Thin Places

Today, as I drink my tea in front of the Christmas tree, I take myself back to the day we adopted our eldest daughter, Jen Jin Ok.

She was 18-months-old on the day she climbed into the overstuffed leather chair in the judge’s chambers – with two black pigtails poking straight out, wearing a red knit dress and white ruffled tights.  Jen knew how to charm, crinkling her nose and smiling at the judge, and he was completely besotted. He played and laughed  with her  before getting down to the serious business of signing the adoption papers. I remember his words clearly:  “Adoption is for life“, he told us. “You can divorce each other, but you can never divorce this child – do you understand this?”

We did understand. Over the years, our family has been built from 2 children born in the heart and 1 born in the womb – to us, it makes no difference. We have always called Jen our “first-born: – and by the time she was placed in our arms, straight off a flight from Korea, in 1980, we were already in love with her.

It came out of the blue, this idea to adopt from Korea. I had miscarried a child at 4 months in 1989, but the doctor called it a “fluke”, and told us to try again in a few months. That was our plan, but God had a diffferent path for us. At the same time I was grieving the loss of our baby, a girl child was being born on the other side of the world who was destined to be our daughter.

Just hours after Jen was born, she was left on the steps of the local police station, close to one of the best orphanages in Korea. We don’t know why her birth-mother took this drastic step, but I don’t doubt that she was mourning the loss of her child even as I was mourning the death of mine. But she took steps to make sure the little girl would be safely cared for and within the hour, she was in the arms of the loving orphanage director, being fed.

Months later, I was sitting in a church service in a strange city, when a mother  passed in front of me, her arms wrapped around her bi-racial daughter. At that moment, the thought came to my mind – you’re going to adopt a little girl from Korea. There is a child waiting for you in Korea.

I recognized God’s voice in this and, with my heart pounding out of my chest.I leaned over and whispered in my husband’s ear -” I think God wants us to adopt a child from Korea.” Now, we had never discussed this, had never talked about Korea and had planned to try for another pregnancy soon – but Ken answered the way he has so often through the years: Well, if that’s what God wants, then He’ll open all the doors. Let’s just see what He does.

In the early 80’s,  international adoption was not as common as it is now; we  didn’t know anyone with adopted children and had no idea where to start, but we didn’t have to wait long before God showed us. A few days later, smiling at us from the front page of a section of the Sunday newspaper,  were three Korean children adopted by a woman who ran an adoption agency only 10 minutes from our home -  specializing in Korean adoptions. After Ken peeled me off the wall, we called and knocked on her door that very evening. We were greeted by several rambunctious, happy kids – one of them was rollerskating through the house and another was up to her ears in soap bubbles, washing the dishes. One look was all it took to lock us into the process. We gathered up the paperwork and started that night.

Living and working in the inner city at the time, we started the process in faith, with no money and no home of our own. (Kind of like now – 30 years later) And we watched as God miraculously provided everything that we needed every step of the way. A few months later we got the phone call that every adopting parent waits for on pins and needles: 

Congratulations! You’re the proud parents of an 11-month-old baby girl.

Korea handles their adoptions differently than China, preferring that the children are escorted into the USA by a volunteer. August 8th, 1980 found us at the airport, pacing frantically, a diaper bag slung over my should, a camera over Ken’s. I worried about whether or not she missed her plane. I worried about whether or not she would bond to me. I worried about whether or not I would know how to take care of her. I was, after all, a first time parent. Nothing had prepared me for this.

And nothing had prepared me for that first glance of my daughter’s beautiful face. But it was all I could see on August 8th when, dressed in a green and white cotton dress, with white legs and bare feet dangling, 16 month old Jen Jin Ok was carried off the plane and into our lives.

The first few days were difficult. An oozing rash that covered her stomach and legs caused frequent screaming fits. As a first time mother, I didn’t know when to stop feeding her and Jen didn’t know when to stop eating, so we had daily stomachaches and not a few tears  And I was alone – due to the fact that my husband’s boss insisted Ken leave town for 10 days, the day after Jen’s arrival. It broke Ken’s heart – but it was that or the threat of losing his job.We were so grateful for the few close friends who stuck by us during that time. Not everyone understood what we were doing or why.

Jen spent most of her early days staring off into the distance. She was too weak to walk, even to stand, and showed little interest in toys. Attached to noone, she would go to anyone but she loved to listen to my heart beat. So I would lay on the floor for hours at a stretch, holding Jen’s frail body, her ear to my chest. Little by little, day by day the fog began to lift,  strength came into her body and a mischievous little imp began to emerge. For instance, she like to hide her socks in my coffee when my back was turned. She went from walking to climbing almost immediately and liked to scale our floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. By the time she sat in the judge’s chambers on December 9th, Jen was the picture of health and full of joy.

The joy has never receded. People often ask her – are you always this bubbly? – and the answer is yes. Jen went through a difficult time in high school when she had to have two serious head surgeries to remove a potentially dangerous and large growth. To avoid disfigurement, the doctor implanted a plastic balloon in her head and filled it with saline weekly to stretch the scalp. When the balloon reached capacity, they operated, removing the growth and stretching her hair over the large incision. Then they implanted another balloon and started all over again.

Her brother called her balloon head, of course. When I asked her how she was doing,  she replied in typical Jen fashion – uncomplicated and to the point: if I was still in the orphanage, this surgery wouldn’t be available and  I would be maimed or dead. so I’ve just decided to be grateful. And she was.

I took her to Korea after graduation so she could meet the wonderful woman who took her in at birth and reconnect with her roots. The orphanage director said she had seen many of her children return and had never seen anyone so un-westernized as Jen. Declaring it amazing, she said Jen was thoroughly Korean in her mannerisms, her tastes, even her accent. This became clear in Korea where, except for the language, Jen fit in  – in every way.

The director took Jen aside one day, to ask her questions without me. She wanted to find out if Jen had any questions about her early history or her birth parents – not that she had any information. She didn’t. But she wanted Jen to feel free to talk. Thirty minutes later Jen exited the room with a huge smile, ready to eat again. The director told me later that Jen wouldn’t even have the conversation. She said simply – my mother is sitting outside this room, my father and brother are in Cleveland. I don’t know why my birth-mother left me, but I know she must have had good reason – and God has taken care of me. I’m happy.

And that is Jen in a nutshell. The glass is always 3/4 full.

I look at the woman she has grown to be – a chemist who loves music and chick flicks, her iPhone and eating good food. She enjoys her church family, her work and Sunday dinners at Grampa’s house. She laughs loud, long and often – so much more than  I ever have . And today I realize just how much I needed that frail little girl who became our firstborn – and how much I need the young woman and friend she has become.

Happy Adoption Day, Jen Jin Ok Wadenpfuhl.

You are a gift – and you are deeply loved.

I attended the Assemblies of God church in Kawale township yesterday. The church is the same all over the world – in some places the church is a living organism and others, just empty noise. I’ve seen it all so – quite honestly – I didn’t know what to expect.

People wear the best they have to church here – so I try to clean myself up a bit – a white linen shirt and black linen skirt. Wrinkled, yes – but at least clean.
Just as it’s time to go, Moses arrives at my door with a package from Amai M’Tambo – a beautiful national outfit in vibrant colors of red,gold and black made by a tailor for me. I change quickly – it fits me perfectly.
When we enter the church, worship is in full swing. the band and worship leaders are talented, and I sense the presence of God. Even the sound system is good. It’s a large, simple structure and the place is packed. One entire side of the church is young people – Blessings tells me they have the largest youth group in Lilongwe. This is the English service, he says the Chichewa service is even more full. I don’t know how they could fit one more person in.

I sit on a hard wooden bench, thinking of the cushy seats we need in the USA for our 90 minute services. And I wonder how many people would still attend church if they sat for long periods of time in hot buildings on hard benches.

A pastor stands to teach and I’m ready for anything – but not this. He teaches on love as the heartbeat of Christianity – saying that without love, everything else is useless. Then he gets practical and purposeful and to the point.

Who is your neighbor, he asks, again and again. He then begins to point out that according to the teaching of Jesus, the witch or wizard that lives next door to you is your neighbor. Love them as God loved you first. The drunk lying in the street is your neighbor – love him as God loved you first. No matter what tribe, no matter what class – as Christians we are to love unconditionally. And to love means to act, to help, to serve in kindness and expecting nothing in return. And to forgive. I examine my own heart for unforgiveness, asking God once again to reveal any pockets that might be hidden deep within me.

I have preached the kingdom of Love in Africa for 11 years – this very message. Over and over and over in many forms, in many churches and villages. This morning, as I heard it preached back to me from my Malawian brother, I wept tears of joy and hope.

Leaving the building, I hear singing and see the masses of children coming in force from an adjacent building. I kneel and am surrounded by small hands reaching out to greet me.

We turn off the main road, which has it’s share of potholes, and into the township – where the road gets much rougher and travel slower. The sights become familiar – a collection of small mud houses with tin roofs, often covered with pieces of plastic and held on by tires and bricks. I see a man washing his clothes in a bucket, a woman bathing her child seated in the dirt.

When we turn into the M’Tambo home where the Chifundo children meet, I am first struck by the collection of growing plants on the front stoop and the lovely patch of green grass at the front yard – protected from the dirt road by a partial grass fence. Amai M’Tambo greets me lovingly and warmly, ushering me into her humble and gracious home. I notice the bags of maize that represent life, stacked in the corner of one room. A healthy and vocal chicken roosts in a corner with several tiny chicks nestled beneath her wings.
Before we can start work, I am invited to sit and presented with a cold drink. The warm hospitality of these people touches my heart. I notice I am the only one with a drink, and ask the others to join me. Soon another coke is produced and we sit to talk. Amai speaks quickly and vibrantly in Chichewa – of which I understand about every 4th or 5th word. I think to myself in chichewa “sindikumvetsa!: – I don’t understand. But I smile alot, nod and say “Zona!” and “uh-HUH!” when I don’t catch the gist of the conversation.

I hear young voices outside and Moses asks if I’m ready to meet the children. I’ve been ready.

He leads me to another house – and unfinished mud brick, tin-roofed structure with a dirt floor that is his house. He finishes it bit by bit, when he has funds. For now it is a good place for the children to meet.

And they are there, waiting – 41 strong in the small room. Most look up to me with smiling faces, a few are afraid – especially the youngest. They sing a song to greet me – and they sing like every African child I have ever met – with all their hearts, bodies, and souls. Jumping, dancing, clapping. ( I’ll upload some video later as my internet connection allows..) Moses instructs them to be sure to greet me, to not be afraid – and immediately several jump up and run forward to grab my hand. (I’ll teach them the hugging rule tomorrow – noone leaves without a hug:)

Moses insists that I sit in a special chair at the front of the room. I would much rather sit on the mat with the children – but he is honoring me as a visitor and so I obey….for today:) It is their tradition – and he explains that it is not just because I am mzungu ( a word I have grown to hate). Any visitor from any nation would be treated the same, he assures me.

The children begin to recite scripture verses from memory and it is obvious he has been hard at work – they all know them. He then starts the lesson for the day, which is the Wordless book – a tool that is used to explain the gospel of Jesus using colors. He only saw it for the first time yesterday, but has already has mastered it.

He is animated and the children mesmerized. He often asks questions and they shout out the answers. It still amazes me how many Malawian children you can pack into a hot room and they will still sit completely still and listen intently.
When Moses is finished, I speak with the children and go right to the heart of what I know the issues are.

I tell them that though I do not know all of your names yet, I will soon. But the important thing is that God knows each one of you. The Bible says every He even knows how many hairs you have on your head. and He never, ever takes His eyes off of you. Then I ask them – what kinds of things make you afraid? And I receive the answers that I expect.
The darkness, the devil, and afiti – witchcraft. It opens the door to talk about the power and the love of God who never leaves them, never takes their eyes off of them – and is more powerful than the devil and definitely than any witch.

It is such a complex belief system that these children are bound to. While we are here to feed, nourish, and love these children, our greatest task is to set them free from the torment and fear they live in.

We move outside onto the grassy area in the shade to make beaded bracelets – with the same colored beads as are in the wordless book. The children hold up their bracelets and many can recite back what the colors stand for. We bring out the toys and chaos breaks out. God bless the adults who are helping, that’s all I and say. Moses’ youngest brother named Blessings has his hands full policing the young boys who are playing with the matchbox toys. But he’s a good-natured young man – and brilliant, to boot – who just laughs and somehow keeps them in line.

Girls sit on a cement stoop to play with colorful ball and jax sets. It’s a game they are familiar with – they play it with rocks. It’s more difficult to play with a ball…but they enjoy the challenge.

We brought individual jumpropes, but it becomes immediately obvious that individual anything is pointless here. A pair of scissors solves the problem – we cut off two handles, tie two ropes together and the girls are hard at play. The new soccer ball keeps the older boys busy, while other children opt to play with legos, or read books. One young boy immediately asks for crayons and paper.

It’s a bit chaotic, but as Moses says – it’s pure life.

Now it’s time to take the children back inside for their food. I’m praying that the food stretches, but know that it will. As they wait patiently to eat, they begin sing. They try to stay seated, but it’s impossible – they have to dance.
The children are shocked when I start a song about the mercy of God, but jump right in, laughing and smiling; I can read their faces – “how does she know our songs?”:)

Suddenly Pastor Moses appears with a pitcher of water and a basin. And this is where I fight back tears for the first time today as I watch him kneel to wash the hands of these little children. That is not at all strange in American culture – but it definitely goes against the African culture. He could have had a woman do it, or an older child, but he chose to do it himself. This spoke volumes to me – this and the fact that he could call many of the children by name. He also helped serve the food – along with Blessings, Agnes and another young man.

It’s simple fare, but nutritious. Peanut butter and bread, an apple, Sobo ( a concentrated orange drink), coconut biscuits – and each child gets a chewable vitamin. Not all the children are impressed with the taste of Flintstone vitamins, spitting them out in their hand. But we assure them that it will make them strong, so everyone eats them. And as they leave, a small packet of Smarties puts a huge smile on each face.

As they leave, Moses tells me the flannel graph board I asked him to mount just yesterday is finished – and it is WAY beyond what I had envisioned. A huge structure built by a local carpenter, that stands on two legs.  I laugh – he does all things excellently.

I think we are getting ready to leave, when Amai asks me into her house. She has a meal waiting for me of chips and boiled eggs. I sit at the table and realize that they want me to eat alone – to make sure I have enough. While I know it violates tradition, I insist that they sit and share the meal together – and there is more than enough. While I hope it does not make them uncomfortable, I am more anxious to get across the concept of the kingdom of God – where we are all one, we are all equal, and we all share equally.

A young Malawian man once honestly told me that he dreads when visitors come because they eat the food and the children get whatever is left, which isn’t much, usually. I also remember wandering into a kitchen once after a meal, and seeing the children scraping rice from the bottom of the pot for their meal – after I had dined on fish and rice.  This picture has never left me.

As we drive back through the township, the sun is setting  and the sky ablaze with colors only seen in Africa. The people cooking their small pots of nsima over open fires, the women chopping firewood and carrying heavy loads on the roadside don’t see the sunset. That is a luxury for those who are not struggling to merely survive.

But it’s been a great day. Tomorrow we will meet with the 15 orphans in the central Chifundo program – a smaller and more manageable group. But we’ll see how many of the other children can stay away. There is no fence to keep them out – and that is just fine by me. If everyone gives something, we can feed them all.

Why not?