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Movie Stars
The girls are I dusted off some home movies this week. We cringed as toddlers whacked each other, and laughed at babies splashing in the tub. We even dug out some of my dad’s silent Super 8 epics, converted to VHS and soon to be cut to DVD. The girls hooted at Aunt Judy’s “cat glasses,” and were most unkind about their mother’s attempts to hula-hoop.
Julia eventually asked me, “Mom, where are my movies? Who has movies of me?” Rachel immediately popped in the February 2006 DVD of her at Children’s Home #47 in St. Pete. She marveled at herself speaking Russian….raced to the TV to point out her bed….explained how she had to leave her clothes and toys behind. We heard about kiddos bathing three at a time in cold water, and how much fun it is to play in deep snow.
But then she asked, “Who has my baby movies? Do you have movies of me as a little baby?,” with pinched fingers to show me she meant a really little baby, like appeared in the movies we’d watched of her sisters. I took a deep breath and responded, “No, we don’t have any. I wish we did. But we do have this one picture of beautiful baby Julia.”
Snagged from the Russian data base, printed and proudly displayed in our den
That answer placated her for now. But won’t later.
There are precious few momentos or bits of history that follow these kids to their forever families. There are no inscribed books from Grandma, or scrunchy-eyed photos from the hospital. No caregiver marvelled at that tiny hand waving “bye-bye,” or rushed to complete a baby book entry after that first step.
I read an essay by a young woman adopted from Viet Nam who said, “The history of every international adoptee is written in pencil.” She meant much of their history is merely oral or inferred by conditions and therefore subject to change.
“Mom is a good hugger and is special.” Shame that magnetic message is already erased!
Pencils are what you use when you’re learning. Pencils are what you use for crossword puzzles – when you’re not sure. Pencils are what you use when you’re afraid you might be making a mistake.
We’ll never be able to deeply explore or fully document her first six years. The best we can do is tell her we love her now And we need to not only say it, but also to write it – directly on her heart, in permanent ink.
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It’s Time
Our Thanksgiving dishes are washed, dried and put away.
Rachel has mopped the floors.
Lois has shaken the rugs.
Hannah has taken out the trash.
Julia has come inside after hours of playing with the neighbor kids.
They’re trying to talk me into going to Target at 6 a.m. tomorrow – for what, I don’t know, other than the joy of getting up at 5:15 like I do every workday.
There’s an empty spot in the dish cabinet, to be filled tomorrow with my very mostest favoritest Fiestaware.
So it’s time. Yessir, it’s time!
Across Town in Shoe Box
“It’s not always about you” is a difficult lesson to teach children. Because for their first few years, “you” is exactly what it’s all about, every minute of the day, every day of those years.
Slowly they learn to wait. To join. To participate. Eventually – to give.
When my kids made cards for much-loved family or friends, I didn’t care that the edges weren’t straight or the hearts weren’t symetrical. The people getting them didn’t care either. They liked the cards because the kids made them. And besides – they had plenty of lovely, perfect, store-bought cards.
But giving to strangers is different, especially when they have no lovely, perfect, store-bought things. And particularly when the gifts are given in Jesus’ name – as are Samaritan’s Purse Operation Chistmas Child boxes.
When we last saw our 95 Samaritan’s Purse boxes, they were stacked at church, ready for someone else at the next step – the collection warehouse.
Keith, Lois, Hannah and I decided to become “someone else” for a morning at the borrowed warehouse in a not-so-prime corner of San Antonio. (Hannah: “Oh, Daddy, they have dogs!” Keith: “Those are guard dogs, Hannah. Do not go near that fence.”) Rachel stayed home sick; we decided Julia was better off at a neighbor’s house.
First a quick worship service with prayers written on balloons. I’d never done that before but I suppose it’s no different than appending scripture to couch pillows or attributing billboard slogans to God. The sincerity, conviction and dedication of the warehouse workers shone through. Most have been volunteering for years. A cadre of about 10 organizers personally prepared 2,200 shoeboxes this year by bargain-shopping through the year, and holding a garage sale to raise money.
Boxes from First Baptist Church of Universal City, unloaded fire brigade style. Many faiths and organizations contribute. Some groups delivered thousands; individuals often arrive with onesie twosies.
Band, stack and count the boxes.
Now crate and stack on pallets.
Can’t figure out how to “vertical-ize” this video clip of shrink wrapping the pallets – but doesn’t the audio remind you of an ultrasound? I wanted to wipe jelly off my tummy.
The San Antonio collection warehouse expects to send about 18,000 boxes onto Denver for further processing, which – in addition to a check for contraband (chocolate, melty stuff, liquids, sick things) – I hope includes a sanity check. Because the contents of many of the boxes made no sense. A single folded T-shirt? One small stuffed animal and a piece of bubble gum? Obviously used Happy Meal toys rattling around with a few blunted crayons? Those are not gifts. Those are dregs scraped from the bottom of a toy box.
I believe – I must believe – those boxes were prepared by children with no adult shepherding. Surely no adult could think those boxes were acceptable for a desperately poor child surrounded by friends opening other (hopefully better) boxes.
Most of the boxes were just fine. They held a variety of little treasures – toys, school supplies, socks, Chapstick, toothbrushes, candy, etc. But a disappointing number appeared scanty at best and trashy at worst.
I truly struggled with myself at the warehouse. What I really wanted to do was shout, “Whoa! Let’s dump a dozen of these things and make a couple of good boxes. This is a child’s whole Christmas.” The same reason I do not let well-meaning but untrained children pack unsupervised is the same reason I would have culled, emptied and re-organized the most pitiful offerings – the boxes aren’t about “helping” or patting yourself on the back or feeling smug about what you’ve done. They’re sure not about meeting any kind of number you want. They’re not about you.
They’re about the kids that open them to see a (native langugage) pamphlet about the Christmas story laying right on top of their treasures. That’s what they’re about.
And if little Johnny has to shepherded to create an appropriate gift - fine. Isn’t it better to guide little Johnny so he thinks and learns rather than pat little Johnny on the kid and ladle on praise for how wonderful and generous he is, ohhhhhh, such a good boy? Step away from the Play Station, Johnny, and consider a child who likely doesn’t have electricity.
We believe the folks in Denver will combine box contents to create gifts worthy of a Christmas story pamphlet. At least we hope so.
After all, it’s the season for hope. And gifts.
Do Re Mi So Proud
I used to be so embarrassed when my mother would call one of her friends or write one of her sisters to brag on our good test grades or awards or whatever. I would inwardly groan and think, “Omigosh. Did she have to tell everybody about that?”
I have become my mother.
Rachel (high school) and Lois (middle school) each competed with several hundred students in our region (San Antonio and surrounding towns) for spots in the Texas Music Educators Assocation Region XII Choirs. Lois – her second time to place in middle school – took 17th chair Alto. Rachel – her first time to place in high school – took 10th chair Alto.
And there’s Rachel, 10th Chair Alto - Back row (natch), third from the right. Rachel estimated about 75% of the girls were from our district (NEISD) and those formals are uniform.
Yes, I have become my mother. Watch for me to start completing crossword puzzles in ink, and arriving at church 20 minutes before the custodial staff unlocks the doors.
Wyoming, Baby Lois and Rachel Wyoming – 1994
Oh – and by the way - Rachel and Lois got those beautiful voices from her.
