Category Archives: orphans

what matters

April 28, 2010

I sit watching the monitor for every slight change of heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen rate. It passes through my mind that I would choose different colors for this place – the walls, the chairs, the machines, most definitely the drapes. But then I come back to my senses.

My brother Jay is fighting for his life in a Boston intensive care unit.

It came out of nowhere, this horrible thing that they now call ARDS of an unknown origin. One day he had a cough, the next he was in ICU on a ventilator where he has now been for three weeks and where he remains. They did not expect him to live 48 hours, so the fact that he is here is – though still critical – is literally a miracle.

The details are neither necessary or appropriate – this is not the place. But as I change the cool rag on Jay’s face, I think deeply about who he is. A brilliant man – to use the word genius is no overstatement. He’s the kind that only does the hard New York Times crossword puzzles at the end of the week. The first book I pick up on his shelf in the room where I sleep is by Kandinsky – Concerning The Spiritual in Art , which I read some time ago, but am enjoying  re-reading late at night.

He also loves the sea and his home is filled with model sailing ships and pictures of ships, plants and seashells. He’s an amazing cook and has a collection of hot peppers like I’ve never seen. He’s a Texan, of course and you can take the boy out of Texas and all that…

He’s also a professional musician – a french horn player with the Boston Symphony Orchestra – a town that actually supports the arts. He’s also a keyboardist, a composer, a writer, a singer. There’s so much more and his friends and family could go on and on,  but you get the point.

Most importantly I think of how deeply he is loved by his sister and brother in Texas who dropped everything to run to his side. His sister, Kathy – well there are no words to describe her loving actions and what I’ve watched her do. Ken came as soon as he could and stayed as long as he could, but had to tearfully drive home yesterday morning. The nurse tells us Jay’s heart monitor jumped 20 points as they were trying to say goodbye – but of course, we saw that. He’ll be back, of course.

I think of all this as I watch Jay’s monitors, watching his every wince and expression of pain, and praying not only for survival – that is not enough. But for complete recovery in the painful and traumatic months of acute rehab ahead of him once he is well enough to leave ICU.

Oh – and my own beloved father was life-flighted last weekend. I won’t go into those details either but long story short, it was a blood clot. He was on the floor not breathing and we thought we had lost him. My own brother Kevin, who qualifies for sainthood in my book, texts me daily to assure me that he is doing great. Dad’s home and cooked a great turkey meal for everyone for Sunday dinner, And if I know my dad, there was a little Irish jig involved. My hero.

Of course, all of this leaves me thinking of what matters and what doesn’t. I feel like I don’t know much anymore. I used to have so many answers and now I only have one: God is love and our only safe place is in that Love.

I know that God loves Jay with a love I cannot begin to comprehend with my breaking, and sometime sobbing heart. I know that He loves my family members that are bravely coping with so much stress and loss ( no, I have not told the whole story of all that is going on:) – with a love beyond words. I silently fall back into that Love this morning, floating there as if in a sea that is neither calm nor warm, but definitely safe and familiar and real.

And then, before I close my computer to head back to the hospital this morning I stop to pray over the children that cover the wallpaper on my computer. I stop to look at the latest photos out of the Mikea Forest where I will be heading in July – children so happy to be in school, so many of them are merely skeletons with smiles. And I sink deeper and deeper into the love of God. This love that is deeper than illness, than grief, than poverty, than suffering. The only thing worth clinging to in this unforgiving, unpredictably yet still terribly beautiful world.

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jailed missionaries in Haiti

February 10, 2010

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I’ve been following this story with more than a casual interest and my emotions are engaged on several levels. First and foremost, I worry about the children and the parents who felt the need to give them away in order to save them. I wept when I read the stark commentary from one of these parents a few days back. She said “This is our culture. We often give our children to others to raise, so they will have a better chance at life.” Others may give one child away to finance the feeding of the other 6. These children are called restavecs – no more than child-slaves in the household of a better-off family.

I’ve seen this in Africa. I’ve had many conversations with grown women who, though they nonchanlantly tell their stories, have obviously never emotionally recovered from being given away as children. Most of them spent their childhoods tending cows, hauling water, watching younger children, cooking, washing clothes – and so had no opportunity to go to school. And when the sun set in the village, most of them were molested.

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Then there are the cow-boys of Malawi. Little boys taken far from their homes to tend cattle as slaves in another village. This is illegal in Malawi now, but I’m told that when government officials enter a village to inspect, they simply hide the boys until they leave. The law is nearly impossible to enforce in the  villages where traditional authorities and cultural practices reign.

As I’ve read similar stories in Haiti, the frustration of the aid workers and doctors is palpable. Their hands are tied and they know it. But the 10 jailed missionaries shook off those ties.

I’ve been surprised at how emotional I’ve been about this event. I don’t even know where to start – but let me start here: I won’t impugn their motives. I understand the heart that took them to Haiti and respect their courage to wade into the carnage and try to make a difference. But even as we press against the things in the culture that victimize innocents, we must respect that nation’s laws at all times. The bible clearly states that we must respect those in authority – and any remnant of a colonial mindset that sets itself up as the law is arrogant.

As someone who has spent many long days and years in Madagascar running after some important little piece of paper – what we call “zee leetle paper” – I do understand the frustration. You need “zee leetle paper”. You go to social welfare and social welfare tells you to go to the ministry of whatever and the ministry of whatever sends you to the ministry of whatsit and 10 hours later there is still no leetle paper. But you don’t run around their laws unless you want to be their guest for a couple of decades. It’s called respect.

We tried to adopt a little boy from Madagascar some years back. For several years, we supported him in an orphanage run by a pastor and wife – who assured us he was an orphan and that they would help us gather his paperwork. We personally sent monthly funds and large sums to procure a birth certificate – but no such certificate ever materialized. To make a long story short, on a final trip when I thought I was in the last stages of the process, a mother emerged. He was not an orphan – something the pastor knew all along. The mother didn’t want her son back, however – she just wanted money.

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At that moment I had to make a decision that broke my heart. I told her to take her son back to the village. The little boy was inconsolable, as were my husband and I, but there was simply no way around this. This woman wanted to sell her son. In that split second, I knew I had to trust God with his young life. I could not violate child trafficking laws to try to save him myself. It wasn’t an easy decision but I still know it was the right one.

Which brings me to the jailed group’s leader – Laura Silsby. She is being villified in the press and now we’re told the group has turned against her, passing notes through the bars about her controlling nature and how she deceived them. I don’t know about any of that – but I can’t help but wonder why we always eat our own. Quote scripture all you want and sing Amazing Grace until you’re hoarse, but Jesus said they’ll know we are Christians by our love for each other.

On the other hand, I would call on Laura Silsby to act in love towards the team entrusted to her. Stand up and take full responsibility for your actions and ask for the immediate release of your team members. They trusted your judgment in an unfamiliar culture. They trusted your decisions and your word. These decisions – no matter how good the motive – have led them smack into this tense situation, causing fear among their loved ones. Speak up, Laura, it’s the price of leadership and also the price of love.

Photo Credits: Haitian Child by lauri koski; Cow Boy by Patsala, a young village boy in Malawi who participated in an Ancient Path photography project.

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8 minutes 24 seconds

January 6, 2010

I saw a 60 second commercial the other day featuring two well-dressed men discussing the clear reasons we should all own gold in this unstable world.  Well, here’s 8 minutes and 24 seconds  featuring the children who mine that gold in Congo. This is their unstable world.

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pure religion

November 7, 2009

The rains came yesterday – pounding with a vengeance on the tin roof of my room. Not expected for two more weeks, their early arrival is reason for rejoicing. It breaks the searing heat, and brings the possibilities of a good growing season for the maize crops. Of course, with the rains come more mosquitoes – which in the US are merely annoying, but here can be deadly. I have a net in my room, but the children in the townships and the villages have no protection. They also have no protection from things like the massive spider I killed in my room last night. I’ve never seen anything like it here – it was bigger than my fist, not counting its large hairy legs. I tried to take a photo of it but needed a wide angle lens.  I’m not kidding. This was one big, ugly, nasty bug. I usually capture insects and release them outside, but this one….well, it was him or me. But enough about that.

widow-closeup

Today was another  memorable day in Kalayieka Township with the Chifundo Kids – and their guardians joined us. The women entered the small room quietly, humbly, taking their seats on the mats, leaning against the mud brick walls. Moses has visited all of them in their homes and knows the names of their children – so they obviously trust and respect him.  I tell them who I am, why I’ve come and why we’ve started this program – and then settle in to listen.

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Most of them are widows. They talk about how difficult it is to care for their children and orphans – about the need for food and clothing for the children. One woman says that as a  widow she feels very much like an outsider in the wider community and expresses gratitude for the help with her orphans. One woman bravely states that her husband has HIV, that they are struggling to survive, but are strong spiritually. That much is obvious in her countenance. (Interestingly, the young orphan she cares for is named Hana – my daughter’s name.) Two of the women are muslims with orphans named Ishmael and Musa – and we are so glad they’re here.

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The Chifundo children sit quietly in the center of the room coloring in their new books as their guardians and mothers talk. We ask if any of the children have sleeping mats – and the answer is no. One woman says the children have no blankets. I ask about mosquito nets – none. How many times do your children suffer from malaria each year? They can’t even count….many many, they say.

I notice a bad burn on Luka’s back and an injury on Joyce’s head. I ask the women what kind of injuries and diseases their children are prone to and they all have the same answer – fire and malaria. I tell them we have bought basic medicines for the children that will help them keep their children healthy. We distribute basic supplies such as  bags of salt and sugar, soap and body creme – which they need when they bathe the kids – and they clap their hands with delight.

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Then I tell them about the special gift I’ve brought for each one of them.- handcrafted silver necklaces made by artist Sue Bevis, from Cleveland, Ohio. It is a hammered silver pendant of our Ancient Path logo – three Celtic spirals, touching one another. We talk about walking through life with a heavenly father that will never leave them, never abuse them, never abandon them – a concept they find so hard to grasp considering their experiences with earthly fathers. We also talk about walking with Jesus and friend as well as Savior, and the Spirit that empowers them to live each day. They listen intently and receive their necklaces with two hands and expressions of deep gratitude.

distributing-necklaces

Moses tells a bible story using the flannel graph materials and the women are as entranced as the children. We pass out the toy cars, blocks and books. It moves me to tears to watch grown women working with the pre-school materials meant to teach counting and shapes to toddlers. They all share the same story: they once had dreams of being nurses and teachers – but couldn’t finish school.  They married young, were widowed, and started taking in the orphans of their dying relatives. But like all other African women, when they start singing and dancing they forget their troubles – their faces are completely transformed. And the children jump up to join them.

Heaping platefuls of steaming nsima, meat, greens and potatoes are passed out, first to the women in the house and then the children, who have moved out into the yard. We don’t have enough mats, so a neighbor loans us her mat. It’s tattered and torn, but given freely.

torn-mat

Just as the women and children finish their meal, the rains come – thundering so loudly on the tin roof that it is impossible to hear each other. The next group of children arrive for their nsima meal under dark heavy skies, making it inside just as the downpour begins. They laugh at the rains and cover their ears against the noise. The food is distributed and it all begins again. It’s incredible to me that Agnes – a widow with two children in the program – has cooked all of this food over an open fire.

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I sit on the mat to share nsima with the children and with Blessings, brother of Moses and also an excellent part of the Chifundo team.  I choke back tears of gratitude as I look into the joyous faces of the children around me.

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I simply cannot think of any better way to spend my one life.

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Religion that is pure and undefiled before God the Father is this: to care for orphans and widows in their distress….

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my own

May 22, 2009

hana-referral1I like to read comments on major news articles. Sometimes I enjoy the readers’ comments more than the article itself. But I never write a comment myself. I figure there are enough people out there with clashing opinions – there’s no sense adding another voice to the din. But this time, I just had to say something.

It was an article on Madonna’s failed adoption bid of the little Malawian girl, Mercy. And it wasn’t just this article that pushed me over the edge from spectator to participant – but a series of articles in the same newspaper.

The common thread was adoption and the fact that I was offended by the language in every article – and I’m not easily offended. I can only hear the term “children of her own” so many times before something blows.

“Madonna has two children of her own and a boy from Malawi.”  Or “Nicole Kidman only has one child of her own and two adopted children.” Or Angelina has 3 children of her own …. You get the point.

I’ve heard this phrase for years, of course. When our eldest daughter, Jen Jin Ok was a toddler, people would often ask in  front of her – “do you have any children of your own?”

I would answer – Yes, one.

Boy or girl? Girl.

And they would walk away clueless that I was talking about the little girl in my lap – the one with the almond eyes and jet-black pigtails who looks absolutely nothing like me. The one who has captured my heart – the one we still  call our firstborn. It’s hard to explain to people who don’t get it that whether a child is born via your womb or your heart makes absolutely no difference. They are your own. And when anyone says differently, especially in ear shot of our girls, I can’t stay silent.

Our youngest Chinese daughter, Hana Jun, just celebrated her 13th adoption day. This is the day that we tell and re-tell the stories of how we became a multi-cultural family. We  talk about the day the seed was dropped in our hearts and how their names were chosen. We remember all the paperwork and home studies and the financial miracles. We remember the painful waiting period, and the trials – like the dying room scandal and the day American warships parked off the coast of Taiwan. We remember the day that our referral came and finally we had a picture – a face to go with the name. We recount the endless hours in the empty nursery, praying and weeping, waiting for the arrival day  or the travel date. We remember the fear that something could go wrong, that perhaps our beloved child is hungry or cold or sick and we can do nothing but pray. We recount the day each of them were placed in our waiting arms and the inexpressible  joy and sense of completion as our family circle closed around them. We talk about their birth parents and the desperation and hope for a better life that must have driven them to relinquish children they must surely have loved.

Hana never tires of hearing her story – and this year is even more special. This year I gave her a gift that has been tucked away in a memory box for safekeeping until just the right time – a small cream-colored journal where I recorded my thoughts, prayers, hopes and fears during the waiting period. The other night,we snuggled on the couch as I read excerpts aloud from its pages:

December 29, 1995

I’ve been guarding my heart, a little afraid to see all these hopes and dreams on paper staring back at me. But we are so far into the process and it is so real…you’re already imprinted in my heart and mind, Hana Grace.

The time has gone quickly and yet has stood still. I don’t know this little girl and I ache for her. This little life on the other side of the world…a foreign language, foreign culture, foreign worldview. Foreign to me anyway. And yet she is so knitted to my heart – and that love transcends all that is strange and different.

March 23

Before I go to sleep tonight I just want to tell you that I love you and I long for you to be here. (I can see your little face poking over the crib already!) I wonder what you’re doing now? It’s morning in China.  I know you are fed and sheltered and covered in the shadow of His hand. He has called you out and will rescue you…

March 26th

Ken hung red fringe on the white Chinese lantern yesterday and we suspended it in the center of Hana’s room. It’s perfect. But another day and no news. It gets more and more difficult. Perhaps you’ve already been chosen and assigned to us and we just don’t know it yet. Maybe today…

April 1st

Hana’s picture came today! When we woke up this morning we were shocked to see about 7 inches of snow on the ground. The happy result, however, was that the kids had a snow day and were here when the package arrived. Once we had the FedEx envelope in hand, the four of us went into Hana’s room and sat on the floor under her lanterns to open it. Inside was a tiny color photo of our beautiful beautiful girl wrapped up in a little lavender cotton jacket. All of us laughed with pure joy and were fighting over her picture. Jennifer and Jacob had to have a copy for their wallets and a big one for their desk. I have the original in a small gold frame that I carry in my purse. And I have put her in my locket, close to my heart.

April 2

Ken is so emotional right now. It’s wonderful to see. He’s overwhelmed with love for Hana and gratitude to God – he’s really experiencing adoption. Tonight he just wept.

April 5th

Oh, little sparrow, I wish you could know the love and thought and prayer that’s going out for you right now! The tears that have been shed, the deep longing to hold you and see you safe and warm and healthy. And you will be…

But the days have slowed down and we feel like time has stretched to make you further away. Daddy dreams of you every night. Jacob takes your picture to school and sets it up on his desk. The other day he came home and said “Man, I stared at Hana’s picture all day and you know what? The more I look at her, the more beautiful she becomes. (Your brother is 13, by the way) That’s the way it is with real love and real beauty…

April 14th

I’m sitting in your room right now, in the rocker, with your picture next to me. The sun’s coming through the Irish lace curtains; your lanterns are gently swaying and the birds outside are singing. I think it’s finally spring and I long for your arrival! For you to be in your own little bed, surrounded by people who love you and treasure you and know your worth. Do you have any idea, little sparrow, the significance God places on your solitary life? The lengths that he has gone to to rescue you and give you a future and a hope? His deep unfailing love for you? You are his treasured possession – and mine as well. I’ve never held you, I haven’t seen you face to face – and yet I love you. You are my own daughter, born not of my flesh, but of my heart.

I think of you across the world, totally unaware of us. You do not know we are coming to bring you home, you do not know that you belong to this family. But we’re coming to you my daughter, Hana Jun Grace.

May 11th

Only a few more sleeps for you without a family.

May 16th

We are here in your city, little one. And today is your adoption day. Today you will come into our arms and our home, but you are already in our hearts. He has made a way for you little one – and today is your day!

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As Hana and I read these -and many more excerpts together, our arms and legs entwined, our hearts entangled – we both wept. I experienced all over again the miracle of her conception in my heart, a seed that grew for many months in that heart, the months filled with turmoil and discomfort, the hope and the fear. And then the joyous day of delivery – the day we first saw her peeking through the bars on the orphanage balcony. The day she was finally placed in our waiting arms.

I have three children  – all miracles, all deeply cherished and all unique. I share two of my children with the memory of birth parents they do not know, but whom we honor. We know that their life story did not start with us. But my prayer is that we would learn new language to speak about adoption in ways that respects the process as well as the incredible children that we are privileged to call our own.

Happy adoption day, Hana Jun Grace!

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Madonna and Malawi

April 4, 2009

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I feel sad today – for a millionairess and her kids, an orphan, and a nation.

I’m talking about Madonna, of course. I’m talking about the disappointed children who will leave Africa without the little girl they have come to regard as their new sister. I’m talking about an orphan named Chifundo, and the nation of Malawi – a place  I have traveled to and  grown to love for over a decade.

I’m not a Madonna fan. I don’t think I’ve ever purposefully listened to one of her songs. I never even saw Evita.  And when she swept into Malawi back in October of 2006 and flew out just days later with new son David Banda tucked under her arm, I was more than irritated – I was furious. As far as I was concerned, she was buying the little boy, pure and simple. The Malawian courts were so blinded by the light of her celebrity and wealth that they couldn’t read their own adoption laws.

I knew about Malawi’s laws because I had an adoption agency lawyer investigate them for me. Two of our three children came into our hearts and family via Korea and China, and my husband and I would have loved to adopt a Malawian son or daughter. Unfortunately, the lawyer came back a few days later with three words: forget about it. She said there was no adoption infrastructure in place and that she could only find records of about 6 successful adoptions in the last 15 years – and those were to westerners living in Malawi.

Ok, so maybe my furor wasn’t entirely righteous. It seemed wrong that Madonna could accomplish what none of the rest of us could, because she was rich and famous. But when I recently heard that Madonna planned to adopt a little Malawian girl named Chifundo, I was glad to hear it. Yes, I know about the divorce, the baseball player, the 22-year-old Brazilian model named Jesus, the erotic stage shows, strange macro-biotic diet and even stranger religion. I know her children spend alot of time with nannies, that she spends alot of time on treadmills and airplanes.

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But I also know what happens to girls in Malawi – especially orphaned girls. I’ve seen and learned things since 2006 that have  broken my heart and changed my mind.  I don’t know anything about Chifundo’s extended family, so I can’t judge them. And hopefully they are the loving family the news makes them out to be. But when I see the awkward picture of the little girl sitting on her uncle’s lap, with a stern  grandmother staring at the camera,  a knot forms in my stomach and other stories come to mind.

2-girls-torn-clothesI know a grandmother who locked her orphaned grandchildren in the mud house for days on end without food because she was angry with them. The villagers say that once she cooked a goat outside the door, allowing the smell to torture the starving children who rarely ever see meat. One day her grandson literally fainted from hunger almost as soon as he entered our gate. A friend and I drove to their  village another day to discover whether the granddaughter was attending school. We found the gaunt 10 year old girl dressed in torn rags, hauling water and washing the grandmother’s clothes in a bucket – while the old woman lounged in the shade, visiting friends.

Another little girl who sleeps on a beer-soaked mat at her grandmother’s mud house, was badly beaten  for accidentally spilling maize kernels on the ground as she was trying to pound them. It wasn’t the first time and won’t be the last. Her grandmother brews homemade beer for a living and this young girl is exposed to her drunken clientele ,day after day – and night after night.

One of the worst things I’ve ever seen was a 5 year old girl who couldn’t walk right after being raped by a village “uncle”.  I’m told her mind has never been right since, either; when I met her she was babbling to herself.  We talked to the mother about filing a police report, but since the offender – a married neighbor and father of three -  had already paid 50 kwacha for her silence, she chose to let it go. (Fifty kwacha is about 30 cents.)

Of course, these stories do not represent Malawi. There are millions of hard-working, compassionate men and women who not only go to extreme lengths in hard circumstances to care for their children – they care for the children of their dead sisters and brothers and neighbors, as well. There are thousands of school-children who press through  impossible circumstances to survive and make a life for themselves. Our board treasurer at Ancient Path, Martin M’Tambo, is a brilliant Malawian man of sterling character. He has been through so much in his life – yet hung on to his principles and integrity in the face of grinding poverty. He also stayed committed to his education against all odds – and today he teaches master’s level courses at an American university.  He continually makes sacrifices here to provide for his family at home. I respect Martin as much as any man I’ve ever known.

Still, the hard, heart-breaking stories are also there – and go on, seemingly forever. One teenage girl I know and love is regularly raped by her father  – and has been since she was very young. Everyone has tried to help her – her aunt even took her by the hand right into the police station. But the girl simply could not find the courage to stand against her father. Another 14-year-old girl, one of our brightest and best, told me a couple of summers ago that there were two things she feared: witchcraft and forced early marriage.  Within months after that conversation, she was forced into early marriage. Her husband left her within days and rumor has it she now works as a prostitute.

I can’t count the number of stories the children have told about witchcraft, beatings, and work far too hard for their young backs.

This is hard for us to grasp. When little Chifundo’s grandmother insists that the orphanage must return Chifundo to her at age six – our western minds picture story-time by the fire or making gingerbread houses at the kitchen table. But the truth is, in Malawi,  at age six, little Chifundo can haul water on her head, carry maize to the maize mill and wash clothes by the river.

The larger truth is, many Malawian children are in trouble.  And the 1.5 million Malawian orphans are in real trouble.

The stories, the reports, the statistics are overwhelming. Just a read-through of the daily news can leave one feeling hopeless – and powerless to do anything about it.  I remember reading a story on my last trip about a local man who was caught sexually trafficking 12 young girls. He said he didn’t realize it was wrong – and he walked away with a $120 fine. No jail time. Sexual abuse by teachers in the schools is also a prevailing problem. Even if girls can get to school – if they have extended family that allows them to go, will pay for the necessary school uniform, and buy the pen and copy book they need – the girls are often afraid to attend.

The good news is that the government knows all of this  and is sincerely trying to tackle the problem.  Massive billboards  dot the landscape, carrying the message STOP CHILD LABOR!  STOP SEXUAL EXPLOITATION! Whether the perpetrators can actually read the message is another story altogether.

Malawi is not alone in these problems. Children are exploited in every country – including my own. But it’s the very scale and scope of the problem in Malawi that makes it extraordinary. Nothing makes me feel quite so powerless and angry as the stories that I’ve heard from the women and girls of Malawi.

Of course, international adoption is not the wide-scale answer. The problems are Malawian and have to be solved by Malawians. Ultimately, it’s going to take a miracle. But I say thank God for Madonna’s millions. Thank God that she’s pouring her money into this nation. Thank God for her orphanages and schools.  I may not much care for her way of life, or her brand of faith, but I actually think she’s trying to make a dent in the problem – at least she’s trying. And more than a few Malawians share that view.

I also know how heartbroken she is at this turn of events – and I feel deeply, deeply saddened for her and her children.

But I’m especially heartbroken for the child, Chifundo. If the court doesn’t reverse its decision on appeal, this little innocent has an extremely difficult life ahead as an orphan. I can only pray that God protects and provides for her.

But I also hope the international press continues to tell her story – and the stories of so many others like herself, until the world starts to pay attention.

2-girls-pink-dress

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