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.
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. http://bit.ly/9Wj63K
Recently, I got the courage to reread two letters that my dad had written me back when I was in my thirties. The hurtful words from a father figure that had meant the world to me didn’t seem to have nearly the same devastating sting as it did back then. His correspondence was in response to my questions concerning why I had always been led to believe he had adopted me, but shockingly, I learned that technically no one had. After all these years, my birth certificate still lists me as my birth mother’s child after supposedly two “incomplete” adoptions. However, my parents were still not going to budge and tell me the truth about so many baffling issues involving my life story. Instead, daddy said I must not really want the answers because the sentences in my letter didn’t end with any question marks. Regardless of how painful my journey has been at times, my choice then and now has to never become bitter or labeled a victim.
What I learned about myself that day was a bit of a triumph. Back when it literally felt like the end of the world, I was not able to clearly see that my parents’ attitude, “we will talk and you listen” had always been a part of our unhealthy relationship. I couldn’t get what I needed most—some respect and reaffirmation of my worthiness as a human being. No matter how much it has hurt, I was determined to find a way to turn my heartaches into something positive, while putting all my trust in the Lord.
For years, I’ve been a daycare provider as well as a mentor in hopes of making a difference in young people’s lives. It’s my desire to continue to try and find creative ways to help children see that they truly have voices that matter. My long-time sweet 1st grade friend, Olivia was tickled to be a part of my post on “Gentleness” this week. I hope you will enjoy my interview with her and will take the time to answer her question left as a comment.
1. When will you be turning 7?
July 31st
2. Where did you first hear that Haiti had a bad earthquake? What were your first thoughts?
At your house and then my house. I was sad about the kids.
3. If you could travel to Haiti tomorrow, “What would you want to bring from your home to share with another child that is hurting?”
I would bring a couple of bandages and I would bring cards to make them happy. And I would bring some books from my room that I might read to them.
4. What would be the first thing you would want to say if you were to make a new friend from Haiti?
After you are done at the hospital and you are feeling better, I want to play with you please.
5. If you could write anybody in the world to ask them to help the less fortunate in Haiti, “Who would it be?”
I would write to my Aunt Julie, Aunt Linda and my mom, I would ask them to “Save Haiti.”
6. I would like to teach my classmates to:
Be helpful.
7. When I grow up I want to be?
I am not sure. I want to be a helpful, caring person. I want to be a Veterinarian and a hair stylist that designs clothing, nails and hair. Learning to count by two’s in school will help me with my job.
8. What is one thing you love about your mother, father, grandmothers or grandfathers that you want to be like with your own children?
Nice to our daughters and sons. My grandma from San Diego brought a book, “What Do You Do with a Tail Like This?” to my class. I get to keep it at school and read it to the class someday.
9. What does a gentle heart mean to you?
To be caring and a good friend and that I wouldn’t laugh at them if they got hurt.
When we ended the interview, Olivia wanted to ask my readers a question.
“Would you please help save Haiti? Type in yes or no or write your answer back to me.”
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.
I was a child born out of unfaithfulness. Both of my biological parents were married. Sadly, while cheating on their spouses, each had children at home too. There is no doubt in my mind—my biological father knew my mother was married; he worked in the same open pit mine with her husband at the time of my conception. Did my birth mother know that he was married and had a family living in another state? Not sure. Hearing the story only second-hand, my biological father, a contract Geologist, was described by my mother’s sister as the “Bozo” that was staying temporarily in a trailer park. Wow, what soothing words every daughter wants to hear about their “flesh and blood” father.
Lately, I’ve been wondering why cheaters and even their mistresses have such a blatant disregard for the Holy Bible’s 7th Commandment: ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery.’ It seems like infidelity has become more acceptable and that there really is no humiliation attached to the sinful word “adultery.” However, what I’ve especially noticed from my personal journey is how society puts very little significance on the harm unfaithfulness is doing to our children caught in the crossfire.
As an adult, I searched in vain for the woman who gave me life. Disappointingly, I learned that my birth mother had passed away at only forty-four years of age. My only consolation seemed to be finding the three children she raised as one last connection to her.
If only I could have stayed that “invisible sister” and found the facts without causing any disruption; I would have seen that my two sisters and one brother didn’t want our mother’s shortcomings staring them in the face. Looking back my insensitivity must have felt like I was trying to see if their hearts would break. The harsh reality was that my birth mother had placed me for adoption because of infidelity.
Over and over again, I’ve played out the painful set of circumstances in my mind, hoping somehow to reconcile the sad parts within myself. It’s hard for me to accept that to my half-siblings I represent “shame.” It was important to me and my feelings of self-worth for others to see that even from a past wrong that I am the good that came from it.
I was overwhelmed with all the “What ifs?” as I wrestled with the tough question, “Would I have contacted my mother’s children, if I had known their father was not mine?” In retrospect, I believe that it would have been easier to see their lives from a distance. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t change or fix the past as the child born from an affair.
Last week, plastered over the media were photos of the ex-Senator John Edwards’ mistress, Rielle Hunter posing in provocative ways for a tell-all magazine article. Differences of opinions were being voiced in lively discussions on the social networks as well as on the news talk shows from how repulsive it was to give a “mistress” celebrity status to she wasn’t the home-wrecker. The picture that really struck a disturbing chord with me was one of Rielle’s small-frame dressed only in a man’s white oxford shirt lying on a bed holding their “love child.” I believe that we can’t change those who are going to be unfaithful to their significant others, but what I’ve learned from my own first-hand experiences is that all the children involved in the scandalous relationships can be deeply wounded by the selfish choices of parents not just today, but in generations to come. What if we were to put our energies in finding ways to help to preserve their lives instead of putting the spotlight on who is sleeping with whom?
Although being the sister left behind feels like I must have done something wrong, I don’t blame my siblings for not being overly-delighted about my intrusion into their lives. I long to convey with all my heart that I am sorry…I understand better now that our mother’s unfaithfulness to their father had to hurt.
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.
Last week was my youngest daughter Chelsea’s 22nd birthday. At the same time, sadly unfolding on the national news was the desperate search for the missing 17-year-old, Chelsea King that had disappeared in Southern California while jogging. Our two Chelsea’s both had such promising futures ahead of them. My vivacious daughter will be graduating soon from a university with a BS in Business and a minor in Hospitality/Tourism. We are excited for her as she plans to continue her education and work toward a Masters. While a straight-A high school senior, Chelsea King played the French horn in the San Diego Youth Symphony and was also impressively involved with numerous volunteering and mentoring activities. Like our daughter, their Chelsea was looking forward to spreading her wings and had started applying at a number of prestigious universities. As parents, how can we fathom anything possibly stopping our precious babies from reaching for their dreams? Tragically, Chelsea King’s love for cross-country running proved to be her demise.
I kept thinking about what I heard Chelsea King’s father say in an interview as to how they didn’t want their daughter to run alone; but teenagers feel like they are invincible. Often, when I remind my daughter about staying safe, Chelsea will state emphatically that she doesn’t want to live her life in fear. No matter how hard we’ve tried to shelter our children from harm, the truth is that this generation has desensitized itself to crime as it has become such a part of everyday life.
Even when law enforcement officers arrested a sexually violent predator on suspicion of the rape and murder of Chelsea King, I still held on to a glimmer of hope praying that a miracle would prevail. Searchers had not yet found the King’s beautiful child. Part of me, however, couldn’t erase the disturbing image of the smirking mug shot of the brutal monster. My heart sank when the tragic news finally broke, showing an all-too-common picture—yellow tape cordoning off a large perimeter of underbrush with tons of law enforcement officials huddled close to the crime scene. Looking at my husband somberly, I sniffled, “It could just as easily have been our daughter, Chelsea.”
The immeasurable grief her family is certainly feeling seems insurmountable. At the moment, I felt jaded. I needed to know where others find goodness in this world, especially those who have such tough occupations and see the senseless loss of life on a daily basis. I want to thank those individuals who helped me in my longing for answers and shared with me some very valuable insights about mankind.
“Where do we find goodness in this world?”
What I give to my clients through the compassion, understanding and suggestions for coping is goodness in the midst of their grieving. I am often the only one or one of few people in their lives who really get what they are going through. Often it’s not so much what I say in the counseling sessions, but that I’m there and available to listen and that I really care. I know I cannot take away their pain and sadness of losing a pregnancy, baby or older child, but I also know that tragedy is part of life for many people. For me, being able to help people during their most difficult times is nothing but goodness.
Csilla MSW, LCSW
Bereavement Counselor
The love I receive from my God, my wife, and my family. Watching someone get an alcohol or drug addiction in remission and restoring their life. People who serve as foster or forever parents. When people care about others more than themselves.
Bill
Judge
Superior/District Court
22 years
I find goodness through seeing lives impacted with the hope of Jesus Christ. Working in ministry and with Police and Fire personnel it can get very easy to only see the negative. With Police officers and Fire fighters we call this, “compassion fatigue.” We need to constantly remind ourselves what it was that first called us into the line of work that were in. For most it was wanting to help people and that is what we need to hold onto! You see a lot of bad stuff but you have to always remember the good and when it comes never take it for granted. If just one life is impacted it’s all worth it!
Phillip
Pastor 11 years
Police/Fire Chaplain 4 ½ years
I typically find myself turning to nature to remind myself of the goodness of this world. Many people are good and continue to do good works, but these folks are fairly rare. I find that nature has maintained a lasting innocence against our world’s corruption, and is our last bastion of goodness.
Lori
911 Senior Dispatcher.
18 years and counting
I find good in moments. I find it in the expression that says, “You are listening to me, loving me, giving me dignity, and letting me be my own man.” I find it in a sunrise, in an inexpensive can of soup or a bag of apples that will keep my stomach and bank account full. I find good selfishly – in a shared meal, a stimulating conversation, in the opportunity to choose for myself, or a new thought that leads to another path. Good does exist, it’s just hard to recognize sometimes.
Katrina
Residential Trainer
Adult males/Group Home
I find goodness in the hearts and deeds of those who want to bring happiness and encourage life change to those in the community that need/want it. The Bible calls those “the least of these” the poor, the homeless, the down and out. A meal is a basic daily human need and to provide/facilitate that to the forgotten ones in our community without judgment is where goodness can be found.
Dan
Faith Community Coordinator
6 years
I believe goodness is created not found. We all have the power to create it, but unfortunately most of us have forgotten how too. No matter how bad you feel try to make people smile (especially a child) and see what happens. When you see someone doing a carwash for charity, get your car washed. We need to stop worrying solely on our own problems every now and then and just try to be compassionate to your fellow human race and if humanity is not compassionate back to us so be it. Goodness is looking in the mirror and truly liking the person looking back. I believe goodness is given and not found.
Ed
Correctional Officer/State Prison
20 plus years
Every time I look at my children, I know without a shadow of a doubt that there is more good in this world than bad. Every time we air a story about a person in need, and our viewers come forward in droves asking how they can help I know the good outweighs the bad. I don’t need to look very hard to find goodness in the world, I just need to keep my eyes, mind and heart… open.
Shauna
Anchor Portland 10 years,
Television news 17 years
I tend to find goodness in knowing that somewhere, someday, someone will inevitably do the right thing. I think that to know one’s place in society helps to keep one’s perspective on the issues that concern us as individuals, and as a community. Anytime that you can think outside your own self is always a good thing.
Doug
Security Patrol Supervisor/Owner
15 Years
When people who share a common struggle you often find the goodness that exists within them as they find ways to cope and support each other through the challenges. In the laughter of children even when they are facing adversity. In the eyes of a dying person who has nothing but thanks to share for all the things that have been blessed with in life. In the forgiveness that one human being can give to another. Who ever thought that you would experience so much “goodness” when working with death and grief.
Mary MSW, LCSW
Medical Social Worker Hospice
8 years with hospice
During my career, I dealt daily with criminals and felt a personal sense of pride apprehending those willing to violate the public trust. At the same time, I noted that there were more people willing to the right thing by reporting the crime and testifying in court at a later date. This mirrored my belief that the public at large are good people and by far outnumber the “criminal element.” The general public by far in my opinion would be willing to do the right thing, at any given time or situation.
Ken
Retired Oregon State Police Trooper
30 years of service
“Every experience God gives us, every person He puts in our lives is the perfect preparation for the future that only He can see.” — Corrie Ten Boom (The Hiding Place)
My birth mother raised my two older sisters and one brother, but placed me up for adoption at birth. From the first time my siblings and I met as adults, I felt outnumbered. Holding tightly onto my birth certificate, my brother informed me at the get-go, “You do know our father is not yours, right?” I couldn’t understand why sharing this unsettling premise with me was so important to him. No matter how much I wanted them to represent a whole part of me, it was too late for my brother to take back his callous words.
Looking at me with uncertainty in her eyes, my one sister, more like a mother to me, wasn’t so sure. I was definitely a spitting image of our late mother, but their father and I shared some similarities in our distinct looks as well. With a bear hug, she choked up and said, “I just don’t think daddy would have given up one of his own; we will make this up to you.”
My sister helped pay for an expensive blood test that proved my birth certificate is incorrect; the man’s name on the legal document was not my father’s after all. If only we could have just left the wrongs alone, I could have passed as his little girl. He wasn’t even alive to ask him in private to explain why his name was listed on my birth certificate. Feeling betrayed by the crushing truth, I moaned, “Oh, God, this hurts too much.”
After putting my heartaches aside, it only seemed right to go in and ask the courts to remove their dad’s name off my birth certificate. Noting I was visibly upset by her answer, the strictly, business-like woman standing behind the counter reiterated, “If your birth mother was married to the man on your birth certificate at the time of your conception, then by law, he is technically considered your father.”
No way, this can’t be true, I mumbled to myself while shaking my head in disbelief. “Great, I’ve had two adoptive father figures, as well as my “real” biological father all walk out of my life since I was born. And now I am supposed to just suck it up that my birth mother’s husband who signed the consent to give me away at birth is one more absent father.”
I wanted to grab that incorrect legal document out of the secretary’s hand and white-out the biological father’s name and say, “Here, I don’t want anybody’s name there.” Instead, feeling defeated I just looked at the innocent woman and said, “Thank you for your time,” as I tried to swallow my pride and walked away.
At this juncture, finding my birth father seemed like my only option in finding closure. I needed his help in persuading the courts to hopefully put his name on my birth certificate. But hearing the comforting words, “You belong to me,” was not how my journey would ultimately end. After leaving no stones unturned, I disappointingly learned that the man who was believed to be my biological father passed away just a few years before I began searching for him.
What I know to be “real” and constant through my life story is my loving husband and daughters, as well as my dear friends. I am blessed that they have continued to stay true, freely offering encouragement and solace through some difficult chapters. Over the years, I have even felt the arms of total strangers wrapping their words of kindness around me with big hugs. One of the most memorable responses I received was in my inquiry letter to see if small-town folks might know the identity of my mystery father. Calling long-distance, such a gentle-sounding voice shared with me that he was a 95-year old blind-man and had asked his wife to dial my phone number. Although, he did not have any answers for me, I felt compassion in his words, “My wife and I just wanted you to know we care and are praying for you.”
It’s when life throws hard balls that I can see God standing up in the bleachers reminding me of His promises.
“The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.”
Deuteronomy 31:7-9 NIV
This week’s theme for Blog Carnival is Kindness. Please go to Bridget Chumbley’s site http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/2010/02/kindness-blog-carnival/ other blog entries and/or to join.
I was only 10 years old when my big brother enlisted in the Marines. My memories from back then are not about him being placed in harm’s reach to fight a war in Viet Nam. I was excited that he trusted me to take care of his prized possession while he was gone. Always in the past his stuffed animal had been a keep-your-hands-off gift from an old girlfriend. His adorable yellow dog was big enough for me to sit on. Now, I understand better why his feelings were hurt when I could hardly wait for him to leave. Perhaps I had been sheltered from reality, but I never watched the news. I didn’t see news clips of bombs exploding and soldiers being shot at and innocent people dying. Through a child’s eyes, ”Can they fully grasp what it means to fight for peace in a foreign country?” I didn’t know at the time that my brother might not ever come back.
A number of years ago, I asked my brother, “How come we didn’t talk about Martin Luther King’s impressive achievements in our home?” I would have been in the 7th grade when he was assassinated.
His disturbing answer left me speechless. The gist was that my parents had made allegations in the past about his moral character and they were not color-blind. At that moment, I felt ignorant and ashamed that African American history had little significance in my life. It was as if I had been kept from any information or experience that might contradict my parents’ view of the world. How could I have learned love and respect for all individuals without knowledge of racial segregation, bussing, and Martin Luther King’s dream for peace?
From my limited experiences as a young person, I’ve learned how important it is to have open discussions in our families about what is going on in the world around us. I thought it would be interesting to see how kids today would define the word “peace.” With the technology advancements, let’s face it; they are saturated with vivid images of tragic news stories that just won’t go away.
One of my passions is helping children see they have voices that truly matter. My good friend asked his second grade class to write down, “What peace means to me…?” Their answers were fun and very enlightening. Here are some of them to ponder:
1. Peace means like Peace on Earth. Respectful people.
2. Peace is another way to say Hi.
3. Peace means love, like, and other nice things. LOVE!
4. Peace means like peace and quiet.
5. I want some peace nobody bother me. Peace means I want peace. Martin Luther King Jr. wants some peace.
6. It means peace you sign with your hands. It means peace out and Martin Luther King Jr. made that word and God made that word up to and his mom made up the word to.
7. Martin Luther King Jr. wanted peace not violence. He also wanted love and for everyone to be equal.
8. Peace means being calm and having freedom.
9. Peace out Dude.
I am positive-children can help make a difference in finding peace in this world as I am reminded in the verses from the popular Whitney’s Houston’s Song, “Greatest Love of All.”
I believe the children are our future
Teach them well and let them lead the way
Show them all the beauty they possess inside
Give them a sense of pride to make it easier
Let the children’s laughter remind us how we used to be.
I am excited to be a part of the Blog Carnival “Haiti” Challenge this week. I will donate $1.00 for every comment left for my “Peace” article to go towards Samaritan’s Purse. http://www.samaritanspurse.org/. Please go to Bridget Chumbley’s site to read other blog entries and/or to join http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/2010/01/peace-blog-carnival/. Thanks for stopping by!
August 22, 2010 
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