This Reminds Me

Archive for June, 2008

Many thanks for your calls and emails about this breaking news story….

The Q’s were a’firing at the office yesterday

,,,,but I am happy to report we are not moving.  Rachel is now a senior.  I called her at church camp to make sure she and Lois understood before they happened across the story (I’m sure that’s what they’re doing at South Padre – scouring the papers, watching CNN, discussing current events, that sort of thing.)    Her question:  “Well, if we did have to move, you’d just let me live with a friend, right?”  Ummmm.   No.

We like San Antonio.  We love our church family, and our schools and the friends we’ve made.  The Fiesta Texas water park and our neighborhood pool keep the summers bearable, and there’s nothing more beautiful than the River Walk at Christmas.  No, you can’t get fresh sushi 24 x 7 here, but there’s a lot less filth, noise and vulgarity as opposed to bigger cities.  I was the one who fought moving for years, and yet it’s turned out to be such a good move for our family.  I’d move again if we had to – but I sure don’t want to.  And I sure don’t want to move anywhere bigger.


I’ve been with AT&T 28 years and nine months as of today.  It’s been a wild ride, especially 1983 – 1984  with Divestiture (the same time as “Ghostbusters” – hence the shirts – I’m the one on the left), Hurricane Alicia, the three-week strike and Southwestern Bell’s first layoffs ever.  None of the jobs I’ve had since 1997 even existed when I joined the company in 1979.  And U-verse – which Keith and I both work on now – is a whole new bag’o'tricks.   I worked at Remco TV Rental through five years of college (slow learner) , often reading/summarizing books and journals for the owner.  I became convinced that eventually, one telecommunications “thing” would exist in the home.  That’s why I went to work for AT&T instead of Prudential Life, a headhunter, a local book publisher or some oil company whose name I can’t even remember. U-verse is it. Well, the start of it.  It’s in its infancy.  But it’s growing up fast, and I think it will become the new norm for TV/voice/data.  I truly do.

My hope is our next move is to our scaled-down retirement house.  Keith and I love to walk houses under construction, or sign in with phony names at local open houses (so the realtors don’t keep bugging you) just to get ideas.  We want an outdoor fireplace on a good-sized patio.  I want a gynormous closet to store best-quality air mattresses to use when my 28 grandchildren (all named “Rebecca”) come to visit.  I want to be within easy striking distance of a college, because there are serious bible classes in my future.

But we can’t go anywhere now.

After all.

How would we pack the pond?!

Making Operation Christmas Child (OCC) shoeboxes used to be just a fun thing for our family.  Then it all morphed into a tradition – making boxes is our big annual holiday activity.   OCC recently asked me to be its local volunteer media director for 2008, and I agreed, thus proving Keith and my friend Vicki correct about the glaring red “S” (for “Sucker”) on my forehead.

The unretouched view of our guestroom closet – jammed with box stuff.  Julia and Hannah would each like their own bedroom, but I’ve been reluctant to separate one into the guestroom, largely because it means finding another place for all this stuff we buy through the year.  This is Texas – it can’t be stored outside.  I’m thinking I might try buying the gynormous Rubbermaid boxes I’ve seen at Target and stacking several in the gameroom, but that solution presents its own logistical challenges.  (sigh)   I’ll eventually figure it out.  Right now, the closet holds:  Plastic boxes from Shelley, beads from Lisa and Dorothy, a ton’o'Target 75%-off stuffola that Sarah and I snagged after Christmas ’07, assorted leftovers from last year, plus Matchbox cars and bubble gum purhcased with free shipping thanks to slicksdeals.

In training Saturday, I learned:

-  Many contributors now use plastic boxes, and finallyyyy – Samaritan’s Purse is trying to reach a joint marketing agreement with a supplier, probably Rubbermaid.
-  There’s a national partnership in the works for them with Chick-Fil-A, and K-Love Radio – both favorites at our house.
-  The most commonly-observed use for the plastic boxes?  Children use them to haul water.  It’s a weight they can handle.
-  Each of our boxes contains at least one clothing item (socks, underwear, knitted cap, shirt, whatever) and I’ve never stressed about sizes.  I figure that’s God’s job to sort out, plus, if the recipient can’t wear it, I’d bet he’s standing next to a child who can.  I’ve also never stressed about cold weather clothing items going to hot weather countries, and vice-versa.  The OCC officials told us that knitted caps and gloves are much treasured in tropical countries because the cap keeps a child’s head from being sunburned, and the gloves protect his hands while working in the fields.
-  A six-year-old boy in Russia got a box a few years ago, but had to be coaxed to open it after telling his orphanage director, “I don’t care about the box.  All I want a family.”  His box contained the usual toys, school supplies and candy, plus a picture and mailing address for the donating couple.  The orphanage director wrote them.  Correspondence led to a visit – and eventual adoption.  His box contained his parents.
-  The adult son of a couple in West Virginia died of diabetic complications.  His parents discovered two boxes he was working on and now- years later – are responsible for thousnds being completed.
-  Though 7,689,726 boxes were distributed last year, pastors are begging for millions more.  Remember – these boxes are not “shotgunned” out to the world.  Individual pastors request boxes for individual children.  Asia alone can use 1M more.  In Afghanistan, they need to doube from 20K to 40K.  Ditto for Georgia (Russia) – want to double their 120K.  Pastors in India have more opportunity than ever before to reach children – and they need hundreds of thousands more.   This  pressing need has driven 2008′s theme – “1 MORE – FOR ME.”

Every volunteer in training was given one of these visual reminders yesterday.  Mine is going on our fridge.

OCC leaders told us for many families, involvement is a three-step process – Activity, followed by Tradition, and finally Mission.  I think we’ve arrived at “Mission,” though saying so sounds self-righteous and arrogant.

After six weeks in India and two trips to Russia, I don’t have to be convinced of the need for shoeboxes.  All I have to remember are the excited little faces from Children’s Home #47 when Keith started bringing out toys and treats.  As the children lined up, we could see their anxious eyes glued on the Ziploc bags – “Will I get a Matchbox?  Will I get a pencil?  Is there one for me?”

We don’t aim for a number of boxes to complete at home.  We never have.  We do as many as we are supposed to do.  Though this year – as we haunt the clearance caps at Target, grab the after-Halloween candy and start stripping the packaging from toothpaste tubes, a number will be buzzing around my brain – the number “1.”

One More – please, just 1 MORE – FOR ME.

I stayed up later than Keith last night.  By the time I went to bed, Hannah was asleep on an air mattress in our room, and Julia was curled up against Keith in our bed.  I just crawled in next to her, marveling at her beautiful little face framed by the blue pinstripes of Keith’s pajamas.

I thought:  I’ve loved Keith for all kinds of reasons, but never more than when I think that he could take another man’s child and make her his own.  Not like his own.  Or with his own.  But his own.  He belongs to her.

My relationship with my own father was not as cozy.  For years, I was angry and bitter about our gurgling in an emotional and moral sewer with him.  And fancied myself nothing like him.  But now I know I am like him.  When I fume at any kind of delay  – when I can do math in my head and recite obscure facts at will – when I am a poor loser and a worse winner – when I arrange the currency in my billfiold facing-the-same-way-by-denomination – when I refuse to emphathize and chafe to organize – when I make a list (and occassionally laminate it) – I am John Hoffman’s daughter.

You can’t deny DNA.  No matter what – Rachel, Lois and Hannah are Keith’s daughters.  Just like I am my father’s daughter.  Julia is the biological daughter of a man on the other side of the world.   But Keith is Daddy – right here, right now.  He belongs to her.  And while attachment is a journey, it appears to us that she is choosing to belong to him, too.

Father’s Day meant nothing to me until we had Rachel.  Because Father’s Day really ought to be called “Daddy’s Day.”  Who your father is really can’t be denied.  That’s all about DNA.  But who you call “Daddy” – that’s a choice.  Your daddy can’t just belong to you.  You have to belong to him.

Happy Father’s Day, guys.  And more especially – Happy Daddy’s Day.

They belong together!  Hannah, Keith, Julia, Rachel and Lois.

A Happy Birthday shout out to our eldest, who turned 17 yesterday.  How did that happen?!  Her new address is:  2008 Ford Focus, San Antonio, TX.

But still a blog at which to look.

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

And now a word from our sponsor, which would be me.  This child was speaking only a handful of English words two years ago.

Happy Summer Vacation to all tomorrow!  Except Keith and me.  Who will be back on the bus at o’dark 30.  (sigh)