As you know, I've been obsessively reading Ethiopian adoption blogs, and I'm also a member of the Ethiopian adoption Yahoo group. For months I've been reading about a book titled "There Is No Me Without You" by Melissa Fay Greene. I kept thinking "I really need to buy that book." Greene's a journalist who's written for the New Yorker, The NY Times and various other publications. She wrote this book after visiting Ethiopia and meeting a middle-class, middle aged Ethiopian woman, Heregewoin Teferra, who had lost her daugher to AIDS. The woman thought her life was over and no longer wanted to live without her daughter. But one day she was contacted by a local Catholic priest, who asked her if she would help take care of an child with AIDS who had been orphaned. She agreed. Everyone else was afraid of AIDS...but Heregewoin wasn't. She didn't care if she was infected, because she thought her life was over anyway. Soon more and more children were put into her care -- all orphans of the AIDS epidemic. She ended up with more than 40 children in her care. This book tells her story.
Well, two days ago I visited Melissa Fay Greene's website and found out she was going to be speaking at the Barnes and Noble bookstore in Evanston! So David and I went. What a delightful, intelligent author. She was funny, humble, smart, and passionate. She told her story about how after writing the book, she and her husband adopted four of those orphans in Heregewoin's care (for a total of 9 kids -- 4 biological, one adopted from another country, and 4 from Ethiopia). David and I came away inspired. Even though Ethiopian adoptions are on the rise, it only solves the problem for .0007 percent of the Ethiopian orphans. Obviously other solutions besides adoption are needed for helping the millions of Ethiopian orphans. But David and I are excited about being part of the .0007 percent solution. At least there will be one less orphan begging on the streets of Addis Abbaba.
We continue to research agencies. I think I have it narrowed down to two: Wide Horizons for Children, and Childrens Hope International. Everyone tells me this is the most difficult part of the process. It is overhwelming. But we're just taking it one step at a time.
While we're on the topic of African orphans, I highly recommend the documentary "God Grew Tired of Us" about the journey of the Lost Boys from Sudan. Truly amazing, eye-opening, sad, but also inspiring.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
Vacation Aftermath
As a reward for his insane hike up the sand dune (without me), David is battling a nasty rash. Somewhere on his hike he must have encountered Poison Oak. That's what he gets for being so ACTIVE on vacation....!
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Michigan
David and I went to Michigan last weekend for a last little fling before a two-year school marathon. I love Michigan. We went to the Warren Dunes on Saturday. It was a little cool, but otherwise perfect. We got out of the car and I was salivating over the wide expanse of sand, the deep blue waves, the clear blue sky. Perfect for putting down a blanket and reading away the afternoon. I reading a book called "The Lost", about a man who goes on a quest to find out what happened to six of his family members during the Holocaust. Good read.
Since there were only about 10 people on the wide beach, we had our choice of perfect beach-reading spots. But David immediately said, "Let's walk down the beach to get away from all of the people."
"ALL of the people?" I asked? "You mean all 10 of them?!" All I wanted to do was plop down on the sand. We had bags, blankets, water bottles, and jackets. But being the obedient wife that I am....we walked and walked and walked down the beach. "Where are we going?" I inquired at one point during our beach treck. "Oh, just a little further. Maybe about half way to where those people are." I looked down the beach to the two specks at the other end of the beach, and sighed. It's hard walking in sand...especially when all you want to do is sit down and read. David walked 10 paces ahead of me, impatient.
"I just don't see the point," I said. "There weren't that many people at the main part of the beach!" Well, that was the wrong thing to say. David got all upset and said, "Does it kill you to do a little walking?" Which hurt my feelings.
We finally found a spot on the sand, laid out our blankets, and I immediate started reading. Not David. He was off to the dunes to do a little climbing. He was gone for an hour, and I saw him jogging back on the beach. Yes, JOGGING....after he'd climbed a dune. If you've ever been to the dunes, you know this isn't an easy task. It's like climbing a Midwestern version of Mount Everest. But it's worth it when you get to run down the dune and pretend you're moon-walking.
While he was reaching Base Camp 3 on the Mount Everest Dune, I lay on my blanket soaking in the sun, and feeling a bit guilty for not getting more physical exercise. But we were on vacation, I had to remind myself. Why should I feel guilty for not exercising?
I didn't know this when I married him. It wasn't in any of the books we read about "Questions to ask before you get married." But I've discovered on vacation we have two very different styles. My perfect vacation includes RELAXATION. Isn't that what vacations are for? To unwind, relax, catch up on reading? Davids perfect vacation includes ACTIVITY. He wants to DO THINGS. The result is we end up looking at each other and asking "What is your problem?!"
We finally compromised. I convinced him to lay on the blanket with me for a while. He took a nap. Then I agreed to climb another dune with him. So we packed up our gear, and trekked to the nearest dune. It looked daunting. But I followed David and climbed up, huffing and puffing, until we got to the dune's equivalent of the Hillary Step....a sharp almost verticle incline of sand that I had to get past in order to get to the top. David was already there. I climbed on all fours....with dune grass and sticks scratching my legs, and finally grabbed a tree and pulled myself up to the sharp ridge to the top. I turned around and gasped -- it was gorgeous! The water looked like it was miles below us, we could see the outline of the Chicago skyline, and the shadows of clouds passing over the lake. We sat there, side by side and felt the wind on our face. I had to admit I wouldn't have climbed up the dune without David's prompting. I guess his style of vacation isn't so bad after all.
We sat on the dune for a while, then picked up our bags and bounded down the sand like crazy, goofy moonwalkers.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Flannelgraph Jesus
My ancestors started a church in the small Iowa community of Adelphi. From what I understand, the church didn't start out as a Baptist church. It was a congregational, or community church, or some other generic denomination, but then a new pastor came to the church sometime in the 50's, maybe, and the church became Baptist. It was a big controversy. Some of my relatives left, but my immediate family stayed on and we became Baptist. It's still a sore spot within the Beattie clan. Those who left still hold a grudge toward those who stayed, and vice versa.
We attended this church, the Adelphi Calvary Baptist Church, until I was about 12, when two deacons had a fist-fight on the front lawn. Then we started going to a church in the big city of Des Moines that was "contemporary." The singers used hand-held microphones. It was really controversial at the time. Oh, and they even used taped accompaniment. That was controversial, too. But we thought we were really cool going to the new "contemporary" church. But that's another story.
The Adelphi Calvary Baptist church, the one my ancestor's founded, sits on a hill, and there’s a valley inbetween the old home place -- the 80 acres where my Scottish ancestors settled in 1856 -- and the church. You can see the steeple from the highest point on our hill. Here’s what I remember. I remember the pews smelling like Pledge. And the green sculpted carpet that I walked down on the 4th verse of Just as I Am. And my mom playing the old Hammond organ. We always sat on the right side of the church, in the front, so my mom could easily slip out when it was time for the altar call. I can still see her sitting straight-backed, pumping the pedals of the organ in her bee-hive hairdo. She always seemed so serious. She practiced early on Sunday mornings...and it annoyed me because the whiney droning of the organ that wafted up the stairs from the living room to our bedrooms at 7:00 a.m. In my hazy dreams before waking, I would hear "The Old Rugged Cross," and "Softly and Tenderly".
The church basement smelled like bathroom sanitizer. And my Aunt Colleen was our Sunday School teacher and used flannel graph, pasting the figure of Christ, and the disciples onto the cartoon-like scene of a Middleastern landscape. She would tell the story but was interrupted by the head of Christ drooping down off the graph. She would have to turn around and flatten her ample hand on top of Christ’s head. He would stay upright next to his disciples but then we would watch as first his scalp, and then his eyes and ear and finally his chin would peel off the board again. A bobble-head Christ was much more interesting than listening to my aunt read scripture verses from the gospel of Luke that didn’t really make any sense.
At the time, these were stories that were just that: stories. What did they mean? What did it really have to do with our lives of kickball, Nancy Drew mysteries, and catching salamanders in the back yard? We memorized scripture -- one new verse every Sunday. I usually waited until Sunday morning to memorize the verse, quickly reciting it in the 5-minute car ride up the hill to the church. The verse stuck in my head for about 30 minutes -- long enough to recite it in class and get a gold star. By Sunday morning dinner it had left my head and landed in a heap of other temporarily memorized bible verses.
The rationale for memorizing these verses, we were told in Sunday School, was so that during those hard times in life we would remember the verses “written on our hearts”. You never know when you might find yourself stuck in a prison cell without a bible. I guess World War II was a close enough memory for the adults in our church that this was a distinct possibility. Plus, we were still in the Cold War with communists....so you never know when you might be taken prisoner and sent up to Siberia.
I was obedient and memorized the verses, while imagining myself in a cinder-block cell sitting on a cold floor. Luckily, I would find a piece of stone and write scripture on the walls – and all of those verses would come back in an instant. I’d find a crack in the wall and whisper them to my prison neighbor to be an encouragement in between our torture sessions. We’d be bloodied and bleeding, but we’d comfort ourselves with scripture.
In reality, I’ve only remembered bits and pieces. I don’t know where they are in the bible. I can’t recite entire verses. I'll be in bad shape if I'm ever sent to Siberia by the Communists. My husband seems incredulous that I don’t know more about the Bible. For pete’s sake, I have a minor in Bible – a requirement at my small Christian college.
But I did get the gist – that he came that we might have life, and have it more abundantly. That In our suffering we will grow. That it’s important to have deep roots so that we’re not tossed to and fro by the waves of life. That love is patient and kind and selfless. That to really live, you have to give away your life....like Christ did for us.
I used to feel guilty and bad for not being able to quote scripture, until I realized I live it every day and it is so much a part of me that I can't really recall the exact words. The verses didn't stick in my brain, but I think they seeped into my heart. Although I've never been in prison or tortured, I've been a prisoner of my own sick thinking, and unhealthy patterns and depression and loneliness. I've been tortured by ugly thoughts and bad relationships and the mundane-ness of life. And I've been through loss and grief. Battered by this fallen world. Through it all I know that God is good. That He loves me. That all shall be well. And that resurrection happens all the time...in the midst of ruin.
I have a little angst about the little white church on the hill. But those flannelgraph lessons pointed me in the right direction. I had to cast off all of the pieces of that legalistic Christianity that didn't work, and that I found out later were just constructs made to feel certain people feel more secure and okay. And somewhere along the way, the cartoon, bobbing head Jesus jumped off the flannelgraph board and became real.
We attended this church, the Adelphi Calvary Baptist Church, until I was about 12, when two deacons had a fist-fight on the front lawn. Then we started going to a church in the big city of Des Moines that was "contemporary." The singers used hand-held microphones. It was really controversial at the time. Oh, and they even used taped accompaniment. That was controversial, too. But we thought we were really cool going to the new "contemporary" church. But that's another story.
The Adelphi Calvary Baptist church, the one my ancestor's founded, sits on a hill, and there’s a valley inbetween the old home place -- the 80 acres where my Scottish ancestors settled in 1856 -- and the church. You can see the steeple from the highest point on our hill. Here’s what I remember. I remember the pews smelling like Pledge. And the green sculpted carpet that I walked down on the 4th verse of Just as I Am. And my mom playing the old Hammond organ. We always sat on the right side of the church, in the front, so my mom could easily slip out when it was time for the altar call. I can still see her sitting straight-backed, pumping the pedals of the organ in her bee-hive hairdo. She always seemed so serious. She practiced early on Sunday mornings...and it annoyed me because the whiney droning of the organ that wafted up the stairs from the living room to our bedrooms at 7:00 a.m. In my hazy dreams before waking, I would hear "The Old Rugged Cross," and "Softly and Tenderly".
The church basement smelled like bathroom sanitizer. And my Aunt Colleen was our Sunday School teacher and used flannel graph, pasting the figure of Christ, and the disciples onto the cartoon-like scene of a Middleastern landscape. She would tell the story but was interrupted by the head of Christ drooping down off the graph. She would have to turn around and flatten her ample hand on top of Christ’s head. He would stay upright next to his disciples but then we would watch as first his scalp, and then his eyes and ear and finally his chin would peel off the board again. A bobble-head Christ was much more interesting than listening to my aunt read scripture verses from the gospel of Luke that didn’t really make any sense.
At the time, these were stories that were just that: stories. What did they mean? What did it really have to do with our lives of kickball, Nancy Drew mysteries, and catching salamanders in the back yard? We memorized scripture -- one new verse every Sunday. I usually waited until Sunday morning to memorize the verse, quickly reciting it in the 5-minute car ride up the hill to the church. The verse stuck in my head for about 30 minutes -- long enough to recite it in class and get a gold star. By Sunday morning dinner it had left my head and landed in a heap of other temporarily memorized bible verses.
The rationale for memorizing these verses, we were told in Sunday School, was so that during those hard times in life we would remember the verses “written on our hearts”. You never know when you might find yourself stuck in a prison cell without a bible. I guess World War II was a close enough memory for the adults in our church that this was a distinct possibility. Plus, we were still in the Cold War with communists....so you never know when you might be taken prisoner and sent up to Siberia.
I was obedient and memorized the verses, while imagining myself in a cinder-block cell sitting on a cold floor. Luckily, I would find a piece of stone and write scripture on the walls – and all of those verses would come back in an instant. I’d find a crack in the wall and whisper them to my prison neighbor to be an encouragement in between our torture sessions. We’d be bloodied and bleeding, but we’d comfort ourselves with scripture.
In reality, I’ve only remembered bits and pieces. I don’t know where they are in the bible. I can’t recite entire verses. I'll be in bad shape if I'm ever sent to Siberia by the Communists. My husband seems incredulous that I don’t know more about the Bible. For pete’s sake, I have a minor in Bible – a requirement at my small Christian college.
But I did get the gist – that he came that we might have life, and have it more abundantly. That In our suffering we will grow. That it’s important to have deep roots so that we’re not tossed to and fro by the waves of life. That love is patient and kind and selfless. That to really live, you have to give away your life....like Christ did for us.
I used to feel guilty and bad for not being able to quote scripture, until I realized I live it every day and it is so much a part of me that I can't really recall the exact words. The verses didn't stick in my brain, but I think they seeped into my heart. Although I've never been in prison or tortured, I've been a prisoner of my own sick thinking, and unhealthy patterns and depression and loneliness. I've been tortured by ugly thoughts and bad relationships and the mundane-ness of life. And I've been through loss and grief. Battered by this fallen world. Through it all I know that God is good. That He loves me. That all shall be well. And that resurrection happens all the time...in the midst of ruin.
I have a little angst about the little white church on the hill. But those flannelgraph lessons pointed me in the right direction. I had to cast off all of the pieces of that legalistic Christianity that didn't work, and that I found out later were just constructs made to feel certain people feel more secure and okay. And somewhere along the way, the cartoon, bobbing head Jesus jumped off the flannelgraph board and became real.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
This too shall pass
I'm been feeling a knot in my stomach all day. The ball of anxiety that feels like gerbils in one of those clear plastic balls that allows them to run around without being eaten by the cat. The gerbils are restless today. They snuck up on me when I wasn't expecting it. Maybe it's because David started school today and the reality of our schedules for the next two years is sinking in. OR maybe it's because I found out I have to write 36 pithy headlines in 24 hours. It's a lot of pressure, being pithy. It makes the gerbils frantic.
Or maybe my anxiety is about the end of summer, or my hair, which hasn't been cut in three months, or the fact that we have to come up with school money and adoption money and I don't know where it's going to come from. I'm just waiting for it to appear. Out of nowhere. I just think we're due for a miracle or two and so I'm expecting God to come through any day now. So I'm waiting. Anxiously.
David gave me a backrub. He thought it might help. It didn't.
Then he told me to take a nap, because he thought that might help. I laid down under the afghan in the bedroom, but couldn't sleep because my mind was racing. So I got up and made a fruit smoothy.
Now I'm hoping that writing about it will help. The gerbils are still restless. I have to write 36 headlines. Maybe I'll go for a run and see if it will quiet the beasts in my stomach.
All shall be well, all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)