National Adoption Day

Yesterday we welcomed a new granddaughter into our family. She did not come to us in the usual way. She has been around for 16 months. We have watched her grow from a tiny 29-week premie in NICU to a typical toddler. She laughs at her older brother and sister, she explores and gets into everything, she eats like a champion. She does all the things a 16 month old can and will  do. Which includes stealing our hearts.

I wrote about the need for Foster care in this country in my post called "The Littles". But this one stayed longer and captured us more completely than the other placements. People tell me when I brag about my youngest and her family being foster parents, "I couldn't let them go! I would become too attached!" I know, we get it. But we found out yesterday..sometimes you don't have to let them go, sometimes you keep them in your home and your heart forever.

So we gathered up about 20 people and along with numerous other large families all traipsed in before the judge (who commented during the proceedings to my son-in-law that he and Carrie "travel heavy" due to their support group) and witnessed this little girl become a permanent part of our crowd.

Leading up to the day and during the events a song kept running through my head. A beautiful  and personal hymn that I hope they send me into the great uncounting with, but one that with a little situational license seemed to fit so well

I have a family

They formed my heart

Before even time began

My life was in their hands

They know my name

They know my every thought

They see each tear that falls

And they hear me when I call

I have a family

They call me their own

They'll never leave me

No matter where I go

They know my name

They know my every thought

They see each tear that falls

And they hear me when I call

Adapted from He Knows My Name

She is "foster" no more. She is us and we are hers. From this day forward her life will be molded and shaped by us. We have big dreams for her and big moments to be shared. Life to be lived and experienced. 

Yes, she came to us the most unusual way, but her life will be with us, no more foster, no more adopted, no more wondering where her place is..it is with us..it is us. 

Godspeed little Ruby Gabriela Nimz, I can't wait to see who you become. 

Grandaddy

The Librarian

Today marks the first time in 28 years my bride will show up at Red Oak Elementary and not head to the library. And she loves the library. She loves everything about it. With over  10,000 books under her care, audio visual equipment, computers, the list goes on, she kept it straight and usable all this time.

But the love of the children's library ran much deeper than the space, now called the learning commons. Each year she would read hundreds of children's books to get an idea of content, of level, of story. We had them stacked all over the house, on the coffee table, the nightstand, on the kitchen island. She could tell you what was in each one. She has a vast and long history of knowing the authors and the way each one fit in the library and who would most benefit. The greatest joy that she mentioned day after day, week after week, school year after school year was the joy she felt when she matched a book with a young reader and the young reader would find new places, new ideas, new horizons. Those stories lit up her eyes and lifted her voice like nothing else.

Occasionally when I was in town I would pick up lunch and we would camp at one of her library tables and visit. But those visits would be interrupted with some student coming into the library looking for a particular book or topic and she would leave our lunch and guide this seeker of books to the correct section or the correct book. It was amazing to me that she never grew impatient or let the interruption spoil her mood. These times would be what made her the happiest.

Then there were the years of working the book fairs. There was always a PTA meeting or an open house that coincided with the book fair. This made for a lot of traffic and noise and chaos. But we found that if I worked the register it freed her to work the book fair, making recommendations, finding the right book at the right cost for each student/buyer. The set ups on Sunday afternoon were just the two of us, me supplying the brawn, she the brains (not a huge shift from the rest of our lives). Then the take down on Fridays and getting all the furniture for the library back in its place, set for the schedule first thing Monday mornings.

I have never met anyone more suited to what they did than her in the library. It was both her job site and her home. She was comfortable with the way it was set up and run. And while she grumbled about Education's shift away from books in general, she still found a way to place the right book in the right little hands to create the perfect match. It distressed her when the books were not returned, or were damaged. In recent years, because the administration would not back her up, it made her job more difficult because she was firm in demanding return or payment of books.

It saddens me that they took this away from her, when it was not necessary. She will retire in the next year or so, but not from the library. While the administration may have a sense of academic intelligence they do not have any level of emotional intelligence. And the sadness extends to the students. How will they learn the value and the love of books? Can the new librarian do it? Perhaps, but it has not been a lifelong mission.

It is my hope that she can look back and realize all the good she has done and have that as her legacy in this elementary where she dedicated over a quarter of century to introducing the love of books to multiple generations of young readers.

Godspeed to the best librarian this little elementary will ever have. Love your passion, Beverly Jolly, you were a godsend to the hundreds of students you taught to love books.
Don

When the Words Won't Come

We all reach a moment when the stresses of life seem to stack up on us and infiltrate all other moments. For the past several months and in particular the last month or so has managed to align the deepest stresses for me and land them on my head and on my heart. Each of our three kids and kids-in-law have a major shift going for them. Some will be short term, some will have a lasting impact. We have generally kept quiet and only offered solace blended with a tiny bit of advice. My bride is struggling with work set backs, dealing with a reluctant parent being moved into assisted living, and concerned over her grown and not so grown chicks. My work has been particularly challenging with a new system transition in our job place that has created continuing and nagging non-closures. So the mind becomes a bit numb and the discipline of prayer either escalates or withers depending on my mood and temperament.

Prayer has always been a struggle for me. It is the one spiritual discipline that I wish would be more natural. Of course there are moments when it is intense and vibrant, but generally it is sporadic and unfulfilling (not sure this is a good confession coming from someone who has spent a great deal of time learning the disciplines). Perhaps it is my natural bent towards skepticism, or maybe I am just not a quick learner, or it could be as simple as laziness. But when the stresses build to a certain point, you are driven to ask the one who made it all the simple question, "What now?"

Several weeks ago I found myself with a late night drive from Amarillo to Red Oak. Because of circumstances and the pressures of the following day I would be driving alone. So as I prepared to leave the going away reception for my eldest (one of the stresses mentioned above) it occurred to me that this was an ideal time to spend the time alone, to think, to pray, to let the mind wander (and wonder) over all the stress that has engulfed me. The trip was made leaving about 7:30PM to arrive home about 1:30AM. And I drove it with no radio on, or listening to music on my iPhone. The trip was made in silence. Which brings me back to the prayer conundrum.

At first I tried to pray on each situation. This prayer for my oldest daughter moving to the Dallas area after raising her family in Amarillo for 17 years. Another prayer for my son and their struggles with a new home in a new place in a new situation. And the prayer for my youngest in her struggle to handle all the pressures of teaching 2nd graders and raising her own and caring for a foster baby for over a year now. The prayer for my bride and all she has piling up on her. And the prayer for the family making a huge step of faith to align themselves with my company based primarily on their trust in me and how that works in the midst of huge shift.

The articulated prayers lasted about 30 minutes..or until about Claude, TX (look it up). Well crafted prayers they were too. Carefully laying out all the reasons they should be answered the way I presented them. Drove another 30 minutes....no answer. Tried it again, slight changes, a little bargaining...another 30 minutes...no answer.

But then the most amazing thing happened. I stopped praying. It was enough to sit and let my fear and anger and control and humiliation and self awareness just sweep around me inside the car. It is hard to explain the concept of just letting my emotions dictate the moment. To give up my perception that the process was supposed to follow a certain pattern.

As the miles slipped behind me and the words had stopped coming, the emotions of my distress slowly dissipated. I was not left with joy or exhilaration, but sense of calm. The prayers of my mind had created greater stress and were not answered , the prayers of my heart created peace and that was the answer I needed. In the final thoughts it occurred to me that the answers to problems are still not resolved, but God has answered the prayer.

There will be other moments of stress in the time I have left. The physical answers might not seem what is best. But the real insight is that God wants to answer our hearts, not our desires. I hope this gives someone hope who struggles with the concept of "thundering silence" as I have. To be close to destruction in your spiritual walk and to hear...nothing. It is because God chooses to not speak to us, but to hug us close..to answer the prayer whispered by our hearts.

Godspeed to those who can feel God's love even when you can't hear his words. This is a prayer of different sort.

Don

The Littles

We are not sure why our youngest daughter and her husband decided to foster kids. They have two of the best ones around (before my other two kids call representing my other 5 grand kids, they are included in the "best"). Our daughter is a 2nd grade teacher, so there are plenty of other kids to keep her attention. Both of her kids are involved in all the normal school activities, church, friends, sports, and dance. They even have a dog and cat. So there is plenty to keep them busy and tired.


But somewhere along the way they decided that they needed to do something. They saw something I had never seen. So classes were taken, house was brought up to state requirements, grandparents were trained and less than 24 hours after getting their certification they had a placement. That should indicate the level of need. No warm up, no waiting around, no anticipation. They got the word and at midnight they received their first placement. He stayed 2 months, endeared himself to all of us, became a great little buddy to our 9 year old grandson and broke all our hearts when he went to live with an aunt. When he left our grandson cried for a time, then asked his mother, "When are we going to do it again?" And asked if he really wanted to he said, "Yes, I'm ready." So we wiped our tears away, all put our big boy pants on and followed the maturity of a 9 year old and forged on to the new ones.

There have been others since that first one. A 2 year old who spoke zero English, a baby for a weekend, a preemie that has stayed for months and has wormed her way into our lives and hearts. These are the ones that society has attempted to discard. They are the ones that statistics will say 1 in 5 will end up in prison and rehab. Some will never leave the system, some will struggle from now on with the nagging doubt that at some point they will be abandoned.. again.

Truthfully I had never even thought about the cast-aways in our society. They were there, but never here. It never occurred to me that a 2 year old would raid the freezer compartment in the house and eat whatever he could find, frozen vegetables, ice cream, whatever was there. At 2 years old he had developed the skills of a scavenger. And I had blithely moved through my life never understanding the depth of their abandonment, or considered the emotional trauma this has caused. My wealthy, white, affluent, entitled life had never considered that there was a strata of society that could open a freezer and dig out a pack of frozen corn and hide it away waiting for the inevitable future missed meal or days of meals.

When I talk about this journey of my youngest with others their response is almost universal, "I could NEVER do that! I wouldn't be able to let them go!" And while I understand that sentiment it has occurred to me that the real point is that it is not about you or me. It is about those in our society that need, desperately, a place and moment of safety and comfort and love. That for a moment in their sometimes very short lives they do not have to live on the fringe and scavenge for life. I was holding the most recent placement not long ago, late at night while she slept. I whispered to her that she was the luckiest little girl I knew. She had not been aborted, she had not been thrown in a dumpster, she had survived an impossibly premature birth, and last and certainly not least she had been fostered by some of the best people I know. People who had fed her, clothed her, loved her, snuggled her, gave her the safest, warmest home imaginable. She was a lottery winner.

So I wish we could politicize this need. Then we would have people show up and help. This new chapter for all of us has re framed the pro-life, pro-choice debate for me. I have found that pro-lifers are not really pro life, they are anti-abortion. If you want to prove you are pro life, take the courses, remodel your home, change your schedule, lose sleep, get spit up on, and never ever condemn the mother of the baby who ran out of choices and time. And I have found the same to be true of pro-choice, allow all to have a choice, a choice to live safe and warm and fed and loved. Take the same classes and make the same sacrifices.

We live in a harsh and demanding world. It is unrelenting in its attack on the weakest and most vulnerable. It is clear that politics and rhetoric and opinions are useless to protect the littles. If we are truly a "christian nation" would this not be our first priority? I read somewhere in the old book that true religion is pretty simple, take care of the orphans and the widows. I am coming to understand in my maturing years that that scripture is not talking about the church on the corner, but the church in my home.

Godspeed to the foster parents, grandparents, foster friends, and especially those huge hearted foster brothers and sisters. You show us all what is good and all that we can hope for.

Dreaming Life Forward

Over the past couple of years I have heard in variations of the following sentiment: "You are too old."
Most of the time these sentiments were offered in ways to blunt the sting, but the thought was the same,
"Why are you building a house at your age?"
"You can't make a mistake at your age."
"It is good to see your enthusiasm at this point in your career."
On and on.

So I stepped back from my life and wondered about what I had ahead. The past 6+ decades have been adventurous, and hard, and rewarding, and disappointing, you get the drift. We have had good times and tough times, but we have moved forward with dreams of the next portion of the journey.

And then the comments above. What does my life look like without a dream or goal? Have I accomplished all that I can accomplish? At what point do I leave behind me the idea that there is not a new horizon? I remember my dad telling me about his grandfather who came to live with them on the farm and Dad's recalling of his granddad's time there was spent in the shade whittling. Finished with work, with responsibility, with life. 

And the world conspires to shut us down, to move us to the side. Even our own bodies don't function like they used to. I spoke to a friend of mine recently about this very thing. He seemed a little more adjusted to the idea than I was. When I recounted that working in the Patch I couldn't really work as hard as I used to, or as long, or accomplish the same things, he said something like, "That's the way it works". My response was that it just made me mad. Mad at myself, mad at my older body, mad at the way this was robbing me of the things I like to do. There seems to be a lot of shaking my fist at fate and time.

But I heard a line from a sermon months ago and wrote it down and studied it for a long time. Dreaming Life Forward. In my life  the true indicator of old age is the setting aside of dreams. Of living a life of existence, not acting and moving towards dreams and desires and goals and life. My bride has put up with a life of me having dreams and following them, a lot of the time at her expense. Getting my college degree a day before my oldest child graduated from college. Then on to a Masters because I was fascinated with the idea of resolving conflict. Taking risks on jobs that were more building than rewarding. Dreaming and dreaming and dreaming. Some fulfilled, most not. But it has pulled my life forward.

Then I read a passage in a book by Barbara Brown Taylor called Learning to Walk in the Dark,

"With the gravitas that arrives when life is more than half over, people at this age are ready to spend and be spent, emptying their pockets in one last-ditch effort to make meaning." The emphasis is mine.

My dad is 95, soon to be 96. If any of those longevity genes are in my makeup I have roughly a third of my life left to live. To LIVE.

At the end of a little known movie called Second Hand Lions, the story wraps up after stories of battles won, riches gained, of love found and lost. Not knowing what was real and what was embellishment. The son of the antagonist of the two brothers from their fanciful stories shows up and comments to the boy the old brothers have taken in, "I just wanted to see if they really lived."
To which the now grown boy relies, "Yes, they really lived." What better epitaph? Yes, He really lived.

Godspeed to the dreamers, the wanderers, the wonderers, and the spenders of age.
Don

Monuments and Statues

It is still unclear to me how we moved from the current cultural discord to the taking down all the Confederate statues. I guess last weekend when I took a sabbatical from the news and the world the argument shifted to these symbols that represented a fairly short period time in the human experiment. And the arguments are compelling on both sides; the statues represent oppression and slavery, and/or they represent our slice of our cultural history. Who decides to take them down? And the argument rages on.

This morning in the midst of my disciplines I was trying to focus on something else, but the prompting to think about this cultural argument kept cropping up and disrupting what I had planned to do. If you have spent time in meditation and reflection you know how annoying this can be. Finally I gave up and simply let my mind wander and wonder about all this.

There was finally a moment of clarity when I decided that all the monuments should come down. Although I had a great grandfather who fought with the confederacy, I realized that I had no allegiance to the statues. My historical family was comprised of people who apparently found it easier (and more fun?) to have a bunch of kids to do the back breaking work of farming. So we owned no slaves. So why should I care about the statues? It was a bit disconcerting to realize how many Confederate memorials there are in north Texas. You know why it surprised me? Because I had never visited a single one.

And while we are at it, lets take down the 10 Commandment monuments as well. They do not represent me. At no time in my life have I lived under the Law. It was written to about 4 million ragtag Hebrew slaves because they couldn't get along with each other, or their leaders, or their god. My tribe claims to have moved beyond these symbols of times gone by. Why should I or any of us find reason to argue over a monument?

But the explanations above do not reflect what I think is important. What is important is that we find a way to coexist in a reasonable and charitable manner. Will the tearing down of these monuments and statues help us find a place of reasonable dialog? Can we best show accommodation by arguing or lending a hand in taking down something that is offensive to someone else? How can we show people we desire relationship with each other over winning and argument?  In my opinion when we value statues over people we have turned them from statues to idols. And the history of my worldview is a constant reminder against that very thing.

The arguments against what I have said above is already exploding in some heads. "But they will just keep taking and taking and taking!!"
Probably. But here is the key; they can't take more than we can give. Think about that. At some point they will be satiated in their anger, and we will still have more to give them.

There is a final issue from my thoughts this morning. We are making history now. What monument or statue can we raise so that the generations behind us can look at them for inspiration, for guidance, for reassurance? What is our legacy? Hatred? Strife? Violence? Vitriol?
Or can it be compassion, accommodation, truth, mercy, tolerance?

Godspeed to the peacemakers, for you will be called Children of God. A God of peace and compassion.
Don

Voice of Reason

Over the weekend I worked alone at our place called The Patch. No radio, no TV, no FB. My phone stayed on so I could talk to my bride and text with our kids and friends. But other than that I was isolated and intentionally alone.

This post began to brew over a year ago with the ambush of the police officers in Dallas. But there have been almost daily events since then that have brought the question to my mind over and over. In this time frame our country seems to have hit a new level of hatred and violence and intolerance. On all sides. People hurt, people killed, all sides hate and loath the other side. Rhetoric is gaining vitriol as never before. And the blame is being spread across the entire culture. It simply does not matter which side you are on, you will have some of the blame splashed across you. It's Trump's fault, no it's BLM fault, no it's Alt-right fault, no, no, no.

And in this moment where are the voices of reason? Where are the men and women of higher calling to point us upward and outward? Where are those who will call us to be our best selves? It seems we had some of those in our history.

JFK "If we cannot now end our differences, at least we can make a world safe for diversity." "

MLK "We must develop and maintain the capacity to forgive. He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love. There is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. When we discover this, we are less prone to hate our enemies."

Abraham Lincoln "Do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?"

Dietrich Bonhoeffer "The ultimate test of a moral society is the kind of world it leaves it children."


And as I look back across this list of men with higher expectations I realize that each died at the hands of those who most fiercely hated. Is it our DNA and destiny that we ignore the voices of reason? Is the voice of reason only heard in the aftermath of the destruction? Will we only listen when all else has failed? When we have shed enough blood on both sides? When we have ignored our noble being to destroy those who disagree?

If there was a guarantee that out of the debris of destruction that man's nobler side would emerge, then I would encourage the final destruction so my grandkids and their kids could live in a world where words like mercy, compassion, integrity, moral strength, helpfulness and honor would be the defining words of the culture. Sadly our history does not point to that sort of redemption. Our history points to a continual spiral towards hate and sectarianism, bloodshed and oppression. The good old days were no more forgiving than the new old days.

Perhaps there is not a national stage in which the voice of reason can be heard. No one is listening. So perhaps the voice of reason is spoken quietly, at bedtime into the ears and the minds of those we are chartered to mature. Maybe somewhere in those still moments of bedtime we can whisper the words of wisdom, be the voice of reason in a world gone mad. Frankly, I see no other venue. Schools are a battle zone, churches are politically co-opted, government can no longer govern because of partisanship. Home is the last moment of sanity. And the true moral disgrace is to fill those young heads full of the same hate and bigotry and violence that our culture seems so fond of. Perhaps the voice of reason that I long for is simply my voice, spoken quietly to the ones who will listen.

Godspeed to you young parents. It is my hope and prayer that you will be a stronger voice of reason than my generation ever was.
Don