Author: Ruth Bullock

            It is a part of our daily prayers that God use us to God’s purposes. We say it every morning.  Yet we often don’t realize when it might be happening.

            We’d had 9-year-old Antonio in our home for a few months.  Prior to coming to our house, Antonio had been in six placements in the previous four months.  He never lasted anywhere for long.  Partly because of his behaviors.  And partly because of his family.

            When they’d first placed him with us the social workers had warned us. The family was involved in the drug trade.  Their history was fraught with violence and criminal activity.  We were warned not to let Antonio use our home phone to call his parents. Not to let him give his parents our address or phone number.

            We’d been surprised by the warnings.  We were just the foster parents.  We couldn’t imagine that there’d be any problems.

            On Saturday evening Antonio had his phone call with his mom, using Geoff’s cell phone.  He’d been having a nice visit with his mom when he came into the living room and asked what the name of our church was.  Without looking up from what I was doing, I told him. He whipped the cell phone out from behind his back and repeated the name of the church into the phone.

            And I realized too late that I had been played.

            Moments later, after saying goodbye, he happily reported that his mom was coming to our church tomorrow. And, she was bringing his two older brothers–one of whom was in treatment, and the other in another foster home.

            I was irritated.  We were being invaded.  And used.

            The next morning, as our family made our way into one of the back pews where we normally sat, Antonio kept craning around trying to locate his family.  Just sure that they’d be there any minute.

            I looked around, too, grateful that so far they hadn’t arrived.  And suspecting that they wouldn’t.  Still, I was annoyed that he’d gotten his hopes up.

            I leaned over and mentioned to him that maybe she couldn’t get the oldest brother out of the treatment center, or maybe she hadn’t been able to arrange a ride.  He nodded, solemnly.  Clearly disappointed.

            Just as the opening hymn was beginning, in walked Antonio’s mom and brothers.  They stood at the end of our pew, waiting for us to squeeze together more to make room for them.  Though there clearly was not enough room for them in our pew.  We squeezed, and pressed against each other, and they wiggled into place at the end of our pew.

            There we sat, Geoff and all our kids, with me at the end of our family next to Antonio.  And on the other side of Antonio was his mom, and his two teenage brothers.  By the first scripture reading Antonio had gotten up and wiggled in between his brothers, leaving me sitting next to his mom.

            And I was angry.

            We’d been warned, for crying out loud.  They’d told us that these parents wouldn’t respect our boundaries.  They’d cautioned us to keep our lives as private as possible. And we’d been duped.  By a 9-year-old and his mom.

            I sat there in the pew, forcing myself not to scowl, or cross my arms over my chest in an angry defensive posture.  I felt used. I felt taken advantage of.  That they had taken advantage of our attendance at church to have contact with their son, even though contact was supposed to be scheduled through the social workers, not through us.  But church is a public gathering place.  It’s not like we could have done anything to prevent someone from attending.  Even if their reasons for being there might not be really straightforward.

            The pastor was starting the sermon.  But I was busy elsewhere.  My mind trying to sort out this situation.

            I understood this mom trying to spend time with her son.  I understood these brothers wanting to see their little brother who lived somewhere else now.  And I understood Antonio’s desire to see his family.

            But I still felt angry.  We were followed to church by this woman and her two sons so that they could see the little boy who happened to live with us. They were here trying to circumvent the rules of the system.  And in the process, infringing on our family’s practices.

            But as I sat there, another thought managed to whisper its way into my mind.  It was kind of interesting circumstances which brought this woman and her sons to church that morning.  No one, in a million years, could have forced her to come here.  Yet, here she was.  Sitting and listening.  Hugging her son.  Being very appropriate.  Leaning over occasionally to whisper to me how good it felt to be back in a church.

            And by the time the pastor was wrapping up his sermon, I think I was smiling.  And the tears were right there, too.  What a funny thing.  Believing fully in a God who can use all things if we’ll only get out of the way, I found myself having to step aside and just let things happen as they were going to happen. I had to let go of my anger.  And instead, smile at the orchestration of events.  This woman was in church.  She was prayerful, appreciative, and appropriate. Circumstances beyond anything that anyone could have planned had brought her back into a church.  And it had been a long time.  She told me so herself.  Yet here she was.  Worshipping. A black woman, in a predominantly white church.  An addict, in what was at times a rigidly sober congregation.

            Near the end of the service, during the “sharing of the peace” time, she gave me a hug and thanked me. She thanked me for taking good care of her son.  She told me that she felt God speaking to her heart that morning and she intended on coming back next week.  I said that was great.   That we’d save a spot for her and the boys.  And she gave me another hug.

            And a little later, as we filed out of church, it occurred to both of us that our prayers for today had already been answered.

            We were being used.

We hesitated about having Kathryn go to soccer practice that night.  She’d injured her toe the day before and had to have it taped.  I didn’t think it made sense to practice soccer with an injury. But she didn’t want to miss a practice.

“It’ll be okay,” she pleaded.  “If it hurts, I’ll tell the coach and I’ll sit out.  I promise.  Come on, Mom. It’s been feeling okay today. Please.”

I relented, against my better judgment.  I made her promise to tell her coach and sit out if it started to hurt.  No sense playing in pain, I said.

As we walked into the school one of her teammates was standing outside the gym door.  She had her back to us as we walked by.  She was pulling on the sleeve of a man about my age.

“Dad, please, come in and sit on the bleachers and watch me.  I’m getting pretty good. Please come in and watch. Please.”

When she saw us walking past she turned, and said, “Hi, Kathryn.  This is my dad.”

Kathryn said hi, and walked into the gym.

“Who was that?” I asked while she changed her shoes and strapped on her shin guards.

“Oh, that’s Susan.  She’s on my team.”

“She seemed nice,” I said, encouragingly.

“Yeah.  I guess that’s her dad,” Kathryn added.

She tossed her sweatshirt onto the bleachers by me, and ran out onto the floor. Pretty soon her teammate, Susan, joined her.  And a few minutes later, Susan’s dad came into the gym and climbed up onto the bleachers near where I was sitting.

I glanced over at him.  He wore sweatpants, and a torn flannel shirt.  His hair looked damp from sweat or grease.  He looked kind of grimy.  And the stale smell of alcohol permeated the air around him.

I sat on the bleachers watching Kathryn practice.  Mostly I was watching for any sign of limping, or favoring of the injured toe.

I also found myself watching Susan.  She glanced up our way every couple minutes and worked hard to suppress a smile.  She made a couple goals in a shooting drill and smiled up toward the bleachers after each one. Then she dribbled the ball past two defenders in another drill.

It was Kathryn’s turn at goalie.  A position she detested.  A shot got past her into the net.  She looked up at me and smiled in embarrassment.  I grinned back, shook my head, and winked at her.  When she saw my reaction, she laughed.

Susan, meanwhile, stole the ball from an opposing player and a few seconds later fiercely protected the goal when it was her rotation at goalie.   She was impressive.

And then a goal got past her.

“Sue, what’s the matter with you?  You shoulda had that one.  Come on,” her dad yelled.

For the first time, she didn’t look up into the stands.

And then another goal went in.

“Sue!  I thought you said you were gettin’ good.  Geez!” he hollered.

I turned and looked at him.  Staring, actually.  But if he noticed me at looking his way he didn’t confront my stare.

I turned back to the practice.  The change in Susan was dramatic.  What had been a proud and enthusiastic little girl who ran after every ball only minutes before was now a somber and disinterested player who moved sluggishly toward the ball.

“Sue, get the ball!  What? You too good to run for it?” he yelled.

The other parents on the bleachers grew quiet each time he hollered at her. I kept turning and staring at him, silently challenging him.  But he continued to ignore me.  At one point I thought about telling him to be quiet.  I wanted to tell him that he was being inappropriate.  But I worried it would only embarrass the girl more if her dad became belligerent with another parent in the stands.  So I kept my mouth shut.  Which was difficult.

Her head was down now.  Sue no longer glanced up at the stands at all.  She didn’t even look up enough to see her teammates, or see if the ball was coming her way.  At some point she took the ponytail out of her hair.  With her head down, her long blond hair fell around her face, hiding her and offering some sort of protection.

The kids started a scrimmage.  They played hard, pushing and laughing with their teammates as they ran.  Everyone but Susan.  She was far behind the action, almost removed from it.  Head down, shoulders hunched.  Her body sagging under the weight of pain as if it were a physical burden she carried.

“Sue, get in there!  What’s wrong with you?  Don’t ya know how to play the game?” he scoffed loudly.

I saw her bring the back of her hand up to her cheek then.  It could have been sweat that she wiped away.  But more likely it was a tear.  From the pain.

Kathryn looked up at me then.  I smiled and mouthed, “How’s your toe?” and I pointed to my own foot.

She nodded, smiled, and gave me a thumbs-up.

I gave her the okay signal with my hand.

“Ugh, I’ve seen enough of this!” Susan’s dad muttered, and rose to his feet. He climbed down the bleachers, and stumbled at the bottom.  He staggered a couple steps trying to regain his balance, and ended up falling down on the floor.  Several of the players stopped to see if he was okay.  But not Susan.  She never looked at him.  Head down, she continued in the game.  Though clearly she was someplace else.

He didn’t come back into the gym after that.  And I wondered if she was disappointed that he’d left.  Or relieved.  Or if she felt anything at all.

Practice ended.  As the kids changed their shoes and got their coats on, I heard Susan assuring another parent that she didn’t need a ride home.  She only lived a block or two away.  She had tried to smile then.  But it wasn’t quite there.

As we walked to our car I asked Kathryn how her toe was feeling.

“It’s okay,” she answered.

“That’s good,” I said.

“Yeah.  Hey Mom? Susan’s dad sure was weird, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“He smelled bad.  I think he’d been drinking alcohol or smoking or something,” she added.

I told her that he had been.  “That’s how people smell when they’ve been drinking a lot of alcohol.”

I started the car and gave it a moment to warm up.  And while we sat there, Susan walked out the door of the school and across the parking lot.  Alone. Head down.  Bundled up against the cold.

Kathryn wasn’t the one playing in pain tonight.  Susan was.

            “Hey, Mom?” 8-year-old Emma asked as we picked our way through the slippery rocks on the beach.  “Do we have to go to college?”

            Hmm. New question.

            “No, I suppose you don’t have to,” I answered.  “It depends on what you want to be when you grow up.  I had to go to college to be what I wanted to be.  Dad had to go to college to be what he wanted to be.”

            “But I don’t wanna be anything,” she said simply.

            “Well, you have to be something,” I said, choosing an alternate route through the rocks.

            “I just want to stay home and watch TV,” she said.

            “No way,” I answered, realizing she was playing.  “You need to go into some kind of profession that’s important and makes a lot of money, so Dad and I can retire and come live with you.”

            “Yeah, good luck with that,” she said, laughing.  “I want to live with you and Dad, and watch TV all day long.  And play on the computer.”

            About then we caught up with her 11-year-old brother, who was waiting for us.

            “Hey Ben!” she hollered.  “Mom says we don’t have to go to college.  We just have to make lots of money so her and Dad can live with us when they’re old.”

            “Well,” Ben interjected, “I’m not goin’ to college.  I can’t wait to be out of school.  I’m gonna be a professional ballplayer.  I can’t decide if I want to play baseball or football.”

            “Better pick baseball,” I suggested, “since you’ve never played football.  But we know you’re pretty good at baseball.”

            Ignoring me, he went on.  “But, I think we oughta put Mom and Dad in a home, anyway.  That way we can just visit ‘em when we want to.”

            “Yeah,” Emma agreed enthusiastically.

            “Good to know,” I said, and they laughed.

            I turned around to look for 8-year-old Marthy, who was a bit behind us, stopping every few feet to pick up another rock or shell.  I called to her to catch up with us before we went around a bend and wouldn’t be able to see her anymore.  She looked up at me and smiled, hustling.  I could see that her jacket pockets hung heavily around her thighs, signs of treasures found.  And her left arm was cupped in front of her chest carrying still more beach treasures.

            While we waited for her I squinted out at the water.  It was a lovely winter day.  Cold and crisp.  The sky was lit up.  The water, ocean water with just enough glacial run-off to turn it a milky sea foam green, sparkled in the sun.  There were a few patches of snow left near the woods.  I thought again, as I often do on walks like these, how fortunate I am to live in such a beautiful place.

            “Hey Marth,” Emma yelled at her twin as soon as Marthy caught up to us, “Mom says we don’t have to go to college.  She says we just hafta make lots of money so her and Dad can live with us. But Ben says we oughta just put ‘em in a home.”

            Marthy grinned, seeing at once the humor in the conversation.  “I wanna go to college, though.”

            “Good,” I said, slipping my arm around her shoulders.  “That way you’ll be important and can make a lot of money.”

            “No,” she said thoughtfully, “I just wanna go to college.”

            We cautiously wound our way around a small point, where at high tide there is no beach.  The rocks were jagged, and slippery.  We took our time and chose our way carefully.

            “Once we’re on the other side of this, the rest is easy,” Ben encouraged his younger sisters.  “Do you think the marker’ll still be there, Mom?”

            I said I thought it would be.

            The kids had gotten a metal detector from Grandma for Christmas.  On one of their first outings with it we’d hiked out to a small point.  While Geoff and I had sat visiting, and the two older girls tried out their new cameras, the three younger kids had explored with the metal detector.  And they’d found something.  But the ground was frozen solid and we’d been unable to dig up whatever that something was.  They had pulled over a large rock and a piece of driftwood to mark the spot until later in the spring when hopefully the ground had thawed enough for us to dig up the “treasure.” Part of the purpose of today’s walk was to make our way back out to the point to check on the marker,  and see if the ground was thawed enough yet to dig for their treasure.

            “You know, Mom,” Ben continued, “if we can dig today we might find treasure. What will we do then?”

            “Good question, Ben.  I guess we’ll just have to figure it out.”

            “How much of a chance do you think we have of it being a buried treasure chest?” he asked.  His little sisters both turned to look eagerly at me.

            “Probably not much of a chance,” I answered, hating to dash their hopes, but also wanting to be truthful.

            “Yeah, but you never know,” he replied, optimistically.

            “No, you never know,” I added encouragement.

            We cut inland through the woods then for the last bit of our walk out to the point. Their anticipation was growing as we approached the site.  Ben ran on ahead, and quickly returned to report to us that the marker was still there. All three ran on ahead to look at the marker.

            When I came out of the trees and onto the sunny point, all three of them were on their knees around their marker, digging with sharp rocks.

            “It’s still frozen,” Ben complained, pulling the markers back into place. “Looks like we’ll have to come back in another week or two.”

            “Yeah,” his sisters agreed.

            A little later, we wound our way back through the woods on our way to the car. None of the kids were terribly disappointed that they weren’t able to dig up their treasure today.  And all three carried on a conversation about logistics.  Just how would we get the treasure chest all the way back to the car without anybody interfering, and trying to get the treasure?

            “So how’s this going to work?” I asked, stepping carefully around a muddy patch in the woods.  “If you dig up a treasure chest, none of you have to go to college in order to be rich?”

             “Yeah!” they agreed enthusiastically.

            “But,” Ben conceded, “if it’s not a treasure then we’ll go to college.  Okay, Mom?”

            “Works for me,” I said, smiling.

            And I imagine in years to come, when we’re scrambling to figure out how to cover all those college tuitions, I’ll think back to today.  And our walk on the beach.  And probably I’ll wish then that there really had been a treasure chest buried beneath our marker.

Postscript:  Turns out it wasn’t a treasure chest.  Ben is currently finishing his Masters, and Martha and Emma are each in their senior year at college. 

I have quite a few scars.  Lots of them, actually.  Most are small, almost unidentifiable.  A couple are noteworthy.  Like the eight-inch scar on my left knee.  I used to refer to it as my “mark of Zorro” because of its shape. I’d gone in for knee surgery years ago, having been told to expect a two-inch incision.  I woke up with an eight-inch mark of Zorro.  It’s a story.  But, it’s just a scar.

Periodically, when I’m wearing shorts, people will comment on it.

“Oh wow. What happened there?”

And I’ll tell the story.  That I woke up to it after a successful knee surgery.  Yes, I put vitamin E oil on it when it was healing.  No, I wasn’t mad when I saw it.  It’s just a scar.  Just  a story to tell.

Brandin was 15 when he moved into our home.  Older than four of our biological kids.  Brandin had blown out of his previous foster home.  His little brother already lived with us, so it was only logical for Brandin to be placed with us.

We’d been told a few things about him before he came.  Things which had made me somewhat skeptical.  We knew he was a runner, meaning he had a history of running away from foster placements.  We’d been told he was defiant.  Smoked a little.  Was an angry teenager.

When his caseworker brought him over to the house Brandin had all of his stuff crammed into garbage bags.  We’d shown him where his bedroom was, and where he could put his things.  Then we visited with him for a little bit before explaining our rules.

He had sat on the couch that evening while we talked, not saying more than was required.  Listening with a blank face.  Nodding every once in a while.  He was listening.  But he was pretty clearly not going to let his guard down.

The next day was a beautiful, warm, summer day.  By lunchtime I decided to pack up all the kids and take them to the beach for the afternoon.  We loaded up beach towels, a few blow-up toys, a couple buckets and shovels for the little ones, and everybody piled in the car.

Brandin seemed to be enjoying himself.  The kids were all asking him to help blow up the floaties, and he actually looked happy to be helping.  He ran down to the water and splashed in the waves with the younger ones, and even paddled around in the inflatable raft until a humpback whale came and chased everybody back to the beach.

I sat up higher on the beach, keeping an eye on everybody.  Keeping an eye on Brandin.  We didn’t really know what to expect from him.  But from what I could see so far he seemed like a nice kid.

After a bit, he came trudging up the beach and laid out a beach towel next to mine. I asked if he was tired out from all the activity of our family.

“Nah,” he said, smiling.  “That whale got pretty close to me and Ben, though,” and he laughed.

His little brother ran up to him.  “Brandin, isn’t this place better than that last place?” he asked enthusiastically.

That our family was being compared in that instant to another foster family, was strange for me.  That this was apparently a commonplace thing for the two of them to compare and rank foster homes, was an equally strange realization.  And though I was relieved that in this instant we ranked as “better,” the idea of being ranked in and of itself was still uncomfortable.

I waited a second, watching for the response.

“Yeah,” Brandin said quietly.

“I told you,” his little brother grinned, and took off back toward the water with the other kids.

Brandin sat quietly for a few minutes.  I asked a question or two.  Nothing difficult.  Just visiting.  What subject does he like the most at school?  How are his grades?  What activities does he enjoy in his free time?

He answered my questions but didn’t volunteer anything extra.  I tried to walk that line between being interested, but not slipping into being intrusive.

And while we visited I noticed that he had quite a few scars on his back and chest. Lots of them, actually.  Most of them small, almost unidentifiable.  But there was one, midway down on his side, that was more than a couple inches long.

“That’s quite a scar,” I said, motioning to his side.  “Not as impressive as mine, though,” and I referenced my surgical scar on my knee.

He looked at my knee.

“Yeah, I saw that earlier.  What happened?” he asked.

I told him the story.  How I went into surgery expecting a two- inch incision and woke up with this.  I smiled, saying that the surgery had been successful, so the scar was just a scar.

He nodded, continuing to squint out at the water.

“My dad stabbed me.  I don’t really know why,” he said.

A heaviness settled on me.  I waited a minute or two, debating whether or not to intrude.  Whether to grant him privacy, and risk he would interpret it as me not caring.  Or whether to intrude and risk that he’d resent it.

“How old were you?” I finally asked, keeping my gaze out toward the water.

He shrugged.  “Not very old.”

“Did you have to get it stitched up?”

He shook his head.  “Nah, I don’t know why they didn’t take me to the doctor, though.  I prob’ly shoulda had stitches for it.”

I nodded.

We sat, both staring out at the water.  Watching the kids splash each other and try to flip each other off the blow up toys.  Neither of us really paying much attention anymore though to the water or the kids.

Nothing more was said about the scar.  We just sat there, side by side on our beach towels, enjoying the peacefulness of the day.  And I sat there thinking about scars.

I thought about all the different types of scars people carry.  Especially the scars that come from violence.  Those scars are often the deepest.  Whether we can actually see them on someone’s skin or not probably doesn’t matter.  Those scars exist.  The scar whose very presence is a constant reminder of a survived assault; whose raised, thickened skin still carries the pain of emotional trauma.  The scars which represent terror. Victimization. Vulnerability.  Abuse.  Whether we see them or not.  Those scars are ever present.  And theirs are the stories which often don’t get told.

I have quite a few scars.  But mine are just scars.  Just another story to tell.  Other scars are different.  Deeper. There’s a story to those scars, too. But those stories are harder to tell. I don’t know, maybe some scars aren’t just scars.

B – Thanks for letting me tell your story.  Love, Mom

My friend BJ died some years ago after a battle with cancer.  Prior to that battle, she’d had other battles in life. Battles she had won.

Before I’d met her, she had already battled obesity. When she told me that, I admitted my surprise.  I would not have guessed that weight had been a challenge for her.

When we met it was actually because she was taking on a new battle.  Alcoholism. That first day we met she said, “I’m an alcoholic, and I need treatment.”  She got sober.  Then she became a mentor and a sponsor to many others who were fighting the same battle. She was wonderful.  And pretty quickly, she was a valued contributor to the treatment program.

Over the years, she and I became good friends. I valued her as somebody who would always be real, and always tell me what she really thought.  Apparently, others valued her for these same reasons. That, and a propensity for sharing humor, whipping up delicious foods, and nurturing an impressive garden in a community soaked under 200+ inches of rain a year.  BJ cared easily for everyone she met.  And it showed.  People warmed under her gracious encouragement.

A couple years after she’d gotten sober, BJ showed up at my office one morning.  She was pouring a cup of coffee when I walked out to the waiting area. She looked up and said hello.  And the look on her face was different. Something wasn’t okay.  We walked into my office and closed the door.

That’s when I found out about the cancer.  She’d just been to the doctor and had gotten the news.  She expressed a mix of both devastation and pre-game locker room confidence.  She was terrified; but she was going to beat this thing.  Not ready to die yet; she was going to be around long enough to be a grandma. Cancer didn’t realize who it was dealing with here.

The next few times we visited were at her house or in her hospital room.   The battle wasn’t going well, and her strength was waning.  She couldn’t be out much due to a severely impaired immune system. We talked a few times on the phone when she couldn’t risk being exposed to any germs from visitors.

The last time we talked was one spring morning. She had called my house to visit. There were long pauses in her speech, and I guessed that she was having to pace herself in order to breathe.

“I just wanted to say goodbye,” she said simply.

I was quiet.  Not knowing what to say.

“I don’t think I’m gonna be around much longer,” she added.

I said something like, “Okay.”  It didn’t matter what I said, and we both knew it.

“It’s interesting, actually…. Lately, at night when we’re watching TV…. my mom and dad are sitting in the living room with us… I’m talking with them…. They’re actually easier for me to focus on and talk with…. than my husband is.”

I was about to say something about not having realized that her parents still lived here, when she continued.

“The thing is, Mom and Dad… have been dead for years now.”

I put my hand up to rub my forehead.  I said something else meaningless to let her know I was listening.  And that there was nothing of meaning that I could say.

“So I figure I must be gettin’ ready to go,” she repeated, in her simple, matter-of-fact way.  “But I didn’t want to go… without saying goodbye.”

I thanked her for that, and said that I would miss her a great deal.  I told her that my life had been enriched by her friendship.

“Oh, well,” she said self-deprecatingly, and broke off laughing, and coughing.  She said she wanted to thank me, too.  And we got sentimental for a second or two.

Then she said, “You know, I used to think alcoholism… was the best thing that ever happened to me… It forced me to get my relationships right…. with my family, and my friends… But also my relationship with God… and with myself… I don’t know that I would have done all that… if I hadn’t had to in order to get sober.”

She paused for another second.  And I waited, with my fingers still pressing against my forehead, and tears fighting to escape.

“But, I gotta tell you… I think cancer has been even better…  It’s brought all kinds of blessings into my life… It’s brought me friendships… and deepened my relationships even more… I have a stronger relationship with God… and I know where I’ll be when this is all over… Who’d ‘a thought that cancer… would be one of the best things that’s ever happened to me?”

I told her I loved her.  And she said the same.  I said that I would miss her.  And would look forward to seeing her again one day.  She laughed, and said she’d look forward to showing me around.  I thanked her for calling me.  And we said goodbye.

And after I hung up the phone I just sat there for a while.  It seems like most of the really big life lessons have been handed to me by other people over the years.  And I knew that I had just been handed another one.  I just had to try to wrap my head around the idea of cancer bringing blessings.

It was a week later.  Maybe two.  When I got word that BJ had died.  And I think I may have actually smiled when word came.  In my mind I heard again, “I know where I’ll be when this is all over.”

I still miss her.  I think of her often.  I imagine she’s been busy tending to people and gardens in her new Home.  And over the years I’ve often told her story to people who’ve needed to hear that blessings can come out of challenges.  That sometimes the blessing isn’t so much in the victory, but rather in facing the challenge honestly and bravely.  And how remarkable it is that what initially seems devastating can actually result in hope, and blessings.

It’s one of the greatest life lessons I’ve learned so far.  It was handed to me one spring morning.  By my dear friend, BJ.

Frank—Thanks for letting me tell your mom’s story.  Ruth

            We got Kristall a week after her first birthday.  When she first came to live with us she was unresponsive and unattached.  She was the first toddler we’d ever had who could not be comforted by being picked up.  In fact, when she screamed, which was much of the time, if we tried to pick her up to comfort her she would scream louder and arch her back to try to push away from us.

            We knew that she’d had a lot of chaos already in her life.  And we knew that there were a number of reasons to be concerned about her development.  We didn’t know how the future would look for her, but we knew there would be struggles. Early on we started to encourage her independence.  Encouraging her to think and speak for herself.  To be confident.  And to have a voice.

            By age four, she had pretty well attached to us.  She still had some delays.  But there were glimmers of hope.  She was a beautiful little girl with black hair and dark brown eyes.  She would grin, and run away squealing.  Never alighting anywhere for very long.  She was talking more and more, and was surprisingly opinionated on a number of topics.

            She had been talking about Batman for several weeks that fall.  I’m not sure what had sparked this sudden interest in a character that I didn’t even know she knew about.  I didn’t really pay much attention initially.  She’d ask a question about Batman.  I’d answer if I knew the answer, and placate her as best I could if I didn’t know the answer.  But it wasn’t until one particular Friday afternoon when I had her at the store, that I realized the depth of her Batman fascination.

            We were looking at Halloween costumes, just Kristall and me.  She was riding in the top seat of the shopping cart as we wheeled along aisles picking out a few things we needed from the store. When I suggested we get her Halloween costume, she announced, “I wanna be Batman.”

            “You do, huh?” I said absent-mindedly as I looked at all the over-priced plastic costumes.

            “Yeah,” she confirmed.

            I started looking at the first rack.

            “You see Batman in there, Mom?” she asked from her perch in the shopping cart.

            I said that I didn’t, still not really paying attention to her line of thought.  My attention was drawn more toward a darling little honeybee suit, which I pulled from the rack.

            She frowned and shook her head no when I held it up to show her.

            I put it back and grabbed the little ladybug suit.  Equally cute.

            She shook her head no again.  “That not Batman,” she explained.

            I agreed that it wasn’t Batman.  But, I reasoned, it is a cute costume.

            “We gettin’ one for John, too?” she asked.

            Her brother John is two years older than Kristall.  I said that, yes, we were buying a costume for John, too.

            I held up another cute little costume of a horse and rider.  I said it was cute.

            “Yeah, but it not Batman,” she reasoned.

And when I suggested that this one was cuter than Batman she said, “Get it for John.”

            I explained that it wasn’t really a costume for a 6-year-old boy.

            She sighed and folded her arms across her chest, clearly exasperated with me. Finally, in a very determined little voice, she said, “Mom, girls can be Batman, too.”

            And that’s when I stopped.

“Yes, they can,” I agreed on the spot.  “Girls can be Batman, too.”

            She smiled.  Finally I’d gotten it.  All her hard work trying to bring me up to speed had finally paid off.

            We rounded the corner to the next aisle.  And there, pinned to the bottom shelf was a cheap, black, plastic Batman mask, accompanied by a thin, black, plastic cape.

            “Do you like this one?” I asked.

            She grinned.  “Yeah, that Batman,” she said.

            I handed it to her, and she hugged it to her chest.

            “Thank you, Mom,” she gushed.  Then offered, “You wanna get that other one for John?”

            I said no.

            She nodded.  She wasn’t particularly interested in what her brother was going to be for Halloween. So long as it wasn’t Batman.

            Kristall wore her costume around the house every day after that.  She never spoke  when in character.  She would just appear in mask and cape, and stare at us.  We’d say something like, “Hey Batman, how’s it going?”  She’d nod, all seriousness.   Then she’d slip away into the shadows.

            We will continue to watch Kristall’s development, and worry over her.  There have been a lot of struggles so far. Some hurdles she has cleared, and some are still ahead.  We will continue to promote her independence, encouraging her to think and speak for herself, to be confident, and to have a voice.  There have been glimmers along the way.  Indications that she is developing normally.  Extraordinarily, really.  Like when she was four and insisted on being Batman.

            Because girls can be Batman, too.  You know.

We’re heading into winter in Alaska.  We’re not actually quite there yet.  Just far enough toward winter that it’s cold and dreary outside.  It’s dark. The plants in our yard have long since withered and died, and are now in standing water from all the rain we’re getting. The snows haven’t come yet.  It’s just cold, and wet, and dark.

When I first moved to Alaska I think I may have been clinically depressed that first fall and winter.  Everything. Everywhere I looked.  Was grey.  Just different shades of grey.  The sky.  The water. Even the mountains and trees in the distance.  Everything. Grey.

Why do people choose to live here?  This was a frequent puzzle of mine.  Why in the world?  But I’ve long since moved past that.  I get it now.  And I smile when newcomers ask this.  Why do we live here?  Lots of reasons.  You’ll see.

But this year, I’ve been enjoying a little respite from the season every time I come home.  Home, which is normally pretty cozy this time of the year, has become even more so for me this year.  All because of the crickets.

One of our boys has a terrarium in his bedroom which houses his two geckos. Supposedly, one gecko is a male and one is a female.  I don’t know how you can tell with geckos.  They both look the same to me.  But our boy swears he can tell which is which, and that the gender differences are very distinctive.

The deal was that as long as he was responsible for caring for the geckos, he could get them.  We didn’t want to have to be feeding them, cleaning out the terrarium, or making sure they had clean water.  Nor did we want to be surprised by them running out across the kitchen floor, or climbing up the bathroom walls.  They were to stay in the boys’ bedroom.

What he’d really wanted was bigger lizards, bearded dragons I think it was. But those were more expensive.  So we went to the pet store with his sights set on bearded dragons.  And came home with geckos.

And crickets.

Geckos eat crickets.  Not seeds like the birds eat.  Or flakes of dried mash like the goldfish eat.  Geckos eat live, chirping crickets.

So, every week the boys go down to the pet store and purchase another week’s supply of crickets.   For a few days, those crickets live a brief, probably terrifying, existence in our home.

And for a few days each week our house is alive with the chorus of crickets emanating from the boys’ bedroom.   With each passing day the chorus gets a little quieter, and a little quieter still, until it ceases altogether.  Then it’s time to go back to the pet store for another round of crickets.

Every once in a while one or two of them will escape from the gecko condo and go on safari in our house.  We’ll be surprised to find one hanging out on the counter in the bathroom, or uncover one resting under someone’s pillow.  Currently, we have one hiding out behind the refrigerator.  Each time the kitchen light gets turned off it starts chirping.

And it has only recently occurred to me that the weather outside isn’t bothering me nearly as much as it normally does this time of year.  Sure it’s raining, and blowing, and dark.  But inside the house it’s pleasant.  Almost feels like summer.

Having grown up in the farm country of eastern Washington, the sound of crickets is reminiscent of childhood.  It’s a sound I haven’t heard in years.  But suddenly, here in Alaska heading into winter, I am recalling childhood summer evenings spent sitting out on the front porch watching the world go by.  Running barefoot through the grass, playing with friends in the neighborhood park.

Last night, as we watched a movie in the living room with the kids, I was privately enjoying the peaceful melodies coming from the boys’ room, and from behind the refrigerator.  I got to thinking about the crickets.  Though I do enjoy their chirping, the crickets’ existence in our home isn’t particularly wonderful for them.   From the minute they arrive here they’re on death row.

And yet, even knowing that, to me their presence in our home is still pleasant.  Enjoyable even.  I don’t even mind when they escape and start chirping from other parts of the house.

It’s almost winter here in Alaska.  It’s cold, and dark, and rainy.  I can’t walk out to my car in the driveway without getting wet.  And though it will be snowing soon, right now it’s just dark and dreary outside.  But inside? Once the lights are turned out I am reliving the peacefulness of warm summer evenings.  I can almost smell the newly cut grass.

When I was a kid I wanted to learn how to fly airplanes.  Actually, I probably just wanted to be able to fly.  Period.  I can remember lying on the grass in the park across the street from my house watching glider planes float gracefully across the sky.  They were silent, having no engine to keep them aloft.  They were my favorite planes.  I’d watch them, promising myself that someday I would take flying lessons.

Somewhere between childhood and middle age that desire faded.  My earlier fascination with flying vanished after a few religious experiences flying in Southeast Alaska in the wintertime.  I recall one flight in particular when I think I may have promised God never to leave the ground again if I could just return to it safely this one last time.  I haven’t kept that promise, but somewhere along the way I did lose interest in ever learning how to fly.

Then one morning I was on my way home, in an airplane.  It was a beautiful morning, and a peaceful flight.  I was reading a book a friend had given to me and I came across a quote by physicist, Edward Teller.

“When you get to the end of all the light you know and it’s time to step into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing that one of two things shall happen:  either you will be given something solid to stand on, or you will be taught how to fly.”

Taught how to fly.  I started to tear up, and turned to look out the window at the ground far below.  That last part played through my mind again and again.  “Either you will be given something solid to stand on.  Or you will be taught how to fly.”

I tend to prefer the former.  I like to be in control.  To make the decisions in my life.  To be able to handle things.  I like to stay standing.  No matter what.  When the weight of all my burdens has me stooped over, unable to straighten up, I will still fight to stay standing.  Even when I’ve come to the end of all light I know.

Crises are a strange time.  Everyone asks how you’re doing in the middle of them.  I don’t know why that is.  Maybe they’re hoping that you’re not doing how they think you’re doing.  Which is exactly how you are doing.  But you don’t want to say that.  You don’t want to let on that you really are human.  And fragile.  And devastated.  So instead, you smile and nod your head reassuringly.  Mercifully numb with disbelief.

They pat you on the back again.  Or squeeze your arm.  They’re relieved.  Pleased to see that you’re doing so well.  Which, of course, you’re not.  And you turn away as quickly as possible so that they don’t see the tears welling up in your eyes.

Your mind grasps for anything.  Anything that will keep back the tears for a few more minutes.  Anything to bring you back to this moment in time.  And sometimes the best you can come up with is to remind yourself to pick up kitty litter and another gallon of milk at the store on the way home.

And with each passing moment the light continues to fade.  Until darkness is everywhere.  You can’t see.  You can’t think.  You’re alone. Absent of any light at all.  And it’s time to step out in faith.

The fear would have you stay there without moving.  Paralyzed.  But you can’t survive there.  So, you tentatively reach out with one foot, feeling for any kind of foundation.  Your mind plays various “what if” scenarios. You strain for the slightest bit of light.  Anything to see by.  You grasp for anything firm to hold onto.  Or something solid to stand on.  Anything at all, so that you don’t have to rely strictly on faith.

I sat on that airplane staring out the window for the rest of my flight home that morning.  It was a beautiful morning.  The sun was bright.  The water sparkled like a field of diamonds.  And I kept playing that statement over again and again in my mind.

“Either you will be given something solid to stand on, or you will be taught how to fly.”

As we started our descent, I wiped the last of the tears from my cheeks and started to smile.  All this time I’d been foolishly trying to stay standing.  Seeking in vain for something solid to stand on.  Some foothold in the darkness.  I hadn’t realized that I was, instead, being taught how to fly.

            A few years ago, one of my dearest friends found herself suddenly widowed at the age of 40.  It was during the weeks and months that followed when I first heard her make the statement, “Life is messy.”

            Life is messy.  I think maybe it was intended to be.  Relationships are messy.  Jobs and careers can get messy.  Living in community with others?  Often messy. Being married?  Messy.  Raising children?  No other way to do it than messy.

            I’ve been thinking about the times when life is messiest.  Times when the debris that follows me starts piling up. When I look back and see that I’ve left a wake even bigger than I’d thought.  Messiness.  Lost opportunities.  Poor scheduling.  Insecurities and irritations.  People left hanging, wondering.  Caught in my wake.

            Times of physical pain or illness.  That’s when I’m at my worst.   Life then is messier than normal.  My normally short fuse becomes even shorter, almost nonexistent.  I’m abrupt and rude.  I hurt people.  And damage relationships.

            Dark times.  Stressful times.  When I momentarily lose my way and then struggle just trying to get my bearings again. It takes a toll on me.  And the people around me.  The debris can be overwhelming.

            But then, life is messy even in the good times.  Planning and taking vacations.  Celebrating special occasions.  Spending times with the people I love.  Even at it’s best, there’s mess.

            The night before last, our dog Lucy had puppies.  Ten of them.  Lucy’s a golden retriever/yellow lab mix.  And not very big.  We’d been getting a little concerned about how large she was getting.  Hoping that she wouldn’t have a difficult delivery.

            We got home that afternoon around 4:00 and found the carpet on our bottom landing shredded.  Lucy was prancing around, crying and yelping.  She raced up to our bedroom and dove under the bed.  Having read that whelping puppies can be messy, I quickly changed my clothes before sitting down on the floor and coaxing her out from under the bed.

            After a moment of indecision, she flew from under the bed and curled up on my lap.  Clearly disturbed by what she was experiencing.  That’s when I felt the first bubble of membrane already coming from her, and realized that she was nearly ready.

            Geoff and I had talked about how we could do her birthing time.  Our house is a busy place.  And what we had read about whelping puppies indicated that the mother dog needs privacy and a quiet place.  We’d hoped that each of our kids could have the opportunity to see at least one puppy birthed.  But we also both realized that our first priority had to be to Lucy.  Giving her whatever she needed during this time.

            One of our teenaged daughters and I were the only ones with her initially. Lucy seemed okay with us being there. And we tried to keep the rest of the activity in our house to a minimum.  To keep Lucy calm.

            As the evening wore on, a puppy was born.  And then another.  We were able to rotate kids through so that two or three got to be there for each birth. For the miracle.  They were excited, but quiet.  They knew they had to be.  For Lucy’s sake.

            We’d laid an old shower curtain on the floor in the middle of our room, and covered this with an old, torn blue blanket, and a variety of clean rags. The blanket quickly became a mess. Soaked with blood and mostly-clear amniotic fluid.

            Each new puppy came out in a clear fluid-filled sac, which Lucy quickly tore open. Then she’d grab hold of the umbilical cord and chew through it.  She’d nudge the puppy, licking it intently.  Willing it to breathe.  Then she’d begin cleaning off the blood from the umbilical cord.  She worked intently on each puppy right up until her body began to heave again with the beginnings of the next birth.

            By midnight we had five puppies, and our bedroom was filled with kids.  Six or seven of our kids and foster kids, and three of our kids’ teenage friends who’d shown up just hoping to get to see the puppies born.  One by one the number of people in our bedroom, sitting around the edges of that old shower curtain, had increased.  We kept an eye on Lucy, trying to make sure that we weren’t overwhelming her.

            But she didn’t seem bothered by the presence of all the kids.  In fact, she took turns looking intently at each one. And each time, as the labor pains would begin again, and her little body would shudder with great efforts, Lucy would receive encouragement and love from all those around her.

            “You’re okay, Luce.”

            “You’ve got it, girl.”

            “Good girl, Lucy.  Just push, Honey.”

            Hands would reach out to gently rub her back and her sides.  Stroke her ears.

            I sat back and watched what was unfolding around me.  Little Lucy, enduring the birthing process for the first time.  And 10 or 11 young faces all gathered around, loving her, encouraging her, and caring for her and her babies.

            I watched as each puppy emerged and Lucy tore open the membrane and licked up the fluid and the blood until it was gone.  She worked over each puppy.  Removing every drop until each puppy was dry and fluffy.   Then she’d turn her attention to the mess that came out with each birth.  Cleaning up as much of it as possible.

            And I sat in awe watching her generosity and her graciousness.  This moment, that she was willing to share with all of us.  To allow herself to be surrounded by those who loved her.  Even if they were maybe too intrusive.  And too loud.  She looked at each one, acknowledging their presence there.  And, I think, understanding that their intent was to support her in this time of magnificence.  She alone allowed it.  She seemed to accept it.  And even to appreciate it.

            All I did was watch.  In awe of the birthing process.  And in awe of our gracious little dog.

            Birth is messy.  But if life is messy then it certainly makes sense that it would begin that way.  And I suppose death, even in the best of circumstances, is probably messy, as well.

            Maybe our job is to just accept it as it comes.  In all of its messiness.  And maybe, if we can muster the strength of character, our job is just to clean it up as much as possible as we go.  Just like Lucy did.  By appreciating those who go through life with us.  Appreciating their love and support.  Though even their mere presence may be inadequate.  To love them.  And appreciate that they’re there.  When maybe that’s all they know to do.  That, and a little word of encouragement.  Maybe an occasional pat on the head.

            Maybe that’s the point of the whole thing.  That life IS messy.  But maybe we make it just a teensy bit less messy by being generous of spirit.  By loving and appreciating those who try to support us through it.  By letting them see our pain.  And accepting their efforts to help.  Maybe that’s all we can do.  To clean up the mess.

            That’s what I’ve been thinking, anyway.  Since watching our dog Lucy living life more graciously than I do.  And cleaning up the mess.

I was running group that morning for 10 residents of an inpatient substance abuse treatment program.  It was a lovely summer morning, and as 11 of us sat in the living room of the treatment center talking about how substances had interfered with their lives, another cruise ship slowly slid by in the channel outside.

During the course of their stay at the treatment center clients were expected to complete a written first step, of the 12-step program of recovery, and present their first step to the rest of the group.  Essentially, they write and present their life stories in an effort to acknowledge that their lives have become unmanageable and that they are powerless over alcohol and drugs.

This particular morning, one of our group members was nervously presenting his first step.  He had reviewed it a couple of times with me during individual therapy sessions earlier in the week.  We had talked about his finances, employment, health, social life, relationships, family, and legal involvements.  All the areas of life so often impacted by substance abuse.  This morning it was his turn to present his life story to the group, and for the group to vote on whether they felt he had passed in his effort to admit that his life was unmanageable and that he was powerless of alcohol and drugs.

“Brian” was in his early 40s.  He was a big guy, over 6 feet, good looking, and had become a leader in the group in a short time at the treatment center.  He had just completed a jail sentence of several months for an alcohol-related offense. He was divorced, currently unemployed, and still had several steps to complete to be “off paper,” or out of the judicial system.  He spoke openly about his alcoholism.  And how much it had cost him.

But so far, in addressing the areas of his life which had been damaged by his alcoholism, he had maintained a fairly humorous approach.  Chuckling about how stupid he’d been to show up to work drunk and tell his supervisor to “f-off.”  He’d shaken his head, wiping his forehead, when talking about repeated minor altercations with the police.

He was saying all the right things.  Documenting how alcohol abuse had impacted his life.  But his approach was a little too nonchalant for me.

I looked around at some of the other group members.  Looking to see how they were reacting.  Most were smiling, listening attentively.  This was their friend and group member.  They had each either already presented their first step, or were working on it.  They weren’t going to be overly critical of anyone.  And yet, as group members, it was their job to either approve it or send Brian back to work on it some more.

Before Brian had begun presenting his first step, I spoke to the group. Reminding them of the importance of their role as group members.  They alone would be voting on approving or rejecting this first step.  They would be the ones to either pass Brian on to his second step, or hold him on his first step.  As the counselor, I wouldn’t have a vote in this.  This was their job as group members to help each other in the recovery process.  I reminded them that in recovery, people depended on each other for their very lives. This was an opportunity for them to begin exercising this very critical responsibility.

Brian moved into how his alcoholism had affected his relationships.  He talked about his wife giving up on him. Then he lapsed into talking about “all the other women.”  He made a few self-indulgent references to sexual exploits, trying to bolster an ego worn thin by the requirements of this particular exercise.  He acknowledged that his exploits were probably more egocentric than he’d realized at the time because he was usually so wasted that his concern over a night’s partner was limited.  Heck, half the time he was blacked-out and didn’t even know what had happened, much less who this woman next to him in the morning actually was.

Haha.  Members of the group smiled, some chuckled.  Yeah, they’d been there, too, a few said.

My discomfort increased.  There’s actually a very fine line between painstakingly admitting wrongs and weaknesses, and exploiting them as fodder for ego boosting and self-indulgence. See how bad I was?  I was SO BAD that one time I…..

I was just about ready to cut in and suggest he take a different tact when Brian turned a corner.

“I remember one morning in particular.  I woke up feeling like shit.  There’s this naked woman next to me.  I have NO IDEA who she even is.  I’m thinkin’, ‘What happened last night?’  I’m hung over.  I’m sick to my stomach.  I can’t stop shakin’.  I’m thinkin’ whatever I did last night, I must have had a good time!”

There was some chuckling from the group.

“Then my phone starts ringin’.  I can’t even find the damned thing.  I’m flippin’ through the sheets, trying to find my damned phone to shut it up before what’s-her-name wakes up.  I finally grab it, and it’s my ex-wife.  My morning just went from bad to worse.

“She says she’s callin’ to remind me that it’s my day to take my daughter.  I was supposed to be there half an hour ago. I start scramblin’ for some clothes, still trying not to wake up what’s-her-name.

“Then my wife says, ‘She’s been out waiting on the curb for over half an hour because you said you’d be here.’

“I tell her I’m on my way.  But by the time I get there, I’m almost two hours late.  And there’s my daughter…” His voice cracked.  He stopped talking for a second and tried to swallow.

I took in a slow, deep breath, thinking that he had finally arrived at a completed first step.  I glanced around at the rest of the group to make sure they were following this. Every group member was riveted to him. Most with tears in their eyes.

Brian cleared his voice.  “There’s my daughter.  Five years old.  All dressed up, with her backpack on, and her little purple umbrella…”

His voice broke again, and he stopped talking.  And the tears started to come.  He put his head in his hands and started to sob.  The rest of his group members remained silent, most with tears in their own eyes.

After a few minutes, he whispered the rest.

“There she is.  Standing at the curb.  Waitin’ for her daddy.”

Another pause, while his whole body shook with sobs.  Others were reaching for tissues.  I wiped the tears from my eyes.

“She’s standin’ at the curb waitin’ for her Daddy.  Whose nothin’ but a Goddamn drunk.”

I closed my eyes, and could see her for just a second.  Standing there waiting.  Knowing that her daddy would show up any minute.  Because he’d promised.  Not even suspecting that he was passed out in bed with someone he didn’t even know and had forgotten all about her.

A few minutes passed as everyone in the room blew their noses, and wiped their eyes. Eventually Brian looked over at me and said, “I guess I’m done.”

I asked him if he was clear that he’s powerless over alcohol and drugs and that his life had become unmanageable.

He wiped the last few tears from his cheeks and said, “Yeah.  I am now.”

The group voted unanimously to accept Brian’s first step.  He thanked every one of them for their support and encouragement. And together they all talked for a while about how they needed to actually do this.  They each needed to get clean and sober.  They needed to survive addiction.

And for the rest of the day I kept thinking about a little girl whose dad was working really hard at getting well.  And how instrumental she was in helping him get started.  She may never know that.  But she’s the one who did it.  The one who made him realize that he had a problem and needed help.  And all she had to do was stay where she was, waiting at the curb.