But Not Anymore

When my husband was first learning English, he really liked the verb tense “I used to…but not anymore.”

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about identity and the tremendous amount of change and upheaval my own has endured the past few years. I blame autumn. This time of year always turns me into a big ol’ nostalgic sap. It’s a time to reflect on all that I’ve gained and all that I wish I could get back – a harvest of memories, if you will.

I used to…

But not anymore.

I used to be a college student. I used to sit in classes and prowl through libraries, absorbing interesting facts and beginning to catch glimpses of the shape of the world. But not anymore. Now the best I can manage is listening to snippets of podcasts in the car or while I’m pumping – anytime I have 10 consecutives minutes without anyone calling my name.

I went to see a play on the campus of a local university and looking at the classrooms and dorms I felt strange. I honestly couldn’t tell you if I felt relieved that no one makes me write 12 page essays anymore or homesick for the structure and security of school. I used to know exactly where to go, what to do and how to succeed.

But not anymore. Now I know nothing.

I used to be an artist. I used to pull out my brushes and paints and revel in juicy, vibrant creation. Anytime I walk past the art section of a store, I cast my eyes longingly on my old friends, cadmium, ocher, and cerulean. Is there anything more spectacularly filled with possibility than a brand new sheet of thick, high-quality watercolor paper?

But

I don’t paint anymore. The only art projects I’m involved in these days involve 7th grade social studies or posters of the human respiratory system. Still, I know the art in me will lay quiet, waiting for the chaos years to pass until I again have the opportunity to say with my fingers what my mouth never could.

I used to have my own name. Now I am Mrs. Troy’s Mom. I used to wear perfumes called Indian Gardenia, or that pink one by Ralph Lauren that smells awesome but I have no idea what its name is. Now, I’m rocking Eau de Baby Vomit (slightly sweet with just a hint of cheese!).

I used to be a musician (or not, depending on your view of drummers). I actually picked up some sticks last night and jammed with my husband on guitar for a few minutes. It felt great! Sure, my fills are terrible after nearly three years of rust collecting but it’s nice to know I can still count to four while hitting things. Maybe someday I can return to providing the masses with a truly mediocre percussion experience.

I used to be restless and discontented with my life.

But not anymore!

My life no longer includes sufficient amounts of sleep but a sense of purpose? That I have in heaps! I feel most like myself these days. Maybe I don’t know what I’m doing but I know who I am. And I know that what I chose to spend my life on is as it should be. It’s not perfect (it’s sleepy and covered in vomit, remember?) but it is real and it’s good.

Those things I used to be, sometimes I miss them. But I’ve packed them up and put them away for now. 

They just aren’t relevant to my life.

Not anymore.

Awwww Snap! You Got Her Started.

Whenever I hear about people starting up missions in Central America, I always think “Yay! Someone’s paying attention to my beloved tierra.” But at the exact same time, a big part of me really wishes they wouldn't. It’s a bit like having a stranger do your laundry – you appreciate the thought but they shrunk all your pants.

For so long, the way the Church has done (and continues to do in many cases) mission work has, well…sucked out loud. So while I love the idea that religious organizations are spending their time and resources in countries with profound needs, I worry that they’re really doing more harm than good.

As I mentioned previously, I’m highly interested in ending world poverty. The old model of fighting poverty has failed but where can I find a new model that works? This can be done. God calls us to the possible. 

My ponderings on the subject always start in Nicaragua for obvious reasons: I know the most about it and it’s where I have, as they say, skin in the game. And instead of focusing on how much I do NOT know about my ridiculous windmill tilting, I am going to talk about what I actually DO know.

I know it starts with families. I heard a podcast by Pastor Joel Biermann, a guy who knows infinitely more things than yours truly. He said that families are the foundation of society. As the family goes, so goes everything. I saw a lot of broken Nicaraguan families. The number of children I personally saw raised by other relatives or only their mothers vastly outnumbered the children living with both biological parents (and many of those lucky few lacked the stability of having married biological parents). Part of the reason for this is economic. Fathers (and in some cases mothers too) can’t support their families with local jobs and must immigrate to Costa Rica, Spain, the US, or somewhere else in order to find work. Another piece of the reason is cultural – there is no social stigma against being a deadbeat dad. Or mom, I guess. Who are we kidding though, this is a Papa Problem.

My sister in law got pregnant at fifteen by a guy God loves and values but in my (worthless) opinion is a total piece of shit. He tossed her and his two-year-old son on the streets when he got tired of being with her. I take back my original opinion – I do not wish to give shit a bad name.

Her story is normal. This simply cannot be. 

Any program aimed at poverty extermination has to promote and protect strong family units. If the foundation is no good, the whole building will crumble.

I know toxic cultural norms must be addressed.

Any serious discussion of culture as it contributes to poverty has to include the topic of machismo – chauvinism. This is not the opinion of every Latin man and I never want to imply, even accidently, that it is. But I’m talking in broad terms here, and the terrible fact is that all-too-many men place little to no value on women. They see women as disposable. This attitude manifests itself in families abandoned, widespread domestic violence, and women denied access to education and jobs outside the home. I can’t give you hard data on this (and there’s always a good chance that I’m totally talking right out my butt) but I’m pretty sure any system without gender equality is a one-way street to Poortown.

A small but important step to redeeming this part of Latino culture is for the Church to recognize the problem and start speaking against it. Or at the very least, stop actively participating in it. Our family attends a Lutheran church on Sunday mornings (or gringo church as we call it) and goes to a Hispanic Assembly of God church Sunday evenings. I used to help lead worship in the Hispanic church as there is a real dearth of people willing or able to sing. They kicked me out for wearing the scandalous clothing referred to as “pants.” 

Wha?

1920 called. They want their dress code back.

That offended me in a myriad of interesting and colorful ways but the main objection I had (at least for the purposes of this blog post) is the propagation of injustice within the walls of a building dedicated to a God of Justice! Despite what the proof-texters may post in facebook memes, I firmly believe that the Bible radically promotes women’s rights.

But Liz, you may be saying, the Lutherans don’t allow women to preach or be pastors. Why aren’t you calling them out?

Well, I’ll tell you – that’s a hill for someone else to die on, I’m busy trying to end poverty! Also, hitherto, no one in the Missouri Synod has ordered me to clad myself like a Puritan.

Also, where is the outrage when a man in the congregation won’t let his wife learn to drive? Where is the sound and the fury for the douchebuckets who abandon their families? No, really, let’s focus on what I use to shield my booty from prying eyes!

I have wandered somewhat from my original point and that is this: misogyny contributes to poverty. Cut it out already!

I know problems must have locally based and locally led solutions. No matter how much this crazy white girl rages against the machine, the machista attitude towards women will not change until godly MEN come alongside these guys and teach them how to BE MEN.

In the exact same way, a bunch of rich United Statesians cannot waltz into a poor Central American country, dictate the Best Way to Live and expect anything good to happen. It sounds pretty stupid when you say it out loud but lordy, have we ever been doing it that way for a reeeeeeeeeeally long time!

How many mission programs ever sit back (assuming programs have sitting capabilities) and think about what it’s like to be in need?

A few weeks ago I got an email from a church thing that upcoming event-type information as well as a list of things to be in prayer for. One of them was to seek out ways to be in ministry to my family. And that kind of seems like a good thing – I mean, I understand the intention. But my only thought was: “Ick! We aren’t a ministry opportunity, we’re a family.”

People in materially poor countries may not always be able to articulate that sentiment but I guarantee you they feel it. It’s embarrassing to lack things that everyone else seems to have.

Ok, so maybe I don’t know anything about locally based or led solutions. But I know about needing help and feeling terrible about it.

There’s an old song, one of the few I know how to play on the guitar. It has two chords; I’m pretty sure mice can be trained to play it…Anyway it contains lyrics we would do well to tattoo in front of our eyes whenever we endeavor to minister:

                And we’ll guard each man’s dignity

                And save each man’s pride

                And they’ll know we are Christians by our love. 

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Dear Immune System,

This is going to be difficult to hear. But it’s just got to be said. We’ve been in a relationship for a long time now and I think we both know it’s just not working.

Our problems started with your drastic failures in the fall of 1998. You let yourself be seduced by literally every single new germ you saw, leaving me to stay at home and wonder why the love had gone so suddenly. I missed 28 days of school that year thanks to your dirty mistresses leaving their garbage all over my upper respiratory system. But since I still managed a 4.1 gpa and you gave me those sad puppy dog eyes, I forgave you.

We could start again, you assured me. You had learned from your mistakes and it would be better from now on.

The years passed and I worked hard to keep the fires going. I gave you little gifts of multivitamins to help you with your housework. I took you to beautiful countries and bought you big sparkling vaccines. I tried to make you happy. You have just not held up your end of the bargain.

I’ve been making excuses for your lack of concern for my well-being: you had a sheltered childhood and can’t handle yourself in social situations or you are suffering from post traumatic stress disorder.

I see all my friends with their allergies – proof that their immune systems care too much – and I’m just a little bit jealous. Maybe if I ate more vegetables you would like me more. But it’s time to face facts; it’s not me, it’s you.

This is really the last straw. This latest round of germs you have allowed into my body is disgraceful. They came from a three month old baby! An infant! You cannot even roust yourself to protect me from a teeny tiny baby virus. Instead you let me wander around my office – fevered, achy and disoriented – wearing pants that I’m about 90% sure aren’t even mine. Oh the shame!

I’m so over you.

Elizabeth

A-A-A-CHOO!

A Fine and Fancy Ramble to the Zoo

I have some serious blog-envy for all my neighbors in the blogosphere with their fancy cameras and their beautiful photographs. How come I don't post amazing pictures?? 

What? 'Cause I'm a terrible photographer? Nonsense!!

Just check out these little gems from our recent trip to the zoo.

The most dangerous thing about Rhinos
is their propensity to walk straight into your ear.

Two Hippos Fighting - a study in light.
Also, that's one of their asses there in the corner.

Troy getting a kiss from my husband. Or the Gaping Maw of Darkness.
It's hard to tell.

The frolicking joy of a sea lion and the pensive expression of half
my husband's head is a profound (and artistic!) study in contrasts.

This is not a picture of grass. It's a lion. Really. 

And IIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIII will always love YOUUUUUUUU!

Tekken the easy way out. 

The tiger wished to protect his anonymity in anticipation of
Prince Fielder's epically bad slide 

A Continuing Conversation

As I'm thinking about and wrestling with how to end poverty, I came across this blog post, written by Kelsey Howerton, which I loved, so I will share it with you! She's talking about sticking kids in Christian orphanages, which is a slightly different concept than my original post about Central American children leaving home to try to come to the US. But really, it's the same story of poverty breaking up families and hurting vulnerable, precious children. This post can be found here.

We are called to do justice for the orphan and the widow. But what happens when that justice looks a lot more like injustice?

In a small village in Uganda there was a family in crisis. Their granddaughter had just fallen into their care and she was sick. Her mother was struggling with mental health problems and had not been giving her proper care. When she arrived at her grandparents, abandoned by her Mom, she was so malnourished they feared for her life.

With limited resources and the hospital an hour away, the family did not know what to do. They loved their granddaughter and wanted to find her help so they approached the leaders in their community about the situation. The leaders contacted some missionaries in town and told them about this family.

And just like that, this little girl was brought to an orphanage, where she would be separated from her family for the next 3 years.

The family wasn't offered transportation to the hospital, or advice on nutrition for a malnourished child, or high caloric foods or help paying hospital bills. The only option presented was the removal of their child.

So for the next three years a child with a family that loved her sat in an orphanage. She became one of many children cared for by multiple caregivers a day that came and went and picked up their paychecks at the end of the month. She got three nutritious meals a day and toys donated from America to play with and the occasional trip to town for ice cream, but she lacked a child's greatest need- a family to love her. She watched adoptive parents arrive to take their kids home and was left wondering where her family was and why she wasn't with them.

Essentially, an orphan had been created.

While this little girl wondered, an hour away a family in a village was left missing their daughter.

After helping to reunite children living in orphanages, back home with their families I wish I could tell you that this story was a one-time deal. That children weren’t constantly being separated from their families because of poverty.

Unfortunately I’ve heard this story more times than I’d ever be able to count. Each story I’ve heard has been unique but the fact that poor families are placing their children in orphanages because better services aren’t being developed isn’t unique at all. Not to Uganda or even to Africa. 

All over the world we are confusing poverty for families not loving their children- In Haiti, in Cambodia, in Kenya, in Brazil, in Honduras. I’ve spoken to folks working on the ground in all of these countries and the common experience is that not enough is being done to help poor families keep their children.

Nearly every family we have resettled a child to has told us, had support been available to help them keep their child, they would have never put them in an orphanage in the first place.

Poverty can’t be the reason the majority of children are growing up in institutional care. But this is what is happening and this is what needs to change.

Which brings me back to my question- Would Jesus be cool with keeping poor kids in orphanages?

Knowing what we know of who Jesus was, how he engaged with the people he served and worked alongside of and what he advocated for, I think the overwhelming answer would be a big fat “NO”.

Jesus liked messy. He tended to run toward it. We think of the disciples he chose to do ministry with, the stories of the misfits and the outcasts he loved so well. He gravitated toward people that didn’t have their crap together.

Working with families and trying to tackle poverty and the issues that stem from it is MESSY WORK. Throwing kids in orphanages and ignoring the problems that are facing their families and communities? 

That’s a lot easier.

But we aren’t called to easy. We are called to enter into the mess.

I don’t think Jesus would be about institutionalizing children just because we wanted to find an easy fix to the problem.

I believe He’d be asking us to challenge each other. He’d be all about ministering to and reaching an entire family, rather than removing a child from their care. He’d remind us that His Father didn’t accidentally choose these families for these children and that we should be fighting for families who love their kids to get to keep them.

Removing a child might be the easy answer, but it's not the right one. I believe we're called to true justice for "orphans" and widows, and to me that means coming alongside families in need rather than removing their children.

Indians in the Cupboard

Juli is learning about the discovery of the New World in her Social Studies class. I wonder if her teacher finds the subject as super awkward as I do. It’s one thing to talk about Columbus and Jamestown to a bunch of kids of European descent. It’s another thing entirely when the student’s ancestors were much more directly and negatively affected by these events.

Juli’s great-great-great-grandmother would never have referred to the New World at all; she would have simply called it “the World.” Her people had been living here for a really long time! This continent is only “new” in the sense that no one in Europe knew about it for a really long time until some yutz called Chris stumbled upon it and immediately pronounced it to be India. Lo siento, dude, you were all kinds of wrong there.

For a homework assignment, Juli had to make a poster advertising the New World. Part of the assignment was to include reasons why people would want to come here. In talking through it with me, she rattled off things like “the people are nice, the land is beautiful” and without any hint of irony or bitterness, she added “you can rule over stuff.”

Yeesh.

What a horrible, horrible, historically accurate thing to say!

Europeans came to these shores and absolutely dominated the indigenous peoples. The scars of the Spanish conquista are evident even in today’s vernacular. Calling someone indio, or Indian, is an insult. It means uneducated, naïve, unwilling to try new things, or downright stupid. Centuries of oppression and abuse from the white ruling class created a false image of the darker-skinned native races as lesser and shameful.

The scars of the English invasion on the East Coast are far harder to see, mostly because nearly all the natives are dead. Actually, the reason the land now known as the United States was so easy to colonize is because a few decades earlier, diseases brought by the Spanish had decimated the population of North America in apocalyptic wasteland proportions. The English just waltzed in and finished off the survivors. Ok, the French helped too, but they preferred to focus on the booze and the women, ‘cause they were, ya know, French.

So Europeans enslaved, murdered, forcibly converted, and destroyed the cultures of millions of people on top of all the millions they accidently killed with their nasty germs. But yay America!

See what I mean about awkward?

My guess is the whole mass death part will be entirely left out of 5^th grade Social Studies class. That is really unfortunate because without it the story is a lie; propaganda with the historical accuracy of a Disney film. I’m in no way saying that the re-discovery of America was an entirely bad thing – particularly for me – but every time we teach the partial happy-sunshine version of history, we rob all the people who came down on the losing side of their voice. When we do that, the biggest crime of the whole affair is that Europeans lived for thousands of years without chocolate.

Juli was pretty aghast to learn that. 

Riding the Beast

“You have to watch this movie on Netflix,” my husband said to me one day. “It’s about immigrant kids.”

Oh man, I cried nearly all the way through the documentary, called Which Way Home. Geez Eli, have pity on my hormones and my soft mommy heart!

The film follows young children, some as young as nine, as they travel alone on top of freight trains trying to get from Central America to cross the Mexican border into the United States. Some left their parents to try to find work in the US, some come trying to find their parents who had left them behind years before.

Many die.

These little kids, with no money or no adult supervision, get robbed by the police, fall prey to evil smugglers, or simply fall off the train and meet death under the wheels of “the Beast" as they call it. Many are rounded up by Mexican Immigration and sent back to their home countries. The few who make it to the US alive find out that their dreams of being adopted by some nice rich lady are nothing more than empty fantasy.

The filmmakers asked several very small children how long it had been since they had seen their parents. The answers always came in years. One woman had left her baby at the age of one and confessed that she felt nothing, no maternal love, for her now grown daughter.

My baby got annoyed with how tight I was holding him.

Sorry buddy, but mommy will ALWAYS, ALWAYS be here to hold you as tight as I can.

As I watched the film, my mind inevitably drifted to my own immigrant kids. They came from the same kind of poverty, lived in the same kind of old leaky shacks as the ones captured by the camera passing by on the train. But mine never rode the Beast. They crossed the border in a comfy airplane with a flight attendant watching them every moment. They need not avoid cameras or fear the Feds knocking down our door and sending them back. Nor do they need to beg on the street or work twelve hour days in order to survive. My niños attend private school and live in the suburbs. We paid a lot of money that all those things might be so.

Who pays for all the other kids?

No. That isn’t the question I really want to ask because the answer will never be nice rich ladies adopting poor Latino kids. The real question is how do we make their home countries places that don’t need to be escaped from? Really what I want to know is how do we end poverty?

I know what you’re thinking: oh? Is that all? Yeah, I know. I might as well ask how to end war and suffering and while I’m at it, how to brew gold in my coffee pot.

I don’t care if it’s impossible. I need to know. I need it to end. I refuse to wait until the Day of the Lord to tackle the big problems. How could it possibly be ok to do nothing while a 9 year old is raped and left for dead in the desert?

What I do know is that the answers are going to hurt. It is easy to remain in my cushy North American bubble but doing what is easy will solve nothing. I don’t want to be one of those Christians who talks a good game and then doesn’t do anything. I don’t know what or when but I trust that God is leading our family to great things.

Two isn’t enough. 

Being Green

Well, I’ve done it. I’ve gone, as they say, green.

We changed over to cloth diapers. So really, it’s more of a yellowy-brown color that we’ve gone.

That’s right, my baby will now enjoy eco-friendly crap catchers (he will also enjoy regular disposable wipes, cause gross). I even made my own diaper laundry detergent! I had to go to a couple different stores to get all the ingredients I needed as apparently my Target does not carry washing soda. On the other hand, the guy working there did look at me like I’d just pulled up on a horse and buggy when I asked for it. Whatever. The tiny part of my heart that is a total crunchy granola hippie is very pleased right now.

Actually, the environmental factor comprised but a tiny part of our decision to switch from disposable. Cost was a much bigger player. Although, I have to say, cloth diapering is a lot like breastfeeding – the people who say they are wonderful because they are super cheap are out of their tiny minds. They may be cheaper, especially in the long term, but we had to shell out a hefty amount to get up and running. At least in my context, all this “free” milk I’m making requires me to eat a LOT more than I normally would (and Troy’s colic isn’t so dairy friendly, so there goes that cheap protein source) and I need a reliable electric pump to use while I’m working. And even with the basic cable version of diapers we have, the initial expenditure may cause a certain amount of gagging. These are more of investments for future savings rather than right away savings.

We are also investing more time and hassle into cloth diapering now in order to make potty training easier later. Frankly, anything that even has the slightest chance of making the transition to toilet faster and simpler is something that I am all over. Joyous will dawn the day when I am no longer an active participant in anyone else’s bodily functions!

The other reason we switched is because cloth is more Nicaraguan. Every Nica baby bounces around in pañales during the day and only sports pampers at night or when going out around town. My son is half Nicaraguan and it’s really important to this momma to honor his heritage as much as I can. Granted, we sprang for the diaper covers which I never saw used over there. But if I wanted someone peeing on my pant leg, I would have gotten a dog and not a baby.

I was going to take a nice artsy photo of the diapers to post on this blog like all the other mom blogs but I ran out of awake minutes. And really, it’s a fluffy piece of cotton for my kid to poop on; use your imagination. 

Even though my little Troy will most likely spend a great deal of his life in the States, I want him rooted in all things Nicaraguan. I want him to speak fluent Spanish, to appreciate a plateful of gallo pinto, to have a strong sense of family and community. I want him to feel a profound obligation to take care of his parents when we get old! Maybe it’s a foolish and impossible task, but I want him to experience all that is great about beautiful Nicaragua while shielding him from the ugly effects of poverty that wrack the country. I wish he could spend more time playing with his hoards of cousins and really connecting to the land of his fathers.

At the same time, I’m not at all sad to be throwing these cloth diapers in the nice American washing machine instead of scrubbing each one by hand in Managua. 

Teenagers

When I tell people that I suddenly have a 14 year old boy and a 12 year old girl, 90% of them respond with some form of: “oh no – teenagers!” like I've just opened my home to a pair of rabid hyenas.

While they may eat like starving wild animals, there’s no real need for concern. My teenagers aren’t like average teenagers. For one thing, they aren't American, so they have no cultural impetus to be an entitled ass hat. For another thing, they are the 10^th and 11^th of their parents’ children – they were raised by people who knew what they were doing.

I really wish my mother-in-law was still living. I would spend an inordinate amount of time quizzing her, in great detail, exactly how she dealt with having a house stuffed to the gills with kiddos and screaming babies, and especially how she turned two VERY naughty little boys into the fine upstanding men now living in my house.

From what my husband has said of her, the secret to success is a great sense of humor and a sturdy pair of flip flops (for use on very naughty little bottoms).

Gabriel is nearly a clone of my husband. He’s less stubborn and far less likely to get into a fight but in pretty much every other respect they are igualito. They even look alike, although you would never know it from the frequent “I am super handsome and you are the ugliest dude alive” debates.

He may also surpass Eli in terms of natural athletic ability. I've never seen anyone more gifted. We took the kids bowling a few weeks ago. Juli bowls like I do (which is to say laughably bad), Gabriel bowled over 100 in his first game and during the second game was beating my mom, who bowls for real on a team, for the first half. These were the first and second games he had ever played – ever – in his life. I’m pretty sure my first games were just a meet ‘n greet with the gutter.

His main love in sports is soccer and he’s pretty dern good at it too. But if you ask him what he wants to be when he grows up, he won’t say sports star, he’ll tell you he wants to be a pastor – like his dad. If he does end up as a pastor, I think he will be a great one – he has such a kind heart. The other night I had to make out a menu plan for the week. We were all really tired but it had to get done. Eli pooped out on me somewhere around Monday but Gabriel stayed up and helped me think of meal ideas. And when I asked him to clean the bathroom his question wasn't “do I have to?” it was “where are the gloves?”

Juli wants to be a doctor. She is a shining star. Sometimes I can’t believe how smart she is. She is always listening and processing information. As I was having a full-speed English conversation with the front desk lady at the doctor’s office, I had to give the kids’ birthdays in the American style – month/day/year. Juli stopped me immediately and said, “that’s not my birthday.” Everywhere else in the world gives birthdays as day/month/year. I was pretty proud of her for being able to follow the conversation.

She is endlessly curious, asking me a hundred thousand questions every day. Sometimes I even know the answers. Juli also is a kind and caring person. She loves to cuddle with Troy and is a much needed extra pair of hands for me. Often she sees little needs and takes care of them without me having to ask, whether it’s carrying my breakfast dishes to the kitchen or sweeping the floors every Saturday.

It’s usually funnier to write about the scrapes we get into as we all learn how to be a family but I want it down here first that Gabriel and Juli are great kids.

And I’d like to say thank you to Doña Mercedes for raising the love of my life. She may be gone from the world but her spirit is present in her beautiful children – who all inherited her eyes. Troy has those eyes too. Gracias mi suegra linda.