I won’t get the chance to personally read the tribute below tomorrow at the memorial service for a strong, loving woman who has had the most significant affect on my life. Mrs. Reynolds, never stopped believing in me and listening with her heart. Please help me celebrate her life today.
I had lost out on the love of two mothers in my life—my birth mother and my adoptive mother. But evidently God still had a plan. Since living with this wonderful, caring family as a freshman in high school, “My Mother of Affection,” as Mrs. Reynolds fondly asked me to call her, had been the rock in my life. She taught me not only to love myself, but shared with me the true meaning of a bond between a mother and daughter that can’t be broken.
I still remember our phone conversation. It was one of those moments when I put my trust in another human being with the part of me that hurts the deepest; “Mrs. Reynolds, I am so excited about being asked to speak at our Women’s Church Retreat, but many of my friends are bringing their mothers. I was wondering if you could possibly please come with me.” With no hesitation, “my mother of affection” answered, “I will be there.” I couldn’t believe this woman with three beautiful daughters of her own would fly all the way up to Oregon from Sacramento to be with me. Together, we had the most amazing weekend of my life. It certainly made up for all those mother-daughter special times that I had missed out on while growing up.
When I have doubts about my self-worth or who I really belonged to, I think of you with a smile, “My Mother of Affection.” I don’t see your passing away from such a long, good life as one more loss, but rather that you blessed so many of us, including me, with your gifted brush that was always colorfully painting this world a better place. I loved you beyond words.
How many 10-year-old girls do you know who had a best friend named Myrtle? I don’t remember initially how we became inseparable. Myrtle was a bigger-than-life tortoise, a fond memory that was “real” from my childhood.
My brother liked racing his Matchbox cars, while I loved watching Myrtle slowly maneuver her fatigue-green tanker across the room. Daddy decided that she needed grazing time in our spacious backyard, so he gently drilled a small hole on the back tip of her armor. Attached with a string to the sprinkler head, my beloved pet loved her new-found freedom. Over our fence you couldn’t find an annoying barking dog, but rather just carefree Myrtle making herself right at home exploring the luscious green lawn.
I often wonder how I was allowed to have such an extraordinary pet when my parents were a family all about “image.” Growing up in an affluent neighborhood with expensive, mansion-like homes fit for a governor, judge and medical doctors, Myrtle was a priceless example of truly what a lonely little girl needed.
As a young child, I would sneak out to the garage when my adoptive parents weren’t home and find the “hidden pictures.” It was as if there were a sign on the door stating, “PRIVATE – KEEP OUT,” but the temptation was just too great. I remember staring in awe at each black and white photo tucked away in the unlabeled box like a wide-eyed kid overwhelmed by a bigger-than-life chocolate sundae.
“Oh, look,” I would whisper as I held it close for that moment … one more picture of memories that weren’t mine to keep.
In the early ‘60s, my adoptive parents’ marriage ended. After their divorce, my adoptive mother remarried a medical doctor. I did not understand why family photos from my first six years of life had to be taken away from me. An unspoken vow of silence by my adoptive mother created negative feelings that images of the past were somehow supposed to be shameful secrets.
I never knew what happened to my displaced childhood memories. Someone must have discovered that I was trespassing into that box. The “forbidden pictures” were then placed completely out of my reach, like a cookie jar sitting on top of a high shelf.
There have been times in my life when I needed to recapture those lost pictures. I’ve longed to know how much my daughters resembled me as a child from that first glimpse of a brand-new life to our five-year-old toothless grins. As I recall, I didn’t analyze the pictures to find someone to blame for my adoptive parents’ failed marriage, but rather to find good memories that a child could hold onto.
Sometimes the deepest desires of our hearts are answered years later in unexpected, triumphant ways.
“Don’t forget to ask my brother if he found any more photos,” I yelled out to my husband as he drove off on a business trip that would include a short visit to my relative’s home. My oldest brother had the task of sorting through our late parents’ possessions and finding new homes for their belongings. What I hoped to reclaim were the lost keepsakes … the valuable memories that I believed were rightfully mine.
After returning home from his trip, my husband handed me “little snippets of my childhood” that my brother thought I would cherish. One of the estate items that he had set aside for me was my stepfather’s old fishing pole. Teary-eyed, I held on tightly to the sentimental memories while reminiscing about those special times we had shared together. While I was lost in a little girl’s dreams, my husband then placed in my lap a small cardboard box. Printed neatly on the top in my sister-in-law’s handwriting were the words, “For JoAnne.” All that this gift seemed to be missing was a bow and wrapping paper. I slowly opened the box, wondering what long-ago treasures might be inside.
“Oh my!” I squealed as if I had been playing pirates with my brothers and we had just discovered part of our lost riches. I felt like I was sifting through sand as I cupped a box full of our family’s photos in my hands. With a giggle, I would take each small slide and look up toward the light to see if I could recognize the images. I do recall having seen some of the snapshots. But many of these slides, which I had never known existed until this moment, brought back fond memories that were saved with a click of the camera.
I was completely overwhelmed by this kaleidoscope of pictures that abruptly started from the age of seven, when my adoptive mother married my stepfather, and then sporadically up until I was pregnant with my first child. My daughters will take me more seriously the next time I tell them that I was in water ballet. I can’t stop laughing when I see myself as a young girl sitting on the side of a pool all decked out in my swimming cap decorated with artificial flowers, or when I am practicing casting, out over the side of the hill with my new Zebco fishing pole.
It’s the little things in life that are often taken for granted that have always meant so much to me. I would trade all the money in this world to get back the “hidden” photos from the first six years of my life that I presume were discarded. I want to hold on to the good memories with the pure and innocent heart of a child. I need to remember the joy, despite the losses.
27. Make a joyful book. Fill a small album with photos and stories that evoke your happiest memories.
As I watched the college students celebrating in the streets after hearing the news of Bin Laden’s demise, I wanted to ask them why they were cheering before I passed judgment. I have two daughters close in age with these students, so I wanted to know what was going through their minds.
I see a generation now that is conflicted. They were young children when 9/11 happened. With modern technology, there is no way our kids could have been totally sheltered from the constant barrage of disturbing news coverage. As a hurting nation, we, as parents, were in total shock and tried to cope with the unfathomable, tragic losses, each in our own way.
Perhaps, we didn’t know all the right questions to ask our impressionable children. It’s obvious that 9/11 impacted their lives in ways that they don’t fully understand and we weren’t prepared for. I am wondering if this isn’t really about celebrating the death of an evil terrorist but is more about reclaiming some of the innocence from their childhoods.
Maybe we should…
1. take the time now to talk with young adults and see what’s on their hearts.
2. acknowledge their fears and concerns as being real.
3. remember our public display of emotions as baby boomers during contentious times rather than saying their responses are inappropriate or wrong.
4. start a conversation with our older children by asking, “9/11 was so difficult for all of us, in your opinion, what could we have done better and differently as parents?”
5. try to not undermine their feelings by stating the obvious, “In my day, we experienced the assassinations of President Kennedy, his brother running for public office and Martin Luther King, Jr., etc.”
6. be honest with your own feelings and ask how we might be more sensitive to those who lost loved ones and to the many survivors of 9/11, as it must be hard to have to relive old wounds again.
7. keep challenging our young adults to help work towards a common goal of hope and peace.
8. not underestimate this generation whose voices can truly make a difference as being a part of change.
Innovative Social Networking for the 20th Century has connected me with long-lost relatives, old classmates, and new friends with similar interests. In addition to being a great way to keep in touch with loved ones, both Facebook and Twitter have been better than that yearly “newsy” Christmas letter.
When I need to find the good in this world, my faith is restored in mankind by one special, little girl’s FB “Smiles.” At only ten years old, Emily’s humanitarian efforts from Fort Worth, Texas, are a sweet reminder of what it means to care selflessly about others.
While her mother was pregnant with her younger sibling, the doctors determined he had suffered a stroke in the womb. I can’t imagine how worried Emily must have been when she learned such scary news. Alarmingly, one in every 4000 births will result in an in utero stroke. Childhood strokes are one of the top ten killers in children.
After a miraculous birth, baby brother Jude continues to require extensive medical attention. At only two years of age, Jude is legally blind, has a severe seizure disorder, as well as cerebral palsy.
In tow with mom, dad, and baby for many office visits and hospital stays, Emily had the impressive initiative to turn the “not-again” boring experiences into a creative inspiration that would help many other kids.
Emily had the idea of filling flat cheery boxes with crayons and an assortment of fun activities to bring smiles to hospitalized sick children as well as their siblings. Included with each box is a cuddly stuffed bear to love. Just a dream from a ten-year-old’s precious heart has turned into a successful non-profit charity called Emily’s Smile Boxes that continues to grow strong over two years later.
To date Emily has given out a little over 2,000 boxes from primarily her local community’s support. Boxes have been shipped to every state in the U.S. and into Canada. Someday, she is hoping to extend her generous spirit of giving nationwide.
If this ambitious girl wasn’t accomplishing enough—she is a straight A student, playing the lead in her school play and is a link leader. Emily still makes her boxes at home and is presently selling silicon bracelets at her school to raise money to pay for them. Her school also wants to host the next box-making party. Last May, Emily had the opportunity to travel to Washington, DC, and speak with Condoleeza Rice, along with both her Texas senators about her charity.
Emily has clearly made her mark in this world and is a wonderful example of how our youth today are making a difference in others’ lives. She is a big sister who is honoring her brother’s life in an admirable way.
At her last box-making party, she had over 100 volunteers from 17 months old to the elderly helping with the packing of the boxes for shipment.
I felt safe inside my pretend-world where no one could possibly burst my bubble. I imagined my sister and me laughing happily, long into the night…a forever slumber party. We had a lasting friendship, like a big all-day lollipop with colorful swirls. My make-believe sister and I shared in girl talk, whispered secrets, and silly giggles. Ours was an unconditional trust that would never be broken, a kind of cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die pact.
Every year before blowing out the candles on my birthday cake, my silent childhood wish was to have a sister. I thought it would be the answer to my loneliness. Although I watched them bicker at times, I envied the relationships my friends had with their sisters. It seemed like they shared a special closeness—a deep connection that I longed for in my own life.
I was adopted at birth but never gave much thought to the possibility that I might really have a sister. From time to time, my adoptive mother would toss around bits and pieces about my beginnings, but not share the full story with me, if indeed she knew it at all. Without the honest truth, I could only bury a vague image of my birth mother having other children and me not being one of them.
As an adult, I disappointingly learned that my birth mother had passed away too early at the age of forty-four. My only consolation seemed to be finding one last connection to her. I discovered that my adoptive mother had been partially right with her insensitive remarks over the years. The harsh reality was that my biological mother had placed me for adoption due to infidelity, but had kept my older siblings. I could hardly believe it—me, the girl who had wished so hard for a sister, had not one, but two older sisters. Through far-reaching inquiries and much research I was able to contact them. I had never dreamed my wish would actually come true.
It seems as though it was just yesterday that my sisters and I were faceless strangers. Our paths were separated by time and distance, like shooting stars with different destinies. Then, by chance, I found the ingredients for my ready-made relatives. Anxiously I hoped that they would welcome me into their life stories.
My oldest sister, Paula Sue is more like a mother to me, as we are fourteen years apart in age. She married when I would have been a little girl and has never had children. What meant a lot to me was that from the first time we met, my big sister, for several years, remembered me on my birthday. However, we had a difficult time expressing our deepest feelings and being able to read between the lines. I wish I could have told her that just because she was the oldest, didn’t mean she needed to feel responsible or guilty for the decisions that our mother made for my life.
Cindy, my other sister is six years older than I am. Though she said that putting her feelings into words didn’t come as easy as it did for me, I received some of the most thoughtful cards from her. Over a short period of time, though, our relationship seemed to sour as well. Regretfully, I realize now that I wasn’t giving her enough space to figure out how she felt about me. Trying too hard to make her into the sister I had always dreamed about, I sensed that she just wanted me to go away.
Magically, my sisterly-wish had been granted, but intertwined with sadness. From the first time we met, it was obvious that I was the hidden family-secret staring my sisters in the face. The painful truth is they both eventually distanced themselves from me. I don’t know if there was one defining moment that led to our falling out, but rather we just couldn’t make up for all the lost time. After finding this missing part of me, I experienced many emotions. I felt like a small child overwhelmed by the awe of Christmas. Yet another part of me was grieving over the letdown of having a not-so-happily-ever-after relationship.
While repeatedly being the “sister left behind” hurts deeply, I don’t blame Paula Sue or Cindy for not being overly-delighted about my intrusion into their lives. I had stirred up the past and there was no way to tiptoe around that uncomfortable fact. Regardless of the outcome, I am counting my blessings that now my beginnings are no longer a secret. It has taken me years to give myself permission to hold close to my heart what I thought fate meant not to be mine in the first place. With gratitude, I want to thank Cindy for sharing that one last connection to our mother—
Dear JoAnne,
The gift I’ve enclosed for you is something very, very special to me. But I had the wonderful experience of spending 14 years of my life with our mother and you didn’t. Because of that I want you to have her locket and her picture. Cherish it as I have.
Love you,
Your sister Cindy
Captivated by the music video, I watched as Jennifer Nettles, lead vocalist for the band Sugarland, and Bon Jovi sang their hearts out. Surrounded by a house being built by Habitat for Humanity in Philadelphia, their voices resonated, “Who Says You Can’t Go Home?” From that moment on, I knew that Jennifer and I had established a lasting bond.
Every chance I would get, I played my newest Sugarland CD. However, at my house during the weekdays, you can often hear lullaby music or me with my finger up to my lips whispering, “Shush, the babies are sleeping.” By day, I am a childcare provider.
Frequently, I am asked by weary-eyed, new parents on “secrets” to get their babies to sleep. Don’t tell anybody, but sometimes it has just been out of pure desperation that I’ve come up with new and ingenious ways.
One afternoon, while I ran an errand, my husband watched the kids in my care. My daughter, Chelsea, was there as moral support for her Dad. Baby Elise was more than ready to take a nap. And when she’s tired, she definitely protests with her good set of lungs.
Sharing with me what happened while I was gone, Chelsea laughed, “You know, Dad put Elise in the swing, but she just wouldn’t stop crying. Thinking he had done everything right, Mom, he didn’t have a clue what could possibly be wrong.”
On my shift he had witnessed many other little ones quietly sleeping to the same nursery-rhyme music with a rock-a-bye-motion. As Elise continued to scream, my frazzled husband looked over at my daughter, while throwing up his arms and shrugging his shoulders. “What does Mom usually do now?” he pleaded.
“Mom just plays the Sugarland CD.”
Shaking his head, he said, “No way” as he fumbled to quickly find the CD.
The look on his face must have been priceless. As Jennifer Nettles sang in her deep southern voice, “Fifteen minutes left to throw me together,” Elise abruptly stopped crying and with a precious smile let out the most contagious giggle. Then she closed her eyes as Sugarland continued to serenade their newest little fan.
I can see Elise as a young girl, begging her father, who doesn’t like country music, to take her to see her favorite band, “Sugarland.” The pure uniqueness of each newborn is where I find the answers to peaceful slumber.
At only 10 years old, my parents gave me my first Ideals poetry book. Written inside the front cover are the sweet memories, “To JoAnne because she loves beautiful things. Mama and Daddy, Mumps Day.” I still enjoy reading poetry and I have written a few poems over the years. As a young girl, I would have never imagined that my life would be blessed with a special friend that writes some of those beautiful poetry books that I now have sitting up on my shelf. When Connie Arnold recently asked me if I would like to be a part of the blog tour for her newest book, Abundant Comfort and Grace, it touched my heart to be able to share some of her poignant verses to go along with my post.
Our thankfulness we can show by what we do and say
and by always striving to do our best each day.
The best way to give thanks is by loving and giving
as we follow Christ’s example in the life we are living.
Our local shelter was asking the community to contribute signed birthday cards with a $1.79 donation inside each envelope; enough to pay for one meal for a homeless person. The rescue mission was planning an all-out birthday party—complete with a birthday cake, ice cream, a gift for each individual, decorations, and giveaways. At the last minute, I eagerly decided to get involved, feeling one of those nudges from God.
Remembering back to the first time I had really witnessed the harshness of life, I can still envision a frail-looking man curled up on the sidewalk in a fetal position partially covered with a quilted baby-sized blanket. Staring down at what I thought were gaping holes in his socks, I was stunned to notice that this destitute person was not wearing any socks or shoes. The soles of his bare feet had worn through several layers of skin like bald tires. In my city, Portland, Oregon alone it has been estimated that we presently have over 4,000 homeless individuals, which doesn’t include the down-and-out living in cardboard boxes under the bridges. We are not talking about the deceptive panhandlers either standing on the busy street corners, but rather human beings who are truly less-fortunate.
In only three days, I managed to collect over 50 birthday greeting cards from friends, neighbors, clerks at the grocery stores, our family’s doctor and dentist offices, anyone that I could ask at such short notice. Unexpectedly, an overnight express package arrived addressed to me from over 2000 miles away. Tucked inside was a deep sense of caring from a group of eight young women at my middle-daughter’s university. Included in their birthday cards and monetary donations for total strangers was an added special touch of thoughtfulness… each card signed individually with love from one of the eight girls listing their different home states.
I found that sharing blessings with the less fortunate can be contagious. Some people just seem to be born with a generous nature, while I believe others learn from example. Life blossoms when we are role models that help plant the seeds of showing love and compassion for others.
Please join us in celebrating our friend Connie Arnold’s writing successes. As you read each of the inspiring blog posts on her tour, don’t forget to leave comments in order to add your name in the running for two drawings on August 14. One prize will be for a free copy of Connie’s first book, Beautiful Moments of Joy and Peace, while the other is a $10 Amazon gift certificate. Also, there will be an additional drawing for a $25 Amazon gift certificate. Your name will be entered for this drawing when purchasing a signed copy of her newest book, Abundant Comfort and Grace, from her secure website http://www.conniearnold.webs.com If you choose to buy your copy from RPJ & Company and Amazon, just contact Connie with confirmation of your online purchase to have your name added to the drawing. Thank you!
Before barely allowing me to get the words out in a sweet, cheerful voice, “Would you like to buy some Camp Fire mints?” the woman grumbled while slamming the door in my face. Hurrying back to the car, as a very young girl, I explained to my father that she must have just been having a bad day. I wasn’t a bit bothered by her need to take her crankiness out on me—the cutest-little Bluebird. Instead looking up at my daddy with the pure innocence of a child I stated confidently, “I will try again tomorrow.”
The next day I did go back to her door and this time the outcome was much different. Yes, I was tickled. She bought a box of delicious chocolate mint patties from me. Either I won her over with my determination or even more it was my undying faith in mankind. My wonderful marketing skills had paid off. That year I was the youngest Bluebird in Campfire Girls to sell the most candy.
I was thrilled at my accomplishment—I had earned 5 free weeks at camp. Some of my fondest memories were while at camp. My parents were older and spent a great deal of time traveling for pleasure without me while I was growing up. Camp, a part of my parents’ great-getaway-plan, was delightfully my refuge. I loved singing around the campfire, performing skits after meals, and being comforted by the twinkling starry sky I called a nightlight as we slept outdoors.
After all the wonderful experiences I’d had as a camper, I still distinctly recall this one particular time had more significance than the rest. Calling my parents from the Camp Director’s private telephone, I hinted that I really missed them after just a few short weeks. Sniffling, “No, I am not homesick,” I answered with a little trepidation, as if I were trying to convince myself otherwise. I don’t remember if I managed to stay the entire 5 weeks or had to leave early. However, I do know it was my camp counselors and the many older, more-seasoned Camp Fire Girls at Camp Maacama in Healdsburg, California that were wonderful encouragers in helping me survive such a long time away from home as the Bluebird with the great sales abilities. It was the most rewarding and adventurous summer of my young life. I believe I am a true inspiration to others that slamming the door in one’s face doesn’t necessarily mean a definite, “No.”
A 38-year-old mother of three children sat in the passenger’s seat of the car. She exhaled against the pain of each contraction while massaging her protruding belly. As she made the long trip to the hospital, who was in the driver’s seat? Her fall from grace supposedly had been a well-hidden secret.
However, someone helped her down the dark rural road, that day, toward the lights of the big city, for she didn’t drive. Staring down the bumpy road, much like the one life had paved for her, what was in her heart on that 145-mile journey?
That special day God had planned for a new life to be brought into this world was my birth day, June 4.
My first mother passed away when I was a little girl. At only 8 years old, I wonder if there was a part of me that felt a silent twinge of loss one more time. Did her arms ever ache for me, this child that she had cradled within her for 9 months?
Often, I see the reflection of her unselfishness in the precious gift of life—in the difficult choices women are faced with that have no easy answers. I know the love and forgiveness of Jesus Christ was in the driver’s seat that day, helping a troubled soul find direction and purpose in her life.
Unfortunately, after I was placed for adoption at birth, my childhood never magically turned into one of those happily-ever-after adoption stories. There have been times that the little girl in me has truly needed my birth mother to hold me once more. I couldn’t possibly put into words the emptiness I have felt in my heart from years of lies, secrets, and lack of respect.
I am trusting God, again, to be in the driver’s seat to help me find closure and healing, as I finally put my first name on my only birth certificate that still lists me as my first mother’s child. I have a hard time asking others for prayers, but on my birthday this year, I hope you will smile and say, “God must have certainly had a plan!”
Love, JoAnne
“And I will bring the blind by a way they did not know; I will lead them in paths they have not known. I will make darkness light before them, and crooked places straight. These things I will do for them, and not forsake them.” (Isaiah 42:16 NKJV)
I feel honored to be a part of the Blog Carnival. Please go to Bridget Chumbley’s site http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/ to read other blog entries this week or to join.
September 24, 2011 
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