Building with Bracelets

The thought of asking for money makes me feel...overwhelmed. I admire the courage of those who can successfully fund raise. During our adoptions, we plugged along scraping together payments and selling stuff hoping that the ends would meet. Nevertheless, I feel somewhat empowered to fund raise on behalf of those who are unable to hold their little palms out.

Karen wrote a wonderful post on her blog explaining what I tried to explain a few weeks ago. The children that live around a CarePoint need to get in--not just for the education (which will change their future), but for the daily needs that can be supplied. This is an excerpt, but you can read the post in its entirety at: family-from-afar

 There's an uncomfortable truth that settles in when we are in Ethiopia working with the kids at our CarePoints. Kids that have come to know and rely on a full tummy every day, water that won't make them sick, teachers and care-givers that love them and guide them, and medical care when they need it. They laugh and play with energy and abandon because they have hope for their future. The uncomfortable truth is revealed when you look around the edges of the CarePoint and see thin, dirty kids waiting and watching and wishing.


 A few months ago, when I caught wind of this project, I started making a list. It's still stuck to my fridge. A few measly ideas that might generate some money for the building project. One of them was to make bracelets to sell. I ordered loose magazine beads from an organization that connects women in Uganda (beadforlife.org) with the worldwide market. Then, I hosted a night for my senior high girls to have dinner and make jewelry.

We had a blast, spilling beads all over the place and exclaiming over the creations that we produced. At the end of the night, I bundled the bracelets up and they have just sat...and sat. I was waiting to figure out how to connect YOU with a bracelet or pair of earrings. Each time I see the brown satchel filled with jewelry, I have a pang in my heart. The donations might be just enough, when coupled with many other efforts, that make a way for 150 children to begin attending Kind Hearts in the fall.

 Finally, I have come to the conclusion that simplicity is beautiful. We will sell the bracelets for $10 and earrings for $5, which includes shipping. I cannot possibly post a picture of each piece of jewelry, therefore, yours will be a wonderful surprise! Make the payment to me via paypal, include any directions for mailing in the comments.

Magazine Bead Jewelry

Bracelet$10.00 USD Earrings$5.00 USD

They are all different and beautiful. The beads made by beautiful women in Uganda, the bracelets made by beautiful teenagers at my dining room table.

Discouragement

In Ethiopia I got sick.  I was worse than I wanted to admit. My pride kept me from swallowing the magical Cipro that would eventually make me feel better. Half-way into the week with sleepless nights and an upset belly, my attitude started to change. Little whispers of doubt floated past my ears.

I felt inadequate because I couldn't speak Amharic or Oromiffa. I felt inadequate because there are so many children who clamor for attention and goodies. Even with a 10 day trip, there is never enough time. I allowed the doubts to linger too long. They didn't float anymore, but settled near me. I was ill, missed my family, and doubted my purpose on this trip.

"What are you doing here?"

I felt selfish in being there. The sacrifice of time and money for me to be in Ethiopia weighed heavily on my heart. I was standing on the property at Trees of Glory looking out over the buildings and into the valley where the stream runs. I felt discouraged and alone.  Glancing over to my right was one of the Hopechest staff members, Alex. Over the past two years I have come to admire him and enjoy the time that we have with him. He was walking towards me, smiling, and directed my eyes to the swarm of excited children playing soccer.

"They love when you come. Just a few weeks ago the new children couldn't even tell us their names. They were scared, but when you all visit they open up. Only a few days and look at how happy they are.  Your work here is so good." His words were a balm to my soul.

My discouragement? Not from God. Going to Ethiopia? Not selfish.

The two of us stood there smiling.  Alex, because he is usually smiling, and me, because God had seen my spirit flounder and sent a kind word of encouragement.

Kind Hearts School

The classrooms at Kind Hearts are crowded with children who are excited to be given the opportunity to attend school.  Many of their friends and relatives do not have an education.  They are proud to be students, wearing their tattered uniforms and sitting in the crowded classrooms.

There are many children around Kind Hearts that roam the streets during school hours.  Their families don't even have the money for the necessities.  Education is expendable.

As the children are fed, educated, discipled and as the school becomes more self-sufficient, another need becomes obvious.  There are many more children who are in desperate need of what is being provided to these 150.

The solution, it would seem, is to add more school rooms. Right now, the rooms are quite full (envision mother hubbard).  By adding another building, just like the existing one, with four classrooms, another 150 children could attend Kind Hearts.  This is a pressing matter because of time.  School is on break right now, but will start again in September.  Donations towards this, right now, will enable the school to add the building and enroll students for the upcoming school year.

Pictures from previous posts show how sponsoring a child can change their life.  More classrooms mean more children who can be sponsored.  That means more children who are fed and educated while still living with their families.  This program, to me, provides for children before they become orphans.  The single mother of five young children would never dream of providing what her children now receive through Hopechest sponsors.  Not only are her children fed and in school, but she has been given hope.

Many people believe that the only way they can help the orphan is by adopting. That is simply not true! This is a unique situation, because it provides a way for caregivers to keep the children with them. The children who are in the sponsorship program are in desperate situations. Their lives are radically changed once they are given a good meal on a daily basis, education, and hope. Donating to an education fund seems frivolous. This is more than just an education. You are giving, food, clean water, education, and hope to a child. I am going to host a fundraiser in the next few weeks, but wanted to share this burden with you now. You can donate by visiting
 http://donate.hopechest.org/goto/karen

 This is a specific webpage hosted by Hopechest that will channel all donations into the building fund. Karen has written in more detail about the building project. You can also visit her blog for more information: www.family-from-afar.blogspot.com

Transitions

I am watching our little boy begin that transition into adolescence.

Painful.

One minute he stands in the backyard fort as the pirate captain.  The next he's too busy with his ipod to be bothered by anyone.

Even me.

He's worn out my Tolkien collection.  They were pristine until he read them a dozen times...last week.  I'm amazed.  Then, he dons hobbit apparel and directs all of the siblings into appropriate costumes and tells them what member of the fellowship they will be.

Tonight we went out together--just the two of us--for ice cream and bantering.  I needed a haircut and tried to coerce him to join me.  He laughed and said he wasn't about to let that lady touch his hair, rolling his eyes as if I had lost my mind.

When we got back home he slipped into bed and, as I walked into the light of the hallway, he whispered, "You didn't kiss me goodnight." For a while longer, he remains, our little boy.

Ancient Romans

You ever happen upon that family who is amazing?  Last year, at the science center, the award winners from local science fairs were on display.  We spent some time wandering through the tri-fold boards and models.  We ooh-ed and ahh-ed quite a bit.  There were two boards that were spectacular.  They happened to be homeschoolers and siblings.  My jaw dropped as I read their reports.

We are not that sort of family.

In our spare time, we catch toads in the backyard and play grappling games on the monkey bars.  Neither activities are condoned, but allowed until someone gets salmonella or breaks a bone.  No one around here is researching solar panels or writing novels.  Everett does do a lot of reading, but I tease him that he "reads a little too much Cheetos and not enough broccoli".  Eli wants to be an inventor. He has many fabulous ideas (like a super hero converting machine that turns you into your favorite super hero), but so far they are all cardboard prototypes.


We aren't one of those Time magazine cover families.  I was thinking about those families and wondering what their lives were like, behind the scenes.  Do parents push their children to do all of the extras or do the kids just take off on their own?  Is this 'enjoyment' of academics genetic?  If so, I will shrug since I don't see Einstein emerging in our five.  They are fantastic, and brilliant in their own ways, but...they want to check the education box for the day and spend the rest of their afternoon playing.

I was thinking about children creating solar powered toys as I showered, wondering how its done--this art of raising up brilliant children.  When I emerged from showering bliss, my children had raided the linen closet.  Much to my delight, they were parading around in togas discussing who they were from the Roman Empire.

I call that 'enjoying academics'.

Waiting Children

I am a night owl when Seth is out of town. This week, in my solitude, I've pored over stories of waiting children.  I've been reading amazing stories of families who are adopting these children.  These late nights have been emotional roller coasters.

Right now, I should be watching a NINE hour seminar teaching me to teach children to be excellent writers.  It seems too early to be preparing for school next year when we haven't even finished this year.  I have the best intentions.  I find myself reading Daneille's post for today, instead of watching Andrew Pudewa.  I've been visiting her blog almost daily.  It's heart breaking to see so many sweet faces that are waiting.


My eyes blur after seeing so many faces.  I find myself thinking about them during the day.  Will someone come for them?  It's too overwhelming to let my thoughts linger for long.

It is easy to forget the waiting children.  It's easy to say that their numbers are too many.  The price is too high.  Caring for a child with special needs is beyond what I am able to do.

My Mom once said to me, "If it's easy then it probably isn't the right thing to do."

Easy is disregarding the plight of so many.  Easy is feigning ignorance.  Easy is thinking that YOU can't make a difference in the life of one of these children.

Easy is wrong.

You can make a difference!  The faces I've seen are little children, slowly losing hope of finding a family.  Your donation may make the difference in one family choosing to adopt that child.  Sharing their stories may change the heart of the family who looks again through the photo listing and sees the face of their child staring back at them.

I have to ask myself what do we do?  Once I step down from my soapbox, then I must get busy doing something.  I share the crushing thought of so many children and how can my family possibly make a difference?  I'm still praying about that, but for now I know:  there are many opportunities, beyond adoption, to help waiting children.

Share their stories--join a website like  Rainbowkids or Reece's Rainbow.

Donate!  Sometimes the financial aspect of international adoption is what keeps many families from considering it.  You can donate directly to a specific waiting child.  Daneille is hosting a June for Jack fundraiser, raising funds towards Jack's adoption as he waits for his family to come.  Visit her blog to find out the details and donate.  Both waiting child sites have opportunities to donate. 

Short term missions...sponsoring an older child for the summer...sponsoring orphans who are not adoptable through organizations like Hopechest...and, of course, adopting!

Please don't choose easy.

Us

I fear that my recent posts have seemed dreary.  Blog world is a funny place where even the sad posts aren't snot-and-tears-all-over-your-face sad, rather Hollywood-heroine-lip-quivering-eyes-filling-with-tears sad.  I can't tell what I portray here, since I know my life is the snotty, drippy sort, not the lip quivering heroine sort.  I always write knowing the reality of the situation.  When I read my post about attachment, I feel discouraged.  I feel discouraged for any new adoptive parents who might read it and sigh and wonder for the 108th time if they really know what they are getting into.  I feel discouraged for the post-adoptive crowd who is struggling to figure out what normal means and reads that after four years we are still baffled by adoptive life.

If you read that post and wonder what our lives look like, then I started this post for you.  I want to be encouraging, but in a real way.  I don't want you to get this image of a sullen, angry child who hates her family.  That's not it at all!  This morning, as I was writing it in my head (which is why my posts have become so rare...too much writing in my head and not enough making it onto the laptop).  Anyway, as I was writing I was thinking of the lovely things we enjoy as a family.  I had a mental list of photos from our recent trip to the beach for my sister's wedding.  Definitely lovely.

The garden we have been planting and watering and now, as Eli says, "We just water and watch."  So lovely.

The times when an academic struggle turns into success and we high five and cheer and I'm totally pumped and love homeschooling.  Way lovely.

Scoping out a bird's nest in my parent's yard.  Three little blue eggs and one big brown one, delighted to see science lessons in real life, though we all pretty much agree that we really don't like 'brood parasites'.  Admiring the delicate nest with the kids ranks a big lovely.

But then my solace was interrupted when life happened.  Probably in the middle of my mental writing of that lovely post.  Someone clogged the toilet, which is basically about as un-lovely as things can be.  Sally couldn't remember anything in her math book so I couldn't be interrupted to fix the toilet at that juncture.  In the throes of reteaching the past 2 years of math with her, I forgot about the toilet.

Then, it was lunch time.  Afterwards, Josiah and I decided to water the flowerbeds.  While watering, he was reminded that he needed to race to the bathroom, but hadn't heard the "don't use that toilet" message from hours ago.  So he used it.  And flushed.  And flushed.  And wouldn't you know, he flushed one more time, just because he couldn't figure out why it wasn't working.  That overflowing mess greeted me when I came into the house.  I only came inside because the girls were pleading with me to make them tea for a tea party.  Instead, I sopped up the mess and called for the culprit to help, then carried rugs and towels to the basement to wash.  I noticed along the way that the litter box hadn't been emptied since we left for the weekend.  I started laundry and cleaned the box and was running up the stairs with a bag of very used litter when I heard a pleasant voice coming from the dining room, barely audible over the din made by the tea partiers who were still begging for tea to be made.  I hit the top stair and saw Eli's flute teacher, smiling at me--wet with toilet water, holding a bag of cat poop, panting and sweaty and surrounded by squealing children.  

Our lives are not always lovely.  It's a real life.  Busy and lovely and sad and sometimes pretty frustrating.

Wonder of Boys

A friend began a new blog and emailed me with a link to her first post.  She weaves a poignant tale of adoption in her life.  It's a lovely post and I would encourage you to visit her.

www.wonderofboys.blogspot.com 

Just in case you don't heed my advice, I'll do a rather sloppy job of trying to explain what she's doing over there.  Besides admiring the wonder that comes along with having wonderFUL boys in your family, she's advocating for boys who are in dire circumstances and desperately need families.  Seth came over as I was reading her recent posts.  He shook his head and walked away, remarking, "I don't know why you do this to yourself."

I suppose there is no purpose in reading their stories and looking at their pictures, unless I pass along their stories. These boys (and another 140 million orphans) need our prayers.  They need families who will step up and adopt.  Most of the boys on the blog are from Eastern Europe.  It's heartbreaking to see the pictures and know what their future holds.  That future might have been Ella's as she was a mere six months from moving out of the baby house and into a huge institution.  Her future would have been very bleak---a three year old, severely delayed and missing a limb...I don't allow myself to imagine what might have become of our sweet little girl.

This is a video of Beau that I pulled from Daneille's blog.  Beau's a few years older now and still waiting.  He's charming and grabbed my attention right away.  Visit her blog to see more children, share the information, and help these boys find homes.

I'm not demanding, just strongly encouraging you.

Orphanage Dust

Dust sneaks up on me. I admit that I'm not a regular duster. I assign that to one of the half-hearted cleaners of our bunch. He generally gives things a swipe, one hand holding a book open, the other aimlessly moving the duster. Our dust gets stirred up every once in a while, then settles back down to accumulate some more. One sunny day I'll happen to glance at the piano and grimace. I frantically move from one piece of furniture to another eradicating dust from each flat surface.

I am ashamed to admit that it seems to work the same way with orphanage dust.

Everything seems so clean, so tidy, so perfect. Then, one day I walk by and notice that dust has been accumulating. It's thick and marring the beautiful surface of our child.

Four years next month. Four years in our family. The magic number for this daughter's life. She's been with us longer than she was in Ethiopia. It seems like four years would be long enough.

The dust has been accumulating and we were slow to notice it. A few strange things happened and then, rather slowly, we noticed. The sun shone down and the dust was glaring back at us.

This business of redeeming a hurt child never allows for a quick fix. We admit that we were too lax at the beginning. Medical needs trumped attachment worries. We were careful, but not vigilant. She seemed so well adjusted...until recently.

A friend gently urged me to do something proactive. She was confiding in me about attachment problems and I began sharing some recent worries. The thick layer of dust revealed, I knew we needed to get busy.

I share this, thinking that some of you might have similar concerns. If it seems like it's been long enough, don't fool yourself into thinking that 'she's really fine'. Do something now, because nurturing behaviors are much easier with a 3 year old than an 8 year old! It's easier to win over the heart of an 8 year old than a 15 year old. We press on through the snide remarks, questions, fibs, and sneakiness. She's sweet and yet she knows how best to hurt us.  Ultimately, the battle becomes one within myself.

This is my life with our daughter. She loves me unless there is another adult to please. The kindness of an acquaintance lives on through her praises, while our gestures are snubbed and disregarded. In my heart I want to stop trying and just let her be.  We know she's still hurting and the dust is stirred up. We re-read the books that had long been shelved. Entire paragraphs are highlighted and sticky notes mar the pages. It's a great resource, but when push comes to shove it sure is hard to be stabbed in the back daily.

God didn't bring this soul out of darkness and near death for us to flippantly lose her to her past.  The real changes have to begin with me.  In an effort to win the heart of my hurting child, I realized I have to change my heart.  Five children.  Three adoptions.  Seems like I would have been there and done that.  Read all the books.  Known all the right answers.

Her shrugs have brought me to my knees.  Right where I need to be for all of our children.

Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord.  1 Corinthians 15:58

For the mother who has it all...

Sometimes I'm stuck without a single idea when it comes to gift buying.  Sometimes I'm struck with a great idea and then something better comes along.  This opportunity would be the something better coming along.

The Davidson family is making wonderful cards for Mothers Day.  All of the proceeds will be donated to the building fund for Kind Hearts.  Right now the kids are squeezed into the four available classrooms.  It was fantastic to see so many children (150) this year, but disheartening to realize that they are beyond full.  In order to allow more children into the school, they need more room.  Karen explains the project much better on her blog:  www.family-from-afar.blogspot.com

If you would like to order a card for the special women in your life, visit the Davidson's blog at:
Davidson Party of Five

I've been lax in sharing this, hurry up or you will miss this great opportunity.  They have already raised over $2000 towards the project!

The Stack By My Bed

The tall stack of books on my nightstand tells about what is going on in my life right now. Recent parenting worries are sitting under a frivolous read. An 'encouraging friend' that I visit all year long rests on the very top, easily accessible when I need a quick word. A challenging missions autobiography waits to be finished, smashed in between my pressing worries and my desire to relax at the end of the day. I think my priorities are askew.

What does your nightstand reveal about you?

What a mother will do...

This tells me I'm not the only mother that has resorted to these tricks to convince children of the importance of dental hygiene.

Pictures of Bad Teeth

I almost dry heaved. The child in question immediately confessed to skipping his brushing and ran off. Our squeals caused a stir.  Soon the kitchen was filled with exclamations as I scrolled back through the pictures for the four curious children who missed the first viewing.  The kitchen quickly vacated.  I could hear water running and teeth being brushed all over the house.

I even gave my teeth a once over, just in case. 

Kind Hearts Video

This video came from a group traveling recently with Children's Hopechest. I was thrilled to watch it, but generally love watching any clips that people share from their trips. When the video started, all of the kids crowded around me. Unfortunately, they are drawn to the sound of movies playing. As of yet they are unableto discern the difference between Hollywood quality and youtube. I loved explaining that Misikir works with Hopechest and that he has become a dear friend. He is explaining recent projects and hopes for the future of Kind Hearts. We were all spellbound. I hope you enjoy the little glimpse into the great work that is being done.

The End of an Era

Some of you may remember the story that brought us our van. Church van pulls up and three small children climb out. THREE children riding in a 12 passenger van. It was always funny, but never fun to park (or drive in the snow, or fill up with gas).

For five years the great white van dubbed 'Moby' has faithfully taken us all over the country. The words, 'we don't have room' never passed my lips. With a vehicle that seats 12 11 (the dog ate one seat belt), there was always space for another family. We'd squeeze in and bounce down the road together, not in comfort, but together.

It was with some regret that we agreed to sell good, old Moby to a Russian family with nine children. We found a Honda that seats eight--my one requirement of selling Moby--I need to know that I have one seat open. Just in case.

This van is much nicer than Moby, but there are downfalls. I've lost it in the parking lot. That never happened with Moby--he had 'ninja eyes' above the grill, a scripture sticker on his rear and he was usually the biggest, whitest thing in the parking lot. This new van is gold and small and screams ubiquity. I would have named it such, but that would be too hard to say for 3/5 of the children. Everett votes for Megatron and Ella said something about kittens.

I do think one of these is in this poor van's future:
Nothing takes a gold minivan out of ubiquitous and into recognizable like a sweet stache. Right now it's so ordinary it doesn't even qualify for posting a picture.

Farewell, Moby...I hope we don't regret letting you go!

Another Layer Revealed

Our paradigm shift happened five years ago. Our beautiful little Ella was very slow to speak, not uttering more than "ma" at nearly three years old. She seemed slow to pick up on things, and we often wondered whether it was just her adjusting to life in a family. Things culminated one fall when she started 'blinking' and losing a second or two of time. She was diagnosed with epilepsy on the same day that a psychologist told us she had a low IQ and ADD. We, psychologist included, ignored his findings with our new knowledge of her brain activity. Who could possibly take any test while having seizures every few minutes?

That bout of visits with neurologists and psychologists gave us a little glimmer of her uncertain future. We first heard the words 'mental retardation' there, in relation to our daughter. Gone were visions of her in college, leaving our home to start one of her own. We joked about it at first. Around here, laughter seems to be the way we deal with things. I would say, "She's going to be with us forever, in our basement with 17 cats. She will love every minute of it."

Neither of us really, truly thought we were being serious.

I prayed for years that the Lord would "restore the years the locust had eaten" for Ella. As He began to reveal more of her to us; my prayers began to be "let us love her the way she is." He answered those prayers abundantly.

In the fall Ella got 'lost' at church. It's a small church, with only three hallways. She left her class and thought church was over so she waited in the foyer for me. She sat there and watched as the foyer full of people slowly emptied. She sat there thinking she had been left behind, all the while hearing the choir sing from the sanctuary. I finally found her, I guess she had just asked a stranger visiting our church where she could find her mommy. That scared me to death. It also made us think about her future in more realistic ways.

After speaking with our wonderful neurologist, we found ourselves in the lobby of a pediatric psychologist. I had spent the week filling out paperwork as both parent and teacher. I dug through our disorganized file cabinet and found IQ tests and neurologist reports for the last five years. We were both nervous about the next hour. I feared that they would scoff and tell us to send her to a public school where she could get services that she needed. I had a lot of fears that afternoon. Seth was my support, but from the beginning said that I would need to be the one talking. The two psychologists were young and friendly. I suppose their days are filled with anxious parents hoping that they have all of the answers. We were just two more worried faces.

Our interview went on for over an hour. I soon got to understand these ladies pretty well. The senior psychologist had the 'encouraging' habit of finishing our sentences. She had somehow picked up the amazing mind reading skill. We were peppered with questions starting at the beginning of Ella's adoption and running through the past seven years.

After being 'on' for so long I started to fade. My exhaustion hit me when one doctor asked how Ella was with puzzles and I just stared at her. Glancing from one corner of the room to another I nearly panicked. A little help from the psychic would have been appreciated but she, too, just stared at me with a smile on her face. My mind was a mess of frantic thoughts..."How is she with puzzles, sheesh. I'm a horrible mom! I can't think remember puzzles, do we do puzzles? Does she like puzzles? When did she do a puzzle last? Like 3 years ago? That's a terrible answer, I can't say that!"

I think I finally murmured, "She doesn't like puzzles too much." We quickly moved on and shortly after the appointment ended. They probably smelled my brain frying.

Seth went alone with Ella for the two sessions of three hour testing. Ella thought it was a fun treat to have snacks and play computer games with these doctors. She also fell asleep in the car on the way home and had double vision the rest of the day. Seth said that the last day the doctors escorted Ella out to the lobby and had a look of pity on their faces. He couldn't tell if it was a "pity you think this perfectly normal kid has delays" look or a "pity you will be met by the child protective services at the elevator" look or maybe even a "pity you have no idea what you are dealing with" look.

I went to the final meeting alone. Seth called in and joined us via speaker phone. All five kiddos were drawing pictures and doing mazes about the Myecean Greeks while he listened to our meeting from a quiet bedroom. Pacing back and forth, I'm sure.

The ladies looked at each other and one flushed bright red before she even began. They slid a stapled stack of papers toward me that had Ella's identifying information along the top. I felt myself begin to sweat and wondered why I had so many layers on. The senior psychologist began with, "This is the bell curve of normal IQs. Here at the bottom is 90 and the top is 110. Ella's right about here." She slid her pen nearly off the paper to the far left. Too far below what we expected, much farther than the previous test. Way down to 65.

I let a wheeze escape.

"Ummm, so what does that mean?" With the psychic doctor's help, we asked a few questions attempting to understand what this looks like as a child and an adult. They were very encouraging and supportive of Ella being homeschooled. They said she was thriving and gave me pages of resources to help in her educational journey.

Over the next hour I felt myself curling up into a ball. As much as I could without totally freaking these two ladies out. At one point I looked down and realized I had both arms wrapped completely around my torso and my legs crossed twice. I was turning into a pretzel.

She probably will never leave us. She will never drive a car or live on her own. She will need our help for the rest of our lives. We have already talked about how to plan so she will be taken care of when we are gone. She indeed may live in the basement with 17 cats. She probably will love it.

Sometimes.

She talks about being a mommy one day. She wants to get married. She wants to be a vet or a plumber or a dog when she grows up. She's beautiful and easily confused. Her best friends are four and five year old kids. She can read, but doesn't understand what she's reading. She can multiply, but doesn't understand why she's doing it. She wants to play with the girls her age, but she can't understand what they are doing and resorts to being goofy to make them laugh.

These test results should not have been a surprise to either of us. We've watched our daughter fall farther behind her peers. I've held her back in school and dropped curricula mid-year because I was losing her. I've tailored programs and done funky multi-sensory things trying to help her learn. Her little brother and sister have long since passed her in school, not that she knows it. But we did, and we should have expected her tests to be low.

That day I thanked the doctors and left their office. When I sat in the car I exhaled for about 5 minutes. My pretzel limbs loosened and I felt okay. I felt okay because nothing has changed in Ella. She's still the same Ella that she always has been. Our lovable, funny, God given, Ella.

Leftovers

A few days ago, Josiah took too long on his lunch and was left alone at the table. While I cleaned up in the kitchen, I noticed that the dining room was exceptionally quiet. That usually means he's in trouble. I peeked in and saw that he had indeed disappeared, but the vultures were taking care of his leftovers.

Nests

In a moment of guilt filled insanity, I relented and decided that we would make bird's nests. Not the yummy treat kind that my mom makes at Christmas. The kind that birds make. The science book suggests it as an activity. In the middle of winter. They know this will fall in the middle of winter because it's the middle of the science book. Grrr. How about some nice, clean, inside activities about birds? Like watching them as they eat from our bird feeders while we are sipping hot beverages inside?

Armed with bags and winter coats, I wave from the window as the kids tear into trees, bushes, piles of moss...hoping to find just what they need to build a nest. Unfortunately, the sticky stuff (aka mud) wasn't to be found anywhere, as the ground is frozen solid. I had to don my boots and trek into the far reaches of my garden to chip out some soil. I thawed it in the sink with warm water and viola...mud. That went onto the dining room table. Sigh. I stood guard with the vacuum hose, mistakenly thinking that would make clean up easier.

Notice Sally's look of disdain and distance from the table.

Then Sally started screaming about spiders. I hadn't thought about what we might be waking up by digging around outside. That was the end for her, she took her bag, dumped it onto the pie plate and called it a nest. Ella was thrilled with the prospect of finding something alive in her pile, so she began sifting carefully through leaves and bark. She completely forgot about the assignment as soon as she found a roly-poly. I vehemently refused her pleas for, "making it a home in my bedroom."

Inspecting the pile for bugs, Ella suckered Josiah into helping her.

The nests were a partial success, if measured in learning. Nest building is hard, especially considering birds don't have hands. Ours looked beautiful until the kittens discovered them that night.

Coloring a picture of a nest might have been a nice learning experience, too.

Forgotten Pictures

After reading my previous post, Karen sent me a message with wonderful news. She found pictures from our home visit that she had forgotten about! Even with my descriptions, Seth and our children were amazed to see where Dirbe and her siblings live.

It was so dark, my "fancy" Canon camera couldn't find a focal point in the darkness, and couldn't take a picture. So I reached for my daughter's small point-and-click camera and snapped a few quick pics with the flash. Reading Apryl's post jogged my memory, and just tonight I downloaded those photos and here is what I found - along with a video I somehow captured while holding hands with a child and balancing my other camera too. :)

The mud bench, yellow jugs for water in the background. You can see the thatched roof with black stains from smoke. Dirbe and Meskerem had terrible coughs, as did many of the other children, no doubt due to the smoky house.

The kitchen area, with large pans for injera along the wall. The raised bed is in the background.

One final shot as we leave, the children sleep on the floor near their parent's raised bed. This picture makes me even more thankful for the blankets that we gave to the children.

Karen has about 30 seconds of video on her blog. In it we had just entered the cluster of huts and were approaching the Hunde's home.

The Visit

Last year, when a little girl stole my heart by draping her arm so protectively around her little sister's shoulders, I never dreamed their family would become so familiar to my family. I never would have imagined that we would find ourselves in their home.

We had walked through the fields on a dirt path, gingerly making our way to the crest of the hill. Each of the children grasped the hand of an adult, almost as a badge of honor. We followed the path to a cluster of mud huts surrounded by shrubs and fencing.
This was the first time I had visited the home of one of our sponsor children. The unexpected made me nervous. I was holding the small hands of two little girls. I looked down at my sponsor child, Dirbe, on my right. She was obviously excited about the visit we were making. We trailed behind the group, my mom was just up ahead holding the hands of Dirbe's older brother and sister, whom my parents and sister sponsor. My hands were clammy and my stomach full of butterflies.

From the moment we stole away from the care point; I felt such a burden. I wanted to remember each detail of the walk, each sight and smell, so that I might share the experience with our families back home. I felt such responsibility climbing that hill, as I couldn't imagine many visitors taking this path to these homes. We were there as representatives of so many people and I felt inadequate. I felt so awkwardly American with my cameras and blue jeans. I was so tired from a long flight and no sleep and so, so terribly sorry that I hadn't learned Oromiffa in the past year.

That smiling face kept peering up at me, glancing and grinning. She obviously doesn't care how out of place we look. She's delighted to bring us home. I wish I could capture her excitement! Then I catch a glimpse of the view once we reach her cluster of huts, and I wish I could bring that home, too.


The huts seem abandoned, but we are shown the Hunde family's home. Dirbe's mother comes, smiling. She looks graceful in her traditional flowing dress and scarf. Again, I feel under dressed, though we stand in a smoky mud hut. It's unreal. She puts me at ease as she, too, is obviously excited to have us visit. We talk through two translators to try and understand how many children are in the family and what they do for a living. We are waiting for the children's father to arrive.

I'm nervous and rest in Karen's ability to think clearly and make conversation. What will their father be like? Perhaps angry that these American Christians are here? I have no idea, but not much time to think about it, because soon the crowd peering in the doorway parts for him.

He is small and wearing a ball cap with a large shawl wrapped over his shoulders. He walks with a limp and uses a cane. I never should have worried about this man. The moment I see his face, I see the same familiar joy that I adore on Dirbe's face. He is thrilled that we have come. His eyes adjust to the darkness and he comes towards me, smiling. He is talking, but I can't understand what he says. As the translators begin to sort out what he has said, he is taking my hand. Then he begins peppering it with kisses as the translator says, "He says he recognizes you from the pictures you send. He says thank you, thank you, God bless you."

I'm a mess. I'm a humbled mess. I can't think straight enough to ask any simple questions, for which I will have to beg forgiveness later. We learn that our three sponsor children sleep on the dirt floors. Their father fought in the army and sustained extensive injuries to his leg. He tries to support his family, but relies on the help provided by the care point.

As we begin to leave I realize that I must bring home at least a mental image of the home where this family lives. The three children sleep on the hard packed dirt floor near a raised mud platform where their parents sleep, a mud bench runs along one wall, and in one corner is a small fire, obviously where the cooking is done. Our visit ends far too soon as I realize I haven't taken photos or video to share with our family.

We walk slowly away from the huts and I am elated. I have just seen the smallest glimpse of the blessing Trees of Glory is to the children. I'm excited to be able to tell my sister that 'our girls' are loved and adored by their family. My nervousness has bubbled up into relief and joy. I give the little hand a squeeze and Dirbe smiles up at me again. This time, I recognize that she has her father's smile.

Staycation--The Finale

That fated morning, when the snow was coming down and I was dreading the thought of breaking the sad news to our kids, I was certain that we needed one big ticket item. We have some really good kiddos. They are usually so flexible and willing to change plans at a moment's notice. I shouldn't have worried so much about telling them that we weren't leaving for Florida. But, to my credit, I pictured myself saying, "I know you have been counting down the days until we were leaving, and I know that our bags are packed and you are expecting to pile into the van and head south in a few hours. I know that we have pumped you up for grandparents, theme parks, and swimming with manatees. Instead of that, Daddy and I decided that we are going to stay at home and do some fun stuff instead. I know there is something fun we can do. Really."

Their expected reaction? Wailing as they throw their bodies prostrate to the ground beating little hands and feet while they moan with disappointment and regret over their luck in life to have been put into the care of two senseless and obviously uncaring adults who call themselves parents.

I should have expected more of them. I tried to break it gently, and was certain to stress this particular event. Our trump card--two days at the resort/waterpark just an hour away. I had called and explained that I didn't care what day we came, but I needed something great because, "I'm about to tell my kids we can't go to Orlando for the week."

Though we enjoyed the beginning of the week, I do believe the biggest fun was had during our last two days of staycation. We sucked every ounce of fun from that water park. The discounted price I got for our room was due to low numbers at the park on Wednesdays. The place was relatively deserted and perfect! The four biggest kids are tall enough to ride nearly everything, this year they were able to run up and come down slides on their own. Josiah, ever the water-wimp, hung with me in the shallow part of the wave pool and managed by the end of the second day to be coerced into going down the 'big kid' slide in the kiddie zone.

The thought of standing around in my swimsuit is quite unappealing. Standing in my swimsuit, dripping wet and catching a glimpse of the snow pouring down from gray skies made for a perfect end to a snowy week!