The Power of a Name: Review of "The Girls Who Went Away"

It took us three years to adopt our two foster children; our first official act as their parents was to have them baptized, so they could be a part of God’s family, too. As we got ready for the big day, we explained that they would each have new names on their baptism certificates (and, a bit later, on their newly issued birth certificates).

“Why do I get a new name?” Christopher wanted to know.

“You’re getting two new names, actually,” I told him. “We kept your first name to honor your birth family; your middle name will be ‘Robert,’ like your dad’s; and your last name will be ‘Saxton’ because you’re a part of our family now.”

“Oh.”

Clearly this answer didn’t satisfy him. I tried a different approach. “Christopher, do you know that my name changed when I became a part of your dad’s family?”

“It did?” his expression brightened. I nodded.

“And did you know that in the Bible, there are lots of examples where God changed someone’s name when he or she became part of God’s family, or agreed to do a special job for God? Abram became ‘Abraham.’ His wife Sarai became ‘Sarah.’ Jesus’ special friend Simon became ‘Peter,’ our first pope. The apostle Paul’s first name was ‘Saul.’ Each of these people had a special job to do … and each one got a new name to show that something was different about them now.”

It wasn’t until a month later, at their older sister’s baptism, that I realized what an impression this made. As the priest poured water over the little girl’s forehead, my kids leaped up and shouted, “Hurray! Our sister has a new name today!”

The priest turned, startled, then smiled. “Yes, she does. Her name is ‘Christian.’ Wouldn’t it be wonderful if all of us were so excited about it!”

Forever Families

Names are important: “Mom,” “Dad,” “Grandpa,” “Nana.” These words are powerful by association, particularly in the hearts of children. And so when it came time for us to “name ourselves” for our children, we put considerable thought to this as well. Christopher and Sarah already had already lost one set of parents; they also had two siblings that were being adopted by other families, and yet our kids were still very much attached to them. How were we going to communicate the permanent and exclusive nature of our family unit?

And so, we became Christopher and Sarah’s “forever family.” It wasn’t until much later that I discovered how much fire this appellation draws in adoption circles, since the biological bond is equally permanent even when a child is raised by someone else. This was powerfully illustrated in Ann Fessler’s tribute to birthmothers, The Girls Who Went Away: The Hidden History of Women Who Surrendered Children for Adoption in the Decades Before Roe v. Wade (Penguin Press, 2006). The stories in this book reminded me that, no matter what circumstances are that led to a child being placed for adoption, and no matter how young the children were when the adoption occurred, there is a primal connection that can never be completely severed. “Mother” has been forever etched upon their hearts.

“Victim” Souls?

In TGWWA, Fessler vividly portrays what the adoption process was like forty years ago. She captures the horrific plight of the girls shipped off to “maternity homes.” We meet pushy social workers, unfeeling parents, and absentee boyfriends. The author attributes the numbers of out-of-wedlock births to a “lack of information” on one hand, and a “lack of options” on the other. (Rather than, say, a disregard for the consequences of extra-marital sex).

Adoptive parents (and adult adoptees) who read this book will find it easy to empathize with these struggling, suffering women. And yet, I couldn’t help but feel as though the book told only half the story. There was not a single story of a woman who recognized that, painful as it was, adoption was absolutely the best choice for her child. Nor do many acknowledge the debt of gratitude owed to the people who parented her child day and night; several gloss over the sacrifices made for their child with unseemly haste in their eagerness to reclaim the title of “mother.”

Most importantly, these stories illustrate more clearly than any chastity lecture ever could why the unitive and procreative aspects of sexuality cannot be separated without harming the individuals involved, and causing a great deal of anguish for all concerned. This was illustrated most poignantly by “Madeline,” who said (p.243):

I always felt like there was a huge scale and that I could never balance it. I held myself responsible [for losing my daughter]. I wanted to keep this baby. I felt powerless to keep this baby. I wanted it to be over. I wanted to go back to being a normal person. I wanted the baby out of my life. I wanted the baby. I didn’t want the baby. I think it’s that ambivalence that is so hard for people to look at and admit. People will say, “Oh, I wanted my baby with all my heart, and they took my baby from me.” And they turn themselves into a victim. Anything you get yourself into a situation like this, you have to see where you are partially responsible for it. It’s a two-way thing. I’ve been in a lot of situations like that. I’ve been in situations where it seems as though I’m the victim but in reality I’m part of the equation.

This book amply demonstrates that, even in purely secular terms, the “right” to engage in sex cannot be divorced from the responsibilities associated with it, both to one’s partner and to any life that comes from that union. However, because an authentic Catholic worldview – which reserves sexual expression to married couples on moral grounds as well as sociological ones – is missing from the book, adoption is portrayed as an unduly harsh punishment inflicted on a girl (most often by her own family), rather than a truly loving and unselfish choice made by two people who take responsibility for their actions, and who do what is necessary to give their child the stable, loving home every child deserves.

The Family Factor

In Donum Vitae (“The Gift of Life,” 1987), the Church affirms the right of every child “to be conceived, carried in the womb, brought into the world and brought up by his own parents” (par 3.) While these rights are explained in the context of the Church’s opposition to surrogate motherhood, these fundamental human rights apply equally to any child conceived (willingly or unwittingly) outside the bonds of marriage.

When this occurs, it is the child – not the woman, as Fessler contends – who bears the “full emotional weight of circumstances” caused by the parents’ actions, since the child is deprived of these rights long before he is born. Sadly, the author is too busy assigning blame on society in general and the girls’ parents in particular to consider the ramifications of the abortion “solution” hinted at in the subtitle of the book through the story of “Nancy I” (p.53).

[E]verytime I hear stories … about the recurring trauma of abortion, I want to say, “You don’t have a clue.” I’ve experienced both and I’d have an abortion any day of the week before I would ever have another adoption – or lose a kid in the woods, which is basically what it is. You know your child is out there somewhere, you just don’t know where.

This statement, perhaps more than any other in the book, reveals the fundamental flaw in the feminist position on sexual expression as a “right,” contraception as a “convenience,” and pregnancy as a “condition” to be cured rather than a gift to be cherished.

Is Single Parenthood the Answer?

This question is one that I’ve considered at close range. I’m related by birth or marriage to three women who have had children out of wedlock. In each case, these women decided to raise their babies on their own (with considerable assistance from grandparents). Two years later, one of these women became pregnant a second time; this time she attempted to place the child for adoption. The biological father, whose violent criminal record did not stop a judge from granting him sole custody over the Christian couple who had been chosen as the adoptive parents, thwarted her plan.

Unfortunately, the story does not end there. Of these three women, two quickly married men who were not their child’s biological father. Both men mistreated the children; one abused both his wife and her child. (He sued for custody to get back at the mother for leaving him, even though he was not related biologically to the child, and he very nearly succeeded in obtaining custody of her daughter because she had no medical records or police reports to confirm the abuse she and her daughter had endured.)

It is an unfortunate reality that many young women who become pregnant out of wedlock are not ready to be mothers, and are ill prepared to face the challenges of motherhood. This plays out in a variety of ways, with grandparents often caught in a no-win situation. Having offered to help their daughter raise her child, they find themselves in the uncomfortable place of feeling responsible for the child without having the power to make decisions on the child’s behalf. “I’m the mother,” their daughter reminds them … refusing to relinquish any of her “rights,” no matter how much suffering her bad choices cause both her parents and her child.

And so, the parents keep supporting, keep paying, and keep quiet … afraid that if they alienate their daughter, they may lose their grandchild as well. “At least the baby is here, where we know he’s safe,” they tell each other. It is this pressure that kept the parents of the third unwed mother in my extended family from “pressuring” their daughter into marrying the baby’s father. Despite the fact that they live together and share expenses, she just isn’t sure he’s “Mr. Right.”

And once again, the rights of the baby – to be raised in the loving embrace of both parents, within a permanent family unit – are sacrificed. For now he has his mother’s name … and we pray that, once he is old enough to understand the reason why his father left, that name will be enough.

Parenthood is inherently a life of self-sacrifice. There is no getting around it. Whether that sacrifice entails the death of a dream, or just a full night's sleep, the self-donation required in order to raise a child and turn him or her into a responsible citizen of the world is nothing short of breathtaking. I'm not sure I would have had the courage to become a parent had I known ahead of time how difficult it was going to be.

In the end, however, it's not about the sacrifice of the parent, but the needs of the child. No matter what the circumstances are that a child is brought into the world, the moment his life begins the paramount question is not, "What do I want?" but, "What does this child need?" Not "What is convenient?" but "What is in my child's best interest?"

What this book shows most clearly is that what is in the child's best interest has very little to do with what makes the parent feel good. That too is the nature of parenthood. Convenience and personal happiness is often the standard by which our culture makes decisions ... but faith urges us to embrace a higher calling.

Prayers for boys needed

Donna O'Boyle asked me to pass this prayer request on to you. Please say a prayer for Briant and Tyler if you can. The story is on Donna's blog here.

Ten Commandments of Managing Money

In the September/October issue of Canticle magazine (a great Catholic women's magazine ... if you don't already subscribe, check out a free sample here), Francine Huff offers an excellent perspective on good stewardship. In her original article, she also offers "10 Commandments for Managing Money" that didn't make it in the final layout, so I posted them on "Silent Canticle" to whet your appetite!

Right now I'm also in the middle of a book on birth mothers that I plan to review here soon ... I need some time to process it, though. Stay posted.

ABC's of Abuse-Proofing Your Child

My article on this subject was published yesterday on CatholicExchange, and already people are writing to express how helpful the "checklist" is. Please read ... and pass it on to a teenager you know and love!

(That's my niece Kendra on the right.)

The "Love Box"

Do you have traditions that go along with funerals and bereavement?

My dear friend Katy is flying back from her vacation early to be with her father in the last days of his life. I've met Mr. Clark several times (though Katy has 12 brothers and sisters, so it would be understandable if he didn't recall seeing me in with the mass of humanity).

I'm making a batch of the cookies he loved to send up with Katy to share with her family. As I bake them, I'm remembering how touched Johnnette was from the care package I left at her office after Tony's funeral. I'm wondering if any of you have a traditional gift or symbol of concern and care that you like to give someone who is grieving.

In Johnnette's box, I put:

A small box of "Good-Bye Cookies" (molasses crisp cookies that are dark and sweet, and a little hard -- just like saying goodbye.)

A china teacup and saucer (a little fragile beauty to pamper and soothe) with herbal tea

A box of Godiva chocolates (no explanation needed)

A copy of A Severe Mercy, by Sheldon Vanauken (one of the best love stories of all time, written by a student of C.S. Lewis')

Some pretty writing paper (I remember how cathartic it was to write when Missy passed away, and thought Johnnette might like it, too.)

All of it in a decorated photo box that she could slide under the bed and pull out when needed.

I thought I'd share the idea, in case you need it, too.

"In God We Trust..." A Prayer for Ryan

I was just perusing a blog listed on Catholic Mother's Online called "And Sometimes Tea...", which features all the lyrics to our national anthem (music included), including one stanza that is especially close to my heart right now.

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

I can't sing this without tears right now. I'm thinking of my oldest nephew, Ryan, who left home two days ago, before the ink on his high school diploma had a chance to dry, to start basic training in the Army. He chose (with great enthusiasm, to his parents' consternation) to train in artillary. And so, barring a miracle, it is very likely that he will get to experience far more "action" than ever he counted on.


Last Christmas I gave him a St. Michael's medal (my sister's family isn't Catholic, yet), and Chris says he wears it always. I also gave him the Fulton Sheen's prayer book for soldiers. It was the only time I saw Ryan smile for the three days we spent with his family. "Wear it to remind you of all of us -- seen and unseen -- who are praying for your safety."


"... Then conquer we must, when our cause is just..." To my ears, this line of Francis Scott Key's magnum opus is not about the just cause of the war that sends a soldier off to fight. Not entirely. Like every other soldier who chooses to serve his (or her) country, Ryan is choosing a certain path of adult formation that will stay with him for life. He is choosing to lay down his childhood, and take up manhood. He is choosing to conquer self-centeredness, and sloth, and adolescent impulses, and become more fully the man God created him to be.

A just cause, indeed.

Of course, Ryan's choosing is forcing all of us who love him along a different path: a path of detachment and of trust. Moment by moment, we place the little boy who would swing a bat hard enough to knock himself over, back into the hands of the One who entrusted him to us in the first place. And we wait, secure in the knowledge that nothing catches our Heavenly Father by surprise, and that His love for Ryan exceeds our own.


Today as you cut into your watermelon and sit back to enjoy the sparklers, please pray for Ryan, and for all of our military families who are so very proud of our soldiers ... and who cannot make it through the national anthem without tears in our eyes. Pray that we will find the courage to stand bravely in the days ahead, for in God do we trust.

The Art of "Momfulness"

This week is Vacation Bible School at our church. It's always a lot of work ... but also a lot of fun. I enjoy doing music with the kids, teaching them the little ditties my mother used to sing with us. This year, we're learning about Moses, so one of the songs goes like this:

How did Moses cross the Red Sea? (march, march)
Did he swim? No, no. (swing arms like windmills)
Did he sail? No, no. (did they even have pontoons on the Red Sea? I don't know.)
Did he fly? No, no, no, no! (make like a bird)
Did he run? No, no. (Well, maybe a bit when Pharaoh was chasing him.)
Did he row? No, no.
How did he get across?
God blew with the wind (puff, puff, puff, puff)
He blew just enough (nuff, nuff, nuff, nuff)
And through the sea he made a path (big arm effects).
That's how he got across!

All that sailing and running and puffing ... It's the perfect metaphor for Bible school week, isn't it? Of course, my kids always seem to sense when I'm needed elsewhere, and choose that precise moment to hang around my waist like little grass skirts. Augh!!!

But this week, I cannot raise my voice. Not if I'm going to teach music all week ... And so, I practice what Denise Roy (author of My Monastery is a Minivan) calls Momfulness (Jossey Bass Publishers). That's the art of stepping back, assessing both the situation and my own reaction to it, and making a deliberate choice to breathe and live fully in that moment without rushing ahead to the next one.

Its New-Agey cover notwithstanding, this book is a helpful resource for Mommy Monsters everywhere (those of us who struggle with temper). I wish I'd had it five years ago, when I really struggled to keep things in perspective. While it would have been even better if she had tied the exercises more firmly to the Catholic monastic tradition, the mental disciplines she describes are important for all mothers to acquire in order to maintain the serenity every household needs.

If you find yourself blowing up or raising your voice unnecessarily, pick up a copy. You'll be glad you did.

Blast from the Past

Yesterday was an eventful day. Craig had an altercation with a semi truck (he lost, and totalled the car). Fortunately, that's all we lost -- he was shaken, but none the worse for wear. Thank God.

When I heard about the accident, my first thought was an unhappy exchange we'd had just before he left for work. Neither of us had gotten much sleep the night before, and both of us were feeling a bit punchy (figuratively speaking, of course). I snipped, he grumped ... then left for work. The next thing I knew, I had four messages on my cell phone to call my husband immediately. You'd better believe he got the royal treatment for the rest of the day!

On our way in to work this morning (I get to play chauffer until we get another car), Craig and I talked about how easy it can be to take each other for granted. He once observed to me that the time a couple spends together before the kids come is like money in the bank in terms of a marriage investment; after they arrive, the couple has to make regular withdrawals from the "love bank" just to tend to those little gifts from God. If we're smart, we find ways to make additional deposits ... those that don't often find themselves in divorce court!

Many times, it's a matter of keeping perspective -- what's worth getting upset over, and what isn't. Yesterday I got an unexpected e-mail from a high-school friend of mine, who gifted me with a little trip down memory lane, from the first week the kids came to stay with us. So much has changed in the interim ... Sarah is getting ready to start kindergarten in the fall, and Christopher will be in 2nd grade. Cheyenne is thriving with her new forever family ... and I will be forever grateful that, despite all the bumps, we were gifted with these little lives. This was dated August 5, 2002.

Our first week with Cheyenne (4-1/2), Christopher (2-1/2) and Sarah (6 months) is now over, and we have had a few days to rest and reflect. It was a busy week, as you might imagine. Most parents start with one squirmy baby at a time!

However, there were a lot of bright points -- the kids loved blueberry picking, and visiting "Aunt Katy" and her chickens, and going to the petting zoo with Grandma and Grandpa Hess. I learned the trick to long car rides (put kids tapes in the cassette player, and keep pelting them with goldfish crackers). Craig learned that there is such a thing as playing TOO MUCH with a baby... after a certain point, she gets so tired that she won't eat, so that someone has to get up at 4 a.m. to give her a midnight feeding.

It about broke my heart to leave them at the agency, to visit their parents and go back to their regular foster mom. I could hear Christopher's howls all the way down the stairs, and the baby started crying when Craig said "bye-bye." At first we were too sick and exhausted to notice the silence when we returned home, but a few days later we picked up the pictures we had taken during that week together, and realized how happy we looked.

In short, starting next week, there will be three long-term additions to the Saxton house. (We went out shopping for a swing set last night.) We want to thank everyone for all the encouragement and support we have been given the past few weeks. It means a lot.

Longings

Today on my Streams of Mercy blog, there are two posts that may interest you.

The first is a miracle. Gabriel Sullivan's cancer seems to be going into remission with inordinate speed! Praise the Lord! Read about it here.

The second is a piece I wrote that will appear sometime in the near future on CatholicExchange. But you got to read it here first! I put this on the "Monster" blog because I think this message about the Jesuit priest has a special application to mothers. It offers us an opportunity to examine our own hearts, and see what longings are present that need to be offered back to the One who knows best how to fulfill each one.

In the article, I do not mention an "inordinate longing" that kept me emotionally stalled for nearly five years. It involved a broken heart, and my inability to let go of that individual. Longing turned into bitterness, creating a hard place in my heart that took many years to soften enough to be ready for the real gift God had for me: my husband Craig. For other women, it is their dreams of motherhood.

These "spiritual calluses" -- hard, angry places that linger on the soul -- are a sign that there is something disordered that we need to offer back to God. The best place I can think of to do that is in the sacrament of confession.

May God grant you the desires of His bountiful, merciful Heart!

Blessings-- Heidi

The HPV Vaccine: Should Your Daughter Get It?

As I anticipated, my article on Catholic Exchange on this subject drew a fair amount of fire. (Also not a few attagirl's from some of my readers (thanks, gals!). For better or worse, I was in Chicago when the article hit cyberspace, and so by the time I read the ensuing exchange, the verbal sparring had pretty much died out.

I did have one note in my e-mail box from a concerned reader. I'd like to share it here, along with my response, as my final thought on the subject. Although I appreciate that people have a wide variety of views on the vaccine itself, my primary purpose of writing the article was not to persuade people to get the vaccine for their teens, but to talk with their teens about the reasons some parents are choosing the vaccine for their children. There comes a time when a parent needs to do more than pray, and say more than "don't." I wish my parents had ... and in retrospect, I'm sure they do, too. (Unfortunately, the best any parent can do is act on the information they have at the time ... which is what makes discussions like this so important!)

And so, I leave you with this final exchange. God bless!

Dear Mrs. Saxton,I just read your article "The HPV Vaccine: Should Your Daughter Receive It?" on Catholic Exchange. Thank you for taking time to respond to this incredibly important life issue. I do disagree with your summary paragraphs which seem to instruct parents to get their daughters vaccinated (out of fear of uncontrollable circumstances), for dangers exist in receiving the HPV vaccine (oftentimes even fatal as you smartly pointed out in an earlier link). Sadly, I think Merck would love the overall sentiment off your article.

For many serious reasons Merck is a company to boycott. One reason: as stated on the Children of God for Life website: "For over 30 years Merck has been using aborted fetal cell lines in the production of vaccines, despite the fact that there are ethical alternatives that could be used. Further, when pressed to cease this immoral, unnecessary practice, Merck assured the American public that 'No further fetal tissue would be needed now or in the future to produce vaccines.' They have broken that promise by contracting with Dutch Biopharmaceutical company, Crucell NV, for use of their new aborted fetal cell line, PER C6 - taken from the retinal tissue of an 18-week gestation baby, which will be used in their new HIV vaccine. Not only do they refuse to listen to the voice of over half a million Americans who have written to protest, they continue to exploit our unborn and profit from the destruction of innocent human life. "

FYI: two websites that may find helpful in further research:National Vaccine Information CenterandChildren of God for Life especially their page titled: "Gardasil HPV Vaccine - Get the Facts!"Thanks for taking the time to read my thoughts.

Above all, we as mothers should continue to pray for God's wisdom and guidance and to pray for our daughters' physical and spiritual safety. Have a wonderful day. Peace,Denise Montgomery

Dear Denise:

Thanks for writing, and for sending me the information on the vaccine.

Like any mother, I do pray for the safety of my children -- spiritual, physical, and every other kind. I also talk with my children about chastity, and about God's wonderful plan for marriage (at a level appropriate for their age, of course). This is the task of every parent, to be the first and primary educators of their children.

My primary purpose in writing the article, however, was to get parents to consider the possibility that there comes a time when we need to do more than pray, and say more than "don't." My dear mother did both these things throughout my childhood ... In fact, "don't" was pretty much the sum total of my chastity training ... just as it had been for her, from her mother.

It turned out to be not nearly enough. I did not have the information I needed to protect myself, and to stay safe ... What was worse, I didn't feel as though I could talk with my parents about what was going on in my life .... because I honestly didn't think they wanted to hear about such things -- the lectures were always one-way, from them to me: "Don't."

We need to do better. We MUST do better. God bless you!

Going on a Bear Hunt....

Christopher is reading this classic in his first-grade reader. I don't know if it's a classic in the technical sense (generally defined as a book most intelligent people own but have never actually read unless forced to by a third party such as a teacher or other guy you are doing your best to impress) ... but it brings up pleasant memories.

My mother, you see, was the original Campfire Girl. She knew a million little ditties, complete with actions and sound effects, to keep children entertained for hours on end. (Since we had no television, it didn't take much to keep us entertained back then. Now Mom would be lucky to keep her audience from bouncing off the walls for a full fifteen minutes.)

Of course, when Christopher asked me to read the story to him first, I pulled out all the stops: Growling, squishing, rustling, and tiptoeing as the story required, as he looked on first in protest (his TEACHER didn't do it like that) ... then with wonderment ... then with unbridled glee.

Goin' on a bear hunt
Gonna catch a big one.
It's a beauu-u-u-u-tiful day!
I'm not scared!

You want to know something interesting? The louder and more animated I became, the quieter and more subdued they became. (Sarah actually rolled herself in her lovey on the floor and went to sleep.) This contrasts strangely with the three days previously when, at that precise hour I was rolled into the fetal position on the couch, coping with stomach flu and a migraine (yes, simultaneously). I actually thought they were going to kill each other ... and I didn't particularly care so long as they were quiet about it.

But today, they sat still and watched the spectacle unfold in front of them. And not once did they ask to turn on Little House on the Prairie.

It was a good day to be Mom. Cuz I'm going on a bear hunt ... and I'm not scared!

Mothering by Heart

“Imitation is the most sincere form of flattery.” I’m not sure who said it first, but every mother knows the truth of it.

It’s Sarah refusing to leave for church until she has put on her “lipstick” (flavored chapstick), and holding her baby over her knees and patting its back, just as I used to soothe her when she couldn’t sleep. It’s Christopher placing his shoes carefully next to his father’s, one on its side and the other propped up by the toe … in the middle of the entryway, exactly where Craig kicked his off as he walked in the door.

In recent years, my tributes have taken a different form: hearing Mom’s voice channel out of my own mouth with exactly the same intonation and heat my sisters and I swore we’d never use on our own kids. (To my knowledge, none of us have pulled it off completely.) However, I also do my best to emulate some of her great qualities: Her generosity to those in difficult situations, her well-toned faith muscles (some days they are the ONLY muscles that get a workout), and her creativity in the kitchen as well as in the home. She makes quilts and handmade dolls; I write. (That's my mother on the right.)

This past week we attended a benefit dinner for our friends Jim and Lilian Anderson (below, right), who are in the process of adopting a third child from Guatemala. It was a true “labor of love” for Lilian, who is a fabulous cook (the kids particularly enjoyed dunking strawberries in the chocolate fountain), and we all had a great time. It turns out that their adoption adventures started long before she knew Jim, when she sponsored a little Guatemalan boy (now 18) so he could go to school and learn a trade. Last year the boy and his family traveled for two days just to be able to spend a few hours with the woman who had been so kind to him over the years.

In a true sense, Lilian had mothered this child spiritually, making it possible for the young man to reach his full potential, despite the hardships he had to endure along the way. When it came time to bring a child home, it was only natural that Lilian’s heart turned first to the country where she already had an attachment. That love keeps them going back again and again, despite the expense and other hardships overseas adoptions entail. She does it because she is a mother, and like all mothers she is willing to go to the ends of the earth, if necessary, for her children.

The Catechism affirms that “Spouses to whom God has not granted children can nevertheless have a conjugal life full of meaning, in both human and Christian terms. Their marriage can radiate a fruitfulness of charity, of hospitality, and of sacrifice” (CCC 1654).

Watching Lilian’s family and friends come together in support of them, I realized I was witnessing a beautiful expression of this truth. By their hearts of love, generous hands, and willingness to sacrifice both financially and emotionally in order to enlarge their family through adoption, Jim and Lilian had gifted us with an opportunity to imitate their example – not as children, but as family nonetheless. The family of God.

Happy Mother's Day!


Heidi Hess Saxton is the editor of “Canticle” magazine and the mother of two young children regularly featured in the CatholicMom.com adoption column. In honor of Mother’s Day, Heidi extends a special offer to CatholicMom.com readers: Subscribe to “Canticle” by June 10, and get $1 off your subscription! Mention code SC07 when you place your order by calling 800-558-5452 or going online at www.canticlemagazine.com.

The Enemy Without

If you have ever had a suffering child, you will relate to the fatherly reflections of Tom Sullivan on today's "Silent Canticle" blog. (I have posted a picture of Tom and Gabriel there.)

When the "monster" you are battling is so big and uncontrollable, it can be very easy to lose heart and surrender to despair or self-pity. In our darkest moments, we may even begin to question the very existence of a benevolent God. (Thankfully, God never returns that particular favor by leaving us to our own devices.) In Ephesians 2, the Apostle Paul tells us to

Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we are not contending against flesh and blood, but against the principalities, against the powers, against the world rulers of this present darkness, against the spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places. Therefore take the whole armor of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.... taking the shield of faith, with which you can quench all the flaming darts of the evil one.

The shield is possibly the most versatile of all the pieces of armor. A Roman shield was a monstrous piece of equipment, nearly as tall as a solder, and much wider. The idea was that as they approached the walls of a city, and had firey arrows raining down on them, the soldiers could march in a "huddled" formation, shields raised, to deflect the missiles not only from themselves but from their neighbors as well (who were then free to fight if attacked from the side). And finally, if a soldier fell, he could be transported on that shield by his comrades.

When we are under attack, we need the support of our friends and loved ones (both those alongside us, and those already in heaven) to shield us, and possibly even to carry us at times. We need not fight each battle alone, for we have our comrades to fight alongside us. We may not always be able to see them in the din of the battle, but we can trust they are present.

Today I would like to offer a prayer for those who are battling "monsters from without." Sickness. Brokenness. Unemployment. Threat of violence. Poverty. Thoughts of despair, even suicide. Look up: the shields are in place all around you. You are not alone, and you need not worry about a month, a week, or even a day from now. Focus on the present. That is where the grace of God is found.

Dear Heavenly Father,

Thank you for your faithfulness, and for the love that we can never outrun or outwrestle. You love us more than we can imagine, and are working behind the scenes to turn every moment of pain and weakness into something beautiful. Give us grace, just for today, to trust that you are near even when we cannot feel you. And send us the comrades we need to win the battle. Amen.

Mary, Mother of Sorrows, pray for us.

St. Michael, heavenly warrior, pray for us.

The Empathetic Heart

Yesterday I learned that the youngest son of Tom Sullivan, my partner at Canticle, was diagnosed with bone marrow cancer. Gabriel is just 3-1/2 years old. My first thought (after, “Lord, please heal that little boy quickly and as painlessly as possible”) was, “Oh, that poor family.”

Please pray for Jeffrey, Tommy, Maria, Michael, and Joshua, along with their parents Tom and Carol, when you remember Gabriel.

When I heard the news, I was transported back to childhood, when I had a ringside seat to my younger sister’s struggle with bone cancer. Today she is a vivacious mother of two nearly grown children who moves faster on one leg than most other people do on two. But it was a scary time; as my parents struggled to tend to my sister’s needs, the effects of that struggle hit all of us with relentless force.

As I recall, the people who helped me the most were not effusive in their sympathy. After a while, it was hard not to resent adults who would greet me with a pained look and a saccharine, “How’s your sister?” (see photo).

My hero at that time was a walleyed old waitress at the corner café. I’d sneak in to the diner after school, and for thirty-five cents (the cost of a Coke), I could sit and chew on Marguerite’s ear for the better part of an hour. (The diner was usually empty at that time.) I always came away from that place feeling as though I was not entirely alone in the cold, hard universe. She wasn’t particularly “soft” or even sympathetic – mostly she told me stories about her childhood. But she was the one person who never asked about my sister.

Foster parents and adoptive parents can sometimes find themselves having to help a child who has been traumatized by circumstances beyond his or her control. They may have big, ugly feelings about themselves: Misplaced guilt for something they said or did that (they think) made their birth family disappear, misdirected anger at you for their loss, or an increasing sense of shame over being “different” from their peers – and from you. At times like this, a certain amount of understanding is crucial; however, try not to dwell on it. That child will be far better off if you maintain a certain level of detachment, and show him or her how to resolve those feelings in a healthy way, and to rise above his past by focusing on the future. A truly “empathetic heart” is not soft and squishy, but brave.

Urgent Prayer Request

Tom Sullivan, the resident technology administrator and Canticle layout and cover design artist, was just told that his 3-1/2 year old son, Gabriel, has bone marrow cancer. Please pray with us, that God would heal this little boy.

(left, with sister Maria). Please pray also for comfort and wisdom for Tom and Carol, and for peace for Gabriel's older siblings: Jeffrey, Tommy, Maria, Michael, and Joshua.

Heavenly Father, be with little Gabriel.
We do not understand why this is happening,
but we know that nothing takes You by surprise.
And that, no matter what, Your plan is best.

So we entrust Gabriel and his family to You now,
and ask You to heal that little boy,
and make his family stronger than ever before.
In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Amen.

Mary, Queen of Sorrows, pray for us.
St. Don Bosco, friend of children, pray for us.

Blue Moon

It can come out of nowhere, and flatten like roadkill. Or it can send out little signals: The chaos, the irritibility, the restlessness, the scalp prickling and pulling tighter than a bongo. Then the tears start falling on the inside ... and (finally, mercifully) on the outside, where they start to do some good.

If you're prone to depression, knowing when and how to get help is imperative not only for your own peace of mind, but for that of your entire family. One book I've found especially helpful is Kathleen Hockey's Raising Depression-Free Children, which offers practical help not only on how to keep your kids healthy, but how to stay healthy yourself. The second half of this is every bit as important as the first, since the stresses of parenthood combined with the intimacy of family life makes putting on a "brave face" next to impossible.

In her book Raising Depression Free Children, Kathleen Hockey identifies four aspects of effective treatment for depression, whether the sufferer is a child or adult: medical, psychological, environmental, and spiritual (p.81). Some people try to treat depression with just one of these -- but, as Hockey points out, the four factors cannot be separated if the sufferer wants to get completely well.

Admitting you need help is the first (and often hardest) step. When I was a kid, my mother used to suffer from (what I now recognize were) depressive episodes and migraines. She battled it alone, afraid to admit that anything was wrong. "I just sing hymns till the blues go away," she'd say. But we all knew better, having been on the receiving end of the effects of the disease. We promised ourselves that when the time came, we would handle it differently. For our children's sake, as well as our own.

If you struggle with depression, it doesn't mean you're crazy or that you're spiritually defective. In the January/February 07 issue of Canticle, Hockey contributed a wonderful piece on St. Elizabeth Seton, who struggled with depression for most of her adult life. (You can order a copy of this issue by calling 800-558-5452.) God gives each of us a burden to carry in this life, which forces us to lean on Him for strength and grace. He also sends points of light and hope, to ease the load when we begin to stumble. Just as Simon of Cyrene helped Him to carry His cross, He sustains us when the load becomes to difficult to carry alone. That sustenance comes in many forms: the healing graces of the Eucharist, the sympathetic ear of a trained professional, or a timely insight from a blog you stumbled on "by chance."

Whether the source of your depression is hormonal (such as post-partum depression), environmental (stress-related), physiological, or spiritual, know that you are not alone in your suffering, and that help is available. Your "blue moon" will pass, and you will see the sun again.

Mother Mary, Our Lady of Sorrows, you see your daughters wandering in the dark. Pray for us, that when we are weak your Son will strengthen us. That in our sorrow, He will be our purest source of joy. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.

How Sick Is He?

Silly me, before I became a mom I thought you could gauge how sick a child is by the numbers on the thermometer. Once the temp hits triple digits, it becomes time to whip out the Tylenol and juice pops, and let nature take it's course.

"How you feeling buddy?" I kiss his forehead in that sneaky way mothers do ... at once comforting and probing. "OK," he croaks noncommittally. He, too, is no dummy. How he's feeling depends in no small measure upon ...

* Whether I look as though I'm ready to offer him another popsicle or juice box.

* Whether he can get any extra mileage out of my ministrations by driving his sister crazy with the knowledge that, as she is perfectly well, she does not rate an infinite supply of frozen confections.

* Whether his sore throat will cause him to miss any adventures. (School and church are OK, so long as the popsicle supply doesn't run out.)

* Whether by admitting to infirmity he can escape the inevitable consequences for (pick one) vexing his sister, leaving his wet PJs on the floor, trashing his bathroom, or shirking on his homework.

Take that, Ferris Bueller. There's a new "bad boy" in town.

Adventures in Parenting

Last weekend we had breakfast with Christopher's kindergarten teacher. (It seems he has been stopping in to see her every morning on his way to his first-grade class.) I can see why my son loves Mrs. Boe so much; how many other teachers initiate an outing with a former students and his family, on a weekend?

While we were digging into our French toast, Mrs. Boe regaled us with tales of her last camping expedition with her two children (ages 3 and 5). They were going to Mackinac Island for the weekend to a water park.

Since island accommodations can get a bit pricey, they decided to camp at the local KOA in a small tent, and cook over a camp fire. "It was going to be a real adventure!" Sandy said. It would have been, too ... except for two little things. First, her husband was called away at the last minute on a business trip. "No problem! I'll take the kids up and meet you there," she told him.

Then, shortly after they got there and pitched their tent, it began to pour. Cramped into the tiny space with two young children, Sandy spent two days reading stories and trying to keep the kids from touching the tent walls (to keep the water out). Since she couldn't light a fire to cook the food she'd brought ... they ate raw S'mores (marshmallows and chocolate bars) for dinner. She recounted this story without a trace of self-pity or sense of cosmic injustice. She had promised her kids an adventure -- and they got one!

"You do realize," I said to my husband later, "that if it had been me, we would have found the nearest Holiday Inn and ordered a pizza, don't you?"

"Yup. And I wouldn't have blamed you a bit."

Some parents go looking for adventures. I live with mine.

Why I Love My Husband

Today Catholic Exchange is running a column I originally ran in CatholicMom.com called "St. Sassika and the Girls," about how my husband supported my efforts to get my MA.Theo. for the first few years after the kids came to us. Actually, my husband is unfailingly supportive in almost every endeavor I have ever attempted, no matter how much it impinged on his personal freedom.

It's one of the many reasons I love him. The guy was custom-designed just for me. God knew what I needed and *BOOM* ... It took only 35 years for me to find him. (A subject for another time.)

As I return from Tony Benkovic's funeral, my husband has been holding down the fort for three days. It has not been a walk in the park ... but he did it for me because he loves me and because he knows how much I love Johnnette. And so, when I decided to move my "Father's Day Tribute" off the "Silent Canticle" site (since it's not specifically related to Canticle) I decided to put it here because ... Well, just because I could not do what I do, if my husband were not the kind of man he is. And so, without further ado .... My "Father's Day Tribute."

The Valentine's Day of our engagement, I wanted to give Craig something that would let him know just how special I thought he was (and is), and how lucky I felt to be with him. For three days I spent every spare minute at my computer, to come up with a list of 100 reasons why I love him. (The list could have been much longer, but the writer in me wouldn't allow any of them to sound too similar or too trite.)

Seven years later, as I look over that list, I realize how much we both have grown. And I realize that we have Christopher and Sarah to thank for it. Because of them, Craig and I learned to focus on each other and depend on each other in ways we had never had reason to before. And (speaking for myself only) I came to appreciate the fact that, no matter how difficult it is to live with me in particular and in the family in general, he always comes back for more.

That's love. That's a real father.

And so, for my Father's Day gift to you, I'd like to share with the world twelve more reasons I'm glad you're my husband, and the father of our children.

* Because you are so concerned that I enjoy the lilac bushes you bought for me as much as possible, you take three days to find just the right spot before you actually dig the hole and plant them. And you don't tell me to shut my yap when I get impatient after the first day.

* Because you don't take it personally when the kids insist, "We don't want you. We want MOM!" after not having seen them all day -- and for believing me when I say that, on nights you come home late, they get all ornery because they miss you.

* Because you have never rolled your eyes or told me to get a grip when I get a migraine -- not even when it's the third day in a row, and I shriek like a fishwife for everyone to just GO AWAY!

* Because even when you had only an hour of daylight and three other projects going (two of them work-related), you kept your promise to Christopher and took him fishing.

* Because your response to my occasional bout of overspending is not a stern lecture, but a redoubled effort to work a little extra overtime to pad the family bank account.

* Because even though you bring home most of the money, you make sure I have the time I need to keep my career simmering along as well.

* Because you remind me, again and again, to get that checkup.

* Because you look so cute when you nap before bed -- just like your father. And then you get up and do your hour-long ritual to get READY for bed, and climb back into bed so stealthily that only part of me goes airborne.

* Because you let me hold the remote in one hand, and a Mike's Limeade (frozen 90 minutes) in the other after a really long day.

* Because you don't get mad when I rope you into church events without even asking first. (Did I mention you get to wear a toga this year in front of 200 kids?)

* Because when I remind you of the same five items that have been on your "honey-do" list for the past year, you don't retort that I haven't scrubbed the kitchen floor in its entirety since we built the house, and that I still haven't learned to wash pots and pans by hand.

* Because when I'm feeling fragile and/or overwhelmed, you always sound a little surprised when I ask if you're still glad I married you. "Why, I'm the luckiest guy in the world," you say, with that cute little twinkle in your eye. And you pull me to your chest, and wrap me up tight in your arms, and the awful world goes away and I am safe at last. And in that moment, no matter what else has happened that day, I feel like the luckiest woman of all.

Happy Father's Day, Sweetheart.

Where Did I Come From?

Non-traditional (that is, non-bio) parents all experience it sometime: the clutch in the pit of the stomach the day their adopted children look up with big, trusting eyes, asking to know the story of how they came to be... where they came to be.

Depending on their ages, we instinctively shield them from the less palatable parts of the story - especially the parts that are potentially damaging to their budding little selves. A six-year-old does not need to be reminded of the gruesome details that led him to be taken away from his birth parents. And a four-year-old may simply be seeking the assurance that she, like other children, was loved continuously even before we held her in our arms for the very firsttime.

The subject may come up in unexpected ways. Not long ago we were watching a movie that showed the maternity ward of a hospital, and six-year-old Christopher piped up. "Look! It's a baby store!" He was silent for a time, then said thoughtfully. "I guess the wrong parents picked me out the first time. That's why my angel brought me to you."

I couldn't have said it better myself, though I realize that in time he will have to wrestle with the complications of actual biology: How the parents who gave him life were not also the ones who showed him how to live it. At that point, he will have to decide who his "real" parents are.

The temptation, of course, is to do everything in our power to influence that perception so as to tip the scales in our favor. After pouring my heart and soul into these two children for over a decade, I imagine I would be devastated if in the end they decided (as did one of my adopted acquaintances) that biology trumps all, and that they were robbed of their "real" parents. I pray that this does not happen - and yet, the possibility would not justify my unnecessarily "poisoning the well" against the birth parents.

We must resist the temptation to treat our children's affections as a prize to be won, for this is the best way to ensure that everyone loses - especially our children.

Without misrepresenting the truth, we must make every effort to speak of birth parents with respect, knowing that our children will always be profoundly tied with these biological relations, in ways they themselves may not admit or even recognize. "Non-traditional" parents, including stepparents and custodial grandparents, are unwise to disregard or minimize this fact.

Whenever possible, we need to help our children find ways to honor their origins, whatever they might be. Some ideas to consider:

· There are times when it is inadvisable for a child to continue to have contact with his birth family - and yet, he may have strong feelings about breaking this connection that he cannot resolve by himself. We need to find ways to help him work through these feelings. As Catholics, our faith can provide a source of comfort and connection for the child: On Mother's Day (or Father's Day), light a candle at church in honor of the birth parent(s), and encourage the child to ask his spiritual mother, Mary, to watch over his birth mom.
· Have a special family day that embraces the significant milestones of origin: his birthday, his adoption day, and his birthday in the Church (baptism).
· Create a special album with pictures and letters or other mementoes from all the adults who love him - both adoptive and biological grandparents and other relatives, godparents, birthparents, stepparents, etc.
· Each year on a specific day (such as the child's birthday) write a letter to the birthparent, noting significant milestones and memories. You may decide to send the letter, or keep it in a special album to give the child when he turns 18.
· Consider creating an adoption "time capsule," a special box or album with mementoes fromyour adoption trip that is set aside, to be opened when the child is mature enough to want specifics on his adoption story. Include labeled pictures of anyone associated with the adoption (such as the caseworker), and a copy of any journal entries you may have made during the process. In the case of foreign adoptions, include samples of music, recipes, and unique samples of handiwork from the country. Protect irreplaceable documents and pictures in a safe-deposit box.

A Little Life Drama

"Yi-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi-YAK!"

Baby cussing, we'd call it. My daughter was about eight months old when she first start learned to give her big brother the business. Strapped into their respective carseats, they couldn't actually touch each other -- a good thing, since Christopher was not nearly so articulate, and probably would have clobbered Sarah.

Five years have passed. Sarah can now run verbal circles around her brother -- and is nine times out of ten the one who will pull the first punch. Christopher is far more even-tempered and gentle with his sister than her behavior toward him would suggest. Even so, the drama flares several times a day.

"M-o-o-o-o-m! Sarah's eating caramels again!" (This is a test. If I respond to this with relative indifference, this is his cue to beg for some candy, too.)

"M-o-o-o-m! Sarah took off her clothes again!" (If she had her way, she would run around with tights pulled up to her pits and nothing else, all day, every day.)

"M-o-o-o-m! Sarah's dancing in front of the TV again!" (She waits until his favorite show comes on, then pirohettes repeatedly in front of the screen, blocking his view, chanting, "Aren't I pretty?"

Sarah is far less articulate about alerting me to the cosmic injustices that Christopher inflicts upon her little world. She has perfected a soul-piercing shriek that can be heard for several counties, and either hasn't figured out or can't be bothered to regulate the decibles to reflect the seriousness of the episode. Whether her brother has drawn blood or just a little magic marker on her arm, it's the end of the world as we know it.

Last night I saw something on "Supernanny" that gave me a clue about this, however. The mother on this particular episode was a hyper-perfectionist -- all three girls had to be dressed in immaculate matching outfits, complete with hair ribbons, before venturing outside to ride their bikes. (Me, I'm happy if they're just covered). Her emasculated husband cowered in one corner, knowing that he would be yelled at if he picked the wrong outfit for the girls.

"You need to take some things less seriously, to have fun with your girls. They need to have some time every day when you focus completely on the moment, on what they want to do. Then you may find it easier to manage them the rest of the day." (I'm paraphrasing this, of course -- but that was the gist.)

As I think about it, I realize that there's a lesson for me here, too. Yes, I need to step away from the keyboard sometimes. However, I also need some quality time with my Father if my behavior is going to be managable the rest of the day. Too much drama is sometimes a symptom that a child is not spending the time she needs with the One who loves her best.

Potty Talk

Congratulations are in order. Sarah has learned to spell her first word:

F-A-R-T.

OK, so she had a little help from her (*giggle*) older brother.

"Sarah," I admonish her. "That's a bathroom word, and young ladies don't run around spelling bathroom words." (Man, I sound like such a priss ... but manners have to start somewhere, right?)

She catches my eye, trying to assess just how serious her infraction was. "How about 'toot'? Is 'toot' a bathroom word?"

The girl is only five, and already she is running mental laps around her mother. "Just stop saying 'F-A-R-T,' OK?"

It amazes me, how fast they pick up on the icky stuff -- and how quickly they start hurling it at one another. They love each other, I know they do. (If either of them lags behind more than a few feet as we are preparing to go someplace, the other sends up a howl that can be heard for miles. This, too, I cannot understand neither of them have been left alone for a moment in their entire lives.)

The verbal infractions of childhood:

* Name calling
* Verbal threats (I'm going to hit you/break your ___/not play with you, etc.)
* General abuse (I hate you/I'm not your friend/you're crazy)

Assuming they aren't getting it from us (and they're not) and we're consistently letting them know it's not OK for them to speak this way (we are), what more can be done? Lately I've been playing a version of "To Tell the Truth" -- when one says, "You're stupid," I say, "What's the truth?" And the offender has to say, "You're not stupid ... you're smart!"

But is it enough? And when it comes to simply using language badly (as in the first example), how do you encourage children in their first and most formative years of language acquisition (in addition to reading the "good books" and using proper language in front of them) to speak ... the Queen's English instead of ... Cockney?

Then today as we went for our afternoon outing at Rolling Hills Park, Dad took Christopher around the larger loop (Christopher on his bike, Craig hoofing it). Christopher still has training wheels, and still hasn't figured out the brakes very well yet. Long story short, he wound up going off the path ... and into a patch of brambles. As his Dad made his way toward Chris, to help dislodge bike and boy from the prickers, Chris looked up and said, "My! That was quite a ride!"

It seems the lad has mastered at least some of the subtleties of his mothertongue. There may be some hope yet.

Sometimes I Need a Little More Faith

When Christopher came out of his room this morning for breakfast, he had a little book clutched against his chest. "What's that, Buddy?" I asked.

He held it up proudly. The Holy Rosary. "It's for Show-and-Tell," he said.

"Umm..." Brilliant. Part of me was tickled that my son takes his faith so seriously ... and part of me knows that it could present problems for him to bring this particular book into a school as ethnically diverse and federally funded as his. "Why do you want to bring it in?"

"Well, this is the week that Jesus died, right?"

"Right."

"And this is the week that Jesus rose from the dead, right?"

"Right."

"And I want to be sure my classmates know about that."

"Right. Let me just be sure your teacher says it's OK."

On our way to school, I tried to prepare Christopher for the worst. Maybe he could do a report on how people of all different faiths pray, and include the rosary as one example. Maybe he could do a report on different religious leaders, and talk about Jesus that way. Christopher didn't like any of those ideas. He just wanted to bring in his book, and tell his classmates about Holy Week.

Teacher said that as long as Christopher is reading about it at home, he can bring in his book to show his classmates during circle time. God bless charter schools!

I guess I need a little more faith sometimes.

The Penguin Shuffle

Yesterday when I was talking to Teresa on "Catholic Connection" about Canticle, she observed how easy it sometimes was to get isolated in today's world. There are so many things to avoid, so many bad influences and negative factors that we must be constantly fighting against. It gets so that we just want to quit sometimes ... just turn in our armor and retreat to some little island somewhere with a tidy little cabana and a little square of sandy beach. With the family, of course.

As Teresa was talking, an image from one of my favorite movies immediately came to mind: a documentary that almost immediately caught the imagination of the American public, thanks largely to the inspired casting of the narrator, Morgan Freeman. I refer, of course, to March of the Penguins. Remember those brave Daddy penguins, huddled together against that savage Arctic winter? The only thing that kept them from turning them into POP-sicles was the fact that each of them took a turn at the edges, where the wind blew harshest and coldest, giving those who had taken their turns a chance to thaw their delicates farther in the huddle before venturing back outside.

This lesson is of particular interest to me right now. I recently signed on to help run the summer VBS program at my parish, and have been impressed with the ingenuity and speed with which some individuals ... have avoided making a commitment to help. One woman actually knocked over her husband and vaulted over a baptismal font on her way out of the church to avoid talking to me! (It kind of hurt my feelings ... Especially since it was likely we'd run into each other again!)

The thing is, there are lots of little ways to help, and some of them don't require a lot of time. If people would just say, "Well, I want my kids to enjoy the program ... Let's see if I can find one area to contribute. Maybe I can color in a poster or something." See?

Be a penguin for Jesus. Penguins don't have to sprint ... They have eggs on their feet, after all. They just have to shuffle and huddle, shuffle and huddle. We can do that, can't we?

Caution: Children Cross

When it comes to my children, there are two things I can always count on. First, the moment I sit in front of my computer, squabbling escalates until one or both draws blood. Second, Sarah never voluntarily wears anything that covers an inch of skin between her knees and her hips ... and, once I dress her appropriately, she will strip it off as soon as my back is turned.

She will wear three layers on her arms, but her thighs have got to be free.

It's terrifying, really. I want to do everything in my power to make sure she has the tools she needs to avoid some of the mistakes her birthmother made. (And some of those her forever mother made as well.)

I've come to terms with the idea that I may need to make concessions, for Sarah's and Christopher's sake, while there is still time to empower them to make good choices. And one of those areas (besides modesty) is the ability to choose kindness. Kindness with each other. Kindness with their parents. Kindness with themselves.

Yesterday I was reading from Gordon Neufeld’s Hold On to Your Kids: Why Parents Need to Matter More Than Peers, about the motivating force behind bullying.

The problem, it turns out, is not a sense of superiority so much as a sense of fear -- in particular, the fear of not getting his emotional needs met by his parents. Once those needs for closeness are satisfied, the aggressive tendencies go away of their own accord.

In parenting, bullying can be the same way ... at least, I've experienced it this way. I've found myself being harsh with Christopher especially when he seems to be taking the easy way out, or the sloppy way. Afraid that he will fall behind the rest of his peers, I sometimes forget that a moment of bullying can undo months of patient, kind instruction. And in the end, which is more important -- a perfectly finished homework paper, or a sense that his mother believes in him?

Yes, ideally he can do both ... but when we must choose, I need to choose kindness.

Lord, let me choose kindness today.

Marriage by Design

Casually seven-year-old Christopher bit into a french fry and announced that today in school "Jill" told him that not only women can marry men; men can marry men, too. And women can marry women. "It's the law," his classmate, also seven, informed my son.

"It is not!" Christopher argued, confident that she had her facts garbled.

"Is, too!" she countered with irrefutible seven-year-old logic.

I had counted on a few more years before needing to have this particular conversation. But if they're big enough to ask the question, they're big enough to have the facts. "Christopher, there are people who want to change God's law about marriage. God created men and women to fit together in a special way, to love each other and love their children for the rest of their lives. God gives special blessings to people who commit to each other in this way, and society gives special privileges to married couples as well. Some people think they should get these blessings and privileges even if they don't follow God's plan. But God's plan is best, and that is the law we follow."

I had a conversation with Jill's mom later that day ... a delightful Catholic woman whom I've met on several occasions. Apparently Jill overheard a conversation at the last family reunion, and her mother didn't realize the little girl had been processing it all. At least, not until my phone call. "I'm kind of a free thinker," she said to me. "My family is pretty politically diverse... But I guess I need to clarify things a little more for her."

Good idea.

Today on Relevant Radio, Stephanie and Steve Wood talked about the Relativism that has crept in to the minds and hearts of teenagers -- even those serious enough about their faith to attend youth group. If parents are unwilling to instill in their children early on that there ARE absolute truths, that some things are ALWAYS right and wrong, these kids become hardened to any kind of ethical boundaries later on, be they sexual, financial, or political.

Kids today absorb information at a dizzying rate ... It is not enough to control their access to the media, though we should make every effort to set reasonable limits. Beyond that, we need to be teaching our kids the rationale behind the choices we set for them, so they understand not only the "what" but the "why." We need to teach them not only what to think ... more importantly, we need to teach them how.

Was Jonah Catholic?

It all started with Jonah, A Veggie Tales’ Movie. Four-year-old Sarah was watching it in the living room as I made dinner. Suddenly she piped up, “Mommy, is Jonah Catholic?”
“No, Jonah was Jewish.”
“Are we Jewish?”
“We’re Catholic. We believe Jesus, who was born to a Jewish family, makes us part of God’s ‘forever family.’” ("Forever family" is a familiar concept to Sarah, who has heard it since she first came to us at six months of age.)
Silence reigned in the living room as the television continued to blare. Then a little voice piped up again. “So, is GOD Catholic?”
Good question. “No, dear. Jesus made the Catholic Church – like a big boat to take us all safely to heaven. God doesn’t need the boat to get to heaven, He was there from the beginning. He wants us all in the Church boat, so we can all get to heaven safely.”
“Jonah, too?”
“Yes, dear. He was God’s friend. I hope we’ll see him, too.” By this time I had moved into the living room so I could have this conversation with my daughter face to face. She was a study in concentrated thought.
“So, Jonah is Catholic?”
Now it was my turn to pause. “Well, dear ... I suppose he is now!”

The Church has always taught that there is "no salvation outside the Church." All the means of grace that God has given the human race, is there for the taking because of the atoning work of Christ. The Catholic Church safeguards this deposit of grace, and many have dipped into it over the centuries. All that is true about every other Christian tradition, came to them through the Church that was founded by Christ.

This does not mean that only Catholics will be in heaven -- entrance into His heaven is up to God alone to determine. Nor does it mean that simply calling yourself "Catholic" will guarantee anyone a front-row seat at the Pearly Gates. "Work out your salvation with fear and trembling," St. Paul tells us. But anyone who IS there will be there because of the "Amazing Grace" that has been protected and safeguarded by those to whom Christ first entrusted His Gospel ... the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church.

Father God, give me the wisdom of a child to stay safely in Your boat.

Jesus Skates

Sarah is at the age when monsters regularly come to visit her in the night. Piercing shrieks descend from the upper regions of the house each night like clockwork, precisely at 11:30. We've tried reassuring her, squirting a "safety zone" around her bed with "monster repellant" (holy water), talking about the guardian angel that sits beside her all night (that seemed to have the opposite of its intended effect). Now we just take turns lying beside her and singing her to sleep, resigning ourselves to the fact that, come 11:30, there will be one more body in our king-sized bed.

Tonight as I was going through the bedtime routine, Sarah peeped up from under the mountain of blankets she uses to shield herself from the scary noises. I asked her what song she wanted. "Jesus skates," she replied.

"I don't think I know that one," I told her. The closest thing I could think of was "No you can't get to heaven... on roller skates... 'cause you'll roll right by those pearly gates!" Sarah rolled her eyes. "NO, Mommy. JESUS skates."

"Sing it for me, Sarah." Eagerly she obliged with the second verse of "Jesus loves me."

"Jesus loves me, when He died, heaven skates will open wide..."

I smiled to think of Jesus welcoming his family at the Pearly Gates, shod in roller skates. And, frankly, I didn't see the point in correcting my daughter. I want her to think of heaven as a place of endless adventure and happiness ... a place where we all want to be one day.

Right now I have a friend who is looking at those gates, up close and personal, and praying that it is not her time to go through. She has an eight-year-old daughter she adopted when the girl was six. "I don't want to leave her," the mom tells me. "Why would God send her to me after all she's been through, only to take me away from her?"

The truth is that all earthly relationships are temporal ones, and the best we can hope for is a few years of grace and healing before heading for our final, heavenly home. But I know this mom, and I know this girl, and I reminded the mother that -- regardless of the outcome of her illness, her daughter is infinitely better off for having been a part of that family. Inevitably the monsters come -- that, too, is sadly a normal part of life. But we can go humming into the darkness soothed by the knowledge that we have boundless family -- some right beside us, holding our hands; others unseen but just as real.

How do I know? "The Bible tells me so."

Tuning In . . . and Tuning Out

It was the strangest thing. On a Catholic radio program the other day, the host was venting her outrage over a story about an adoptive parent who was trying to “return” a teenager to the adoption agency. The radio host was angry that the adoptive parent would “give up” on the fifteen-year-old, rather than get him the help he needed. Here’s the story.

Keep in mind, this was not a simple case of food hoarding or back talking, which could be dealt with readily in therapy. The youngster had molested a 6-year-old boy and a 2-year-old girl, branding him a “sexual predator.” Therefore, the social workers informed the adoptive mother, if he remained in her home, she could no longer be a foster parent to others or allow her three grandchildren in her home. So she chose to try to dissolve the adoption, so he could be placed in a home where he would not be around younger kids.

I knew the radio host well enough to drop her an e-mail after the show with a different perspective. The sad truth is, some kinds of abuse can be healed only in isolation. In these cases, placing a child in a home without other children is not only the reasonable thing, and – even if it means separating a child from siblings – it is in the end the kindest thing as well. For both the “perpetrator” and his potential victims.

However, there is another important point to address here as well. Here it is: No one – no one – outside a family is capable of rendering a better judgment of its internal dynamics than those who are struggling inside it. This is especially true for foster- and foster-adopt families. Adopting an older child is not for the fainthearted or the overly sentimental, and it can require an extraordinary amount of structure and self-donation. Not only do you have to endure the occasional sleepless night when a child is sick or the baby needs feeding, you have to find ways to “tune in” in order to prevent – night after night after night – an older, traumatized child from harming himself or others while you sleep. Chances are, nothing will happen – but if it does, it is not the child who is to blame.

To avoid becoming overwhelmed, the parent has to find ways to keep her head above the water.

· Prayer is vital, both for your own peace of mind and for guidance. You cannot expect a child to attain peace and quiet until you have achieved it yourself.

· Taking breaks is crucial. Kids with severe emotional needs cannot be left unsupervised for even a minute. Therefore, finding a support system is important. Crack open that state subsidy check and hire a sitter, then go take a nap.

· Never relinquish your parental judgment in favor of someone else’s, no matter how well-meaning or seemingly qualified. Not your mother, not your best friend, not a radio host. Not even a social worker. They may relieve you from time to time, and offer situation-specific advice. However, it is up to you to figure out what your family needs to function – and even if you’re still trying to figure it out, your instincts are bound to be more accurate than those of someone who sees the kids only occasionally. It’s up to you to set the plan, and trust that over time it will all work out.

. Above all, don’t attempt to compare your family (or your child) to someone else’s. Families are like snowflakes – you have to get up close to appreciate the differences.

Parents need to form a sort of detachment from outside pressures to chart a steady course for their family. It may mean losing (or at least straining) a friendship or two, or enduring withering glares from other parents who do not understand your situation. It may even mean tuning out a lecture from a kindhearted but misguided preschool teacher who thinks you are “neglecting” a child because he doesn’t use proper table manners (you’d be happy if he would stop stashing cottage cheese in the closet). Each day is an opportunity for humility.

But it is also an opportunity for grace. The other day I got an e-mail from a church acquaintance who had noticed a change in my son. “I remember how hard it was for you to sit through Mass when you first got the kids. Then the other day, I saw Christopher beaming proudly as he held Sarah’s hand and practically skipped back to the pew after giving his offering to Father. What a change – and all because of your effort. I thought you would want to know that the love you are giving those kids really shows.”

So, if you are in the middle of a difficult parenting situation, take heart. Each day is an opportunity to place ourselves in the hands of the One who has led us this far, to believe that this is one more chapter in the book of our lives – and to hope that, as the pages turn, the story will get better.

"Crummy" parenting

Over Italian sausage and spinach quiche, our whole family (Dad was home for dinner last night, so as Sarah says, "It's a PAH-tee!") bowed our heads and thanked the good Lord.

God is great, God is good
Let us thank Him for this food;
by His hands we all are fed,
Thank You, God, for daily bread. Amen.

Just as I started to pinch off a bit of the crust (my favorite part), Sarah spoke.

"Now I wanna say special grace."

I had offered a prayer like this the day before, when extended family gathered to celebrate the completion of our new deck. "OK, Sarah. Go ahead..."

"Thank You God for ... for sausage and Popeye spinach ..." There was more. Lots more, much of it unintelligible as Sarah conversed with the Almighty with her own special "prayer language."

My husband opened one eye and looked at me as if to say, "Can we eat yet?"

"... and thanks for everybody here. In the Name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen!"

Everyone breathed a sigh of relieve and started to dig in. Then, just as I started to take a bite of my rapidly cooling sausage, Sarah spoke again. "Can I say another one?"

Christopher's sour expression reminded me of the time he shoved a jalapeno up his nose. Now, Christopher’s reaction was doubtless prompted by hunger than a lack of faith. At the age of six, Christopher already has a firmly entrenched faith. I’ll never forget the time I found Christopher handing out Cheeze-Its, one at a time, to his preschool friends, intoning "The Body of Christ, the Body of Christ." At that moment, he looked like he needed a handful of those cheesy little crackers, so I intervened.

"Let's save it for bedtime -- or for supper tomorrow night, OK Sarah?"

Still, I had to smile at my daughter’s first unprompted extemporaneous prayer offering. It's those unguarded moments when we are reminded how closely our children watch us, and how thirsty they are to know what you REALLY believe so they can incorporate it into their own little lives. This is the daily grace of parenting, a lifetime of spiritual booster shots.

It happened last Sunday, too, when it was my turn to do the first reading. Just as I approached the lectern, I felt a little hand go in mine. Now, I should preface this by saying that the first time she saw me go up to read, Sarah pitched the mother of all hissy fits: "NO!!! You can't go up there! It's for FATHER WILL!" For a time I considered stopping this particular form of service until Sarah got to be a little older and could understand what was happening, but our liturgist cautioned me against it. "What better way could Sarah learn that everybody has a job to do than to continue what you are doing?"

And so, we continued. And today, when I felt that little hand in mine, I had a brief instant to make a decision: Return to the pew and hand her off to Craig, or take her with me?

I'm not sure how liturgically sound the result was, but I can guarantee it was the quieter option: I climbed the alter steps with my daughter, and she stood there listening intently while I read from the passage in 2 Kings that prefigures the feeding of the five thousand. "Cast your bread upon the waters, and it shall return a hundredfold."

This, in essence, is parenting. We throw out a few crumbs, and watch the loaves grow.