Leaving Leticia

Many friends have called, messaged and emailed me asking how we are doing and what is going on. Not feeling up to an extremely coherent post at this point, but here is what is on my heart. 

Since our departure from Uganda, the last few moments we were able to spend with our daughter have been running on an endless loop in my brain. Although much of the time we spent with her as a family in Uganda was so sweet, this reoccurring mental video is far from pleasant. 

As most of our friends know, because of an immigration denial to classify Leticia as our immediate relative, we were forced to return to the states early to appeal before their deadline. Looking back, we were so naive going into this process. 

After our intense nine hour stint in a Ugandan court, we were elated when the judge awarded us legal guardianship on the spot. I cried, our six wonderful Ugandan friends who showed up to testify on our behalf rejoiced with us, and we were sure that the hard part was over. When Leticia asked if she would finally be flying home to America with us this time, I nodded enthusiastically. 

"John, Kris, Stephen, Daniel, Leticia, Family, airplane, America!" I signed. We were all so excited that she was officially ours! She was a Detrow. We hugged our Ugandan loved ones and the five of us headed to our van, Leticia rolling her little backpack behind her, all of her little things packed and ready to go home to America. 

If only I had not been so presumptuous and answered a little more cautiously. I should have said something along the lines of eventually you will come home, or very soon, or let's pray about that... I could have said a hundred different things. But I told her yes. Essentially, I lied to her. 

The following week held some challenges. One of our boys developed a high fever that involved emergency care and we experienced  some significant issues with our accommodations. Although it was scary and frustrating at times, we were together. And in our minds, in no time at all we would be flying home as a family of five. 

Then we learned of the denial and the tight deadline we had to appeal. How do I tell her? I asked myself. How can we leave her? Already, she would not let me out of her sight. If I had to run to the hotel office or go outside to hang clothes, she was practically my shadow. It was so obvious that she was afraid of being left. Which was exactly what we were preparing to do. 

Over the next few days we gently introduced the idea that we were going to go back to America to "talk to the leaders" about letting her come home. This was the only way I knew to interpret what was going on. She would nod and smile, and then hop back in my lap or ask if we could resume our coloring or go for a walk. Once, when I was again explaining that she would go back and stay with her friends while we figured things out in America, she literally started petting my head and my face, and then proceeded to stroke Daniel, Stephen, and John's heads as well. As if she believed that if she was kind and gentle enough, we would change our minds and bring her home. 

With our immigration appeal deadline rapidly approaching, we changed our ticket dates and made arrangements for Leticia to return to school. Because we are now her legal guardians in Uganda, we had to find someone who would take custody of and be responsible for her on our behalf. Thank God for Pastor Joel. This man has loved Leticia since she was a toddler. He has traveled to remote villages on our behalf to start our adoption process, spent time away from his own family for the sake of ours, and has never stopped encouraging us in this journey, even as he ministers to deaf children in desperate circumstances. 

The day we were to leave Uganda, I remember sitting up in bed and looking at Leticia through the mosquito netting as she slept and wondering if she would ever trust us again. I could hardly wrap my brain around all of the red tape, how could she possibly grasp it? I remember Joel advising me not to show emotion. To be strong for her so that she could also be strong. 

We got up, had a bite to eat and packed our things. As Leticia emptied her drawer, I reiterated to her that she would be staying with Joel and her friends. That we were leaving for now, but I would be back as soon as I possibly could to bring her home. She nodded and smiled. 

Joel and I had decided that it would be far too painful for Leticia to go to the airport this time. Instead, we met at a cafe in Kampala. Traffic, always a nightmare in the capital city, delayed Joel and we sat and ate as we waited. Leticia colored happily. Our driver, all too familiar with the unpredictable congestion of Kampala's streets, started to express concern about getting us to the airport on time. 

Joel finally arrived, and after some brief conversation, he knelt and waited for her to meet his eyes. Again, he explained what was going to happen. Here is where the video that has been looping through my mind starts. I watched as the realization of it began to wash over her beautiful little face. Her lip quivered and tears gathered in her eyes. Leticia, who is tough as nails and does not easily cry, started to wail. 

Working hard to keep my emotions under control, I picked her up, carried her out of the cafe, and tried lamely to console her. I sat her down at one of the outside tables and tried to reassure her that this was temporary. I would be back. We love her. She is our family and we are not abandoning her. That I was so, so sorry. The tears rolled down her little cheeks and despite my best efforts, I lost all composure. 

I will never forget how it felt when Leticia wrapped her arms around my neck and clung to me as she sobbed. I sobbed with her. The boys tried to say goodbye and tell her that they loved her and then went to the van with our driver to wait. Joel led John and I down the street to the boda he had taken to meet us. Leticia held on to me so fiercely. Her body shook and she fought for breath as her cries intensified. 

Joel knew we should have been well on our way to the airport. He motioned for me to set Leticia on the boda between him and the driver. Her screams drew a crowd of concerned Ugandans. She would not let go. It felt like the ultimate betrayal to pry her hands from behind my neck and step away. Her arms flailed and she grabbed for me. The boda driver sped away with Joel and Leticia. All of the sudden, she was gone. John and I stood there for a moment until we became aware of the stares of the crowd that had gathered. 

I apologize if this entire post is a mess and comes across as a woe-is-me type thing. Since we have been home, our house has been flooded by a hot water heater, I have been on outpatient (thank God)IV antibiotics for a nasty infection, and Stephen has had an awful allergic reaction to something requiring medical attention. All of it pales in comparison to leaving Leticia. 

Updates from Uganda are sparse due to frequent power outages and the fact that they have to pay for their internet time. Yet another thing we take for granted. The first update I had was that she was crying when she spotted a plane overhead. Sigh. I don't even know how to process all of this. 

Pain has always drawn me closer to my God. I have to say that unfortunately, this seems to have been the exception. I love Him. I trust Him. I know that He is in control. I just feel numb and far away right now. Just honestly where I am. 

Many friends have brought food and sent scriptures. Thank you. Psalm 34 is my staple right now. Please pray with us that we will get the approval from the US that we need to complete our adoption. Please pray for Leticia's spirit and heart as she waits without understanding the details. Thank you for standing in the gap and loving on us. 

The Impossible

As most of my friends know, our family will fly out on Tuesday to be ready for court in Uganda on Friday. Many people have marveled at how everything has fallen into place, and through the lens of retrospection, I can certainly see that. But waiting for passports that came on the very last day, having to finally get our congressman involved with an immigration mess, and the threat of a zillion inches of snow before we take off, well, I guess you could say that we have been a tad bit stressed.  

I know God is leading us. He is teaching us through this to rely on him. That he is in control. That even he, and only he, can cut through the bureaucracy of the US Department of Immigration or the United States Postal Service. (Sorry, John.)

The last month has been filled with doubt for me. We love Leticia and are praying that she will join our family. To us, she is already our daughter. But the last year has brought some daily struggles that leave me feeling like I am not enough. That I can't do this. 

This morning in church, our pastor and friend quoted the late great Charles Spurgeon. "God doesn't want your best," he said. "God wants the impossible." 

Those words were salve to my anxious heart. I have been trying to do my best, giving up, trying again, pushing, pushing, trying, crying, pleading... And then I wonder why I am depleted and feel like a failure. God does not want Kris to try and try and try. He wants me to trust and trust and trust. And although I KNOW this, I get so stuck in a rut of self-reliance and effort. This is one of those lessons that I need to re-test on quite often I'm afraid. 

And by saying that God wants the impossible,  my pastor was in no way implying that everything always turns up roses just because you put your trust in an unfailing God. People get sick, and sometimes die. Way too young. Not because they didn't trust. Things happen. Life is brutal, both for believers and non-believers. Our circumstances in no way dictate our level of faith. 

What he meant by the impossible, to me, this morning, was that I need to stop pretending that I can handle those circumstances in my life that break my heart and make me want to quit. Instead of white-knuckling it, I can walk in his power. And even if no one else knows (because many of our struggles are private), I will know. I will know that my God got me through this. He did this for me. That he did the impossible when I stopped selling him short by trying "my best."

Thank you all for praying for us. We feel those prayers. I especially want to thank some very special friends, Mrs. Karen and Mr. Lyle, who have decided to dedicate half an hour each day to learning sign language so they can communicate with Leticia. That is about the sweetest and most thoughtful thing that anyone has ever done for our family. Thank you. Thank you for the cards, the wonderful shower, the practical support... Everything. 

Anything can happen in the world of international adoption. We are desperately praying that in a month we will fly home with our sweet Leticia. No matter what the outcome, I feel encouraged and strengthened to live out the next month in Uganda through God's strength instead of the feeble best of this most blessed mess. 

Here we go!

Weary and suddenly COLD, I trudged along with my fellow passengers off of the plane that had been our home the last twenty-eight hours. I had set out on trip number three to Uganda with two complete strangers and returned with new friends for life.

I am proud to report that this time I only wept VERY briefly at the airport. Leticia, usually so spunky and full of character and life, just stood there holding my carry-on bag and looking at me with those beautiful dark eyes. So solemn. I wonder if she still trusts me. I know she doesn't understand why she can't come this time. I have tried to explain it, Joel and his wife have tried to explain it, teacher Madrine has tried to help me explain it, but I am afraid to her, the process just makes no sense. 

There are really no signs to adequately convey the steps to her. So in the end, I just told her that I love her, I will be back soon, and that we are praying that the judge and police (not really the best translation, but she doesn't really have signs for court officials, so we just went with that) will allow her to join our family in America forever.

She just blinked and stared at me with those eyes. She seems doubtful. I hug her tightly, but she doesn't return my hug this time. And then they slowly walked away. The teachers disappeared down a stairway, but Leticia stood there at the top, staring at us with her sad eyes until Madrine gently took her hand and coaxed her down. Her eyes were still locked on us until her head bobbed out of sight. 

During the long MISERABLE flight home, I could not get her sad little face out of my head. What was she doing at that moment? What was she thinking? I know her little heart has endured much pain and rejection in her short life. I prayed that she does not perceive my leaving as yet another rejection. 

As I trudged down the plane's narrow isle, I turned on my phone to let John know that we'd finally landed. I was shocked to see an email from our lawyer. We have a court date. With the judge that we have been praying for. On March 7th. As in, LESS THAN ONE MONTH. 

We had been praying for soon, but HOLY COW! This is SOON! So many things to do. The boys need passports. Of course, we should have applied for these sooner. Now they will need to be expedited. We all need plane tickets. The boys need Yellow fever and meningitis vaccinations as well as anti-malaria meds. We need to file an eight-hundred-dollar form with immigration that would make Leticia a citizen and allow us to obtain her passport. We need to figure out where we are going to stay while in Uganda. And on and on and on. The details and arrangements seem endless. 

We have made the decision that we will fly over as a family and attend court together on the 7th. Then the lawyer will give me power of attorney so that John can fly home and work and the boys and I will stay in Kampala to wait. And wait. In a perfect world, they would be able to stay home with family members, but we aren't blessed with any of those who watch the boys, so this seems like the only option. 

If you know our family, you know how much this will STRETCH us! I don't think that I have ever come across a kid that is a greater homebody than my guys are. We don't take vacations. They have never been beyond Ocean City. On those rare occasions that we venture past Frederick, we must always keep a bucket handy, because without fail, one of them will throw up. They don't travel well, and for them, there is no place like home. So, staying in Uganda for weeks on end ought to be... interesting. 

I apologize for being all over the place. My brain is scrambled these days. Happily scrambled. Friends from church have thrown together a shower for Leticia's homecoming, which is such a sweet blessing for us. Many people have been asking what we need. I know that people love to give gifts, and we will need a few things like clothes and shoes. 

Most of all, we need prayer. Prayer that God will provide for every need. He has been so faithful to provide through every step of this very costly process. Prayer especially for my boys. This is going to be tough for them. Shots, insanely long plane rides, their first time in a "third world country." Being away from home, and Daddy and their friends for so long. Please pray that our time there is sweet and that we'll grow closer. That we find a safe and reasonable place to stay. That the boys are able to see this time as an adventure. Also, please pray for their health, both physical and emotional. 

Thank you friends for coming along with us on this journey. We couldn't have made it this far without your generous support. When we first started praying about adopting Leticia, we crunched the numbers and knew that it was impossible. I remember hearing from families that have been through the adoption process already that we should not let the prohibitive cost stop us from pursuing adoption if we felt that we were called to it. At the time, that sounded a bit silly, but looking back, we see the truth of their statement. 

Please continue to pray for us. For Stephen and Daniel. For Leticia. Transitions are tough. Several people have asked if they can still give. Ummm... YES! You can use paypal on our website at http://ironclads.wix.com/signsofhopeuganda. Just comment that the money is to be designated for adoption or send me an email so I know. 

We will do our best to keep you posted. Thanks again! 

The Detrows. John, Kris, Stephen, Daniel, and Leticia. 

The Talk

My husband and I recently decided that it was time to have "The Talk" with our son. Well, not that talk. The autism talk.

At the age of three, one of our twins was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD). We immediately scheduled a second opinion. Then insisted on a third. All three experts independently confirmed what we feared. Our son had autism.

We had no clue what this meant. I had never known anyone who had autism before and I'm ashamed to say that the term conjured images of people rocking and growling and refusing any social interaction. So I did what any mom does in such a situation. I googled. My feeble attempts at unraveling the mystery of my boy left me more confused and disheartened than I had been before.

I love the quote, "If you've met one person with autism, you've met one person with autism." Although there are many similarities and symptoms that clinicians use to diagnose the condition, it is considered a spectrum disorder for a reason. The diversity within the spectrum is vast and there is no one-size fits all approach to treating a person with autism.

We have made many mistakes along the way. I read one parenting book insisting that your child make eye contact as a sign of respect and to prove that they were listening. I remember trying to force him to look me in the eye and becoming so frustrated when he refused. I saw it as outright rebellion and it infuriated me. If only I could go back and do things differently. How much kinder, gentler and more patient I would be with him. With both of them, in fact.

Our son (and his sibling) have attended therapy and weekly social skills group since the age of three. We have been blessed with the most amazing and helpful therapist on this earth. What a blessing and encouragement she has been to not only my son, but to us and his twin over the years. Her sunny disposition,  positive outlook, and making much of his strengths while working on his areas of struggle have been invaluable to us. He doesn't remember ever not going to therapy, so I don't think it ever occurred to him that not everyone did. It was just our normal.

But, for the last few years, it has become glaringly obvious to my sweet boy that he is different. He didn't know how to verbalize it, but I could see his frustration. He would watch his twin effortlessly master a skill that he wasn't even ready to start. The give and take of friendship that came naturally to his brother was much harder for him. He required much more direction and discipline. I noticed that he was setting up a system in his mind where he was the bad one, and his twin was the good one. With him, and most kids with ASD, there is only black and white. There is no grey.

The last few months, many of his behaviors have escalated and become much more extreme and obsessive. I won't go into detail in order to respect his privacy, but we were at a loss. When we rang the new year in with yet another horrific meltdown instead of the embraces and merriment that I had envisioned, I knew it was time. Weary and worn, my husband and I decided that tomorrow was the day. We had to have the talk.

We had discussed this previously with his therapist. When was the right time to tell him about his diagnosis? The right way to tell him? Concerned that he would fixate on it, she encouraged us to wait a bit. But we felt that January 1, 2014 was the day. We could no longer allow our boy to believe that he was "bad" or "stupid" or any of the other things that he would often call himself when he failed to get something. And we believed that the negative perception of himself  that he had developed was a huge contributing factor to his behavior.

I wanted to share this (with his permission) for all of the other moms out there in the same boat. I have met many of you in the waiting room at therapy or chatted with you on message boards. Many of us struggled with how to tell our kids that they have a diagnosis. What was the best approach? What was the optimum age? Here is what I did, and so far, I think that it has been a positive thing for our son. There are many strong opinions, especially in the Christian community, about labeling kids. Each parent needs to prayerfully make their own decisions about what to tell their kids and when. For us, the time had come and we see this "label" as no different than a child with diabetes or a peanut allergy.

We decided to divide and conquer. My husband took our "neurotypical" son out to talk to, as well as let him him voice his feelings about being the sibling of a person with ASD, which is often a difficult and frustrating role. I took the other one to his favorite dive, Waffle House, to have our little chat. My palms were sweaty and I think he could tell that I was nervous. I did not want to screw this up and scar him for life.

In preparation for our talk, I had listed approximately ten of the more common symptoms of ASD on a piece of paper. For example, difficulty maintaining eye contact, fixating on objects or subjects of interest, difficulty with fine motor skills... I explained each thing on the list and gave him a highlighter. I asked him to highlight the areas that he felt described him. After much thought, he highlighted each one.

On the other side of the paper, I listed the positive and wonderful things about him. For example, his unparalleled memorization skills, his interest and knowledge about fascinating things such as Angler Fish, the game of Clue and Rod Serling. Oh, the trivia that I know because of this child!  I explained that God had made his brain different than most people. That in some ways, it was better. And that he struggled in certain areas not because he was bad or stupid, but because it was just the way he was wired. I told him how grateful we were for the unique way that he thought and for his perspective on things. I gave it a name. Autism.

I tried to gauge his reaction. He seemed relieved. After asking a few questions, he enjoyed his waffles and didn't say another word about it. Over the next few days he flooded us with questions. Great questions. He openly discussed autism with his twin, who had known about his diagnosis years before. It felt so good to have it in the open instead of tip-toeing around it and treating it like a dirty secret.

His struggles have not magically ceased, but I do believe that he perceives himself in a much more positive light. He gives himself more grace. He has become fascinated with Dr. Temple Grandin. We have watched her movie many times as well as clips of her speaking about the wonders of the autistic mind. He likes to quote her. "Different. Not less."

I share this for parents of kids like my boy who are grappling with when and how to divulge this sensitive information to their special kids. There isn't a lot of out there on the subject, and every child is completely unique. It is so fitting that a puzzle piece has been chosen to represent autism awareness. These kids are indeed precious puzzling creations of God that baffle, amaze and keep us on our toes. Pray, ask for the opinions of those who know your child best, and trust your instincts. God has given you this child for a reason, even if you are, like me, a most blessed mess.

666 Mom

This evening, one of my boys was chattering away as he fiddled with our home phone. I was only half listening, as I find myself doing far too often these days. Suddenly, I tuned in when I heard him say, "Look, 666 is for you, Mom! That is your code. Mom-666!" 

I have to admit that the past few weeks haven't exactly been sweetness and light, but I was fairly certain that I hadn't sold my soul or morphed into the Antichrist. Quickly, I realized what he was talking about. The letters M O M are all located on the number 6 of the dialpad. Coincidence? Perhaps. After a laugh, I had to admit that things have been pretty dark around here lately. 

Anyone who's known me for any stretch of time is well aware that I am not a fan of winter. Winter is, as my boys are fond of saying, my nemesis. I try to join in the merriment and deck the halls with the rest of the world, but internally, that's me sitting over there in the corner rocking and drooling. I just don't do winter. 

This year, however, has been the worst by far. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, it's rare for my husband to be home before 8:30. Sometimes later. So, it is just the boys and I. Although I don't like it, and I wish that my husband had a schedule that was more accommodating to family life, we manage. I try not to gripe too much and make the most of the time we do have together. 

But this winter (Yes, I do realize that winter officially started mere days ago. I am in denial.) has created the perfect storm of Yuletide misery. I'll spare you the details, and really, the details don't matter. We all have something. An ache, physical or emotional. A soft spot where we are vulnerable to the darts of the enemy. An area where we are unsettled and fragile and will start embracing lies instead of running to the truth. 

But this year, I have started to harbor envy in my heart. I envied friends who have scores of involved extended family member who dote on and watch their kids, allowing them to enjoy an occasional break. I envied women who seem to be able to balance homeschooling, keeping a pristine home, and throw on something other than yoga pants (Confession: practically the only kind of pants that I wear are yoga pants. I've never done yoga in my life.) when they leave their home. I envied women who seemed to have obedient children who don't struggle as mine does. The list is endless and ridiculous.

So many positive things are happening in our lives and in our family right now. We have the privilege of partnering with the most amazing ministry in Africa. We are in the process of bringing our beautiful daughter home. In exactly one month I will be in UGANDA!!!!  My children are healthy. So why all of this discontent? I think my boy summed it up tonight. Mom- 666. Mom = sinful. Mom's heart is deceitful and desperately wicked (Jeremiah. 17:9). Despite the fact that God has blessed me with so much, my heart wants more. It wants something different. What she has instead of what God Almighty has decided that I need. 

So, I know this has been a Debbie Downer post. Wah, wah, waaah. I've pounded out quite a few similar depressing accounts as I have worked through this nasty emotional wreckage these last few weeks. In the end I always scrap them. I joked with a friend that I was going to post about how I'd really been feeling, and she was as serious as a heart attack when she told me that I should. "Those are the posts that matter," she said. And I knew that she was right. 

Tonight I was reading in our advent book (Yeah, that's right. Advent book. And it is Dec 29. Maybe we will finish it by next Christmas) and this verse popped out at me. 

Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior, who daily bears our burdens. -Psalms 68:19

Daily. Day in and day out. When I want to sob and don't even know why. When I feel alone and pathetic and am sure that I am the most incredible failure in the history of moms/wives/homeschoolers/housekeepers/insert-your-area-of-failure-here. I am not in this alone. 

Of course, intellectually I know this. Every Christian knows it. But tonight the truth of it just washed over me in a fresh way. I want to grow and learn and be who Christ made me to be, and I know that isn't a selfish, spoiled brat who requires Prozac at the sight of a snowflake.

I know that I can't snap some spiritual fingers and hop out of this funk. But I am trying to reject the lies that my sinful heart wants to perseverate on and cling to what I know to be true. I reached out to a woman who's faith and walk with Jesus I admire. I asked her to consider mentoring me and she accepted. Poor thing doesn't know what she's in for. I feel like that kind of prayerful guidance is something we all need from time to time and is a step in the right direction. 

I guess I am posting this because in our world of status updates and tweets, everyone else's life looks so much better. Happier. Easier. And it is a farce. Life is tough sometimes and emotions are fickle, but God is good. If you are in a season like I am, just hang on. God is the Quicker Picker Upper. Even for us most blessed messes. <3

Ephesians 4:32

Recently we've adopted Ephesians 4:32 as our family verse. This verse encompasses everything I want for our family. Kindness, tenderheartedness, forgiveness for one another as God, through Christ, has forgiven us. Those qualities are my end game for my kids. And myself.

Of course, none of us are there yet. Not even in the neighborhood. I was reminded of this the other day while sitting on the couch reading this verse with my boys. As I was expounding on the virtue of forgiveness, Daniel, AKA Jiminy Cricket, reminded me of an instance where I wasn't exactly a vessel overflowing with the kindness and mercy of God. 

It was this past summer. I love lazy days when we can wake up whenever our bodies, not some buzzing alarm clock, tell us that we're finished sleeping (except for poor John, who rarely has that luxury).  Most mornings, I am awakened by Daniel asking to watch an episode of some show or Stephen begging me to play Clue. But this particular morning, I woke up to silence. Which was extremely odd. Eerie even. 

I looked at the clock. It was almost eight! It was unusual for the boys to sleep in that late anymore. Leisurely, I grabbed my precious first cup of coffee. I cradled it in my hands and sipped it as I strolled back to the boy's room. I fully expected to see them snuggled in their beds, taking on the appearance of little angels as they slumbered. I was shocked to discover that their beds were empty. 

The events get a little fuzzy in my brain after this point because I went into full-fledged panic mode. I do recall that I started screaming their names. No response. Then (in my pajamas) I raced around the outside of the house three or four times, wailing like a banshee and screaming their names. Nothing. I was heading inside to call the police, my hand on the doorknob, when I heard something. I stopped my frenetic screeching and listened. There it was again. Very faint, but unmistakably my Daniel's voice. "Moooooommmm!  Help!"

"Daniel?" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "Keep talking! Where are you?"

"Mom, we are lost," came his faint reply. "In the woods." 

I stood at the edge of the woods behind our house. Yes, that was definitely where the sound was coming from. Daniel kept calling me, and I frantically followed his voice. With branches whacking at my face and thorns snagging my pajamas, I continued hollering their names and following their voices further into the the woods. I'm sure I made a spectacle of myself for all of the woodland creatures. 

Finally, they were in sight. Upon seeing me, Daniel began to sob. His shoulders heaved and he was unable to answer the questions that I pelted at him. At first, I didn't understand what Stephen was doing. He looked as if he'd been in the midst of dancing the robot when someone put him on pause. One arm was held in front of him, bent at the elbow and pointing up. His other arm was stretched out behind him. His legs were tangled up in each other. He wasn't moving a muscle. Anyone who knows Stephen knows that the still part of that scenario isn't normal behavior. 

I realized that he was caught up in bush of thorns. The poor thing couldn't move an inch without some part of his body being pricked. Lord only knows how long he'd been stuck there. It took quite a while, but I was finally able to extract him from the bush.  I wish I could tell you that as I did this, I was overwhelming them with the love and mercy of Jesus. But that would be a big old lie. Boy, did I ever let them have it. The adrenaline was still pumping through my veins and I was as mad as a hornet. 

What were you thinking? You know better than to go outside without telling me first! And you are NEVER to go into the woods alone! You know better! On and on I snapped. I told them if I hadn't heard them when I did, I would have called the police. 

Stephen didn't sob like his brother. He just dropped his head and said, "Why don't you go ahead and kill us, Mom. You know you want to." 

My little drama king. Even in my adrenaline-fueled rage, I had to chuckle at that. "Stephen, I think you know that I don't want to kill you," I explained. I took a few deep breaths and softened my tone. Then I started to cry. "I am mad because I love you and I didn't know where you were. I thought something awful had happened to you."

"When will the police arrest us?" he asked, shoulders hunched and his tone defeated. 

I couldn't help but to laugh. He thought that I was calling the police ON them, not to help me find them. In his mind, the cops were going to come, cuff him, throw him in the back of their squad car and haul him off to the penitentiary. 

Their version of the story finally came out later. They woke up very early that morning and decided to check on the chickens. While outside, they heard what they were certain was a dog crying in the woods. This poor little puppy was in desperate need of immediate help. This early morning jaunt into the wilderness was a humanitarian mission in their minds. But they knew that they shouldn't have been outside in the first place. They knew they were in big trouble. 

The rest of the morning they quietly awaited their punishment. I was trying to figure out what would make the most impact. What sentence could I impose that would ensure that something like this would never happen again. Three months without video games? No candy for a year? I struggled to find a punishment that would fit the crime. 

Exasperated, I talked it over with a friend. She suggested that this might be a perfect opportunity to extend them some grace. I am ashamed to say that the thought hadn't occurred to me. I mean, they had violated so many rules. So many things could have happened to them! I had to make an impression, didn't I? 

The more I thought about it, the more I knew my friend was right. I sat them down and started by apologizing for my behavior. I was terrified and angry, but that wasn't an excuse for yelling at them and being so harsh. Next, I told them that there would be no punishment. Getting off scot-free was a way for them to experience and comprehend grace. They just sat there for a few minutes blinking. 

"We aren't going to be punished?" Daniel finally asked. 

"Nope." 

"Don't you have to punish us?"

This led into the best discussion about sin, grace and forgiveness. Yes, sin does need to be punished. That's why Jesus came. Because Jesus took the punishment we deserved on the cross, we can have our sins forgiven and be pardoned. 

We all wander away from God. We get so wrapped up in our sins that we are like Stephen trapped in a nasty old thorn bush. On our own, we have no hope of escaping the mess. But God can rescue us. And He wants to. He literally died to. 

As we strive to be a kinder, more tenderhearted and forgiving family, we need to keep these simple truths in the forefront of our minds. We can't do it. Really, we can't. Cannot. Without Christ transforming our hearts and changing us from the inside out, it's not going to happen. 

My hope and prayer for all of us this Christmas is that instead of trying to fake it, we continually return to the well of Christ. That we stay connected to the vine and let Him transform us. That way, when we find ourselves in a position where we could dole out a just punishment, we might instead opt to grant forgiveness  and demonstrate the awesome grace of God to someone who needs it. Because, let's face it folks, we all need it. Desperately. Especially this blessed mess. :)  

Merry Christmas! 

I like the end of Stephen's. Mom wus scared to death. lol 

Something is Awesome in the State of Denmark

As is increasingly the case with modern day friendships, my first interactions with Vickie were through Facebook. I had no idea who this person posting fabulous pictures of the kids at BDI was, but I sure wanted to know. We messaged back and forth, and inevitably “friended” each other.

I had a handful of facts about her. She was from Denmark, she was deaf, she had mad camera skills, and she loved the kids at BDI. That was all I needed to know in order to click “confirm” on her friend request. I had no idea what she would come to mean to me. Despite the fact that our ideological and geographical positions are polar opposites, she would become a significant part of my everyday life. 

I had a chance to meet Vickie IRL (I just figured out what that meant the other day. That and YOLO. I am hip. HIP, I TELL YOU!) during my first visit to Uganda. I remember being intimidated by her. She seemed so comfortable and at home there. I love Uganda, but I was still trying to find my footing and dealing with the culture shock. We would ride together in the van on the way to and from school. The roads in Uganda are INSANE, so most of the ride was spent holding on for dear life. This made communicating with a deaf person rather difficult.

I first started seeing glimpses of who Vickie was during a debate the older kids were having at school one Wednesday. The topic of the debate was beatings, or caning, in schools is good. I was stunned to see that they had written “Beatings in school is very good” on the blackboard. And even more dumbfounded to discover that the lion’s share of the kids were adamant that “beatings” in school (more like what we in the west would consider corporal punishment) was a positive thing. Not Vickie. Her fingers flew as she passionately made her case against caning, drawing sign language applause from the few kids on the anti-beating side. Right then I knew that I liked and respected this cool Danish chick.

After I returned home Vickie and I began to correspond on a very regular basis. I was shocked to find out that she considered herself an atheist. Sure, I've met my share of agnostics and wishy-washy spiritual types who weren't sure what they believed, but not many true atheists. Especially ones who volunteered long term at decidedly Christian organizations in third world countries.

Oh, the conversations we had, though! The questions she would ask! Vickie is an extremely intelligent person, and although she has always been respectful, she doesn't pull any punches and asks the hard questions. I began to realize that as a Christian, I wasn't on my game. I didn't have the answers. She’s made me dig deep and explain things without Christianeze, which has been a really good thing. In Denmark, there are practically no Christians. I mean, I’m sure that they are there somewhere, but they are few and far between. Vickie certainly didn't know any. The pat Sunday school answers that we throw around to life’s difficult questions were not going to fly with her. And I loved that. Over time, we began to trust and open up to each, and she told me her story.

When Vickie was 20 years old, she began to experience some hearing issues. An MRI was ordered to try to pin down the source of the trouble. Expecting some annoying but curable malady, instead Vickie was stunned when the doctors diagnosed her with Neurofibromatosis Type II. NF II is a rare genetic disease that causes tumors of the central nervous system, particularly the acoustic nerve, causing deafness as well as a whole host of other symptoms.

Vickie learned that she had tumors on the both hearing nerves and impinging on her brain stem. The doctors likened the tumors to ticking time bombs. She would need surgery right away. This surgery would sever her auditory nerves, resulting in deafness and possible facial paralysis.

Up until this point, music had been a huge part of Vickie’s life. Her world was full of music and it was in the forefront of background of practically every moment of her life. In fact, she had just purchased a piano. “Music is in my blood,” she told me. “I always had music in my ears.”

Vickie’s description of the night before her surgery struck me in such a powerful way. Lying alone in her hospital bed, eyes squeezed shut, begging her soon-to-be-severed auditory nerves to soak in her favorite music. I try to imagine what that would feel like. I wonder if it was anything like being surrounded by cool, clean water the day before you were to head out to the desert. And you couldn't take a drop of it with you. So you’d drink deeply and savor every swallow, knowing that you’ll be parched for the rest of your life.

Young, suddenly deaf, and diagnosed with an extremely serious disease, most of us would try to take it easy, live cautiously and feel like we were gypped. Not Vickie. Only two months after her last major surgery on 12/12/12, she headed to Uganda to work with deaf children. Her life was forever changed. Vickie says:

“If it wasn't for my disease, I wouldn't have had surgery. And without the surgery, I wouldn't have paused my studies. And without the pause, I wouldn't have traveled to Uganda. And without Uganda, I wouldn't have met all of this love and beauty, and all of these wonderful kids and BDI people. And I wouldn't have met you. That’s what I love about life. How something awful turns out to be the best thing that has ever happened to you.”

I don’t know about you, but she just blows me away. What unparalleled strength and optimism! (Yes Vickie, I said optimism. I know you claim to be a cynic, but you’re not. Lol) I know that without Christ, I would never have been able to overcome as she has.

Over time, I began to notice a change in the tone of Vickie’s messages. Occasionally, when I was discouraged, she would tell me that she would pray for me. Odd, coming from someone who described herself as an atheist. We continued to have the most amazing conversations about spiritual issues. One day, she was shocked to admit that she was starting to believe in God, and was learning to trust him bit by bit. She wants to do a Bible study together via Facebook. I am in the process of highlighting and littering a Bible I picked up for her with post-its and notes. Her heart is so open and ready for God to be in her life. It is one of the most beautiful things that I have been a part of. And yes, I am cognizant of the fact I sound sappy. Or as Vickie would say, I am a cornball. But when you walk through an intercontinental friendship with an atheist who decides that she wants to study the Bible with you, I think that some level of sentiment is acceptable.

Many of the children at BDI come from strict Muslim families. And yet, they go to a school where Christ is preached.  They learn grace and mercy and the forgiveness that only God can grant. Are their Muslim families happy about it?  Ummmm… No. But, there are no Muslim schools for deaf kids in the area, and they desperately want their child to have an education. So these kids are praying to and worshiping Christ with all of their hearts. A privilege they would never have been granted had they been born hearing.

I don’t claim to have all the answers and don’t even understand most of the questions when it comes to the tough theological stuff. But I have seen the reality of Isaiah 61:3.  He trades beauty for ashes, gladness for mourning and praise for despair.

I don’t know what God’s plan is for my friend Vickie, but what a joy to know her and be able to cheer her on. I am incredibly thankful that God caused our paths to cross. We have much to learn from each other. One thing I do know. There is most definitely someone awesome in the state of Denmark.

Vickie after her surgery on 12/12/12.

One of the only pictures I have with Vickie and I in it. She is defending her position that beatings in schools is not very good. J

My favorite picture of Vickie. This one is worth a thousand words.