September, 2009-- Control

When our oldest son, now 14, was a preschooler, my friend Brigid told me about an experience she had with her own preschooler after Mass one Sunday. It was shortly before Christmas and gifts for needy children were arranged under a tree near the front of church. While Brigid and her husband were chatting with some friends and the priest, her son grabbed a present, brought it back to the group, and asked if he could open it.

            “I let the priest handle that one,” I remember Brigid telling me. “I wanted to see how he would explain to a four-year-old that the presents were for other children.”

            At the time, I remember being amazed that Brigid decided to give the situation to the priest. I knew that if Jacob had done something similar, I would have been mortified and would have quickly taken matters into my own hands.

            But a decade more into parenting, Brigid’s decision to let someone else lead the lesson sticks with me.

            Parenting seems to be a lifelong dance of knowing when to take control and when to let it go. On one hand, parents are co-creators with God; our children are entrusted to us to form and shape; to teach, discipline and bless. On the other hand, our children do not really belong to us at all. Ultimately, they are God’s children, given a free will and a life all their own. Yes, we parents may be the primary teachers, but we are not the only ones. And while we may take some satisfaction when our children do well, and some blame when they do not, we cannot be so full of our own importance to think that every success and failure of our children is a direct reflection on us.

            Having a mix of biological, adopted and foster children has caused me to bump  into the control issue earlier perhaps than some parents.

            There are close to four years of our foster daughter’s life that I cannot account for. She is almost eight, and social services has sent her to live with us on three separate occasions over the course of her life. It’s likely this third placement with us will end in adoption. While I know a bit of what her life was like, and how she suffered, when she wasn’t living with us, I don’t know the whole story. Indeed, Teenasia herself doesn’t know the whole story because for much of the time she wasn’t with us, she was so young.

Learning to love T as a daughter has tested me as a parent. Especially early on when she came back the third time, I felt that I was looking at her without recognizing her. I saw little of myself or Bill reflected back at me. Yet, I knew without a doubt, that I was called to love her; called to be her mom.

            What Teenasia taught me—and is still teaching me—is that parenting with faith requires a mental relinquishing of control. It’s a daily rhythm of do what I can, and give her to God. Love her as best I am able, and ask God to deepen my love. Teenasia’s arrival this third time was accompanied by a huge question to me, directly from God—  so obvious it may as well be written in block letters in the sky above my home. The question is: Do you trust Me?

            It’s not a one-time question, and it’s not a question just for me. I believe it’s a question that God asks each parent on a daily basis. And it’s can’t be answered with a yes or no. It must be answered with our being. For when I wake up in the night, worrying about Teenasia, I’m not trusting God— I’m putting it on myself. When I yell in frustration instead of grabbing a teachable moment; or think that maybe I won’t be able to have the same expectations for Teenasia that I have for my other kids, I am not trusting God. I am putting myself at the center of center of the circle and saying that Teenasia’s success is dependent on Bill and me.

            Mother Teresa once said, “God has not called me to be successful. He has called me to be faithful.” In that statement is a challenge to all parents. No matter what we do, no matter how hard we try, the outcome is ultimately not ours to control. This is not to say that we should give up efforts with a shrug of, “it’s in God’s hands.” On the contrary, Mother Teresa herself demonstrated that being faithful involves a tremendous amount of work and action. But somehow, Mother Teresa was able to separate the toil of faithfulness with the expectation of controlling the end product. Maybe, amid all the poverty and the squalor and the hurt she saw on a daily basis, she also looked up to see the writing in the sky: Do you trust Me?  And, with a willingness to live up to her title of “Mother,” she answered with her being.

            Yes, I trust you.

August, 2009 First day of high school

            I gave Dominican High School my oldest child today.

            I suppose some would argue we didn’t actually give our son to the small Catholic high school in Whitefish Bay; we paid them to take him, but that is quibbling over details. It has been my experience over fourteen years of parenting, that every time I enroll my child for the first time in something new—from kindergarten to swim lessons to soccer—I have a sense of turning over a piece of my child to another person or institution.

            The statement I am making every time I drop off my child somewhere else is: “You can do it better than I.” Because if I didn’t believe the organization could do it better than I, why would I drop him or her off at all?

            Call it arrogance or simply the truth, but the reason I have chosen not to work full time since becoming a mom is that I’ve always had at least one young child at home who I have felt could benefit from being around me—and only me—much of the time.  For the day-to-day life of forming my children-- establishing morals, habits and behavior—I believe I am number one. (Bill is number one, too, in a different way.)

            But good as I might be at nurturing my children, giving them standards and boundaries, starting them on the road to become who they need to be, I also recognize that I cannot—I should not—be their world.

            And this is why we signed Liam up for tee-ball when he was five; and why Jacob played touch-football at ten; it’s why T is learning African dance and why Jamie might join a children’s choir.

            It’s why we signed Jacob up for Dominican.

            Every activity or institution makes a promise to Bill and me, as parents. They tell us they’ll teach our children about teamwork, or help them learn the basics of a sport; the steps to a dance. Each activity or institution names a skill or experience they can give our child that we cannot. But the older the child gets, the larger and more important the promises become.

            Dominican promised us that they would help Jacob discover and grow into the Jacob he is called to become. It was a promise that ultimately gave us the confidence to send him there.

            But it’s also what makes me feel so much that I am turning my son over to them. If the school only promised to teach Jacob his academics and develop him as an artist or athlete, I’m not sure I would feel as much like I was holding my breath, to see how they’d do it. Academically strong schools with good arts and sports programs are very similar to each other. As stunning as it is to watch the child you taught to hold a spoon learn to do trigonometry, it happens all over the place.

            But what I’ve heard happens at Dominican is not quite so universal. Dominican’s mission statement not only encompasses academics, the arts and sports like our neighborhood high school, it also includes phrases like “Our faith-driven school community fosters spirituality,” and “We commission our students to develop a heightened sense of social responsibility and respect for human dignity.” 

            Parents I’ve spoken to who have graduates or upperclassmen at the school assure me that Dominican will follow through on their promise to Jacob. They say I won’t be disappointed— that on the contrary, I will be amazed at the young man he will become.

            That remains to be seen.  But right now, I’m choosing to believe in this small school with a big promise. And I choose to believe in the promise because the school is based on Christ, who has never been about small promises.

            So, Dominican, here you go. We’re giving you our oldest boy. We hope he’ll give you some of himself, as well. Take care of each other.

           

             

           

             

             

             

April, 2009 Mike Richter, our friend, the saint

The background picture on our computer desktop is a photo of my friend’s husband, Mike Richter. Every time I go to the computer, there’s Mike, big grin on his face, welcoming me to my e-mail or my writing, or whatever I happen to be going to the computer for.

            Two weeks ago, Mike would have never been chosen as the background picture on our desktop. My husband Bill changes the photo every few weeks, and rarely does anyone outside of the immediate family make the cut. Usually it’s one of the boys swinging a bat, or Teenasia jumping off a raft into the water, or Jamie in her dance outfit. 

            But Mike died suddenly and tragically the Saturday after Easter—hit by a car while walking his dog. And from the moment we heard of Mike’s death through the  week and a half that has followed, we have thought of little else besides Mike, his wife Julie and their two daughters—one in Jacob’s class and one a year younger. So it seemed fitting—albeit a bit startling--  when I turned on the computer the Wednesday morning after his death, and Mike appeared.

            If Mike were here, he’d tell you that Bill and I were not his close friends. We weren’t vacationing-together friends, or will-you-be-my-child’s-godfather friends.  Rather, we were medium friends. Often at the same backyard barbecues and Christmas parties. Always at the same school events. A hug, a conversation at a gathering, a wave across the school parking lot.  While Bill and I both liked Mike, I don’t remember, before he died, us ever exchanging more than a sentence or two about him. Mike was a given—a good father, doctor and coach— a kind, quiet presence. There wasn’t a lot to say.

            And now he’s everywhere. I wake up thinking about him and wonder about Julie as I’m pouring my coffee. I think of his girls as my own kids are getting ready for school, and picture their dog—who also died in the accident— as I get into our van.

            I found myself praying to the newly minted St. Michael after communion this past Sunday. Mostly, I asked him to help his wife Julie during this horrible time, but I also requested him to put in a good word for our family and our ongoing foster care situation.

            And it’s in those two requests — in my comfort making the requests — that I begin to glimpse the eternal. How is it that I would never speak to Mike about Julie or his marriage in life, but I can do so now that he’s died?  And why can I ask him to pray for T now, but wouldn’t have a couple weeks ago? 

             To me, the Communion of Saints that we profess as part of the Nicene Creed every Sunday at Mass is the reason. The Communion of Saints is—in its simplest terms--  relationships as God intends.

            As we walk through life, time and circumstances allow us just a small circle of family and friends that we can be truly close to. Few of us have more than a handful of people to whom we could go with any question or problem.  Mike definitely had that small, close group of friends and family, and they are beyond devastated by his death. They are changed forever and their grieving has just begun. Their closeness to Mike speaks to the love that God intends for all of us. Their relationship with Mike—anyone’s relationship with a loved one--  is what the Communion of Saints is all about.

            Whether or not we can articulate it—to love another person is to see God in that person. To love another person is see that person as God sees him or her. When we love someone, we are privileged to experience on earth what others will need to wait for. When we love another, we experience a saint. Mike’s friends and family were able to do that in life. But relationships as God intends go far beyond the dozen or so people that each of us has as our immediate network.

            And that’s where the medium friends come in. In death, the medium friends experience a flash of what the close friends feel all the time. And I believe that flash—those moments of surprising closeness to the one who has died— is a taste of what is to come. For someday, time and circumstances will not limit our relationships as they do on earth. We will not be bound by family or geography. Someday, we will have the opportunity to see all people as God sees them. We will have nothing but time—time to get to know all people and then to love all people as God loves them.  Judgment, fear, and the need to stop talking to someone so we can get the laundry done will subside, and we will part of the Communion of Saints. All our relationships will be holy; none will be broken and question marks will be wiped away. Our life here gives us just a preview. Each of us is blessed to know well just a few saints. Mike now knows a lot more. He has achieved what we must still wait for. And that is why even the profound sadness of his death is tinged with the joy of this realization.

            Perhaps the goal of our stay here on earth is to recognize just as many saints as we can. To see people— our coworkers, our neighbors, the hurting and needy in our midst--  as God sees them. To be as present as we can to each person we bump into in the course of a day. Not an easy task; a way of living that takes a lifetime to master.

            And that is why we say—Saint Michael, pray for us. 

March, 2009 Different things for different people

Different things for different people

            When our foster daughter, Teenaisa, came to live with us for the third time, just over a year ago, at age six, she immediately took notice of everything about our daughter, Jamie, who was four at the time. While Bill and I recognized we needed to quickly get Teenaisa up to speed with Jamie in terms of a wardrobe and a basic supply of toys, it quickly became obvious Teenasia was comparing everything about herself and her new place in the family with Jamie.

            If Jamie had a skirt on, Teenasia wanted to wear a skirt. If Jamie was coloring, Teenasia needed to color too. If I lifted up Jamie in church, Teenasia put up her arms for Bill to hold her. For the first month or so, we acquiesced, trying to be as fair as possible; trying to demonstrate to T that she was just as much our daughter as Jamie; that she was loved just as much. Mindful of the terrible situation T was pulled from, we recognized that the task of helping Teenasia to believe she was loved, cherished and worthwhile was one that would likely to take years, but would begin with her being able to simply understand that within our family, she was equal to little Jamie.

            Except that in a family, things are never really equal. Someone is going to get the biggest scoop of ice cream that night for dessert; someone else is going to clean more than their share of the basement that week; someone is going to get invited to two birthday parties in one weekend, while someone else doesn’t get invited to even one. And as Bill and I lived through that first exhausting month of Teenasia’s re-entry into our family (she had lived with us twice before), we admitted that we could not make things fair for her, and that in many ways, our effort to do this was a disservice. Instead, we came upon the phrase, “Different things for different people.” 

            We decided that it was enough for us, as parents, to know that we loved all four of the children and our intention was to be just with them. It was our responsibility not necessarily to make all things equal, but rather, to teach Teenasia—and the other three, too—that life in a family may not always be fair moment by moment, but that each child will be loved and taken care of.  “Different things for different people,” became our mantra. Those first few months, we sometimes said it six times a day. We used it at times when Jamie had something Teenasia wanted, but also at times when we wanted Teenasia to recognize that she had a privilege that Jamie did not.  

            Jamie gets to go shopping with Mom. Teenasia is staying home with Dad. Different things for different people. Now, Jamie is going to take a nap, but Teenasia doesn’t need to because she’s not tired. Different things for different people. Jamie is wearing a bow. Teenasia is wearing sparkly socks. Different things for different people.

            It was tedious yet exhilarating at the same time. Different things for different people, states something so obvious that it is tiresome to even say it out loud. On the other hand, the phrase gets to the root of some of our most profound problems and struggles as human beings.

            Different things for different people can speak to every one of us who has ever wished for something we don’t have.

            Two of the Commandments—numbers 8 and 10--  directly address this. 

            You shall not steal. (Different things for different people.)

            You shall not covet your neighbor's house; you shall not covet your neighbor's wife, nor his male servant, nor his female servant, nor his ox, nor his donkey, nor anything that is your neighbor's.  

            Substitute “car” for ox, and “paycheck” for donkey and you’ve brought the commandment right into the present. I can almost see God shaking His head at Moses and the Israelites as he hands them the tablets.

            “Remember, as you read these: No coveting or stealing. Different things for different people.”

            Now, about 14 months into Teenasia’s stay with us, we need to use the phrase less and less frequently. Sometimes, T will even use it herself when she feels it coming in a conversation. Other times, Bill or I will use it with one of the boys.

            “Did you know his family has cable and a pool table and a Wii, plus he has an iTouch?”

            “Oh, I didn’t know that. Different things for different people.”

            We still have far to go with Teenasia before her heart is completely healed; before she feels whole. Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever get there. But other times, I recognize that Teenasia is on the same journey to healing and wholeness that all of us are on. She, like the rest of us, must spend her life discovering the path that God has chosen for her. And the more she embraces her own path; her own call, the more she will find peace.

            Different things for different people. Don’t covet or steal. They both mean the same thing. Be present to your own life. Live as you are.

            And know always, you will be given everything you need.