all about me

I turned 38 yesterday. I feel 38. It is no surprise. I am not mourning. I just am. 38.

For my birthday, I received a camera pendant necklace from my almost 12 year old son and a Barnes and Noble card to “buy a book about poor people” from the girls. From my husband, I was given 2 weeks of no meal planning, shopping, or cooking, truly the best present I have ever received!

I feel very known. Very very known. And loved, thought of, celebrated. But SO known! By the people who are with me most.

Unfortunately, we have watched TWO movies about dying parents in the last week or so (We Bought a Zoo and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close), reducing me to tears and fueling all sorts of contingency plans. I HATE it when a parent dies. No child should suffer such a tragedy. But of course, it gets me thinking. How would they remember me? Which shirt would they sneak under their pillow to smell for months to come? Which necklace would the girls fight over keeping close to their heart? Which meal would they attribute to me as “my meal?”

And, since I’m still alive, how would I actually orchestrate these memories? Since I have the chance to burr into their psyches before the fact, what is it about ME that I want them to know is ME?

Cameras? Books about poor people? Complaining about grocery shopping and meal planning?

What else is undeniably ME?

The kids of course said I was now OLD. They think the 1900s is an ancient century. I declared that I couldn’t be old because of all the things I haven’t done yet! I haven’t been to Iran, or Afghanistan! I haven’t gotten my PhD. I haven’t published a book or lived in England. They rolled their eyes.

My aspirations are as much ME as my complaints.

How about for you? What would make you feel most known?

Do Justice

It is hard to know who is more proud. I rarely achieve artistic replications, especially ones from pinterest. But this seemed like such a fun Spring Break activity, from the discussion of Micah 6:8 to tickling their feet with wet paint!

But it is my 5 year old who most embodies this verse these days. This image captures the haunting statements she has made lately, jarring my thoughts…

It began three weeks ago when I told her about doing some art projects with homeless kids. She asked all sorts of questions, not about the pictures of their art work that I was showing her, but about the kids themselves. Where did they stay? What did they eat? Why did they not have homes?

And then, a classic Sophie pause. “Why they can’t sleep on our couch? They can shower in our bathroom!” I say something encouragingly realistic, like, “Well, we can definitely pray that God would take care of them,” but it’s not good enough for her: “I think we are supposed to be the ones to take care of them.” Gulp.

Two weeks later we are in Denver. The Capitol lawn is strewn with sleeping bags. We stand next to a drugged guy on the bus. The kids are big-eyed and aware, full of questions. Sophie declares, “When I grow up I am going to have a job where I help people that really need help.”

A few hours later, I meet Kaylie. We are back downtown, this time without the kids, looking up and down the street for The Cheesecake Factory. She is walking by and gives us directions. Then she asks, not for money, but for some food. As we cross the street to Subway, I ask if she’s from Denver, knowing she probably isn’t. Houston. I ask where she stays, having learned that is the more appropriate word than “live.” Under a bridge. I refrain from asking all of the other questions filling my mind. Later I wonder if we should have sat with her, gotten more for her, taken her home… she could sleep on our couch, use our shower.

Today I took another direction. Met with the Director of Homeless Gear. Talked about training their volunteers in domestic trafficking signs. Kept thinking of Kaylie and my daughter and what it means to Act justly, love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.

Raising an Activist

I have my share of opinions about Invisible Children’s Kony 2012 viral video experiment. They aren’t all positive. But they aren’t all negative either, especially after interacting with my 6th grader.

And while those of us caught up in the complexities of the situation debate the video’s shortcomings, those it is meant for, young activists, are mobilizing.

Today during recess, my son’s middle school lawn became such a scene. He paints a picture of a number of 11, 12, 13 year olds chanting, “We’ve seen these kids. We’ve heard their cries. This war must end. We will not stop. We will not fear….” And for the first time, he is riled. He finally gets child trafficking thanks to an emotional, powerful video.

At home he is in the door and on the computer in seconds. He’s going to buy the action kit, hang up posters on the night of April 20, wear the bracelet and take a stand, make a difference. They are sold out already, but he downloads jpegs, resolute in his purpose.

Over dinner, he updates Dad who has been in Turkey during the Kony 2012 frenzy. He rails on the government for not responding when just a few Invisible Children leaders come to Washington; mad that it takes hundreds of thousands of voices for politicians to act.

And I realize, none of the critiques really matter in the face of an 11 year old boy who wants to advocate for other children half a world away! There are far worse things to spend money on, hang posters over, and chant about.

I wod leve the gowd

I’m learning about my youngest through some creative homework assignments. And in the process, I’m pretty stoked about who she is becoming… glimpses of a beauty I am excited to see in maturity, on the other side of adolescence.

Homework Assignment #1: Photograph yourself in your favorite place in your city.

She chose her school library!

Homework Assignment #2: Write two sentences about what you would do if you discovered a pot of gold. She said: “I would leave it there because I don’t want to be rich. I want to be normal. And besides, if I brought it home, then robbers would come steal it and if the news found out, they would put me on TV and I DON’T WANT TO BE ON TV!”

I press her. IF you took it, what else could you do with it?

“Well, I’d give it to you and Dad. And Aidan and Ella. But not rich people, they’re already rich.

And to poor people.”

But on her paper, what she penned in phonetic spelling:

“I wod leve the gowd bcuz I dont no how to uuze it.”

To pour salt into wounds

My third grader gave a presentation on water today at school. Her main point was that we need to share and use less and be aware of the gross comparison between the use of an average American person (100-175 gallons/day) and an African family (5 gallons/day). The demonstration, which she practiced at least 5 times at home, used water. As I watched, I was thinking of the fight which started our morning, when I mistakenly sent her little sister to the bathroom to hurry up her long shower.

We are horribly inconsistent and hypocritical, we humans.

My daughter’s classmates used a variety of media and materials which they navigated with finesse superior to the teacher. They are privileged, in their abundance and waste.

Oh, how do we become advocates and activists in our comfortable lives?

Which is why I have to make myself uncomfortable. A good friend has asked why I read such “depressing” books and this is why. If I don’t read stories to the point of weeping, I forget. I forget the urgency of other people’s children. I become disgruntled over class size and school fundraisers. I continue on with this Truman Show of a life.

Today I finished Parvana’s Journey by Deborah Ellis. Another Juvenile Fiction story about children navigating war, orphanhood, hunger, and death. I wept. It was probably compounded by the Prologue in Girls Like Us, by Rachel Lloyd, in which she meets an 11 year old foster child who had been sold for sex up and down the East Coast. Perhaps I am soft because of Francis Chan’s talk this past weekend at The Justice Conference in which he passionately admonished us to view the hurting children of the world as if they were our own. Viewed that way, you kind of feel that the needs are urgent and fall into the emergency category. I mean, wouldn’t they if it were our child?

But I am here with 3rd graders giving wonderful presentations on water.

What do we do when we aren’t able to wrap our arms around a newly orphaned or abused child in an Internally Displaced Refugee Camp? How do we become activists and deal with our own hypocrisy and abundance and not lose our minds? How do I shape my own kids’ lives while raising them in this environment?

I must struggle. I must continue to read hard stories and weep, pouring salt into wounds, to remember. When we forget, we callously cease praying, cease giving, and worst of all, cease hoping for God to work.

We’re all fat!

It did not begin as a conversation about food, though you should know the previous night’s conversation was indeed about the history of preservatives in our country and why our nation has a weight problem  (I do no intentionally brain wash them!)

I guess it began because I had just finished Deborah Ellis’ The Breadwinner  and it was fresh, needing to be discussed. A book found as a result of a new class I’m designing for this summer- World Cultures. We’re going to “dive into difference” because I believe that most of our world conflict stems from fearing differences. The Breadwinner is a juvenile fiction account of a very real story during the Taliban era of Afghanistan. The protagonist is a young girl forced to pretend to be a boy so she can earn money when her father is purposelessly imprisoned.

(I am imagining a wonderful month of classes for 5-8th graders that is part book club, part cooking class, with some dance, art, and a field trip to a local Afghan restaurant. Month two will be Ethiopia!)

Of course, I had to share some of the stories of this girl which included a few of my well placed opinions about the Taliban. My quick 5 year old scrunches up her nose and asks incredulously, “Why do countries go to war? Don’t they want new friends?” This gave my equally quick husband an opening to make it personal.

“You know guys, there are wars happening all around the world every day. There are wars happening in Fort Collins. There were many just today.”

We were all confused. I admit I had no idea where he was going.

“All wars are a result of people fighting, of not agreeing with each other. He hit me! He got in my space! She’s not sharing!”

And we get it… a snicker goes around the table. Our home is often a battlefield.

“People are just people. The same war that is in our hearts towards one another is in theirs too. Countries fight over land, over not agreeing, over bugging each other, over having something they want.”

And then Sophie offers the classic Americentric comment (which we’ll work on, but she is just 5): “I just wish all countries could be like America.”

To which Ella responds, “No! We’re all fat!”

(Actually, I believe Kuwaitis are the fattest people on Earth, which I had to say and that lead to a fun night of world map quizzing!)

Challenge of the Abstract

The scene is dinnertime. My son had just discovered a computer game involving food preparation and ratings. Interrupting him for dinner, he comes to the table excitedly announcing what he’s going to be when he grows up. This is a monumental moment for him… the first inclination of a future aspiration I’ve heard him utter! I’ve suggested many many many career ideas through the years. His sisters have lists of professions and credentials they hope to achieve, so many that one of them has an “eternity list” of things she has already conceded won’t get done on earth and are reserved for heaven.

Aidan’s declaration? A Food Critic.

This is his new ambition. Perfect for him. He loves food. He loves reality game shows. The judging. The competition.

But I have to ask. Not because I don’t believe that the sacred can be found and brought to the secular, but because the kids needed to chew on this.

“How are you going to make a positive impact on the world by being a food critic?”

He is stumped. “Not be so harsh on the ones who make bad food?”

The girls rush to justify their choices, all of which involve an element of caring for less fortunate humans and animals. Then I am blamed for choosing easy professions (according to my question)… ministry, nonprofits, etc. Aidan struggles to find meaning in his plans as I grab a Bible and turn to Philippians.

We talk about being like Christ, who even though he was God, humbled himself, even to death on the cross.  I ask, to no avail, what is a way that being a food critic could be like bringing the kingdom of God to earth? Again, Aidan thinks soft, gentle, not the Iron Chef.

And so I turn to Micah. What is required of us? Sacrifices? Thousands of rivers of oil? Our firstborn? No, to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God. What is this saying guys?

Sophie asks, “What does justice mean?”

Oh my.

I give it one more try, agonizing over the abstract thinking I want them to have, stubborn in my refusal to let them be so concrete. Does it matter what we do or how we do it? Who we are as we do it?

This falls on mildly confused Sophie who just learned that the essence of justice is fairness. It falls on Ella, who has mistaken humbly to mean sacrifice and is praising me for cooking them meals. It falls on Aidan, who really just wants to eat lots of food and be paid for it.

But it sinks into my heart and nudges into the vacant places of my soul. I ponder the words of Micah. And later, I pick up One Thousand Gifts (for the third read) and am drawn to Mother Teresa’s words: “The work we do is only our love for Jesus in action. If we pray the work…if we do it to Jesus, if we do for Jesus, if we do it with Jesus… that’s what makes us content.” Sacred in the secular.

Parenting myself, I tell you. These are lessons for my soul, if not comprehended by my three charges.

 

Names and Identity

She is all of these and more, my oldest daughter, though I have failed to name her. Even her given name is a second choice- a close alternative to my first choice whose meaning was tragic in the country where she was born. I loved my first choice, Bella… beautiful. And I never searched for the significance of Ella (beyond she in Spanish).

But I am realizing the gravity of naming the glory of God in our children, of calling out the image of Him we see in them.

This week I spoke with a friend about her babies she has never met. I asked if she had named them. Too painful. She would wait until Heaven. But I am at her house and the name book is out, and I peek. Ella?

The inherent meaning of Ella is beautiful, the spiritual connotation is sustained and her verse, Psalm 91:11, “He ordered the angels to guard you wherever you go.” The timing of this discovery, priceless. Beautiful feels personal, sustained feels like a kiss on the forehead from my Father, all will be okay. Oh, if you knew the story of Ella’s last few months! (Another blog!)

And so I am going to name. Everyday. You are beautiful. You are intelligent. You are courageous. You are a singer.

And it makes me think of another naming  that happened centuries ago, that we celebrate in but a few days! Isaiah 9:6 “And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”

If our children are not named by us, who will name them?

Live58

Last night I took our 8 year old daughter to a viewing of Live58 at our church (a film/initiative to eradicate extreme poverty in our generation). Besides a few other kids and my own, I was among the youngest there. An audience of white hair from a church full of all generations. Initially surprised and then dismayed, I am now pleased. Up until now in my journey into justice issues, I have been surrounded by the generation behind my own- young(er) Christians eager to put action to their faith. Just last week I attended a book release, God in the Brothel, and was among the oldest in the audience. But if we are to truly “fast forward the end of poverty”, every generation will be required.

Perhaps the most heart wrenching snapshot of the film is the interview of 3 brothers, bonded slaves in a rock quarry in India. They are asked, “If God were here, what would you ask him for?” The youngest yells, “sweets!” The second squeals, “a bicycle!” And then the camera focuses on the oldest, a 12 year old boy. “I have desires and dreams, but my dreams will never come true. So, let me not have any dreams at all.”

Let me not have any dreams at all.

Personally, I cannot stand to think that there are kids in our world who would ask God to take away their dreams.

“To be compassionate costs something” Compassion International President, Wes Stafford.

Today, I am wondering what my fast will be?

Take a few minutes to watch this clip. Check out the website. Bring the film to your church.

Renting Lacy

The topic at dinner as of late has been football plays, lots and lots of sounding out of words, and a daily report on table groups’ rewards. The athlete, the new reader, the competitive one. Just the normal-beginning-of-school chatter.

But at night I’ve been re-absorbed in the world of human trafficking. Having gotten involved in a group at church and helping to bring an author to town has reawakened my commitment to end modern day sex slavery. However, it is my work with Prax(us) which has compelled me to learn more about domestic trafficking… the causes, the cases, the reality. And as a Mom, I am reminded of the need to be vigilant and protective of my own children.

Renting Lacy: A Story of America’s Prostituted Children (A Call to Action) was written by US Congresswoman, Linda Smith, the founder of Shared Hope International. It is a disturbing read, but crucial in understanding the various ways in which a child might be “trafficked” (which is to say, coerced into sex work as a minor) within our own country. Through stories and commentary, Smith shows us the psychological manipulation by pimps, the systematic break down and succumbence of the child, and the demand of the johns. It is horrific. It is real. It is happening (estimates range from 100,000-300,000 domestic minor sex trafficking/year).

I have new eyes for the vulnerable, sullen adolescent, a prime target for older “boyfriends.” I have a heightened disgust for pornography, which feeds and produces johns, luring them deeper into perversion, violence, and pedophilia. And I have found myself being a bit more watchful of my kids, snapped out of the idyllic town life we now have.

If you have wondered what it looks like and how it happens in our country, Renting Lacy is a must read.