Easter reflects new life, second chances

She’s tiny and light on her feet, darting about like a butterfly that never lands for long.

Bubbly and outgoing, she doesn’t know a stranger—sometimes to her own peril. Boundaries are an issue. There have been calls from the teacher that she talks too much and sometimes struggles to stay on task. It was only natural that someone so effervescent would tell her classmates about the adoption and her new last name.

Her story paints a broad-brush parallel to the story of Easter, of darkness giving way to light, of pain and fear giving way to restoration and hope.

Long-time friends could have sailed the seasons of life with the sun in their faces and the wind at their backs. Their children were mostly grown; they were what we’d call “comfortable” in this life. They could have eased into the expected things that come with middle age and beyond. Instead, they trained to become foster parents and willingly entered turbulent waters.

She came to them when she was in kindergarten. It took no time at all for a judge to sever all ties with the place (it would never deserve to be called a home) from which she came. Her file revealed gut-wrenching details. The compilation of notes was sickening.

This little girl endured evil that makes sane people grieve for the world as it is. Others might have turned away from her, but they determined to never let her go.

Exercising the most radical and genuine form of love known to man, they took in a hurting stranger and made her one of their own. They promised before a judge and God to care for her, love her and provide for her. They adopted her.

Easter is a story of adoption as well. Christians believe that on Good Friday, a judge from a different realm allowed His son to endure death on the cross, becoming the ultimate sacrifice for sin, and in so doing bridging the gap between man’s sinfulness and God’s holiness.

The debt was paid and a door opened, the pathway to adoption by a Heavenly Father. He, too, is a judge, one who offers mercy, grace and the promise of new life to all who will come.

It was cloudy the day that little butterfly was adopted, but the sun broke through as they walked up the steps to the courthouse. It was a resurrection morning of sorts as she left the old behind and embraced the new. The judge was kind and gracious, posing for pictures with the newly expanded family.

Summer came and went. When she returned to school, one of her classmates asked, “Are you still adopted?”

“No,” she said, “I’m just their regular kid now.”

Grafting into a family comes with growing pains, realignments and the putting down of new roots grounded in love. As the grafting takes hold and the roots strengthen, you no longer think of yourself as adopted, but simply a member of the family.

The branch tips bud, gently unfold and once again, new life blooms.

Is playtime ever enough time?

I’ve often wondered how long a kid would play if no adult ever said it was time to (choose one): eat lunch, clean up, come inside, go potty or go to bed.

Whenever we were at a state park when the kids were young, our son never wanted to leave. Given the choice, he would always choose to go deeper into the woods, perhaps even opting to be raised by wolves should he be given the opportunity.

And yet, I always thought kids eventually would come inside on their own—say when the sun went down, coyotes started to howl or the temperature dipped. Anymore I’m not so sure.

And now history repeats itself. Give our son’s 4-year-old boy the choice between living in a temperature-controlled home with electricity, running water and a clean bed, or living in the red plastic sandbox shaped like a giant crab, and he will look at you like you are deranged for even asking.

I couldn’t find him in the backyard one day because he was in the sandbox, flat on his belly with the side of his face plastered to the sand, driving trucks over hills and mounds, creating roadways with spoons and shovels.

When it was time for lunch, he asked if he could eat in the sandbox. There is no point warning a kid who has sand covering one side of his face that sand might get in his food.

The need to play is universal at every stage of childhood.

I had an 8-month-old here the other day as I pulled sheets from the dryer and told her I would show her how to make a bed. “Ba, ba, ba, ba!” she jabbered. “That’s exactly how I feel about it, too,” I said.

I sat her on the bedroom floor and tossed a pillowcase her way. She grabbed it and held it so close to her eyes it would make an adult go cross-eyed. She batted it with her hands and then began chewing on it. I took the sheets to put on the bed and tossed a blanket beside her. She grabbed it, inspected the weave like she was a buyer for Pottery Barn, and then began gumming the tag.

“Watch it,” I said. “That could be one of those Do Not Remove Under Penalty of Law tags. I’d hate to tell your mom and dad that you were arrested.”

“Ba, ba, ba!” she shrieked.

“Try telling that to the cops,” I said.

She spun on her belly, backed herself into a corner and twisted around with all of her legs and arms pointed in opposing directions. It was like watching a contortionist without having to pay full-ticket price. Five minutes turned into 10 and 15 stretched to 20.

She did more belly spins, twisted and rolled, babbled away and studied her hand at close range. She probably would have stayed there all afternoon dust mopping the hardwoods on her tummy, but you-know-who said the party was over and that we were going back downstairs.

How long would a kid play, discover and explore?

Hopefully all the way into adulthood and far beyond.

Fine line between trash and treaure

You pride yourself on being a person who is not terribly attached to earthly possessions, and then you have to part with something and feel your grip tighten.

Our oldest daughter is having trouble letting go of a red couch. If you saw the couch you’d say, “That way to the dump!”

It’s not the couch she’s having trouble letting go of as much as the memories. It was their first sofa. It has been loaded and unloaded onto moving trucks seven times. Three kids have drooled on it, dripped on it and jumped on it. It’s so worn the only way you could sell it would be in the dark, which is probably why it’s in the basement.

Yet she’s having a hard time letting go and asked if I thought that was weird.

“Completely,” I said. “You get it from me.”

When we were ready to get rid of our baby things, I sold our crib at the neighborhood garage sale. I had pieces of it in the garage and the other pieces to it still in the house. A young woman said she wanted to buy it. My throat tightened and the tears began to well. She pulled out cash and I perked up.

But by the time I returned with the other pieces to the crib, I was all out bawling. Tears, blubbering, sobbing. “Have you considered that maybe you’re not ready to sell it?” the woman asked.

“No-o-o-o,” I wailed. More sobbing. My vision was so blurred by tears that I nearly hit her with one of the side rails.

“It’s fine, really,” I cried. “Take it.”

Our attachment to stuff grows in direct relationship to the amount of time it has sat in one place. The longer it sits, the harder it is to get rid of it. You think, “Hey, we’ve hung onto it this long—it must be valuable!” As though yellowing, a layer of dust and the scent of mildew increase value.

Our accumulations of treasures expand in relation to the ever-increasing size of our houses. And when we outgrow the storage space in our homes, we pay someone else to store it. Storage unit facilities multiply faster than feral cats. There’s money to be made from people who can’t let go.

The most extreme inability to part with things has been parlayed into entertainment in the form of a television show called “Hoarders.” If an episode of that isn’t depressing enough for you, producers now offer “Extreme Hoarders.” Both of which are not to be outdone by “Storage Wars,” a show about aggressive people who bid on other people’s abandoned storage units. (Now taking opening bids on treasures stored in the attic space over our garage!)

Let the sofa go, I told my daughter. It served its purpose. You can get a new one. Give the kids some crackers and juice boxes and it will be like the old one in six weeks.

You talkin’ to me?

The odds of having an uninterrupted phone conversation with your grown children (who are now parenting your beloved grandchildren), are roughly the same as the cast of Duck Dynasty agreeing to shave their beards and wax their legs.

I was talking to one of the girls on the phone the other day when she abruptly asked, “Do you have to go potty?”

I was momentarily stunned. Perhaps she’d been watching some of those pharmaceutical commercials about problems that strike women of a certain age. I calmly said, “No, but thanks for asking.”

When talking on the phone, it is difficult to tell when a question is being directed to me or to someone else—say in the two- to five-year-old range.

“What are you doing out of bed? You’re supposed to be asleep.”

“If you thought I would be asleep, why did you call?”

Asking why I am out of bed is a close second to my all-time favorite: “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying. Why did you think I was crying? Should I be crying?”

Naturally, I understand our kids are often talking to their own kids, but I like to respond all the same, as it seems like more of a real conversation that way.

“We’re out of dried fruit snacks.”

“Thank goodness,” I say. “Those awful things taste like an old shoe.”

Other times we can be in the midst of discussing a matter when I receive unsolicited instructions on how to dress.

“You’ll need your coat—and zip it up!”

“But I’m not going anywhere!”

It’s not all bad. There are times I receive lovely compliments. “You look beautiful, sweetie.”

“Thank you. It’s probably that new under-eye concealer I’m using.”

Sometimes the admonitions are invigorating. “Stop somersaulting off the back of the sofa and put those cushions back on right now!” It’s wonderful to think they still think I am capable.

I also love when we are attempting to make family plans, and suddenly, with a great sense of urgency, one of them shrieks into my ear, “You didn’t put that in your mouth, did you?”

“I did,” I say. “It was an orange. There’s nothing wrong with oranges, is there? Tell me they’re not the new gluten.”

Other times I don’t take the interruptions so well and find myself getting defensive.

“Go get a tissue. You need a tissue.”

“You go get a tissue,” I snap back.

Other times our fragmented conversations are quite agreeable.

“You eat that right now! Don’t get up until you finish your plate.”

“OK, if you insist.”


Helicopter parents want to ground kids

For the past year, our social life has embodied the excitement of toothpaste.

Different work schedules, rotating work schedules, his evening work hours, my morning work hours, and out-of-town hours have meant that we are frequently ships passing in the night. Or in the kitchen. Or, worst of all, in the garage. Door up. Door down. See you soon. Did you pay the credit card?

And then it happened. My schedule lightened and the husband’s days off moved to Thursday and Friday. Our Thursdays and Fridays are now other people’s Saturdays and Sundays. It was confusing at first; we considered hanging a big flip sign by the front door saying, “Today is Monday.” All I knew for certain was that if we wanted to go to worship services together, being that our Sunday was now on Friday, we’d be evangelical Christians attending evening temple.

After a two-week adjustment, it began working for us. His Fridays off meant that the two of us could actually get somewhere at the same time, possibly even in the same vehicle. We booked five consecutive Friday nights like the rejuvenated socialites emerging from a forced hibernation.

The first week we had dinner with three other couples. It was wonderful, but somewhat jarring. We all sat at a table instead of standing at a counter. I may have said, “Pass the Cheerios,” before I realized we were having real food. Hot food. There was conversation. You said something and it wasn’t Pat Sajak answering.

Last Friday we met friends for dinner and then went to see a high school play their daughter had worked on. The play was fabulous. We drove home recounting the high points.

We walked in the house and the light on the landline was flashing, signaling that we had messages. The husband’s cell phone started ringing. I pulled my phone out of my coat pocket, took it off mute and saw a lengthy string of text messages. They all said the same thing: Where are you? Are you OK? Nobody knows where either of you are.

When our son in Chicago called earlier that evening and we didn’t answer, he called his oldest sister. She didn’t know where we were so she called their younger sister. Then the three of them had a wild Friday night leaving messages, sending texts, and speculating what might have happened to us.

“What’s the matter with you people?” I texted. “I told at least one of you we were going out.”

“I must have forgotten,” came the answer.

“That’s not my fault,” I responded.

“It is too your fault. It’s your fault because YOU NEVER GO ANYWHERE!”

They have seven small children between the three of them, but they found time to stalk their parents. Talk about people that need to get out a little more.