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.