  Do you know you are loved?"  I want to shout it from the rooftops, actually.  Something along the lines of: "Hopper!  Someone cares if you live or die!  Even if every single thing in your life points to the opposite, someone cares intensely about your life."  I can't help it.  I hear what the orphanages are like.  That they're eerily silent, because the children give up their voices quickly when they realize no one is listening.  That right there is enough to make me vomit.  

     Then, there's the malnutrition thing.  Here's an example.  A family just adopted a little Down Syndrome boy from Eastern Europe.  They already have a Down Syndrome boy and the two are ten WEEKS apart.  Get a load of the difference in size:

The one in the red shirt is their biological son.  The one on the right is the newly adopted little boy.  These kids are ten weeks apart in age.  Is that not unbelievable?  You hear about malnutrition and stunted growth due to neglect, but to see it is astonishing.  Human beings need touch to thrive.  To survive, actually.  These kids get the bare minimum.  

    All this information got me thinking, of course.  I'm doing my best to spread the word.  I'm praying fervently.  I'm studying our budget like I'm cramming for the MCAT, all to find ways to cut back so we can give more.  I feel overwhelmed at times, to be honest.  I feel like sometimes people think, "Who would want to adopt these kids?" even though they don't say it.  I know that with an abortion rate of 92% for babies testing positive for Down Syndrome in utero puts the odds against this mission.  After all, it seems many are resorting to murder to avoid even having a biological child with this type of special needs.  And, please, don't even start with the whole "it's not a person yet" crap.  I'm tired of the lies.  So very, very tired.  In trying my hardest to give these kids a voice, I find my patience with ridiculous propaganda at an all time low.  Just warning you.  

    The other day, as I was rambling off my list of things I'm thankful for, I had a revelation. No, not a vision.  Not even an inner locution.  Just a bright light bulb hopefully lit by something divine.  I thanked God for my home, my family, plenty of food, a nice car that is very convenient with kids, a big backyard and plenty of other things.  As I finished my litany, it hit me.  Hopper has NONE of these things.  It's not just that I have health insurance and he doesn't.  Or I have a house and he doesn't.  Or I have plenty of food and he doesn't.  The terrible reality is that I have many, many, many things and he has.....nothing.  Even the clothes he wears are the property of the orphanage.  That made me incredibly sad.  I have a problem giving up my addiction to McDonald's caramel frappe.  He has never tasted anything but a thickened concoction they feed them out of bottles.   This makes my eyes start to water.  I feel terribly selfish.  And don't pat me on my virtual back and tell me I'm too hard on myself, either.  No, sorry, I'm not.  It's time I woke up to this.  And, no, I don't consider myself a socialist.  There are severe injustices in this world and I don't want the government telling me to give more, I want my own heart telling me to give more.  

    While we increase the never-ending list of things we "must have", many people are struggling to exist.  Cell phones, retirement, savings for our kids college tuition, and all the rest of it.  I see it now.  These are luxuries many, many people in the world can't even conceive of.  We continue to box ourselves in with fear of future while the hungry of today stay hungry.  We lament another economic downturn while orphans stay lonely.  We save up money for our retirement in thirty years (if we even live that long- I'm getting downright morbid now) while many go without clean water.  What the h-e-l-l are we doing?  I know if you're like me, sometimes you just want to throw money at some charity and not be bothered anymore.  Cory, my resident professional in the fundraising world, calls it "donor fatigue."  Now that we're in the same business :), I have my own feelings about donor fatigue (and, let me say, Cory does not necessarily feel this way).  I am much, ahem, more "spicier" that he is.  But I'll tell you what I tell myself when I'm feeling like there's so many charities asking for money- get used to it.  It's what happens when you live better than almost everyone else on the planet.  The minute we start to feel sorry for ourselves as we're burdened once again by the poor, that's the moment we can safely realize we have lost touch.  

     I don't want to be selfish anymore.  I'm weary of asking myself, even subconsciously, what would make me happy.  I want Hopper to have a family.  I want Bernadette to know she's got a smile that lights up the darkest of nights.  I want little Ruslan,

 already transferred to the institution, to know that I'm sorry.  I'm sorry I haven't cared enough until now.  I'm sorry that I've been living a very comfortable life when all you really want is someone to call your own.  I'm sorry, Ruslan.  In some small but powerful way, I take responsibility for you.  And I cry while I type this because in my deepest of hearts, I know it to be true.  I've cared about myself for so long and nurtured my own dreams while others lay lying at my gate.  Forgive me, Ruslan.  

The Lottery

     I don't even know where to begin.  My life has literally been turned upside down this past month or so.  All because of this face:

 

I know, what a CUTIE!!!! He's one of the orphans on Reece's Rainbow (reecesrainbow.org), a ministry that focuses on awareness and fundraising for kids with special needs that are up for adoption in other countries.  Why don't we have a program like this in the US? Because there is a waiting list of about 300 families that want to adopt Down Syndrome babies.  We don't need it.  In some countries, special needs kids go to adult mental institutions at the age of four if they are not adopted.  About 80% of those sent to these institutions DIE within the first year from neglect.  There are just NO resources for families with these kids and they are seen as outcasts and not capable of having any kind of meaningful potential.  Well, you know I know different.  And so do a lot of other people.  We know that extra chromosome is something that makes that individual unique and special.  Something that makes them need to be treasured even more, not thrown away.  But that's what's happening.  

      Here's the thing.  I can watch a program, like, Whale Wars, and when they fish that

 big ol' blubbering whale out of his little, okay huge, spot in the ocean, I'm horrified.  When they kill the big fish and it starts to bleed I usually start to cry.  I start to think about the whale's mom and dad or maybe it's little baby whale that won't know where it is and I start to get choked up.  Then I get really mad at Japan.  Then I realize that not all Japanese people hunt whales so I stop being mad at Japan.  Then the show goes to a commercial and I go look for Doritos in the pantry and offer my hubby some and we might change the channel or we might continue to watch the whale carnage.  Okay, that's pretty normal, huh?  

    On the opposite side of the spectrum, there's my reaction to seeing orphans suffer.  I get a link from ABC news tonight with Diane Sawyer and I watch this: (*If the video doesn't work on this blog, you can access it here- http://reecesrainbow.org/background/in-the-news )

and I want to do this:

You get where I'm going with this?  I start sobbing so hard I can't even watch the end of the program.  I'm mad at Diane Sawyer ('how could you have done this story and not kidnapped a couple of kids while you were there?? What were you thinking?  Have you no heart, Diane?').  I'm mad at my husband ('Did you really just ask me to go get Doritos?  How could you think of your stomach at a time like this???' and then I go and grab the Doritos and open the back door and throw them outside to put an exclamation point to my disgust).  I'm mad at the world, begging for God to just blow us up and release us all from our misery- even though I was pretty content with life ten minutes ago, before I saw Diane.  I'm mad at Eastern Europe.  I'm mad at everyone.  I cry so hard I can't speak and then, after I calm myself down,  I tell my husband we're going to adopt.  No....literally.  If you think I'm joking, you don't know me very well.  Husband starts to sweat and says words like "maybe we should calm down first" and "I'd hate to make a rash decision" and I look at him like he's got three heads and a heart full of ice.  My eyes narrow and I pretty much groan the words, "You are NOT telling me we can't adopt a special needs child, are you?" and husband starts to back track a little and gets a cool rag for my exploding forehead and he rubs my arm and tells me everything will be okay and that all rats from a ten mile radius are in our backyard eating Doritos and I threaten him to make a big deal out of it.  Husband realizes he cannot rationalize with me for the next couple of days and so he backs off and I retreat into my little dark world.  So, you see?  I GO NUTS, people.  And I'm as serious as a heart attack. 

   So, after I cried for a couple of days and told God I was really, really mad at Him for creating the world, I decided it was time to act.  I put on a fresh pair of clothes, brushed my hair, and went to buy a lottery ticket.  It's what all passionate people do.  We gamble away all of our money to try and help the needy.  I had gone on Reece's Rainbow and signed up to be a Prayer Warrior for a little guy named "Colton" in the Ukraine.  Well, little does Colton know, but he hit the adoption jackpot when we picked him.  Because, as I said, I'm crazy and crazy people are annoying but we GIT 'ER DONE.  And let me tell you, I'm on the warpath.  We donated $20 to his account and husband said we could do that every month.  That was good for me for about twenty seconds.  I saw his account go up, I got excited, and then I got impatient.   "There's no way I can wait a whole month to see his account go up! He's going to think nobody loves him!"  Of course, little Colton is not yet two years old so he doesn't have a clue he even has an account, but you know, I know.  So, I decided I needed to win the Powerball.  It was the only logical conclusion to not having enough money to help the orphans.  God could fix the numbers and I could get the money and start funding adoptions like crazy and move to the Ukraine and rebuild the orphanages and hire enough staff for every kid to have a personal caretaker and.....well, you get the idea.  The only problem was, God wasn't holding up His end of the bargain.  He wasn't fixing the numbers.  Can you believe?  I know.  If faith is having your jaw hit the floor when you don't win the Powerball, I got plenty of dat.  I glared up at the sky one too many times these past couple of weeks, snarling, "I thought You said You loved the orphans????"  I did win $40 in scratch offs when I became desperate but even that started to pale in comparison to the extreme urgency of the situation.  I started to get upset and crawled back into my little black hole once again.  I was mad at everybody.  Cory wouldn't adopt, God wouldn't fix the lottery, people weren't lining up outside my house to organize a coup d'etat of Eastern European countries so I could become president and change the situation of the orphanages.  All my dreams were going up in smoke.  It was all going to pot.  

    And then.  Something happened!  I posted a link to Facebook.  Begging.  Looking for a spark.  Looking for some sort of response.  And a little light flickered.  A former student, Cherie, donated $20.  My cousin, Katie, said she would send out a mass email asking for money- which brought in $120.  My little flame started to get some much-needed oxygen.  I started to think, 'Well maybe everyone hasn't abandoned the orphans.'  Hope kind of made its way back into my heart.  So, here I am, trying to blog about it.  Trying to get people to 'go crazy' with me.  Are you out there, crazy people?  Will you help me help them before I'm the one who really needs help?  I'm desperate, people.  Desperate.  I can't look at the pictures on Reece's Rainbow any longer and not do everything in my power to help them (Prov. 3:27 "Do not withhold good from those who deserve it, when it is in your power to help").  This train is pulling out the station and I'm about to run over anybody who gets in my way.  Jump on, crazies, we're going on a little joyride.  Either that or we'll end up in a Eastern European prison and my children will learn about me through episodes of Locked Up Abroad.  Whatever.  

   Take a look at this video.  My husband and I put some of the kids from Reece's Rainbow on it to show you just some of the faces that are just waiting to be rescued, to be loved.  I also put some of the before and after pictures of kids who have been adopted.  Miraculous.  I cry every time.  Watch:

     In all seriousness, this is the plan I'm hatching.   I'm looking for people to pledge.  We're going to pledge $50 a month (or whatever you can afford) and, I was thinking, if we could just find ten other families or individuals willing to do the same we could go crazy on some orphans.  That would be $500 a month!  We could all pick one child to pray for and donate to until either they get adopted or their funds reach $2500- when they reach that amount they get put on the "Sizeable Grants" list which is really cool and really gives them a good chance of being chosen.  Then, we would pick another child.  Get it?  Doesn't that sound awesome???!?!?  If it doesn't work and kids aren't getting adopted, then we kidnap.  What?  Woos.  Of course, we need to watch every episode of Bear Grylls just in case we end up in the Ukrainian wilderness with several special needs children.  Be prepared.  Seriously, anybody wanna hop on this runaway train?  I need help.  We could do amazing things together, you-me-and God.  Get crazy.
   One last little thought.  Have you ever seen a picture of Jesus carrying the cross and think to yourself, "Gosh, I wish I was there.  I would have helped him!  I would have bust through the crowd and helped him a bit."  Well, here's your Jesus:

His name is John Mark.  And Jesus is still carrying his cross through the life of this child.  The loneliness of Christ did not cease to exist at the moment of His death.  It exists in each and every person who fails to know what love is.   Have you ever seen the pictures of the Holocaust and thought, "Why didn't anybody stand up???  Where were all the good people to put and end to the suffering?"  Well, here's your Auschwitz:

Little Nathan.  Seven years old and not a shred of hope in his red-rimmed eyes.  Made to stay in a crib all day long, fed only potato water, a suffering soul of the deepest kind.  Do we really believe every life is sacred?  What about his?  The Cross is still being carried, the horrors of Auschwitz haven't really ended.  They just take on a different face in every generation.  But the question remains, who will rise up?

     Fire me an email at senoritamolly@yahoo.com if you want to join the group.  Then we'll vote on cool names for our group.  I'm calling Chick-fil-A tomorrow to see what their fundraising policy is.  They like the Bible over there, and the Bible likes orphans.  It's a slam dunk.  I'm sure you'll start to see their cows holding pictures of orphans soon.  Dream big.

P.S. If ANY of you would EVER consider adopting one of these precious children, I hereby solemnly swear that I will become your Fundraising Director and make sure you get lots of money.   Do not let money get in the way of the dreams of your heart.  God will provide (Just don't play the lotto- He doesn't seem to dig it).

The Right To Cry

As I so often do, I found myself checking Tripp Roth's website this morning to see if his mother had updated his status at all.  If you're not familiar with Tripp's story, you can check it out here: randycourtneytripproth.blogspot.com  It is, by far, the most heart-wrenching, gut-emptying, tear-jerking story I have EVER read in my life.  And I'm a sucker for a sad story, lemme tell ya.  Just ask my husband.  He often finds me in the fetal position bathing in a my own lacrimation after having read some pitiful story of an orphan with no eyes who got ran over by a truck or an elderly man with no ears getting beaten up by a thug while doing his crossword puzzles.  Those are made up scenarios, by the way, but you get my drift.

So, after this last post I decided to read some of the comments at the end that readers had left.  Of course, 99% of them were just encouraging Courtney in her daily struggles and expressing admiration for the incredible mother that she is.  There was one that particularly caught my eye, though.  It was a woman who started off her comment with "And here I am complaining because my son may have eye cancer...."  Yeah....wait, what?  Your son has EYE CANCER?!?!?  Lady, can I, perhaps, indulge you with a little compassion here?  Call me cray cray but I think you might just deserve to do a little "complaining" at the thought that your son might have eye cancer.  This isn't a scratch on his cornea that will heal in a couple of days or a misplaced eyelash that is producing monumental irritation.  This is EYE CANCER.  Please, slap the wall and kick the door.

     Now, look, I know I'm hard on myself at times, too.  I get my guilt on when I realize I've been less than grateful for the gifts I've been given.  But there is something about that woman's comment that seems to turn things on its head for me.  It bothered me.  Don't get me wrong, I think I know what she is intending and she is an incredible person for seeing another person's suffering and being able to "get out of herself" for just a bit and realize that other people have it bad, too.  TOO.  I think that's my point.  Does the fact that our sufferings sometimes pale in comparison to another person's suffering mean that our tears are somehow selfish?  Do I just need to "shut it" when my head is throbbing because, God forbid, somewhere in the world right now someone is probably being beheaded?  "At least you have a head to hurt" the popular thought goes.  Gee, why thank you.  The simple fact of the matter is, hurt is hurt.  It might not be the same degree of hurt and it might not be even in the same galaxy as another person's hurt, but you're crying just the same.  And, by golly, it's okay to cry.

     Consider the mother that, every time their child skinned their knee on the playground, she whipped out a picture of a paraplegic and shoved it in the kids face: You think you got it bad, kid?  You think he wouldn't love to be able to feel his skinned knee right about now?  Sop up the tears and get back on the slide.  I mean, if we're going to start comparing everyone's travails side by side, do any of us ever deserve to let a drop of liquid leave our reddened eye?

    And that's where it's difficult.  Because so often we complain about inconveniences and annoyances and not hurt and pain.  And the humdrum of our own litany of pity starts to bore even ourselves.   But there is a difference between complaining about an inconvenience and suffering a real hurt.  Eye cancer in your son is a real hurt.  Being cold waiting in line outside the movies is an inconvenience.  When we complain about both it starts to blend inconveniences and real hurts together and then we feel guilty about complaining about both.  Or crying about both.  We easily lose sight of the fact that it's okay to cry and talk out our frustrations, even over the little hurts in life.  Isn't there a necessary compassion for the little hurts in life?  My kids hurt themselves all the time, from little bumps and bruises to big falls and big aches.  No, they're not dying, but they are hurting.  Other people might be enduring much more at the moment but they are the ones in front of me, the ones who need my compassion now.  And to them, it IS a big hurt.  So, while I think it quite healthy to expose ourselves to the incredible sufferings of those who endure unimaginable misery, I also think that minimizing our own disappointments about life isn't the right approach.
     We all have our own pain.  Plastering a smile on your face and a nice motto of "fake it til' you make it" is a bit overused.  Just cry, will you?   Because when God came to earth, he didn't make the small hurts seem trivial.  He cured a man who had a withered hand.  Yep, that's it, a withered hand.  No, the man wasn't dying.  No, the man wasn't paralyzed.  No, the man wasn't oozing pain from every pore in his body.  But he had a withered hand, and that must have been a royal pain in the behind.  And Jesus thought it worthy of a cure.  He didn't chastise the man about all paraplegics who needed him or the people who had children on their deathbeds.  Nah, he had compassion for the big hurts and the little hurts, and so should we.  

Snopes and the Dalai Lama

     Are you all constantly getting those emails that warn, especially women, about insanely scary situations that you must vigilantly be on the look out for?  The latest I received warned about being on a deserted road (of course) and seeing a baby carseat on the side with a blanket draped over it.  So, it warns, women have stopped to see if there, indeed, is a stranded baby in the carseat, only to be overtaken by a gang and beaten to a pulp.  Who needs Criminal Minds or Law and Order anymore?  Just take a trip to your inbox and let the various scenarios induce a fear-like coma in your vulnerable brain.
     I, for one, am especially susceptible to this and every other fear tactic known to man.  I was the junior high student who listened with utter horror as the D.A.R.E. program listed the possible outcomes of a play date with Mary Jane.  I was absolutely convinced she would fry my fragile brain in her malicious skillet.  Now, in this instance, fear might have been a good thing.  I've been drug-free since the epidural wore off at birth.  No regrets here, my friend.
     But fear can be an oh-so-heavy burden when, rather than using it as a psychological tool to stay away from hallucinogenic plants, we use it to cripple our grasp on the realities of this world and the relationships we have with our fellow fearer.  Aren't we afraid enough as a society?  Do we really need people to hatch up fake stories to turn our consistent shakes into uncontrollable convulsions?  Is the nightly news just too darn cheery for some people that they start devising other forms of mental torture for those who feel a tad too safe?  Seriously, where do these things come from?
    This is where the saving gift of Snopes comes in handy.  Snopes.com is my fear-conquering, virtual friend.  Snopes is where you can look up various reports and emails of horrific stories to see if they really are true.  Gosh, do I love this website.  I looked up the aforementioned story to check out its validity and, to my sheer delight, it wasn't true.  Just another one of the million hoaxes to get us to fear gangs.  Because, you know, we need a lot  of help in that area.  If I let you into a glimpse of my fear of drugs, you can imagine my fear of those who purportedly sell them.
     I tell you all of this because a couple of weeks ago I picked up Katherine from pre-school.  Just like almost every other time I've picked her up, there was an elderly Asian man standing outside the door waiting to pick up his grandson.  James, for some reason, loves this man and always smiles at him and tries to engage the elderly man in some form of baby communication.  And, I swear, the old man is just the cutest thing alive.  His smile is almost identical to that of the Dalai Lama's. And if you don't like the smile of the Dalai Lama, well,  there's not much I can do for you.  So, anyway, the man picks up his grandson and Katherine jumps into my one free arm.  Off we go.  But this day was a little different.  This day the Dalai Lama spoke to me in his adorable little broken-English way.
"You live near here?" he asked grinning.
I was a bit taken off-guard and always get a little antsy with a question like that.  Come fear, enter in.
"Uh, yeah, kind of...we live near the lake," I responded, intentionally vague.
"Ah, yes," he replied, "you think you could bring us home?" he asked, pointing to himself and his cute little Asian grandson.
Ok, so there it was.  A request for help.  Now, let me tell you, I previously saw the Dalai Lama and his grandson trying to cross Transcontinental after school one day.  I don't know exactly how far he walks but I told myself it probably wasn't far so that I could pass him up without guilt, my van emissions blowing in his wrinkled face.  Ugh.  So, here it was.  The Dalai Lama, with his big toe peeking out of his worn shoes, asking me for help.  And you know what?  I was afraid. 
     Let me completely humble myself and tell you what entered my mind when he was talking to me.  Before I found out about Snopes several years ago, there was a story circulating around during Christmas time about a lady who had gone shopping at a mall and encountered an elderly lady in the parking lot who looked like she was having trouble getting to her car.  So, the nice lady stops to check on her.  The old lady asks if the nice lady wouldn't mind bringing her to her car.  The nice lady says 'sure.'  The old lady gets into the nice lady's car and-- boom! Come to find out it was a man dressed as an old lady with a hatchet in his purse.  You can fill in the rest.  Now, even as I type this, I kind of start chuckling.  WHO WOULD BELIEVE THAT?????  Me. Oh, the more insane a story gets the more likely I'm going to wrap my fishy mouth around the stinkin' bait.  Even as I'm drug into the boat, I'm still trying to piece together how the story could have taken place and silently vowing never to help an old lady again.  And, apparently, an old man.
    To let myself off the hook a bit, I'll have you know I didn't have a third carseat for the little boy and I didn't have the third seat in the van up.  I had a brief mental image of me loading two asian males into the back of my van like some illegal-immigrant carpool.  Agh, this story is just not getting better.
    Bottom line is, I should have helped.  Yeah, I know its illegal to drive a three-year old around without a carseat.  Well, do I let the law shape all of my decisions?  Do I always drive the speed limit?  I know the law is meant to protect, but I think there are sometimes you should let compassion override.  The Dalai Lama's feet were tired.  The little three-year old's feet were tired.  Is it much safer to cross a busy street with tired feet and little feet than to ride in a car with an excellent driver :) for a couple of blocks?  I'm not telling anyone else what they should do, I'm just telling you what I wish I would have done.
     Because I saw the Dalai Lama's face when I told him I couldn't.  And he looked tired.  And my soul became tired.  Because I let fear make my decision.  Because I couldn't bring myself to override the thought of what I "should" do and replace it with what I "must" do.  Because, when I think long and hard about it, I am very afraid that if I passed the showers one day in a locker room and saw a young boy being brutalized I might give into my fear.  I might not run over and, if need be, risk my life and everything I have to save that boy.  Because I might listen to the law that says I just need to tell my boss and not listen to compassion and do everything in my God-given power to not sleep until I knew that boy was safe.  Because little fears turn into big fears.  Because people need me to not be afraid.  Because the little boy in the shower needed someone to take away his own fears.  And the adult was too afraid.
   

A Girl and Her Daddy

Can I gloat for a second?  I have an amazing husband.  Yes, today's our four year anniversary so I'm a little loopy in love.  But, seriously, can I brag a little bit on an amazing person?  I promise I won't make this whole post on Cory but he touches on so many areas of my life, its hard not to include him in every post.  So here goes.  If you're not married, read this post with eyes wide open.  You want a guy like the guy I got.  I promise.

I'm not going to spill my guts on every other guy I've ever dated, but suffice it to say I'm truly grateful I waited for the one I married.  It wasn't easy.  Can I tell you again? It wasn't easy.  It's not easy, in this world, to hold on to your morals stronger than anything else.  To love a God who demands nothing but the best from you and for you.

It's so darn hard to believe you're worth loving.  And I'm not naive enough to believe I'm the only person who feels that way.  We all feel that way, at one time or another.  So people give up.  They settle.  I settled in many a dating relationships.  God willing, I just didn't let it get any farther than that.  I could go on and on about how screwed up the whole dating scene is out there.  Believe me, if I ever write a book, it will be on that.  I've taught too many youth, especially young girls, who just don't believe they're worth much.  And can I tell you?  It breaks my ever-living heart.  Because now I have a little girl.  She's sleeping soundly right now with her little pink bunny in her bed.  But, I know.  I know what lies ahead.  It's the reason I can't seem to tell her enough how much I love her.  How easy it would be for me to lie down on a railroad track somewhere and get run over by a Greyhound train over and over again rather than see her get hurt.  But I know she won't be immune to the seedy voices out there outside of our house, outside of my arms.  Voices that tell her having a boyfriend in high school is worth any price.  Voices that tell her she better give it up or people will think she's a prude.  Voices that try and milk every last ounce of self-esteem from her little-girl body.  It's the same voices I heard for all those year.
I didn't listen to those voices.  Yeah, I shed a couple of tears over them, but I was always way to stubborn to give in the ideals another person had for me.  And, even when it seemed unbearably heavy, I held onto the belief that there was a God that loved me even if I was alone.  Especially if I was alone.  I've been made fun of more times than I can count for not giving in to the crowd.  Maybe it's the INTJ in me, I just learned not to care.  And that love of God was literally what enabled me to walk away when I knew someone wasn't worth my time.

Then I started dating Cory.  He's not perfect and neither am I.  But you know what?  Do you know what it felt like to date someone who thought that the fact that I hadn't slept with anybody was a inestimable gift?  Do you know what it was like to date someone who encouraged me in my walk with God rather than try and rip my hand out of His?  It felt like....love.  The past four years have had their fair share of ups and downs.  Its never easy creating a family.  But it's been heavenly in so many ways.

I distinctly remember a conversation I had with a guy I dated right before Cory.  Somehow the discussion came up about, if we had gotten married, how we would handle "family planning."  You know what his response was?  "You'll take the pill."  Not exactly a great opener for a "family" discussion, huh?  My response: "I've never taken the pill before and I never will."  He looked at me like I had three heads.  Seriously, he looked like he was at a total loss for words.  I told him I would want to use NFP.  You can probably guess what his response was.  I think there was a bit of a patronizing laugh and then something like, "That doesn't work.  No, we're not using that."  I had read and studied enough to know that I wasn't going to use artificial contraception.  But here was a test.  Twenty-seven years old and you're dating a guy that you really like but he seems adamant about using contraception, something that goes against my faith.  I really struggled with this.  Inevitably, the relationship came to an end not long after that discussion.  Do you know how much I appreciate being married to a man that doesn't want me to take a pill?  That I don't feel like I have to choose between making my husband happy and making God happy?  God, I feel loved.  We've had two children in four years.  We want more.  But, you know what?  I am so blessed to have a husband who cares for me.  Who doesn't want me to pop a pill to manipulate my hormones every month so that he doesn't have to play a part in the 'family planning.'  He's with me, and I'm one lucky girl.

Back to the girl thing.  The greatest gift I've given Katherine is her dad.  Because if I ever did come upon those train tracks somewhere, I'd find him already there.  He loves his children with a fierce love.  He doesn't play golf on the weekend or go fishing, he plays with his kids and fishes them out of their tents.  He doesn't go out drinking with his buddies, he drinks make-believe tea with his daughter at her tea party.  He doesn't look for any excuse to get away, he looks for any excuse to get home.  And that's all we can do.  I can't protect Katherine from those voices.  James, either.  But I gave them a dad who will walk with me as we build these fragile lives into stubborn lovers.  Stubborn lovers who will hold fast to the hand of God as tightly as we hold onto their chubby little fingers right now as we cross the street.  Stubborn lovers who know their value and won't let anyone convince them otherwise.  Stubborn lovers who will make authentic wives and husbands someday.  Stubborn lovers who will cherish their own children, the way their father and I cherish them.    It's all I can ask for.  It's what I was created for.  I waited for Cory Howat the way God waits for each of us.  Shoving away any voice that tries to tear us down and believe the lies.
I'll gladly spend the rest of my days trying to love Cory and love God.  And because I waited, my heart is not conflicted.

My Very Cheap 2 Cents

I'm going to stick my nose where it doesn't belong and give my two cents about this whole economic issue broiling in the ever-increasing utopian society we have here.  I know, it isn't polite to talk about politics, but I have never been known to choose politeness over a darn good opinion.  And just to warn you, in most ways I don't know what the heck I'm talking about when it comes to various economic theories.  I'm as dumb as rock when people start shouting out about the deficit, inflation, and windfall gains (what? no idea what that is, but it sounds like somebody's gettin' a whole lotta money in a windfall gain- ok, just looked that up and I was right on the money $$$- it means you won the lottery, pretty much.) Ok, so forget what I just said-maybe I DO know a lot about this.  Read on for more scarily accurate takes on our fiscal fiasco.

The frustrating part about this whole situation is that I don't agree with anybody.  At least nobody that seems to make it on the CNN ticker or nightly news websites.  The Republican vs. Democratic debates seem to be so stuck on their own talking points that nothing novel is said and people like me start to tune out.  So in my frustration, I tried to come up with a title for what I believe would be the economic basis for the Utopian Society of one Molly M. Howat.  What great, catchy tagline did I arrive at?  Capitalism with a conscience.  The terrible part is that this little phrase is anything but unique.  I typed it in google and got a gagillion articles.  Damn. Not all of the articles expressed the same idea I was entertaining in my head, but they used my cute little title just the same.
Ah well, so what do I mean by capitalism with a conscience?  That I think capitalism would work if people were virtuous enough not to get caught in the materialism trap.  That, ideally, people would be so invested in social change themselves that they don't need a stinking government to tell them where to put their millions.  They could derive immense pleasure from the beating the government to the punch, so to speak.  No, I don't really believe in long-term welfare but I do know that people who are born with a thousand strikes against them need a hand up from time to time.  Or need several hands up.

I remember one time my father encountering a homeless man outside the grocery store after Mass one Sunday.  I remember the man's red, alcohol-ridden face and the dirt and grime that seemed to cover every one of his aching pores.  Dawdling behind my father for a bit, I was a bit scared of the man to tell you the truth.  So unpredictable, these homeless people, I thought in my 10-yr. old head.  I wished my father would just quickly pass him by.  But typically, dad handed out a $20 to the man and wished him the best.  We hurried on our way, joining the rest of the family in our car.  I remember one of us bringing up the question of whether or not Dad should have given money to the man, given that he would probably just buy more liquor with it.  And I remember the gist of my father's response.  Whether or not the man purchased $20 worth of alcohol was on the poor man's soul, but whether or not my father responded to a man in need, was on my father's soul.  Yes, people could shout and disagree and whine that we probably should have walked back in the grocery and bought $20 bucks worth of apples or tofu or whatever, and you can disagree, but I think the point is a profound one.  How you respond to others in need is really the only thing you need to worry about if you want to talk eternal turkey.  How others use your gifts of money, time or talent is their issue.  Sure, if you have a ham sandwich, give a ham sandwich.  But if your family is waiting on you in the car and the choice is whether to give nothing or a $20, give the $20.  Your test is over.  Your Jesus has passed by.

Lastly, of course, I have to mention that great story in Scripture.  That Lazarus and the Rich Man story that I mentioned in the last post.  A priest once said the Rich Man went to hell not because he went outside and beat Lazarus every chance he got, or spit on him as he took his daily stroll to the ancient mailbox.  Nah, the Rich Man went to hell because he didn't even notice Lazarus was there.  Aghhh......I remember crying internal tears at that point.  Because when truth convicts, it often convicts with the power of being hit by a mac truck.  The danger is not in accumulating some random evil number of Valentino purses.  The danger lies in entering that every-tempting, insular bubble of social ignorance whereby we fail to hear the cries of those who live very near.
Don't be fooled.  It's so easy to do.  I do it daily.  My world shows its pitifulness in my complaining, because I haven't allowed myself to cross paths with those who are truly suffering.  I lament about some ridiculous triviality because I haven't walked the hallways of the stench-filled nursing homes in a tad too long.  I get irritated with a lack of "me time" because I've forgotten the faces of the mentally-ill I touched in a downtown shelter.  I whine about the fake leather starting to peel off of one of my high heel shoes because the sores on the feet of the Honduran orphans I held have become too distant a memory.  Let me not kid myself.  Just like the millionaires, my heart needs to be in the right place if this society will ever change.  If I can't see Lazarus, then how will I show others where he lives?

The Annoying Disciple....Me.

Bear with me.  I so wanted to name this post the Annoying Apostle since it had the irresistible charm of starting with double A's, but I thought the more traditional among us might get their panties in a wad if I put myself as an Apostle, which is typically reserved for men.  I won't go there.  I proceed.
   In my attempt to aid my husband in attaining his Master's degree in Philanthropy and Development, I decided to read a book titled "Richistan", which supposedly is a glimpse into the lives and thinking of today's wealthy.  And, of course, if you're in Philanthropy it would serve you well to understand the inner and outer lives of those you will probably be hunting down for money for the rest of your dear life. By wealthy I mean anywhere from, I think it was $10 million in assets to the billionaire "I have so much money I can't even count it all" group.  Let me tell you, this book blew me away.  Not because it discussed the elaborate butler school that some of the wealthy use, where the house boys (and girls) learn an elaborate dance to perform as they serve you your gold-encrusted meatloaf.  Ahh, no.  I was neither impressed with the "who-can-build-the-most-ginormous-yacht" race either.  

 

     What stood out to me the most was two-fold: Apparently, according to the aforementioned house servants, one of the biggest fears of a lot of super wealthy people is....can you guess?  Murder by a jealous family member? Nah. A recession?  Heck no.  Perhaps falling off their skyscraper-high decks aboard their fantastic yachts?  Wrong again.  It's GERMS.  Germs????  Really??  I was so tickled by this.  And yet, it so makes sense.  When you have so much money and are truly living the high life, I guess it would scare the Armani pants off of you that you might get sick and die and lose it all.  Second most intriguing point of the book would be the survey which asked the super-wealthy how much money it would take to give them a sense of financial security.  To which almost ALL of them replied with an answer that was twice as much as they currently had.  So, if they were worth ten million, they said it would take twenty million to feel at peace.  If they were worth fifty million, they said a hundred and so on.  Wow.  Okay.  Wow.

   So, as with most new tidbits of information, it got me thinking.  I read somewhere where Jesus talked more about greed and the danger of material possessions more than any other sin.  Would love to have the time to count that to see if it was true.  But just off the top of my head, I think that might be right.  I can think of numerous examples of Jesus warning about money.  One of my favorite is the story of the Rich Man and Lazarus.  Oh, golly gee, how I've thought about this story in my lifetime.  Too many times to count.  I won't copy and paste it from an online bible because I know everyone just tends to skip over bible passages, but I'll summarize.  It's that whole story where the rich dude lives the good life in his mansion and Lazarus is basically dying right outside his gate.  Then, as all good things must come to an end, the rich man dies and is sent to um.....hell.  Yeah, it always seems to get my attention when Jesus tells a story and it ends with someone's rump in eternal fire.  Holy Moses!  The dude went to hell?? Really? Like, the real hell?  Then I moan and groan and let out a primeval scream that says: "AAAGGGGHHHH!!!! I don't want to go to hell!!!"

       Seriously, I would have been one of the more obnoxious disciples.  Putting myself in that biblical setting makes me sweat.  I, no doubt, would have been sitting there, my loaves and fish in my pockets for my afternoon snack.  He begins the story of the Rich Man and I, enthralled with every word, marvel at his superior story-telling skills.  Then, He gets to the end and he just figuratively condemns someone to never-ending-flames.  I gasp! I fiddle with my loaves and fish and probably let out an unintended scream.  I then start to hyperventilate as I raise my hand, hoping to be called on by the Master.  Agh! He sees me.  Oh no, He IS going to call on me.  You doofus! Why didn't you just keep fiddling with your fish?
"Yes," He calls out, "You over there with the bulging pockets full of fish and bread."
Umm....I start to get the paranoid sense that He is calling me "rich" with all my fish and bread.
"Ahem," I begin, throwing my fish and bread at random people who look freakishly thin in the crowd, "I just thought maybe, that while you were telling that awful story that, um, well, you seemed to be looking at me the whole time, and, um, I don't know, uh, well just tell me, would you???!?!?!  WHY LEAVE A SISTER HANGIN'?!?!?!?  Am I going to hell?? AM I RICH!?!?!?!"  And then I fall down in utter exhaustion over the thought of being roasted for the ages.  It's just too much.

   See, that's how I think.  I read these books about rich people where it's so obvious that there is extreme wealth and over-the-top purchases but it always creeps back in that I become afraid that I'm rich.  Why?  Because it's all so damn relative.  In "Richistan", the rich people surveyed didn't think they were wealthy because they always had someone else to point to who was more wealthy than they were.  Even the one's worth a hundred-flippin-million dollars just pointed to Bill Gates- now, HE is wealthy, they said.  Ugh.  What? I want to slap them with their wads of hundred dollar bills.  But, isn't it true?  Would you say you're one of the wealthy??  Most of us probably not, we'd just point to the people who have more money than us, just like the super wealthy do.  Only, if you asked a family of five living in a two bedroom apartment and riding their bikes to work and school, and suddenly....they're pointing at you.
    So, while I enjoyed reading the tales of those who live on Easy Street, once again wisdom whispers closer to home.  I find myself grappling once again with the biblical definition of rich, aghast at its purposely-hidden definition.  For, if it was so easy to excuse yourself from the self-examination of opulence, a lesson in self-knowledge may go away unappreciated.  I glance at a quote from my dear C.S. Lewis (a man who saved my winning personality from utter savagery-and thus, I will thank him by mentioning him in the next five hundred posts):
       “I do not believe one can settle how much we ought to give. I am afraid the only safe rule is to give more than we can spare. In other words, if our expenditure on comforts, luxuries, amusement, etc., is up to the standard common among those with the same income as our own, we are probably giving away too little. If our giving does not at all pinch or hamper us, I should say it is too small. There ought to be things we should like to do and cannot because our commitment to giving excludes them” 
  Oh dear.  It was fun mocking the rich while it lasted.  Alas, I find myself at the end only heckling myself.  It's okay.  Really.  I needed a kick-in-the-money-pants.  I'll go now, and lick my spiritual wounds.  Now, as I think about it, if I was back there, close to Jesus as He told that story, maybe it would have been different.  Maybe He would have looked at me lovingly, even smiling a little at my nervousness.  Maybe He would have called me over to sit on His lap, and taking my hand, looked into my eyes.  And maybe, just maybe, He would have said, "It's okay.  I love that you're trying.  I love that you want so bad to be good.  Work on it, keep trying.  Heaven isn't for the perfect, but for those who kept trying so hard to love Me."  And maybe I would have pulled out one of my fish and the rest of my bread, and gave it Him.