Life Events and Awkward Omissions

My life changes irrevocably in a couple of days.

On Saturday morning, my friend will drop me off at the airport. We'll probably embarrass ourselves by sobbing; at least I probably will. I’ll get on a plane and leave Mexico, and get home just in time to see the fireworks from the plane. I have no return ticket. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks cleaning up my life here, tying off loose ends and saying goodbye to the places and people that I’ve come to love. I’ll spend the next couple of months piecing together a new life and all that entails-getting a job, making new friends, catching up with old ones. It’s all laid out in front of me, and I’m excited and happy for what comes next in my life, when I'm not being overshadowed by twin cataclysmic sensations of loss and fear.

If this feels abrupt, please-all the blame’s on me. I made this decision some time ago. Everything’s been in motion for months now. But every time I sat down to write it out for you, it came out wrong. One version was too whiny. The next was too sappy. The next was too bland. Nothing came out right, and I kept putting it off and putting it off until now, when I’m almost out the door and feeling like I owe you all something more than “Oh, hey, guys, BTWs I’m leaving!” Because that’s not fair to you, oh faithful readership (and my mother).

When God first started telling me it was almost time to leave, I brushed it off. Leaving is for quitters. I do not quit. I keep going until I’m dead and continue to insist I’m fine until I pass out (no, really). When He kept speaking to me, I freaked out. How could I consider leaving? There’s so much need here! There’s so much to do! And what about my children? Are you insane?? And when He kept insisting, I (finally) started praying. In praying, I remembered the conclusion I had already reached in my life, but had forgotten somewhere along the way: that my life is not MY life. It’s His, wholly and completely. And if my life is His, and He’s asking me to do something; well, even if I don’t understand why, shouldn’t I do it?

So I did. And I am. And now I’m leaving on Saturday and all I want to do is sit here and cry and say, “God, why are you screwing with me like this,” because I packed my suitcase an hour ago and it was so emotionally scarring I’m concerned about how I’m going to get through the next couple of days.

I had a plan, dang it! I had this worked out! I was going to come to Mexico, serve, meet an awesomely great Mexican guy, get married, have babies, and eventually either grow with LHI or start our own ministry. It was a great stinking plan. Perfect, even. But somehow I never got past step two, and now God’s telling me it’s time to go home.

To MINNESNOWDA, people. It’s COLD there.

How do I say goodbye to this place? How do I leave the people here? How could this possibly be the direction God’s calling me in? Because between you, me, and World Wide Web, I’m not the only one who’s not completely convinced, sometimes.

Those of you who have been to Esperanza Viva know: there’s something special about this place. It’s evident, in the children and in the staff, that God is alive and working here. The past two and a half years have held some of the best-and worst-moments of my life. I learned what it truly means to serve, to surrender myself completely to God. I’ve grown in my faith, and seen how God time and time again honors my prayers. I’ve been able to rid myself of old insecurities and hurts and bask in the wonder that is His grace. And best of all, in my time as a supervisor I’ve had the privilege of working with 23 girls-23 wonderful, beautiful, precious girls, who I love and cherish, and could never, ever forget.

Leaving is hard, because even if I never thought I would stay forever, I never really thought I would leave, either. Leaving is scary, because I’ve been on sabbatical from the real world for so long, and now I’m diving back into it. I’m so happy to leave, because I’ll get to spend time with my family and friends, and be involved with new and different ministries. But leaving breaks my heart, because of the ten little girls I’m leaving behind. Basically, leaving sucks, and I think it’s gonna keep sucking for a while.

So how do I say goodbye?

This isn’t a real goodbye. Goodbye is for those who aren’t coming back, and I always seem to land back at Esperanza Viva, one way or another. This is a step of faith, walking in obedience with the God who owns me, body and soul. I know He has plans for me, even bigger than the dreams that I have for myself. Plans that include an awesomely-great-hopefully-Mexican-but-I’ll-settle-for-Latin -American husband and a ministry of our own. And although I may not fully understand why He’s calling me away from this ministry right now, I’m convinced that this is His will for me. There’s a whole world of hurting children out there, and for me, Esperanza Viva was just the beginning. Someday, I think I’ll be back-and in the meantime, I’ll visit.

And right now, I’m gonna sit here and cry while I eat a piece of chocolate, because that’s all the emotional range I have left in me today.

Mother's Day

Mom,

If I could, I would have celebrated you with flowers and gifts yesterday. I would've made you breakfast in bed, and been generally annoying in my affection. Pinterest would have blown up with the crafts that I would've made you, just to have something to give you to try and show the depth of my love for you. But since I have lots of small children who are rather insistent about getting my full attention, I didn't even have a chance to talk to you yesterday. And because there are currently 3,508 miles separating us (I google mapped it), you’re going to have to settle for words for mother's day this year. Frankly, that's what I’m really good at, anyways-Pinterest aside. So, in place of cards, flowers, Caribou, and gifts, here is an embarrassingly public list of some things I think maybe you don’t know, or sometimes forget, along with some of the many, many, many reason I love you. (I would grab tissues now, because I made myself cry, and we know what that means…)

If you knew the effect you had on others, you would be amazed.

Wall Drug, Circa 1995

Because you’re you, you never listen to what others say about you. You’re always off to do the next thing, and if someone compliments you, you brush it aside, thinking of what you could have done better, or you blush and don't really believe them. And people have so many good things to say about you, to you! There’s something unobtrusive about you, and that helps people to open up. You’re not sheltered, and you’ve had your rough patches, but your first instinct is always to help others. You care about others when there’s no reason for you to. You put people at ease, and help take their burdens from them. You have no idea the effect you can have, and how much help you are to them. Nancy and Charlie can back me up on this, I'm sure.

Nothing you do is “just.”

Serving at Feed My Starving Children

It’s easy to fall into the pattern of talking ourselves down. “I’m just a mom,” or “I’m just a worker.” Just. Not important. Not in charge. “Just” someone helping out, or working. For you, there’s no such thing as "just." Everything you do is with an intent and purpose, even when you don’t feel it. And although you might not always see it, your labor is already bearing fruit-if you don’t believe me, I have plenty of friends who will stand up and testify. You never “just” mothered us; you mothered everyone around you. You’ve never “just” worked a job; you’ve always been a light and motivation to those around you, encouraging and listening. You’ve never “just” helped at church; you’ve always met your challenges with excitement and commitment, sewing into the lives of others and being there when you’re needed.

You’ve never been “just” anything, and you never will be.

Someday, I want what you have.

Mom & Dad before Dad's knee replacement.

You and Dad’s story is so improbable, it makes me laugh. In what world does the thirty-something recently divorced biker with a slew of unsavory habits get together with the shy college student? In what would does that relationship actually work, let along thrive? It doesn’t happen, and yet somehow it did for you. I want that someday. Not an improbable love story, per se, but a story. A great guy who knows me better than I know me (forgive the cliché). Someone who I can relax with, share my life with, build a family with, throw checkbooks at. I see all of the idiosyncrasies in your relationship that I used to quietly judge, thinking “Well, I’m not gonna be like that,” and I now just shake my head at my own pride. What do I know about marriage? The only thing I do know is that this is real love, and that’s what it looks like for you. How could it be anything less than beautiful?

You taught me how to love.

Me & Mom with some
of my girls

You always tell me what a great capacity to love I have, but the truth is, I learned it all from you. Every habit I have, every attitude, I learned from you. And frankly, that terrifies me, because I have nine sets of eyes that are watching everything I do the way I used to watch you. But when I freak out, I remember that you were never perfect, either-and that didn’t faze you. The house was never spotless, the meals were never professional quality. Sometimes you completely lost it at us, and there was a lot of shouting. Like, a lot. Like, run for cover, now. But in spite of all of that, we never worried whether or not you loved us-it was always right there for us to see. You told us all the time, to the point where we almost got sick of hearing it.

Almost, but not quite.

I aspire to be like you more than anyone else.

Here’s a big secret: the heroes my life aren’t great authors and dead monarchs. Those are merely the people I find interesting. Some of the real heroes of my life are the women who shaped me into who I am today, all mothers themselves. Wendy Noriega, who recognized potential when she saw it and began to mold me in a way that would influence the entire course of my life thus far. Sue Etienne, who taught me that loving your kids is never conditional, and to own who you are with pride. Lisa Peck, who had the patience to teach me things as an adolescent that it would take years for me to understand. And of all of the women who helped raise me, none could be more important than or have had more of an impact than my own mother.

Family pic, about 2002

My mother, who built us a life by stubbornly moving ahead. Who has taught me that taking a walk is always a good idea. Who knows when to keep giving and when to say no. Who always pushed me, but not always in the direction I should go (Swim team? Drum lessons?). Who never once told me there was something I couldn’t physically do. Who never bothered to tell me I could fail. Who was smart enough not to enforce bedtime. Who shows me with her life what serving God looks like, even when she thinks she’s not. Who even when she’s disappointed tries to keep a good attitude. Who cries when she’s mad, and laughs when she’s sad, and is always good for tongue-in-cheek commentary.

To my mom, who I love:

You are amazing. 

Happy mother’s day.

Italia: A Transformation in Progress.

It’s an epic battle of wills.

She stands there, breathing hard, barefoot on the cold tile floor. Her hair is coming out of its ponytail, and little strands hang around her face. She trembles with withheld emotion as tears gather in her eyes.

“I love you,” I say.

“No!” she shouts. “You hate me! You’ve always hated me! You only love everyone else!”

“I love you. You’re worth it. I love you.” I say again, tears slipping down my face.

“No you don’t! I’m not! I’m not worth it, and no one loves me, and no one will ever love me. I’m not worth it!” She closes her eyes as she starts to cry in earnest, big, heaving sobs making her chest shudder.

Risking the danger of getting clawed in the face, I grab her, putting my arms around her and not moving as she begins to pull away. After a token struggle she gives in, and relaxes in my arms as she sobs. “Why? Why am I here? Why wasn’t I enough? Why couldn’t we stay with Mommy?

“Why did all this happen to us?”

Italia a few days after she arrived in July

Italia and her siblings came to us in July. Theirs is a story of abuse and struggle, and their earliest memories are of the horrific violence they were born into. By the time they arrived at Esperanza Viva, Italia and her older brother, Azul, both had a jaded look in their eyes that said they had seen far more than any seven and eight year olds should even have seen. They jealously guarded and watched over their younger siblings, five-year-old twins Jenny and Iran. On her first day with us, Italia informed me that she and her siblings would not be staying long. “Just until Mom gets us a place to live, and a job. And a school, too, I guess.” No matter what happened, she wasn’t getting attached to anyone or anything, because in her mind, she and her siblings were already gone.

Generally, when children first arrive in our dorm, they have attitudes like this and plans to leave or even to run away that get forgotten in the daily grind of life at Esperanza Viva. They acclimate, they adapt, and they find they like their new home. Jenny, Iran, and Azul adapted. Italia did not.

The more time I spent with Italia, the more it became obvious that she was not going to simply “settle in.” This was a little girl who was hurting, and who could not or would not let anyone in easily. She cried herself to sleep, but if a supervisor came to check on her, she would pretend to be asleep. She resented any implication that she could not take care of herself, although she was happy to relinquish care of Jenny (who is a bit of a stinker) to us. She didn’t want or need our help, and when things did not go her way she lashed out verbally, spewing words that stung in all the right places.

What do you do with a seven year old who has been so damaged? How do you help her? We spent months trying to crack the nut that was Italia, trying to get her to open up and failing, trying to regulate her behavior and being repaid with screams so loud people asked if she was okay. Nothing worked, because in cases like hers, there are no quick fixes.

Italia's first grade class: she's in
the back row, third from the right

Little by little, Italia came to grudgingly trust us, all the while waiting to be mistreated. It all came to a head a few weeks ago, when I held a sobbing Italia in my arms for an hour. This little girl, who had shouldered responsibility that should never have been hers, who had witnessed things no one should ever have to see, who had held all of it inside, finally cracked. All of the evil and darkness she had seen came pouring out as she screamed at me that no one could ever love her, because she was unlovable.

Unlovable. That’s how she saw herself. Used, abused, and unlovable.

 I have no control over her past, and I can’t fix her. I can’t make any of it go away. I can’t give her a father who loved her. I can’t bring her mother to her. There’s nothing I can do to change her past or her current situation.

But I can tell that little girl every day, every day, that I love her. I can hug her for no reason. I can remind her that there is some who knows her, who created her, who counts the hairs on her head. Who is taking care of her, and her siblings, and her mother, so she doesn’t have to. Who will never leave her, because she belongs to him. I can speak truth into her life, and surround her with words that describe someone worthy of love, that describe her: beautiful, honest, talented, intelligent, amazing, and kind. I can show that little girl the kind of love that has been hard to come by so far in her short life.

My dorm (sans Evelyn) at Christmas.
Italia and sister, Jenny, back right

Italia’s not a success story; none of my kids are. We’re struggling through this life, and one of the hardest parts of my job is putting their past into context for these children who just can’t process all of the things that have happened to them. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to lock myself in the bathroom for a few minutes because of a story of absolute filth and degradation that has come out of the mouths of one of my precious little girls like it was nothing. Like it was normal. That breaks me.

But watching God put them back together? Watching families get restored in love? Seeing Italia hug her sister and tell her that she loves her instead of pushing her out of the way? The slightest change in any of them is cause for celebration for me, because I know how far they’ve come. That’s what I’m in this for, and that’s what makes this all worth it for me-watching little lives get restored by a God who loves and cares for them.

Italia is just a transformation in the making.

Thoughts on Teaching

Let me just remind you all, I am not a trained educator. I have no degree in teaching, and only most of a Teaching English as a Foreign Language certification; I don’t actually have the certification. That being said, I can tell you truthfully: one of my biggest joys here at Esperanza Viva is giving English classes.

Mario on the first day of school

For me, there is nothing like being a teacher. Even on the day when I’m stressed, even when I’m sick or just exhausted, walking into the classroom is an instant mood elevator. I love to see my student’s progress as they advance on what has to be the world’s worst language to learn, and their joy as they recognize their own improvement, because it means that all of the time and thought I put into planning their lessons and coming up with real ways to learn have not been in vain.

I have trouble expressing what I love so much about teaching, especially because it is so challenging. There are days when I wonder what I’m doing; I have no training and I’m probably screwing these kids up for life, language-wise. I second guess my handling of situations and sometimes, honestly, my lessons are boring and that makes me feel like a failure as a teacher and possibly as a human being. I’m constantly trying to improve my plans, to come up with a way to help the kids learn in a way that makes sense to them, that is appropriate for their age and grade level-things that don’t always match up, when you have fifteen-year-olds working at a fourth grade level. It’s hard and difficult and exhausting and stressful: why do I love it?

I know the answer, though.

I love it because Jenny can count to ten without stopping.

Satyuri, Ale, & Ada

I love it because Anibal figured out how to use a Spanish-English dictionary.

I love it because Ingrid and Italia finally figured out English is not Spanish with an Gringo accent.

I love it because Emmanuel asked me for a pencil without stopping to think about it.

I love it because the entire third grade played “Go Fish” for a half an hour in English last week.

I love it because of the “I love my teacher” notes.

Kindergarten class learning about their senses

I love it because Vicky learned to say “cat” instead of “gat.”

I love it because of the look on Toño’s face when he answers something correctly.

I love it because when I tell Ada to ask me in English, she does it without blinking.

I love it because I know what I’m doing is affecting my students. I can see it. We aren’t just learning verbs and nouns; we’re learning how to keep trying. We’re learning the importance of books and good attitudes. We’re learning teamwork. And most of all, we’re learning that no matter what anyone has been told, with enough persistence and hard work, they can learn-and they can see themselves learning.

For kids who have never done well in school before, and for teachers who sometimes feel overwhelmed with their responsibilities alike, this is amazing, and it encourages us to keep going when things get rough.

2014 last day of school celebration

Oh, Erika

According to my friends, Erika has a lot
in common with Pinkalicious in this picture.

If you’re tired of temper tantrums, raise your hand.

I’m raising my hand.

Erika has mastered
the art of the photo bomb. Count
them below!

I love Erika. She’s a ray of sunshine that usually has a smile on her face that breaks my heart. My little girl with the permanent bed head and the missing front teeth, Erika is more likely than anyone else to be wearing something that absolutely does not match, and not care even a little bit. She loves to play, and plays hard. She’s my extreme child: extremely happy, extremely loud, extremely resistant to bedtime, and sometimes, extremely naughty.

Erika arrived with her sisters Abigail and Teresa on August 1. I was the one who brought them in, got them settled and spent the most time with them the first few weeks that they were at Esperanza Viva. One thing that was glaringly apparent after spending some time with Erika was that she had a listening problem. And by listening problem, I mean that she blatantly ignored anyone who told her what to do, choosing instead to do whatever she wanted, which (at the time) included:

My first picture of Erika,
the day she arrived.

Biting her sister Teresa,

Jumping off bunk beds and tables,

Trying to stick her entire fist in the dog’s mouth (and being outraged at what happened next),

Drinking three bottles of Coca-Cola an hour before bed,

Etc., ad naseum. 

We’ve spend the last seven months building Erika’s moral compass, because it simply wasn’t there when she arrived. She isn’t a bad child; she just has never had to be obedient before. Her mother was a single mom trying to keep her family afloat and until arriving at EV, the main authority in Erika’s life was her nine-year-old sister Abi. Of course she couldn’t behave herself: she didn’t know how.

Christmas fun

She didn’t know how to control her emotions. She couldn’t calm herself down; when she got excited she simply lost control. The same thing happened when she got angry. Erika had no way to demonstrate her emotions, either. She didn’t know how to show love, affection, friendship. She took what she wanted and was bewildered when the other girls got upset with her: she didn’t understand why they didn’t just take their toys back. And when faced with the consequences of her actions, Erika usually opted for the time-honored favorite of children dealing with things they dislike everywhere: the temper tantrum.

Lost a sweatshirt? Temper tantrum.

Can’t color right now? Temper tantrum.

Facing punishment for throwing a temper tantrum? 

Worse temper tantrum.

And so it goes, which brings us right up to today. Erika remains the reigning temper-tantrum queen, although there are a couple other little girls fighting for her crown. To be fair to the seven-year-old: her temper tantrums are getting shorter as she’s learning to control her emotions-major coup for the supervisors! We’re down to only one a day, and sometimes entire days pass without any, which is unprecedented, and encouraging for me.

What helps me when I get down about Erika’s behavior is remembering the little girl I met last August: the little hellion who was as likely to hit you as she was to hug you, the little girl who regularly told her sisters she hated them. Erika today is a loving little girl, who is still learning not to hit but who would defend her sisters to the last breath and spends more time with them than anyone else. Does she behave perfectly? Nah, but that’s a lot to ask for. What’s more important is, has she learned to show love? And that, my friends, is a resounding yes. 

So I’m okay with a few temper tantrums here and there.

Satyuri

Satuyri, two days after she
arrived

One of the things I don’t do often enough is brag on just one of my kids. There are nine of them, and sometimes I feel like I only give the briefest hints of who they are. I mention the little ones a lot-Jenny and Teresa, the tiny dynamic duo of mischief. I mention Evelyn, as I shake my head at her perceptions and dramatics. I mention Ada, who loves me, and I talk about Erika’s hyjinks. Andrea’s only been here for a month or so and she’s been talked about, just for being a spitfire.

But someone I almost never talk about is Satyuri and that’s not fair, because Satyuri is a special and amazing little girl with a heart of gold.

First day of 3rd grade

She came in July. Just turned eight and already more responsible than some adults, what I didn’t know at the time was that Satyuri was dealing with a serious trauma. To me, she just looked like one tranquil little girl in a sea of excitable girl-creatures, and I remember thinking “At least one of them is calm.” Because out of the eight little girls who came to us in that two week period, she really was the only one.

Pandemonium set in and then was eventually phased out as everyone got used to their new home, but Satyuri never lost her cool. Always helpful, always sweet, she kept a firm hand over both her older and younger sisters Adriana and Ingrid, keeping them in line and watching over them. Her grandmother had mentioned something like that to the social worker before the girls came in, but it was amazing to see in person. Both Adriana and Ingrid listened to their sister far more than they listened to us, and she in turn kept track of them like she was their own mother instead of their sister.

Do You Wanna
Build a Snowman?

Satuyuri being funny
on her English homework

We never had any trouble with Sat: she always listened, always obeyed, and always did her share. However, I noticed over time that she never really talked about herself. She talked to the other girls, would play with them sometimes, but she didn’t open up to anyone. She was reserved, but it was more than that: she seemed introverted. She would wake up at night with nightmares but wouldn’t tell anyone until morning, and even then she only mentioned them in passing. Both of her sisters had nightmares as well, and would scream and cry in the night until they woke a supervisor or themselves up, but Satyuri only ever woke me up once. When I went to check on her, I found her laying bed with her eyes closed, pretending to sleep and obviously crying. She seemed terrified to let anyone in or get close to anyone except for her sisters, who she fiercely protected and watched over.

Satyuri with BFF Ada
and Erika the fashion diva

It was around this time that I heard something for the first time about the girls’ mother.

Ingrid was the one who let it slip. The three of them, Satyuri, Ingrid and Adriana were playing with Evelyn, who was letting them eat something her mother had brought her. The girls were sitting around, happily munching when Ingrid said something like “My mommy used to make me this.” After she said it she seemed to realize her mistake, because she froze and turned to look at Sat, so I did too.

Satyuri had turned white. She was beyond pale, and looked like she wasn’t breathing. She clenched her hands as tears filled her eyes, and without saying anything, she got up and went to the bathroom, Ingrid following her, crying and apologizing as she went. As Adriana sighed and went after them, Evelyn asked the question I was thinking. “What happened to your mom?”

“My mom is dead.” said Adriana, shutting the door behind her.

Tree climbing

It took six months for the girls to open up about what happened to their mom. Although they had largely been raised by their grandmother, their mom had been in and out of their lives, and they loved her. Shortly before they came to live at Esperanza Viva, their mother died suddenly, succumbing to an extended illness that had taken its toll on the girls and their grandmother alike. Unfortunately, the ones who were with her as she died were Satyuri and Ingrid, and it was Satyuri who told her grandmother what happened and also told her sisters, as Ingrid was too young to understand and Adriana wasn’t there. She shouldered a responsibility that was too big for her, and when her world turned upside-down, she didn’t know how to let that responsibility go.

Trying on Alisha's shoes: guess
who was the ring leader?

The night the girls told me what had happened, Satyuri cried for two hours. She cried until her eyes were so swollen I put ice on them. She fell asleep crying, and when I carried her to bed she woke up and asked me to hold her as she went to sleep, something she had never wanted to do before. My little girl, after having to be a grown-up for so long, was finally deciding it was okay to be a child again. She didn’t have to be strong anymore.

Cupcake time!

Since that night in January, the change in Satyuri has been incremental, but incredible. She acts like a child now. She is still the same smart, caring girl she ever was, but she’s no longer always so calm. These days, Satyuri can be found orchestrating a game of tag as easily as she can be found reading. She plays instead of sitting on the sidelines watching her sisters. Sometimes, she doesn’t even know where Ingrid is, and she doesn’t care, because she knows we know where she is. Satyuri has opened up about her mom, and can talk about her without crying now. She is learning to deal with what happened, but she is also learning about a God who loves her and her sisters, and who will take care of them. Of all of my little girls, I can’t think of any that has come as far as Satyuri, and I'm so proud of the person she’s grown into.

Chasing Joy

Here’s some commentary about parenting, guys: It’s freaking hard.

I’m jealous of all of you people who get to raise your own children. I have a theory from when my friend Julie and her little boy were living with my family, that mothers have a special bond with their kids. They have to. Because I can tell you: Josiah would be screaming bloody murder and I would be beside myself, beating my brain to come up with a way to make the toddler stop shrieking, and Julie would wander in and have the whole thing resolved in three minutes flat. You mommy people have super powers.

Since none of my kids are actually my kids, I work more on a trust-building, trial-and-error way. Usually we get thing figured out after a period of transition, and until that transition period is over it’s important to remember how strange and scary we all are to new kids, especially when they come in alone. I love that part, getting to know them and finding out what they like or dislike. I love getting to the point where the girls come to trust me and realize that they actually are somewhere safe. It’s a great feeling.

However, good feelings aside, it can be really hard to deal with nine kids at once. There is always someone who needs attention, always someone who’s behavior needs to be corrected. I think anyone who has kids can agree with me that they never all behave themselves at once, except maybe when they’re watching TV (and we don’t have TVs in the dorm). Here’s a hypothetical scenario for you:

Sitting down to my dinner, I stop eating to listen to Jenny explain to my why she can’t possibly be expected to eat (because it’s a lot of food and she has a very small tummy, and we should send it to the hungry kids in Africa that you’re always talk about, Alisha!) Ingrid just tossed her chicken nugget at Erika, causing an ear-splitting shriek to issue from Erika’s lips and Italia to spill her tea all over Evelyn’s plate, and Teresa starts to cry. Andrea gets mad on Evelyn’s behalf and starts shouting about how she’s gonna give Erika a knuckle sandwich (she’s a scrapper, that one) and Teresa starts to cry because she thinks her sister is going to lose all her teeth.

Somehow, in the middle of all of that, I find it difficult to keep calm and respond with the love I know I need to show, especially when what I really want to do is shriek myself.So what do I do? I get annoyed. Sometimes, I get supremely annoyed. I’m short with the kids as we go get a towel and find a new dinner for Evelyn. I speak sharply to Erika about screaming when I know she was really just scared and it was a knee-jerk reaction. I try to hold Ingrid accountable for throwing food, but now she’s insisting it was an accident and starting to cry, which just makes me more irritated as she’s making a scene in the community center, so I tell her I’ll talk to her later-knowing that may never happen, because later is when children get scrubbed and wrangled into bed before I fall into bed myself. Teresa stops crying and is now covered in snot, and I can’t send her to the bathroom alone so I wipe her nose with a tissue I have in my pocket and tell her to eat, leaving me with a nasty tissue in my hand and totally grossing me out. I remind Andrea that violence is not the answer, even in the defense of a friend, and ask her to apologize to Erika, but Andrea seems to have lost the ability to talk, something that’s really annoying. And Jenny has still not eaten a bite of food, and continues to insist that she really wants to help the African kids, causing me to wonder to myself why I even say things like that to them, anyways.

How do you show joy in the middle of that? How do react like the adult you’re supposed to be when you really just want to stomp your foot and start screaming?

(By the way, the hypothetical part of that exercise was that all of it happened together. It all happened at some point this month, but not all at the same time, thankfully!)

Lately, I’ve been reminiscing on pieces of my parent’s advice. When I was a kid, my parents divided their schedules so that my sister and I would spend the least amount of time in daycare as possible, because they actually liked us (go figure) and wanted to spend time with us. Something I remember my mom correcting me on, again and again and again, was my attitude. I did not always have a good attitude. I would be cranky and get asked if I had a good attitude. I would give a saucy answer and get asked to change my attitude. I would be surly (great adjective to use on a seven-year-old) and would be sent to my room until I changed my attitude. It was always about attitude, decisions and consequences with her. Add to that those big nineties posters that were everywhere at the time with pictures of kids playing sports and the slogan “Attitude is Everything” and it felt like I was surrounded on all sides by this whole attitude thing I didn’t care about and didn’t understand.

My father, on the other hand, was more of a doer and less of a correct-the-children’s-behavior kind of guy, like most guys are, I think. I remember him getting annoyed at us occasionally, but for the most part, he’s always been the even-tempered guy we all know and love. He didn’t offer advice very often, but there is one thing I remember him repeating to me and my sister every so often, usually in my mother’s hearing to get her to smile: If Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. Ignoring the fact that my dad sometimes thinks he’s a hillbilly because he grew up in Elk Mound, WI, even when I was a kid I know how true that was. If mom was in a bad mood, we knew what to do: duck and cover! (sorry, Mom!)

I was reading a book last week (shocker) about how to have a happy marriage. Please feel free to snort and think that I’m getting ahead of myself; your judgment is probably merited. I wasn’t expecting to get a lot out of it in the moment; it’s more like studying for a pop quiz you know is coming at some point. Anyways, the second chapter talked about joy, and one of the things that Debi Pearl said stuck with me, even if was more of a footnote to the larger text:

"During the day, sing and play and dance as you work around the house. Your children will be delighted as you dance around the house with a broom or a mop,and this lighthearted mood (visible joy is the only joy children understand) will be an encouragement to your children."

Your kids take their cues from you. If you’re happy, they’re happy. If you’re not, they’re not. They never stop watching, measuring your reactions and recreating them. Listening to your words and repeating them. Watching what you do and copying you. I was left with the uncomfortable feeling that I am not always the best role model for them. Sometimes I react poorly. Sometimes I have a bad attitude. Sometimes I sulk. Sometimes I don’t use nice words. And most of this happens right in front of them, making me the worst parental figure to ever exist.

Anyways, once I consoled myself that there were worst parental figures in the world than I, and also that if I was the worst there was nothing to do but improve, I figured this being joyful thing was worth a try, even when things start looking like a battle scene from the Lord of the Rings. Maybe especially then.

 So I spent last Saturday being joyful. I didn’t yell. I didn’t raise my voice at all. I smiled and used positive words. I did not say “What are you doing?!” in tones of panic and despair once. I made no threats; I brokered no deals. I just played with the kids and when they started to act up, I took them aside, looked them in the eyes and asked them if they were making good decisions.

And wouldn’t you know it, the girls responded amazingly? Instead of the pandemonium inherent to Saturdays, I had calm little children. Instead of fighting, I heard cooperation. Instead of mean words, I heard nice ones. I’m not going to lie and say that we had no conflict at all, but we had a lot less than usual, and when I put them to bed that night, instead of feeling drained and impotent, I felt alive and peaceful. I was excited for tomorrow. I felt joy.

That’s basically all I’ve got here. I’m still reeling from how something as small as changing my attitude can have such a big effect on the attitudes of my kids. It’s been a challenge for me, as well, to look at other areas in my life and see how my negative or apathetic attitudes have been limiting me. I think one of the important things to remember is the difference between happiness and joy. If you wait to feel happy, it will happen every so often by itself. There are plenty of things that make me happy in this life: a cup of hot tea, spending time with my mom, getting a new book and finding out it’s more than 500 pages-all great examples. Happiness is flighty, though. It comes and it goes. Joy is not something you just feel. Joy comes from knowing what God has called you to do and fulfilling that call. It may not be something earth shattering-God’s call can be something as small as knowing you need an attitude change. When you’re living in that call, and living in obedience to Him, that’s where the joy comes from.

What You Don't Know: Sex Trafficking & Minors in the US

She’s tired, because she’s been up all night, every night for almost as long as she can remember. She’s cold, because the room she’s in has little more than a bed in it, and the window doesn’t close all the way. She’s sore, because the last john hit her across the face when she didn’t move fast enough. She’s hungry, because she’s still growing, and today she realized that her clothes don’t fit very well anymore. She’s thirteen years old, but she feels like she’s a hundred.

This little girl could live anywhere in the world. She could be from Himalaya, sold by her unwitting parents to be used by men in Indian cities. She could be from a small village in Ghana, kidnapped and forced to service men on the shores of Lake Volta. She could be a Ukrainian girl, promised a job and a better life and finding only debt slavery and prostitution on her arrival to London. She could be an American runaway, an abandoned and unloved girl regurgitated so many times by the foster care system that they finally lost her, and it was a pimp that found her.

Most of us learn what hookers are pretty early in life, even though we may not completely understand at first. They’re in movies, in books; sometimes bright and hopeful, sometimes degraded and trashy, and always the butt of some joke or a transparent plot device. We see it in magazines, on billboards-images of women being dominated or controlled. In a country that over-glorifies sex and image and lives to sell the next big thing, prostitution always sells. What is there to worry about; it’s not liked the movies/books/pictures are real. The truth is a bit more complicated than what it’s painted to be, though, and the truth of the matter is that sexual trafficking and exploitation is as big of a problem in the United States as it is anywhere else-and it’s one that very few people are talking about it.

Sex trafficking and commercial sexual exploitation is a world-wide epidemic, and is the fastest-growing criminal enterprise in the world. There is no corner of the world that is not touched by this plague. 2012 statistics report that as many as 20.9 million adults and children yearly are bought and sold into commercial sexual servitude, forced labor or bonded labor. Women and girls make up 98% of the victims of trafficking for sexual exploitation. They are promised a better life, a job, a home-and all they receive is a forced introduction to the world’s oldest profession.

The United States is not an innocent bystander in all of this. In 2013, the National Human Trafficking Resource Center hotline received reports of over 3,000 sex trafficking cases inside the U.S. Sex trafficking in the United States operates on the streets and off. Fake massage parlors, online escort services, strip clubs and brothels provide permanent places of business, while the classic haunts of prostitution-motels, truck stops and street corners serve as more transitory options.

According to www.traffickingresourcecenter.org, “In street-based sex trafficking, victims are often expected to earn a nightly quota, ranging from $500 to $1,000 or more, which is confiscated by the pimp. Women in brothels disguised as massge businesses typically live on-site where they are coerced into providing commercial sex with 6 to 10 men a day, seven days a week.”

Are the prostitutes to blame? Who are these people who sell themselves? Of course there are always those who make the choice themselves to engage in prostitution, but regardless of your rhetoric detailing women’s choice and feminism, becoming a prostitute is no one’s first option. Most people (outside of Amsterdam, I’d assume) do not enter this profession voluntarily-they are victims, lied to, coerced, enslaved, and abused both physically and sexually. Many victims of trafficking and exploitation aren’t even of age: in the United States, runaways and homeless youth are the most common victims of exploitation.

In the case of child sexual exploitation, the statistics are alarming. One study estimates 30% of shelter youth and 70% of street youth are victims of commercial sexual exploitation. They may engage or be coerced into prostitution for “survival sex” to meet daily needs for food, shelter or drugs. A history of physical and sexual abuse is common among victims, and 75% of minors engaged in prostitution are under the control of a pimp.

These pimps are always on the lookout for new children, and prey on victims as young as 12-14 years old. Many times, they are willing to invest a surprising amount to break down their victim’s natural resistance and suspicion. If they succeed in winning the child’s trust, this investment can be returned many times over; it’s estimated that pimps make hundreds of thousands of dollars selling children every year.

Pimps buy presents, provide a place to stay, and give emotional support-all without revealing their true intent. Causing the child to believe that the pimp truly loves and cares for them, as well as using threats, drugs, and violence, causes what’s called a ‘trauma-bond,’ where the victim feels trapped and powerless. It can be very difficult for children to break free of this bond.

Today in the U.S., the Federal Trafficking Victims Protection Act defines the crime of human trafficking as:

       A.      The recruitment, harboring, transportation, provision, or obtaining of a person for the purpose of a commercial sex act where such an act is induced by force, fraud, or coercion, or in which the person induced to perform such act has not attained 18 years of age, or

       B.      The recruitment, harboring, transportation, provision, or obtaining of a person for labor or services, through the use of force, fraud, or coercion for the purpose of subjection to involuntary servitude, peonage, debt bondage, or slavery.

This important piece of legislation makes it easier to prosecute both ‘johns’ (those that pay for the services of prostitutes) and pimps, while subsequently protecting minor victims of sexual exploitation. Although a negative attitude continues towards prostitutes who have reached the age of majority, minors who have commercially sexually exploited are not required to prove to the court force, fraud or coercion; the age of the victim is considered to be sufficient cause for conviction. This distinction is necessary to both more freely prosecute those truly guilty as well as to decriminalize the minor victims of sex trafficking and exploitation.

While this law is an important step for America, there are still many children and youth that need help. Resources are being put into place to reach out to likely victims, but it is a painfully slow process that is only now gaining momentum. Countries such as Sweden, Norway, and Iceland have taken monumental measures in decriminalizing prostituted persons and criminalizing their buyers, measures which have reduced street prostitution and sex trafficking in their countries. Along with stricter laws that prosecute johns and pimps while protecting their victims, what America largely lacks is awareness.

The thing that stands out most to me about the statistic I shares is how starved these children are for affection. These are children who have been rejected. They may have been cast off from their parents, sometimes at birth or at a young age. Maybe they were in foster care and ran ways because of abuse or mistreatment. Maybe they have a parent who doesn’t want them, or is too high to care about them. Maybe their parent is in jail. So they turn to someone who seems to care, only to find out too late that they have been betrayed by their own need for love. By then, they are trapped in a list that they can’t get out of, trained to lie, obey, and take whatever comes at them because, what other choice do they have?

We all know people like this. We know kids that make us wonder about their home lives, about what they do when no one is around. We know the questions we “should,” as polite people, ask, and which ones we shouldn’t. But what if we began to ask the hard questions? What if we opened our eyes to the possibility that horrible things could be happening to people we know? What if we decided to care?

This blog, this series is nothing more than a battle cry for awareness. We live in a twisted world, and the bad stuff is closer to home than we may want to believe. You have to decide for yourself if you’re going to act, or stay silent and condemn others with your inactivity.

What you don’t know may not be hurting you,

but it’s definitely hurting them.

“…Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.” Matthew 25:40

Reading List for this Post

Girls Like Us Rachel Lloyd

Not for Sale David Batstone

The White Umbrella Mary Frances Bowley

Trafficked: The Diary of a Sex Slave Sibel Hodge

Sources

http://sharedhope.org/

http://www.humantrafficking.org/combat_trafficking

http://www.equalitynow.org/

http://www.missingkids.com/en_US/documents/CCSE_Fact_Sheet.pdf

http://www.polarisproject.org/