The Clan of Mahlou

Gram

2012-02-06T08:54:00.000-08:00

The strangest thing happened last Friday. This Friday flashback post, which I was far from finishing and had stopped writing because the meme is no longer active, showed up on my blog. I took it down since it was just a draft but figured perhaps I should finish it, considering that there had even been a comment made on that nearly empty post. So, here goes:

When Shane (child #3) was born, we were living outside Boston, about 100 miles from my maternal grandmother -- the closest we ever came to living anywhere near her rural New Hampshire neighborhood. Now Gram was a little more than a typical grandmother to me. She was THE family matriarch. Everyone listened to her and did her bidding. I never heard her raise her voice to anyone, yet everyone promptly carried out her every command.

Gram had a kind heart. She would help anyone in need. In fact, during the Great Depression she made sure that many people had food by hiring folks to work on her farm even though she did not really need all the help that she hired. She was never wealthy, but she always had enough. After her farm years, she moved to the city and spent the rest of her life working as a sewer in the textile mills. She was good, and she was fast. So, she made enough money for life's necessities, and she did a good job of saving as well. My grandfather worked there with her.

When my grandfather died at the beginning of my senior year in high school, Gram felt alone. She asked that I, as oldest grandchild, move in with her. I did, and I came to know her as more than a grandmother. She was a mother to me, too. She expected me to do a lot of work, but she never raised her voice to me, and she struck me -- a kind attitude that I had not experienced with my own mother. Perhaps that year alone was what gave me an alternative experience when it came to raising my own children.

I learned many things from Gram, one of the most important being to give without expecting anything in return. One time when I was desperate for tuition money in college, she sent me what I needed and said, "Don't pay it back; pass it on to someone else who needs it." I have done that all my life, and that is what I do with my children. I help them when they need help if I can, and I ask them only to pass it on to some one else who needs help when and if they can, and they do.

Another thing I learned from Gram was the used of Dentyne gum -- beyond just the breath freshening and teeth whitening. She would send me a package each month I was in college, wrapped inside a letter. Tucked inside the gum wrapper, between the wrapping and the gum, was a flattened $20 bill. That money, worth more in the late 1960s, often meant the difference between eating a meal and going to bed hungry. (I was a full scholarship student but one still had to acquire books, paper, clothes, and food.) Likewise, when Donnie and Shane were hiking the Appalachian Trail, I would send a package of Dentyne gum in the care packages of trail food that I mailed periodically to post offices in towns along the trail. Donnie was a spendthrift, but Shane was thrifty. He also knew the secret of the Dentyne gum. Once alone, he would pull out the $20 bill and when matters were desperate, he would happen to "find" a lost $20 bill on the trail. Donnie never caught on although you would think that he would wonder why Shane was so lucky at finding money so often just when they needed it.

And that takes me back to Shane's birth. He was such a healthy baby, and I was in such good shape from being an Army officer at the time, that the doctor sent both of us home just hours after his birth. Gran was shocked. In her day, women stayed in bed weeks after childbirth and spent most of their energy "dangling" (their legs from the bed to keep the circulation going). She could not understand how I could be home, tending to three small children, including a new baby, less than 24 hours after childbirth. (I was actually fine -- fit as a fiddle, having passed my annual PT test just a few days before Shane was born.) So, Gram moved in with me for a month to help, saying that her job was to do the housework and feeding and my job was to play with the baby. What a blessing! She knew just exactly what I needed to get Shane off to a wonderful start in life and keep the rest of the family happy.

Such was Gram! She, unfortunately, died of a minor illness at the age of 84 when given a transfusion infected with AIDS (before the disease was known to have infected blood supplies). Nonetheless, she outlived her father by two years (he died at 82 from falling down the stairs after the first visit in his life to a dentist -- he felt that dentists were unecessary evils but had been talked into a trip there). I am pleased that all my children did get to know her before she moved on to another level of life.

When a Good Guy Wins

2012-01-28T10:07:00.000-08:00

Last year at this time we were deep in negotiations to purchase our current home. HSBC bank had foreclosed more than six months earlier on the previous owner, and based on their behavior with us, we could see why the previous owners lost the house. Not only did the bank not budge an inch on anything, but they used what seemed to us to be deceptive ploys to bring in what would be small amounts of money for the bank but large amounts for us. For example, because we were using a VA loan and the VA almost always requires some repairs prior to approving a loan, the bank asked us to increase our offer by $5K. We did. Then the loan officer inspected and required $2600 in repairs, including removing some molding beneath the deck. The bank's contractor said it would cost $2600 to make the repairs, and the bank told us that before we could close, we would have to pay the bank's contractor to do the repairs. When we pointed out that we neither owned the home nor had any legal documentation that would require the bank to sell the house to us, we would be paying for repairs on someone else's home with no guarantee of having that home become ours. The bank refused to budge and said that if we did not pay, it would rescind its acceptance of our offer and put the house back on the market and keep our escrow.

We contacted a lawyer who said the requirement was likely subterfuge for the bank to wiggle out of an offer that it no longer liked because the market had significantly improved during the time that we had been negotiated and our house had increased in value by $65K. Sure enough, he was right. While we were still discussing the deck and under-deck repairs, the bank re-listed the property without identifying the address or location. However, they picture they used of the driveway had a small white car trucked parked on the street on the google map that they had used to download and post the picture. Donnie called up our house-to-be on google maps, and sure enough there was the little white truck! The lawyer dictated a letter in which we demanded our escrow back if the bank was unwilling to do the repairs.

At that point, Jack, the loan officer for VA, called and asked if we wanted the house if the deck issue could be worked out. When we affirmed, he offered to split the cost of the $2600 between himself and the bank's real estate agent. (Our biggest mistake was to call the real estate agent listed on the for-sale sign; she worked for the bank.) His suggestion took away the danger of losing the house while paying for repairs unless the bank wanted to financially harm its own real estate agent. We agreed, which I am sure put the dishonest real estate agent in a difficult position. The bank wanted the property back, but if she paid the repairs, it would not be able to take it back. Of course, both Jack and she made decent commissions on the house, but in each case it was $1300 less than they would otherwise have earned.

Jack was a gentleman, but the real estate agent took one final swipe at us. The bank's contractor had disassembled the affected part of the deck and removed the mold but had not replace any of the bad wood when the day came for closing. The real estate agent looked at us triumphantly as we looked forlornly at the gaping hole in our deck and said that we had two choices: close "as is" at that moment or wait for the contractor to finish the deck, in which case our offer would be turned down and the house put back on the market and our escrow retained. (Same old story; same old subterfuge.) It was well planned. The closing was on a Sunday, and there was no way to contact our lawyer to see if the bank could get away with that. A handyman friend who planned to paint the house and do other minor repairs had come with us, and he said his brother could finish the deck for $300 and that we should take the house as is because its value was higher than we were paying. So, we did.

We have always been grateful to Jack for coming up with this out-of-the-box solution and for his kindness in paying in our stead. There was no way in which to repay this kindness except with words (and, of course, references). Recently, however, we have been bombarded with all kinds of loan companies wanting to refinance our house for a significantly lower interest rate. Apparently, VA rates have dropped. So, of course, we thought about Jack, sent him copies of the offers, and asked for his advice. He said that most of these really low rates are come-ons with impossible strings attached, with the result being that most people will not qualify for the lowest rate but a higher one. Given that rates are dropping, he did a calculation on what we could realistically do and determined that we could refinance for a somewhat lower rate and save $200 a month. Over thirty years, that would be a significant savings. So, we authorized him to proceed.

In doing a good deed last year, Jack lost $1300. This year, he will probably make ten times that much on the refinancing. Somehow, that tickles me!

Make Your Desire the Other Person's, Too

2012-01-14T00:44:00.000-08:00

People quickly acquiesce when there are no other options. Getting your own way is usually as simple (and complex) as making your option the only one possible. I have watched two of my own children as middle schoolers do that quite effectively.

Each time we have moved into a new school district the tendency had been to place Noelle in special education because of her paraplegia. However, she preferred to be in regular education and was able to handle the academic work there quite well. When we moved to California from Washington in Noelle's eighth grade year, the school administration's proposal was once again to place her in special education.

When Noelle indicated her preference for regular education, the principal explained that all children who cannot walk had always been placed into special education, and, therefore, she would, too.

"Well, then," Noelle commented, "I wonder how you are going to handle the problem that comes with that placement."

When the principal asked what problem she was talking about, she said, "Clearly, I'm the one who has to go to the classroom every day, and I do not intend to go to that one." She was placed in regular education and was very happy there.

The principal met his match, as well, in her younger, gifted brother Shane, who was in her grade because he had skipped some earlier grades in school. The principal wanted to place Shane in the Gifted and Talented Education (GATE) program. however, Shane looked through the materials and found them unchallenging. He preferred to make his own program through the Independent Study program. Frustrated by Shane's lack of appreciation for the GATE program (and probably feeling the need to have another GATE student in the school program), the principal explained that being in the Independent Study program would bar Shane from school dances and other such activities. Shane replied that he preferred books to social activities and willingly accepted that restriction.

Seeing that his words had no effect, the principal said in a rather frustrated tone, "You don't understand! You have to have a behavior problem to get into the Independent Study program!"

Very calmly and pleasantly, Shane indicated that he would be willing to meet that entrance requirement, saying, "I could develop one if you would like." He was placed in Independent Study and was very happy there.

Noelle made her option. Obviously, no one could physically force her to go to a particular classroom on a daily basis and monitor her to be sure she stayed there all day. The alternatives to her choice were simply too cumbersome, impossible, or undesirable.

Shane also made his option the only choice. Of course, the principal did not want another child with a behavior problem. He could avoid that in only one way -- by meeting Shane's request.

These two children very much enjoyed their middle school years. Noelle learned far more in regular education than she would have learned in special education and passed the state exams just fine for regular education students. Shane immensely enjoyed his learning situation. His teacher had been a gifted education teacher in earlier years and was one of the few teachers who did not fear Shane's ability to inhale information and question assumptions. For math, the teacher asked Shane to work with a tutor from the local college because Shane learned too fast for the middle-school teachers to keep up with him. She learned incredible amounts of math that year, in addition to completing most of the high school program in other subjects -- all while being in a "punitive" program rather than the GATE program that, ironically, would have asked far less of him. It was, indeed, a good year.

----

Excerpted and adapted from a collection of vignettes I published, copyright 2003.

News One Never Wants to Hear

2012-01-10T23:20:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, I received a chilling note from my sister-in-law, Erin, Willie's wife. The note began with the words, "I am sorry to tell you that your brother is likely to become a widower soon." That was certainly not your traditional greeting, and Erin had definitely grabbed my attention. I thought that perhaps Erin was being melodramatic, but, no, that was not the case. Erin went on to say that during a routine examination, the doctor had found a mass in her lung and wanted to see if he could remove it with surgery.

To make a long story short, he could not remove it. It was too close to the artery. He wondered what more there was, and what else was going on, but he was only a general surgeon. So, he sent Erin to an oncologist. Since then, we have been waiting for the other shoe to drop, hoping that the news, assumed to be bad, would be at least tolerable. Maybe it was not cancer but just a growth. Maybe it was something that could be shrunk with chemo.

On Friday, the news arrived: Stage IV lung cancer, both lungs. While it is not a death sentence, it is frighteningly close. Less than 10% survive. Still, obviously, one hopes to be in that 10%.

So now what? That decision has to be Erin's. The choices appear to be heavy chemo, light chemo, and nothing (just let nature take its course). Whatever she chooses, we, her family, will support.

Years ago, my former secretary was living near and working on a military installation close to the medical center to which I had rushed Doah when I stole him from the hospital in our home town. Having arrived in a distant city and needing to be near Doah, I took a job at the military installation, where my former secretary, Dee, was working. When the hospital released Doah, I needed a place to stay with him; the place I was in would not allow him. Most places did not want to deal with the special medical equipment that Doah needed. Dee learned about this and offered us a bedroom at her house. She was alone because her husband of many years had left her. She welcomed company. And so Doah and I got to know her children and grandchildren, and they got to know us. We became one large family and stayed in touch for years and years until Dee developed a brain tumor.

Like Erin, Dee learned about the tumor when it was already at stage IV. She made a very surprising decision. Rather than going immediately for treatment, she decided to take 6 weeks and visit all her relatives across the country, people she had not seen in years. Living in Massachusetts, she had quite a lot of territory to cover, having relatives in Virginia, Texas, and the Midwest. I was delighted that she included our family among her relatives. Her last stop was at our home in California. She stayed with us for a week, mostly reminiscing since she was too weak to do much sightseeing although we did make it to the wharf and a few other gentle spots. Upon return, her doctor operated on her brain tumor. Dee did not survive the surgery. Somehow, though, it was an amazing end to a life. How many of us get to say good-bye to all those we love? When Dee left my home, she was ready to leave this life, peaceful about whatever alternative presented itself from the brain surgery.

How we die is probably as important as how we live. At some point, we all have to face our own mortality. Clearly, it is not easy. Although we do not yet know what Erin will choose to do, or whether she will beat the odds (we certainly hope God will intervene; sometimes God does do that and has done that very frequently with our family), we want to send Willie and her on a directed spiritual retreat to help her make her choices in a peaceful, beach location and with the help of nuns trained in guiding people in such circumstances. How wonderful that such places exist!

Stay tuned! I will try to provide periodic updates. In the interim, as you feel moved to do, would you please pray for Erin and, if you can, light a candle for her? And if you have experienced this in your family, please share what you have done to support the person struggling with both the news and the medical condition.

An Amazingly Stupid Day

2012-01-07T09:27:00.000-08:00

Yesterday turned out to be an amazingly stupid day. It started out not bad. I had had an overnight guest and so ended up with a leisurely morning, taking her back home and going in to work late.

Upon arrival, I was delighted that the construction folks popped into my new office, to which I moved right before Christmas, to see if they could put up some shelves to hold "stuff" that had been on one bookcase in my old office that I had to give up in the move because my new office would not hold that many bookcases. Of course, they could! A quick task, right?

No, not so. A couple of hours later they were still working on those shelves, and I had to attend a mandatory meeting in my conference room. Just in case, I took my purse with me.

After the meeting, I had to help out some of the attendees and forgot about the purse. Then, all kinds of problems and promises (incoming new managers) grabbed my attention, and I worked until 10 p.m.

As I got ready to go home, I realized I did not have my purse and could not get into the conference room. Everyone had departed, including the security folks with the master key. I called my operations folks, but, it being Friday night, they were probably out partying. At any rate, they did not answer.

I thought I might have to spend the night there, but when I gave up and went into the parking lot to drive home (thank goodness, I did have my car keys, just not my license, money, and the like), I saw two police who monitor our building talking to each other at the far corner of the lot. I grabbed them and found out that yes, the police did have a master key! Voila! Problem solved.

Purse retrieved, home I came. I arrived just in time to catch the 11:30 Jay Leno show. It was good to laugh at someone other than myself for a change.

(These are the events that one just accepts as a part of the very strange life we live on this earth!)

Noelle Has a New Bed

2012-01-03T01:00:00.000-08:00

It seems that we have beds on the mind these days. Not long ago I wrote about Doah's bed, which Doah used as late as New Year's Eve, staying overnight in our guest room, ostensibly to see the new year in but in reality getting a good night's sleep instead while Donnie partied alone. (I, too, fell asleep early.)

Noelle's bed is another matter. It was our Christmas gift to her, and I cannot describe it without writing a mini-commercial for the Number Bed. To do that, I have to go back about six months.

Around nine months ago, Donnie suggested that we look into purchasing a Sleep Number Bed. He and I have separate firmness needs. I have a broken back (compression fracture at the T-5 level in 1980 that had me in a back brace for three months), and I cannot sleep on a soft bed. (Hotel beds can leave me in pain in the morning.) Donnie loves soft beds; his weight makes it difficult for him to sleep on a bed with the level of firmness I need. With the ability of the Sleep Number Bed to split firmness between sleeping partners, it seemed like a good choice. So, off we trotted to the Sleep Number Bed store, where we learned our "numbers." On a scale of 1-100 of increasing fimness, Donnie's "number" was 40, and mine was 100. No wonder we have had trouble sharing a bed for the past 30 years! The Number Bed was not cheap. I blanched at the cost: in the thousands (although a bed can be obtained for less than a thousand, depending upon sleep needs and local sales). Given the 30-day guarantee of return and the offer of credit to spread payments over two years, I figured it was worth trying out. Indeed, it was. I have not had any back pain since; neither has Donnie. The bed has remained.

When Noelle heard about our experience with the bed, she volunteered that she wished she had a bed like that because she was always in pain when waking up in the morning. Not sure whether the bed would be helpful with spina bifida back issues, we nonetheless ordered a bed as her Christmas present. Same deal: return in 30 days if not satisfied. The cost at $1300 was well beyond any amount we had ever spent on Christmas, all kids' gifts together, yet would be worth it if it helped Noelle. Again, we were able to spread out the payments over two years, making the cost manageable. Talk about the perfect Christmas gift! Noelle has spent the past week telling everyone who will listen how much her life has changed now that she has a bed that will perfectly match her firmness needs.

I cannot recall commercializing for a particular company on this blog before. However, in the case of the Sleep Number Bed, I am a fan -- a fan without back pain. (I imagine that there are other beds that will meet similar needs. I did not test out tempurpedic beds, for example.) If any reader or any reader's family members is waking up with back pain, I recommend looking into the possibility that the Sleep Number Bed will make a tremendous difference in your life.

End of commercial...

Danielle's Prayer

2012-01-02T11:07:00.000-08:00

The following post is a tad long, and for that I apologize. I don't really know how to shorten it, however. It comes from a section of my latest book, A Believer-in-Waiting's First Encounters with God, and tells the story of a special prayer petition made by my sister Danielle when she was very young. I hope you enjoy it.

The “8-pack,” a moniker given to my seven younger siblings and me by my brother Rollie, suffered immense abuse during our childhood. My sister Katrina, in fact, never planned on growing up, certain that she would be killed by our mother before achieving adulthood. However amazing, we all did survive the extensive physical abuse (e.g., being stabbed, thrown into walls, kicked into unconsciousness, pulled down flights of stairs by the hair, and much more), emotional abuse (e.g., being negatively compared with each other, denigrated at every opportunity, and, in one instance, forced to sit on the stairs for hours, expecting to be deliberately set on fire at any moment), and sexual abuse (various male relatives had their way with both the boys and the girls). We had each other for support: the 8-pack was very important to all of us in an age when neighbors and teachers looked the other way. Remarkably, contrary to what most of today’s psychologists would expect, we reached adulthood without any lasting evidence of physical abuse or any significant emotional scars.

After coming to faith, I commented to God, “If only You had been with me during those earlier, difficult days, how much easier it would have been.” To that, a quiet, impressive Voice that still startles me when I hear it, responded “I was with you.” Had I only known!

That interchange reminds me of the experience of St. Anthony, the third-century desert father. As described in The Life of Anthony of Egypt by St. Athanasius, St. Anthony once hid in a cave to escape demons. The demons reached him anyway and seemed to have beaten him to death. His servant brought him out from the cave, and the other hermits prepared to mourn his passing when he unexpectedly revived and demanded that his servant return him to the cave. There he called out to the demons, who returned to attack him. This time, they were stopped by a bright light which Anthony knew to be the presence of God.

“Where were You before,” asked St. Anthony, “when the demons were beating me so badly?”

“I was here,” God replied. “I wanted to wait and see how well you fought for yourself.”

Telling this to Danielle as we walked about the moon-flooded Maine woods one night while visiting my brother Keith, I remarked that I found it unfathomable as to why we would be so protected by God. One can find any number of stories about children who did not survive abuse. Why should we receive special treatment? She looked at me curiously and said, “I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?” I asked.

“What all the rest of the 8-pack knew.”

“What??”

“The very first thing I remember in my life—I think I was only two or three years old—was realizing what a predicament we were in, and I said a prayer: ‘Dear God, Dad is gone all the time, and Ma is a child. So, would You please raise us?’”

It took more than fifty years for me to learn about that prayer. Upon reflection, I believe that neither my siblings nor I were ever far from God’s sight, protection, intentions for our lives, or even the tendency to use us to help others. That could only have been the case if God had answered the prayer of a precocious toddler.

Why would I think that God answered that prayer? Because I am alive today, having survived a dangerously abusive childhood. Because my children are alive today in spite of two having been born with multiple birth defects so severe that doctors gave them little hope for survival, let alone the generally healthy and happy lives that they now lead. Because I have been chronically happy all my life when a person not protected by God might have attempted suicide. Because I am incurably optimistic even though I endured years of poverty and seven clinical deaths of my children. Because I can see where my siblings and I have been used for improving human conditions and helping people in ways that we could not have accomplished alone. And maybe mostly because I don’t know where the parachute has always come from when I have been in the process of falling off a cliff if it has not been being held out to me by God. I have always taken the parachute. I never used to say thank you because I did not think that there was Anyone to thank. At the same time, I never questioned that there would be a parachute if I needed it. It would appear that I had a tacit relationship with God on a subconscious level while totally oblivious to any sense of God in the conscious world.

In today's Monday Morning Meditation on 100th Lamb, I discuss Hosea 11:3, in which God tells of teaching His people to walk, holding his people in His arms (depending upon the translation), and otherwise being with His people -- with their being fully unaware of Him. How sad! (How much sadder to have been part of that group -- and how happy to have found out in time not only about Danielle's prayer but also about the reality that Hosea 11:3 describes!)

Happy New Year! Welcome, 2012!

2012-01-01T10:21:00.001-08:00

Wishing one and all a blessed 2012, which has dawned bright and sunny here in San Ignatio. Along with it has arrived my first decision of the new year: whether or not to take revenge on Donnie.

As usual, Donnie and I had made plans to welcome in the new year with a mini-party. Some champagne. A few snacks. And Doah.

As usual, I feel asleep and became nigh onto comatose around 10:30. Doah lasted another hour, then toddled off to bed, emerging, according to Donnie, around 12:30 in the morning, like a groundhog on Feb. 2, saw his shadow, and scurried back to the bedroom.

As for me, I never did wake up. Donnie, ever the photographer -- and, in this case, as is typical of our New Year's eve celebrations, the lone celebrant -- took a picture of me zonked out on the couch and pasted it on Facebook. Of course, that brought it a lot of comments!

Now, he is sleeping in after all his heavy partying, and I am wide awake, greeting the sunny day and new year. Doah is dancing about, demanding breakfast, and I am ever so tempted to take a picture of Donnie, zonked out in bed, and paste it on Facebook!

Happy days and interesting decisions, my friends, I wish you in 2012!

(note: image from stunningmesh.com -- it stunned me; hope you like it)

Merry Christmas! God Bless Everyone!

2011-12-24T17:52:00.001-08:00

Since I do not blog on Sundays, I will post a Christmas message tonight, Christmas eve. Plans? With all the kids having flown from the nest a decade ago, Donnie and I will be having our Christmas eve dinner at a local Chinese restaurant, run by Korean, prior to midnight Mass, which is at 10:30 this evening. (It finishes at midnight, so the name is not entirely misleading.)

As he does every year, Finnegan, our priest's cat, has wandered from the cold into the warmth of the manger. Both he, and Sula, are parish cat, take turns sleeping in the manger. Sometimes they share it.

Sharing warm Christmas wishes with all! May God bless each one of you tomorrow and all days of this happy season!

Domesticated Cats and Mice

2011-12-16T00:00:00.000-08:00

From time to time, I have blogged about our three cats. They are, after all, a very important part of our family.

Murjan (Arabic name, meaning coral) hails from Jordan, and we adopted him from a friend of a friend when he was six months. We call him our dog cat because he lies on his back and wants his belly rubbed any time I walk through the door. He also licks us like a dog, follows me everywhere, and apparently is about as much of a mouser as a dog, as I shall explain in a bit.

Intrepid came to us as a very young kitten, just weeks old, abandoned too early by his mother, who probably died. He was found, squaling in the grass behind the house of one of the professors who worked for me when I was living in Jordan a half-dozen years ago. He is still a kitten at heart and loves playing with his toys.

Simone we rescued a couple of years ago. She had been a feral cat, living outside our house, and not venturing near us although we fed her. When we moved, she scampered inside the empty house for a look, and I trapped her. The rest is history. It took two years, but she now sleeps with us, wants to be petted, and follows me around much like Murjan does.

All that is prelude to telling the story of this week. For the first time ever, we have had a mouse in the house. Some new food for our cats it seemed to us. Wrong! All three of our cats enjoyed watching the live mouse but preferred playing with the stuffed ones, to which they returned after a few minutes of sitting and watching the live one scamper around the kitchen. As for killing and eating it, that never entered their heads. Food, to them, obviously comes from a can. So, we sighed and called pest control!

Worse, since the mouse appeared, Murjan, all 20 pounds of him, has taken to crawling into our laps, seemingly wanting protection. From the mouse? Now I know the definition of "domestic cat."

Two Anti-Hunger Websites for the Holidays

2011-12-10T00:28:00.000-08:00

As the holidays -- and all the yummy treats that most of us will be eating -- approach, I wanted to share with readers of my blogs two wonderful sites that help those who may not be feeling full during the holidays, or any time during the year for that matter.

The first site, No Kid Hungry, is fledgling group with a good objective: www.nokidhungry.org. The leaders of the movement are asking visitors to their site to take a pledge to reach this goal by 2015.

The other site has been around for years (at least ten years) and does wonderful work: www.thehungersite.com, and I posted about it on H2Helper a while back. This site can be visited every day, and just by spending 2-3 minutes at the site, without any investment other than time, you can help feed hungry children worldwide, contribute to saving the rain forests, help autism research, promote literacy, support veterans, and help abandoned animals -- it is an amazing site.

Happy holidays!

Heritage of Er-er?

2011-12-09T10:04:00.000-08:00

A couple of years ago, I wrote the story of Er-Er, an adopted rooster-to-be, accidentally (we think) abandoned by his mother before he was ready to live independently, who was scooped up by chicken raiders -- something that occurs every couple of years in our chicken-ambivalent town of San Ignatio. (Colorful Mexican chickens wandering the streets are the trademark of our little historical town, but every few years the membership of the City Council changes and some vocal opponents of chickens convinces the council to open the city doors to chicken nabbers -- even to pay them $5 per chicken for the roundup.) And, so, we lost our Er-er.

I had not thought much about Er-er in recent days, but yesterday, as I was leaving Old Mission, a mother hen with two teenage hens-to-be in tow walked right up to me as I stood beside car to open the door. In fact, she had to cross the street to get to me. She looked at me, turned her head to make sure her teens were in tow, and then all three looked at me and did not move even as I opened the door, got in the car, and very slowly and carefully drove off. I looked in the rear-view mirror, and they were still standing in the middle of the lane, watching me. I wondered if the hen might have been one of Er-er's siblings, whom we fed, along with his mother, from the time they were little chicks until they were teens and the mother shooed them out of the nest. At one time, I even rescued them from a marauding stray dog while the mother clucked furiously from a tree top, wrenching one little chick out of the dog's mouth and returning him unharmed to his mother (not the smartest thing I have ever done).

It seemed as if this hen thought she knew me, and the encounter was as if she were introducing me to her offspring. Who knows? Chickens are not supposed to have memories at all, but all these chicks knew where their "home" was, and even when Er-er would wander away and I would find him several streets away, if I hollered to him, "Er-er, go home and eat breakfast," he would lift his head and make a beeline for the house. As I said, who knows? Why does a chicken cross the road? Perhaps, in this case, to introduce her chicks to Aunt Beth.

I Didn't Ask

2011-12-08T06:43:00.000-08:00

I had meant a few weeks ago to share an extraordinary event that happened a few weeks ago, but I got caught up in daily living, which for me means being somewhere other than at home. Noelle, as mentioned in an earlier post (back in July -- my, how time flies), had been having some difficulties with her apartment situation, and how that was resolved was remarkable.

“Ask, and ye shall receive,” we are told. But so many times, I do not ask, yet receive. And many other times, I ask for a little (e.g., strength to bear pain from a medical problem) and receive a lot (e..g., medical problem removed). I wonder sometimes if God does not find joy in giving us more than we expect, anticipate, or deserve.

To recap my concern about Noelle’s apartment situation, she had clearly been being used by a so-called friend (we could not find any behavior that one would expect from a friend) who decided to move in with her and refused to move out. The friend was not on the lease and did not pay any of the rent. She lived there for several months before the apartment manager noticed and told Noelle that the friend had to move out because Noelle was in violation of her lease.

Noelle seemed completely under the spell of this person and was about to get evicted from her handicapped-accessible, low-rent apartment. In the current economic climate, she would neither be able to find something similar nor would she be able to afford something different. Yet, she did not want to talk to Donnie and me about. She said she was independent and would do as she chose. We were further stymied because even the sheriff could not remove her friend without a lengthy process. Once the friend had lived there for a few weeks, she was considered a resident even though the apartment manager had told Noelle repeatedly that her friend had to leave. Truly a mess it was.

Then, the logjam broke. It could have been my telling Noelle that Donnie and I would not help her if she ended up on the street because the situation would have been of her own making. It could also have been the fear of ending up on the street although that had not come up earlier. In reality, I think it was my e-note to Noelle that if she ended up on the street, she might lose her kitty. I think protecting her kitty gave her the strength to stand up to her friend and tell her to leave.

But the friend refused to leave. Noelle contacted me. Donnie and I drove to Salts to be witnesses when Noelle gave her friend a written eviction notice. Explaining the contents, Noelle handed the note to her friend, who refused to look at it, knocking it to the floor, stating that she had no intention of reading the note and that we (Donnie and I) could just put ourselves outside the door; we were not wanted there. Noelle was nonplussed; being in a wheelchair, she could hardly physically eject her friend.

“You don’t have to read the letter,” I stepped up. “There are three witnesses here who are telling you the content, which says that you are required to leave immediately.”

She repeated that she had no intention of leaving, that she could not find another apartment to her liking, and she would be staying as long as she needed to. She raised her voice. Her chutzpah would astonish even the most brazen soul.

Noting to her that she had been given formal notice, we left, planning to call the apartment manager in the morning even though I was flying to the East Coast that day. We were concerned that the manager was getting ready to present an eviction notice to Noelle, and sometimes eviction notices cannot be repealed.

Noelle is an unconserved adult, so we had not been involved in her lease or any other aspect of her life except where requested. And we could not be involved with the apartment manager without her permission. Now we had her permission, and now we saw the whole picture.

As we exited the building, a man, identifying himself as Wentworth, approached us and asked if we were Noelle’s relatives. I have no idea how he put two and two together. We admitted the relationship. Then he told us that he was the assistant manager and lived in that same building. We told Noelle’s side of the story since, under the influence of her friend, Noelle had been incommunicado with anyone in management of the apartment complex. The manager was indeed preparing an eviction notice.

Now that the assistant manager knew the situation, he said the management would help get the friend out, including filing formal eviction papers on her behalf against the squatter. He made a copy of the note Noelle had given her friend, and then he called the police, who showed up right away. While the police could not remove the friend, they scared her.

Later that evening, Wentworth, who had taken our phone numbers, called me and told me that the friend had just left on her own volition. He said that all was back in order with Noelle’s lease, and that the management would keep an eye on Noelle for a while to make sure the friend did not sneak back in and try to browbeat her into letting her stay there. He commented before hanging up how “providential” it was that he had seen us and everything had worked out so easily. He also commented on how surprising God can be and how clearly God watches over Noelle.

That evening at Mass, a visiting priest told us in his homily that we all should ask for God’s help more often and not try to depend upon ourselves. Certainly, I would have prayed about the situation when I got home had I not received the phone call from Wentworth. However, I had not yet had a chance to ask when the actors and actions needed for resolution suddenly appeared on the scene. When you practice the Presence of God in the way of Br. Lawrence, sometimes God, always being with you, answers even before you ask!

(also posted on Modern Mysticism)

God's Trust and My Children/Grandchildren

2011-12-05T01:07:00.000-08:00

Recently in our prayer group, one of our members talked about some difficult times she and her family were facing, and she called it a "test" from God. We moved from there to similar kinds of issues in other members' families and then on to a discussion about my children, especially the three (two of my own and one who came and lived with us) who must deal with one or more birth defects (Noelle, Doah, Shura), along with my grandchildren who have also been affected by these family "gifts" (Nathaniel having been born with hydronephrosis and Nikolina with that, too, as well as OEIS Complex). It surprised me to learn that these people of God looked at my children and my family situation so differently from the way I look at it.

First, my children are not burdens. They are blessings.

Second, life with these children is not difficult although it is challenging. It is a constant opportunity to learn and to grow, including learning how to lean on God and others God sends, which, I believe, is something that God wants us to do.

Most important, in no way do I think that God is testing me or my family. Rather, I feel favored that God would trust me (of all people) with something so special. Likewise, I don't believe that my friends are experiencing a test from God. I believe that they are experiencing God's trusting them not only to cope with the difficult situations that they face but also to learn from them and to grow in faith (and yes, trust).

May God continue to bless all of us in this extraordinary way, and may we learn and grow and live up to His trust in us!

Spiritual Sunday #38: Doah Went to Court, or God Knew Best

2011-12-04T09:20:00.000-08:00

On Sundays, I usually participate in the Spiritual Sunday meme on my main blog, 100th Lamb. The post I chose this weekend, however, is about my youngest son, Doah, and so I thought it would be of interest to readers of Clan of Mahlou. For more Spiritual Sunday posts, I recommend that you wander over to the website of Charlotte and Ginger, who host the Spiritual Sunday meme.

Because I do not blog on Sundays -- keeping it as the sabbath, a practice started by Fr. Christian Mathis (Blessed Is the Kingdom) -- I use older posts (forgotten perhaps but hopefully still interesting) from one or another of my blogs that seem appropriate for this meme. It seems to work to bring out the older posts that many have not read before or ones from other blogs I maintain that readers of 100th Lamb may not know about.

This week I decided to change pace a little and share a post related to one of my children, now grown, and a difficult period (oh, there were so many): Doah Went to Court, Or God Knew Best.

And here is the post-reprinted:

With another interesting comment coming in early this morning on the topic of God (not) answering prayer, I am thinking again about the post about my catechism classes and the teenagers' frustration when God does not give them exactly what they want -- and, in reaction, they declare that God is dead or does not exist. (Of course, much of that is for the dramatic effect on us teachers, and the rest of it is to keep up the "cool" image of the cheerleaders and ball players in the class.) What I tell them is to look beyond their own agenda and see what God might know that is better than what they want.

A highly troubling personal example bubbles to mind when I think about prayer and God knowing best. When I first returned from Jordan three years ago, I learned that my mentally challenged son Doah had gotten into some serious trouble at the local mall. At the time, he was living in a group home for disabled adults and working at a sheltered workshop, as he does now. He was in his mid-twenties, but because he never surpassed 4'7", he never seemed to be older than 8-10 years old, which is the outside limits on his mental development as well. A very affectionate person, he had seen a young girl he knew at the mall. She was with her parents. He went over to her and hugged her. At that point, all manner of chaos broke loose. Although Doah's size was the same as the girl's, the girl was only 13. The parents freaked; Doah does look "different." Mall security seized Doah, and off he went to jail. The group home director got him out of jail, but the district attorney wanted to prosecute even after the parents, who had finally figured out what was happening, dropped the charges. The DA had a goal: Get retarded people off the streets of Salts, the city where Doah lived.

Lizzie, my oldest daughter, was visiting at the time that Doah's first appearance in court took place. We had only about a day's notice. I had just returned from a long time out of the country, and the group home was not used to my being around to inform about such things and had somehow also missed informing Shane, who looks out for Doah when Donnie and I are not around. Donnie was still in Jordan. So, Lizzie and I went to court with Doah. However, because Doah is not conserved and is of age, neither of us was allowed to appear with him. We had to sit in the back of the courtroom.

When the judge called Doah, he read him the charges: sexual molestation. (For a hug!??!) The judge then asked Doah if he understood the charges. Of course, he did not. He appeared quite confused, and the judge repeated, "Please answer me. Do you understand the charges?"

Doah responded, "You give me credit card? I buy something?" Now the judge was confused! He looked around the courtroom, somewhat desperately, and saw Doah's social work leaning over the barrier.

"Are you with this young man?" he asked.

The social worker identified his name and position and was allowed to approach the bench. He told them that there was family in the area and that the family wanted a private attorney. (The judge had been about to assign a court-appointed attorney, and, I fear, that would have been a railroad job. The DA would have had his highly visible case that could have turned into sanctioned discrimination against an entire class of people.)

We have a friend who is considered one of the best defense attorneys in Salts. I had actually been instrumental at one point in putting him on the fast track to practicing law in California so he helps us out from time to time. He took Doah's case gratis. He thought it would be open-and-shut, but it turned out that the DA would not budge. He had a chance to make a name for himself and get his agenda implemented, and he planned to do it. Our lawyer was temporarily stymied, and Doah was definitely going to be put on trial. There were only two possible outcomes of such a trial: (1) jail for a year, or (2) probation and identification for life as a sex offender.

So, if Doah were your son, which outcome would you pray for? Being in jail would have taught my little imitator how to do many bad things that would have followed him the rest of his life to his detriment. Probation was fine, but being labeled as a sex offender would also have followed him all his life to his detriment. So, I asked God for the only thing I thought could possibly work: for God to make the decision on what would happen to Doah.

The morning after that prayer, our lawyer called me excitedly. He said he had turned the case over and over in his mind and saw no way to win; he had spent a couple of days trying to convince the DA that what he was doing was wrong-headed and not appropriate in this case and still saw no way to win, given the DA's stubbornness. Then, when he got out of bed that morning, a thought from nowhere had tumbled into his head: the DA has a supervisor. So, he went to the DA's supervisor, explained the whole case, told him that he had known Doah since Doah was 9 years old, and that what had happened was only a result of Doah's generally friendly nature. The supervisor agreed that there was more than met the eye, requested a psychological examination, and said that a third option would be added: If the psychological examination confirmed the lawyer's analysis, then Doah would be put on probation for a year and if there were no further incidents all court records would be expunged as if nothing had ever occurred.

And, so, that is exactly what happened. The psychologist said that Doah had the mental acuity only to determine whether a behavior was good or bad but not the ability to understand that a good behavior becomes a bad behavior depending upon circumstance. That would be too fine a distinction for him to make. In other words, hugging is good at home, school, church, parties where you know everyone, but it is bad at the mall. Doah could not possibly draw that kind of conclusion, given his mental capacity. So, option three was taken by the court, and a year later the DA himself requested that the case be withdrawn and the records removed.

How blessed we were that God had a third answer. How happy I am that I did not ask for one of the only two options that I knew about. (I suspect, though, that if I had asked for one of those options, God would still have introduced the third, better, one.)

So, yes, I say to my catechism students, God does say "no," and we should be grateful that God knows best!

The Value of Flattery

2011-12-02T06:52:00.000-08:00

The below text is one I just posted on Mahlou Musings, an excerpt from a book I wrote several years ago. I thought, since Noelle and Doah, occupy front and center in the text, it might also be worth sharing on The Clan of Mahlou.

Lewis Lapham (Lapham's Rules of Influence) advises the profuse use of flattery. He writes that "flattery is comparable to suntan lotion or ski wax. It cannot be too often or too recklessly applied."

My two handicapped children, Noelle and Doah, know this. As children and adults, unlike what one might expect, they have been quite popular, among others reasons, because they routinely use flattery.

For example, Doah, when needing help, will often address a nearby woman, "Excuse me, pretty lady. You help me, please?" What woman does not like to be called pretty?

And who would not feel good about helping someone clearly disabled who shows appreciation through more flattery by saying, for example, "Thank you. You're a nice person. I like you."

Likewise, Noelle once got me out of a traffic ticket when I accidentally drove through a stop sign. A four-year-old at the time, she was clearly thrilled at the sight of the police officer who pulled me over. While I searched for the car registration, she gushed flattery at him, telling him how wonderful she thought policemen were, how kind, and how helpful. He told me to forget the registration, that he would give me only a warning because he did not want my daughter not to like policemen.

Although she became more sophisticated about how she words things, Noelle has continued to use flattery and to be treated with warmth by people with whom she interacts. For example, she had a series of negative experiences at what I shall call Hospital A in Washington and ultimately we transferred her to Georgetown University Hospital, where she had a series of positive experiences. Near the beginning of her treatment there, she had to be hospitalized. Unfortunately, no beds were immediately available, so the staff spread out a blanket on the floor of her room. The clinic director, embarrassed by this situation, stayed with Noelle two hours until a bed was found. She apologized to Noelle several times.

Noelle's response was, "Hey, I'd rather be on the floor here than in the softest bed at Hospital A." Obviously, that piece of flattery made Noelle a favorite patient for the entire time she was at Georgetown University Hospital.

We all like to hear other people say good things about us. They, too, like to hear good things said about them. Flattery often works where other means of motivation fail.

My sister, Danielle, points out that when flattery is sincere, there are many ways to get the good intentions to multiply. She cites the example of her husband, Bill, who has often elicited support and astounding service by first complimenting the employee sincerely with supporting details and then going on to report the employee's exceptional service and performance to the employee's supervisor, attributing the employee's attitude and performance to the supervisor's skill in management.

"By the end of the conversation," she wrote to me, "the supervisor and supervisee are dancing around Bill to see that everything goes smoothly."

So, slather the flattery wherever it is deserved!

----

Excerpted and adapted from a collection of vignettes I published, copyright 2003.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2011-11-24T08:06:00.000-08:00

I have no intention of spending Thanksgiving Day at a computer. In fact, I have all kinds of other plans, but I did want to wish all readers a happy -- and tasty -- day. As for me, I have a guest (friend) from Washington, DC, who has been here all week with me. Doah and I intend to attend the Thanksgiving Mass in the morning, then our whole family will go over to the community dinner that is sponsored by our parish. I think it is a bit unique. Every year the entire community (our town has only a little over 1000 people, including children) is invited to a free Thanksgiving dinner at a restaurant-like building that our parish owns. Those who have cooking talent provide the food. Others serve or clean up. Since I have absolutely no cooking talent, my family and I serve on the clean-up crew. Every year hundreds eat for free -- rich and poor alike (and together). It is a great way to spend Thanksgiving!

However you spend your Thanksgiving, I hope it will be a day to remember and a day for which you find yourself grateful!

Doah's Birthday Party

2011-11-21T00:07:00.000-08:00

Saturday we had birthday celebration #32 for Doah. As usual, we all crowded into our local Pizza Factory, and they were ready for us with lots of pizza, drinks, and an open tab. It was a bit sad, though, because our priest, who has not been with us for several months now (see the sad, frustrating story here -- almost over, though, because the diocese has now established his innocence), was missing for the first time in four years. The mood, nonetheless, was festive and raucous. Everyone in the place knew that Doah was having a party, and he himself acted as master of ceremonies.

Did I think to take pictures? Nope! I had to have been quite dense about it all because I had my iPhone with me and was showing pictures from the past on it to everyone there. Oh, well, I will leave it to everyone's imagination to picture how it all went down.

Donnie ordered a cake from a local bakery. I think he must have been hungry because he showed up with a gigantic box. I asked him how many it would serve, and he said 60. Needless to say, after feeding all the party-goers, all the pizza makers, and all the other customers who wanted a piece of cake, we had quite a bit of leftover. Everyone took some cake home, and we still had leftovers. So, I will take a pan of cake over to the parish office later today. Someone has to help us devour all this icing-covered chocolate!

As we were sitting in the car after all the festivities had ended, getting ready to pull out of the parking lot, Noelle commented, "Do you think it would be a good idea to take the leftover cake off the hood of the car before we leave?" Ah, yeah! Really good idea!

Shades of Arlington cookies! Many years ago, when Professor Lizzie was a high school student, I made some cookies for a band booster fundraiser for Washington-Lee High School in Arlington, Virginia. (I believe they were edible although I have grave doubts as to whether they were tasty, considering the reputation of the cook.) I wrapped them in saran wrap, and we all dashed to the car for the short ride to the high school. That morning everyone waved at us along the way -- it was a real friendly morning. When we got to the high school parking lot, though, we found out that it was not actually a friendly morning, just a matter of kind folks trying to get our attention as we dashed from intersection to intersection, hoping that we would realize that they were pointing out the plate of saran-wrapped cookies, bouncing along with us on the roof of the car.

11111

2011-11-01T23:11:00.000-07:00

Now, that may be a strange title for a post, but it is actually meaningful. Quite meaningful, really. Today is the first day of the 11th month of the 11th year (11/1/11). More important, though, today is Donnie's birthday. Double special.

Now, how we are celebrating is a story that might be unexpected. We are watching the Chronicles of Narnia on television, eating raspberries, and regaining energy after two unplanned days of Doah at home!

How that came about is a long story. Here is the synopsis, as I related on FaceBook:

Sunday evening FB:

It's going to be a long night. Doah is staying over. AFTER we got home, he announced that tomorrow, which he will be taking off from work, is his last day at that job, and he wants to say good-bye. We have one car; that one is taking me to work in the morning in the opposite direction of Doah's work. Then, a half hour later, he announced that his cat allergy had kicked into high gear. We have one air filter -- I just moved it into the guest room for him, with fingers crossed it will do the trick. Then he announced that he was too tired to sleep (gotta think about that one..) and came into the living room, announcing after a few minutes that he was too bored not to sleep and meandered back to the bedroom. (I am going to go pull him out of there in a minute and take him for a LONG walk!) I kinda remember now what it was like having an adult Doah at home full time. As I said, it will be a LONG night. (Did we have more energy or more patience 10 years ago? Or, maybe more entertaining toys since clearly we are not considered entertaining!) Well, where it all ends is . . . Halloween -- the purpose of bringing him home for a day. (That is TOO LONG a story to even start here, so just take it on faith that this was the only way to make Halloween happen this year.) Now, I am feeling too tired to sleep... (just kidding -- off for that walk...)

We did take that walk! And it helped Doah to sleep as late as 5:00 a.am. The story continues below.

Monday evening FB:

We survived Doah's visit -- well, mostly. Doah was up at 5 a.m., asking if it was time to get up for the day. No, Doah, not really. Then, again at 6:00, which got a positive answer since I had to get up for work. Then, Donnie called me twice at work -- Doah'd out the first time; needed Doah, who wanted to take an unaccompanied stroll about town, reined in the second. I ended up leaving work an hour early to rescue my husband from my son. Took Doah to the USPO and store for milk. Hey, it's diverting. Coming home, the sheriff had stopped his car in the left lane on Fifth Street and rolled down his window, waiting for us. Wondering why, I drove up to him and rolled down my window. He leaned over, looked at Doah, and said, "Hi, pal. How you doing?" Yep, everyone knows Doah! After that, Doah and I went to All Saints' Mass at the mission. More diversion. Then it was Halloween time. I decided to take Doah only to homes of people we know. The first person was out. The second one was out. The third one was out. Not scoring very well initially. Then, we dropped by the convent, where, because the convent is behind the parish office, few people realize that they can walk back in there for trick-or-treat. So, Doah was the first (and perhaps the only). We went into the living room, where the nuns had quite a store of candy and homemade treats. We tasted everything and talked for about ten minutes. Before leaving, we took pictures of everyone with Sr. D's camera. (Donnie tells me that where he grew up in Niagara Falls, this was typical behavior. Not so for where I grew up in northern New England.) Then Sr. M decided to come trick-or-treating with us. She knew more people, so we went to a bunch of fun houses. Along the way, our friend Silvia from Hollister drove by to drop her husband off at a meeting, then decided to join us for trick-or-treating. So, now we had gathered three adults to supervise one Doah. Yeah, that would be just about the right ratio! ;) Meanwhile, Donnie held down the fort at home -- in vain; no one wanted to trek our hill for a little Halloween candy. So day finally over, Donnie drove Doah and our leftover candy back to Hollister, and I curled with my cat Murjan at my feet. (Make that, puppy dog Murjan -- he insists on having his belly rubbed and likes to lick my face -- not much like a cat at all.) No sooner had we settled in than the doorbell rang -- a bunch of trick-or-treaters had traipsed our hill, but now I had no candy! All in all, though, it was a diverting day, from which we are definitely going to need tomorrow to recover.

Happy (belated) Halloween!

A Great Beginning

2011-10-25T17:02:00.000-07:00

On the way to work last Friday morning, I stopped off at the local 7-11 store to pick up some flowers for employees to celebrate their recent accomplishment. As I was looking at the flowers, I saw a mother and her young son (perhaps age 7) walking out of the store and overheard their conversation.

Son: "I really don't like this breakfast sandwich."
Mother: "I know you don't, but it was the cheapest one, and you need something."
Son: "OK. I really wanted the other one."
Mother: "The other one costs 71 cents more, and I only have another quarter."
Son: "It's okay, Mom. I can eat this one."

The store owner/manager overheard the conversation, too, and called out to the couple, "Ma'am, please come back. I will sell you the other sandwich for 25 cents."

The mother and son came back. The exchange was made, with smiles all around. Then, saying good-bye, the mother and son left the store.

As the door swung shut, the little boy put his foot in it, turning around, and called out to the owner/manager in a loud voice, "THANK YOU!"

I think everyone in the store that morning experienced a great beginning to their day.

Believer in Waiting

2011-10-07T00:50:00.000-07:00

My second spiritual book is out! The title, as you can see, is A Believer-in-Waiting's First Encounters with God. I will try to post some excerpts here from time to time. (Actually, I have already posted some excerpts from the draft on my Modern Mysticism blog.) The first set of books will be going to reviewers who signed up with Library Thing, but I notice that Amazon has been quick off the start and already has it available for ordering. I hope that anyone who reads either the book or the excerpts will enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them. It was one of those books that seems to write itself. I do hope to have copies of my own in about a week, at which time I will host a book coming out party for local friends who read the prepublication manuscript and provided feedback. If you read it, I would love to hear your feedback!!

Think Challenge, Not Impossibility

2011-09-13T07:40:00.000-07:00

Once again, I have posted a "musing" to Mahlou Musings that seems to fit here in the clan space as well. So, here is that thought -- it comes from my 2003 book of vignettes.

"Where there's a will, there's a way" is the line written under the picture of a mouse pulling an elephant up a hill. That picture has hung on my wall for a very long time. My friend and former roommate, Katie, gave it to me years ago because she thought it exemplified my attitude toward life. She's right. It does.

When my daughter, Noelle, was very small, she would occasionally say, "I can't." That, to me, was not the appropriate response to a difficult situation even though she was paraplegic and coping with a few other problems, such as epilepsy and hydrocephalus (water on the brain).

"No," I would tell her. "Can't is not the word you are searching for. You want the word, how, and the question, how can this be done? Think challenge, not impossibility. Where there's a will, there's a way."

As a young child, she learned this lesson very quickly, perhaps partly because it fits her own instinctive philosophy of life. Slides of preschool Noelle feeding the cows on her grandmother's farm, slopping the pigs, riding the tractor with her Uncle Will, and swinging on gliders with her very young aunts, Sharon and Victoria, were used in a multi-conference presentation by her neurosurgeon on the topic, "What Spina Bifida Children Can Do."

Noelle was lucky. She met other people who thought challenge, not impossibility. When she wanted to learn to roller skate because her kindergarten class went roller skating once a week at the next-door roller rink, Andi Kush, her physical therapist, did not say, "Paraplegic children cannot roller skate."

She said instead, "Well, we have to figure out a way to do it safely. Crutches and roller skates are not compatible." She recommended a walker with rollers on the front and rubber tips on the back, and that worked just fine.

The guard at the roller rink also thought that a mouse could pull an elephant up a hill. When Noelle became discouraged from multiple falls, he did not say, "Roller skating with braces and a walker is probably too hard; don't worry about it."

Instead, he come up to her outside the rink and sat down beside her. "I've been watching you," he said. "If you keep up that hard work, one day you'll be a champion."

Reinvigorated, Noelle pulled herself back up from the bench. Pushing her walker ahead of her, she skated back into the rink.

Many students who might have failed have graduated from programs I have directed because teachers thought challenge, not impossibility. "Can't is a word that I don't understand," I would tell any who claimed that a student could not learn and needed to be disenrolled. "Figure out how the student learns and teach him or her that way."

Figuring out how students learn has led to drastically reduced attrition rates in my educational programs. That attitude led to the graduation of proud students who might otherwise have left or been disenrolled and demoralized. What the teachers and I learned in that process has led to articles, book chapters, and books, sharing that information with colleagues around the world. It has also led to my conducting seminars on that topic in many countries, often team-teaching with some of those teachers who made the discoveries with me years ago.

The most recent example was with Doah a decade ago. Due to his mental retardation and very low IQ, our local public schools refused to teach him to read anything but highly functional words, such as exit and toilet. Teachers and administrators told me routinely that reading was an inappropriate goal for him. After he graduated from high school, he began regular tutoring sessions with a former elementary school teacher, Julie, who had a different attitude. As a result, he began to read real books, ultimately writing one with my help that was featured by the press at the National Book Exhibit in Los Angeles in 2003, where he spent some time as an author, signing books for visitors.

"After I gave up trying to teach him the standard way and my way," Julie told me, "I paid attention to how he learns, and I began to teach him his way. That worked." Of course, it worked. It worked because she was thinking how, not can't. It worked because she was thinking challenge, not impossibility.

On Feeling Rich

2011-09-06T01:00:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning, feeling like a princess. I had a sheet underneath me, a sheet over me, a blanket on top of that, and then, riches of all riches, a fluffy bedspread to snuggle into. Ever since purchasing a new bed in early July and moving our old bed into the empty bedroom for Doah and guests, we have had only a blanket on top.

I have hankered after a bedspread not because it is the commonly accepted way to finish a bed -- everyone knows I am eccentric, anyway, so having a blanket was sufficient in many respects: warmth, covering, etc. No, I just wanted a bedspread the way children want a ball or candy or something special. For me, the bedspread was special.

Certainly, with my income I can afford a bedspread. But there is an odd thing about my income: it disappears rather quickly. (I suppose I am not unique in that way.) First, there is Shane who needs $300 a month for special milk for Nikolina who is missing most of her intestines. Then there is Lizzie and her cat, who seems to need surgery periodically. Then Doah and Noelle, who needed scads of money to pay for medical expenses as children but need little these days, are always happy to have a small gift. And that's family. After that, there is Sula, the parish cat, who needs surgery -- I promised God's credit card in support of that cost. And the mission and the retreat center and other charities. And, the most fun of all, nearly every day someone who happens into my life who needs the money more than I do. After all, I need little and, surprisingly, I find myself post-conversion wanting little. I enjoy sprinkling my income around in this way, but somehow it did not leave any extra for a bedspread the past two months.

Until I got my recent travel reimbursement and per diem and found that I had spent considerably less on eating than my office thought I should have. Yippee! Bedspread money!

There is something special about waiting. There is something special about wanting. Instant gratification does not compare with the richness of want deferred or potential want gratification given away to someone else.

Yes, I feel rich with my new bedspread. However, I feel even richer each time I am able to take money from my pocket and give it to someone who needs it more.

(Also posted on 100th Lamb.)

Laughter in the Midst of Stress

2011-08-30T09:01:00.000-07:00

Here is another vignette from my 2003 book of vignettes that I posed on Mahlou Musings today and thought might be interesting to readers of Clan of Mahlou since it provides some insights into the days when the kids were small -- and life was far more stressful than it is now. Now I know that survival is possible, but there were times back then when, sandwiched between the pleasant times, the fun, and the games, there was such inordinate stress -- especially the two times that Noelle experienced clinical death and the five times that Doah did -- when I felt pretty much like the image looks!

Raising two multiple-handicapped children certainly had its moments of stress. At times, it has been very natural to wish for a traditional family and "normal" (if one can define "normal") children. That was not to be, of course. Dealing with problem situations humorously has been the easiest way to ease the stress.

Whenever I would have trouble finding the humor in a situation, I would think of the experience of my friend, Susan (not her real name), and her consultation with a very wise psychiatrist. Remember his words always brought forth laughter -- for both of us.

Susan was in an even worse situation than I was. At one point, her daughter had been diagnosed with childhood diabetes -- a false alarm -- and her son had a very real, very rare, and very life-threatening immune system deficiency (previously colloquially referred to as "bubble baby" syndrome) that required daily doctor visits for years. Yet, she continued to work, and together with her husband, they managed all their problems.

Then, her husband developed cancer. The local Pittsburgh doctors could not help. They gave her husband six months to live. Susan decided to take him to an oncologist in Philadelphia. Taking their children with them, they locked up their home and left, not knowing when they would return. The oncologist in Philadelphia was quite talented, and after several weeks of treatment, it appeared that Susan's husband might have a shot at a somewhat longer life than previously predicted. Although months of cancer treatment would still be needed, further treatment could be carried out at home in Pittsburgh.

With some relief but also with some continuing concerns, Susan, her husband, and children returned home. There they found that someone had broken into their house, and nearly everything they owned was gone. When and how it had happened, no one seemed to know.

Considering this the final straw, Susan did some research to determine who was considered the best psychologist in the area. She made an urgent appointment with him.

The next day she found herself in the psychiatrist's office, explaining her situation. With no deliberation, he looked at her and said, "I don't know how to help you, and I'm not going to charge you. If I were in your shoes, I would go out and have myself a well earned nervous breakdown."

Whether or not his words were meant to be a joke does not matter. She took them that way and had a very long laugh. Whenever life's complications seemed overwhelming, she thought about that well earned nervous breakdown to which she had a right, would decide not to exercise her right at the moment, and the stress would sneak away.

She shared this experience with me. When the stress of raising several "special" children threatened to overwhelm, I, too, would think about the well earned nervous breakdown which I had the right to choose or not choose, and I each time I chose the laughter.

Shane, Lemony, and Ocean Animals

2011-08-29T00:11:00.000-07:00

Years ago, when Shane and Lemony were dating and then in the early years of their marriage, until Lemony became pregnant with Nathaniel, the two of them worked on a team of swimmers in Monterey, attached to the Monterey Bay Aquarium and the Sausalito Mammal Center, who rescued sick and beach sea mammals. Those that could be saved locally were delivered to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Typically, these were the smaller animals who were lightly wounded or simply sick, such as sea otters. The more seriously ill mammals were taken all the way to Sausalito, a drive of nearly three hours.

From the time he received his license at age 16, Shane was the driver of choice for the trips to Sausalito even though technically he should have been 21 before being given this responsibility. Nearly always, he would stop in Salts at our house, which was near the beginning of the trek up Route 101 to San Francisco. I would always make him a meal, and while he was eating, I would be be treated to an up close and personal meeting with the rescued animal in the back of the transport truck. I have met at touching distance (although I knew better than to touch) walruses, sea lions, seals, and a host of other interesting animals that one never sees at such close range. After delivering his special charge, Shane would nearly always follow up on the animal's progress until it was released back into the open sea.

Unfortunately, Lemony was not allowed to do sea rescue while pregnant. She did go back to it for a short while when Nathaniel grew a little older, but after the birth of Nikolina, for whom there are no qualified babysitters, the days of animal rescue were in the past. From that point on, Shane and Lemony spent a few days a month nearly every month at the Aquarium with Nathaniel and Nikolina, who love the animals. They are all members of the Aquarium and can come and go whenever they wish.

That is about to come to an end, however. Shane has just been transferred (by request for financial reasons) to Sacramento. Lemony, kids, and Shane will be here only one more month. Talking to Lemony today, she related a list of the many things that must be accomplished before they can leave town (things like packing, weeding out possessions, getting medical and school records -- and visiting the Aquarium). I sensed that the Aquarium is going to be near the top of the list of things that they will miss.

I hope that they will find an inland way of helping God's other critters. There is certainly a different world of animals awaiting young Nathaniel and Nikolina in our amazing world that differs so immensely from place to place. Right now, they are feeling a sense of loss; perhaps soon they will feel a sense of gain.

Taking a Broader Perspective

2011-08-16T00:16:00.000-07:00

Another shared post -- this one from Mahlou Musings where, among other things, I post excerpts from a book of vignettes that I published in 2003. Since the post included both Noelle and Shura, whose stories are part of the life of the clan of Mahlou, I thought it made some sense to double-post in this case.

Far too often, we consider the impact of the moment only. How things affect us right now tends to be more important than how they fit into the bigger scheme of things. In fact, when one is irritated, angry, disappointed, or threatened, it is very difficult to see the larger picture. Yet, that is precisely when it is most important to keep things in perspective.

My younger daughter, Noelle, copes with spina bifida, a neurological defect that, among other things, has left her with full paralysis below the waist. However, she has nearly always kept matters in perspective. Taking a broad perspective has allowed her to lead a fairly normal life -- attend local schools, go to college, work part-time, play (including roller-skating), and the like. In fact, her ability to take a broader view of things has at times quite surprised the medical profession.

A few years ago, she was sitting in a wheelchair, not paying much attention to her feet. First, she was not used to a wheelchair, having used long-leg braces for ambulation up until that time, and second, she does not feel her feet. As a result, when she accidentally caught her small toe in the spokes of the chair's wheel, she did not notice and ended up tearing the toe nearly off. Amputation was the only resolution of the problem.

Clearly, the doctor who amputated felt sorry for Noelle and wanted to help her through her feelings of loss. However, Noelle had no feelings of loss.

"Are you missing your toe?" asked the doctor. What she meant to ask was whether Noelle was feeling bad that the toe had to be amputated.

Noelle, already looking at the situation from the broader perspective, took the doctor's words literally. "Yep," she replied. "It's all gone."

Somewhat taken aback, the doctor clarified. "No, I meant, do you miss having a toe there?"

To that Noelle replied, "I have never felt that toe. How can I miss something I never knew I had?"

I learned the lesson of acting within a broad perspective even more dramatically from Dr. John Blanco, an orthopedic surgeon at the University of Virginia Hospital (referred to in some of my writings, those that are pseudonymized, as Virginia State Hospital). At the time, I was the American guardian for Shura Ivanovich, who illustrated my vignettes book. I had brought him to the United States from Siberia, where he was not being adequately treated for spina bifida. Like my daughter's, his legs were also paralyzed but not as extensively. He was able to ambulate with crutches alone. However, as a result of inadequate care, both of his legs had become gangrenous, and the flesh on his feet had been eaten away.

Bringing Shura to the United States took nearly a year. The American Embassy in Moscow required incredible amounts of paperwork -- notes from the doctors in Siberia and notes and faxes from American doctors. Even then, the visa was denied, and I went to Moscow personally to intercede. Some of the embassy personnel were former students of mine, and they vouched for my sincerity and honesty to the consular officers. Finally, we had the visa, but Shura's condition had worsened. He was in the hospital. It took another couple of months before he was stable enough to move, during which time the gangrene worsened.

Once in the United States, Shura's first need was orthopedic care, which Dr. Blanco donated. What was needed was unfortunately very clear: a double amputation. The gangrene by then had taken over both legs, requiring amputation at the knee for one leg and amputation at the calf for the other. Shura took it in stride and readily gave permission. I, however, was devastated. I had to know the impact of the delay in getting the visa on the need for amputation.

"Could you have saved Shura's legs if we had brought him here a year earlier?" I asked. I thought I knew the answer. However, Dr. Blanco understood what was behind the question and gave me both an honest answer and a broader perspective.

"Perhaps I could have saved one of the legs," he replied. "The other leg was probably in poor shape even a year ago although I might have been able to save more of it. The important thing, however, is not whether getting him here earlier would have saved his legs. Rather, getting him here now saved his life."

A leg or a life -- that is a rather vivid way to describe what a broader perspective means.

Monday Morning Meditation #89: Pride of Your Children

2011-08-15T12:21:00.000-07:00

I don't believe I have ever posted a Monday Morning Meditation on this blog site before, reserving them for my 100th Lamb blog. However, I could not resist since the verse that came up this week was about children, grandchildren, and family relationships. So, I decided to share -- after I was able to get onto the Internet, that is, making it a Monday "afternoon" meditation. I flew all night from West Coast to East Coast and managed to check into a hotel early, but somehow the Internet has been uncooperative most of the morning. All is well that ends well, as that great poet once said, so now I can provide you with what I posted on 100th Lamb.

During this week, I continued to read further in the book of Proverbs. I continue to enjoy the reading very much, and I continue to find much worthy of attention. I did not get very far, though -- just into the next chapter -- before I found something that really touched the core of my being as a parent. Take a look and see what you think about this verse (17:6):

Children’s children are a crown to the aged,
and parents are the pride of their children.

Reading:Proverbs 17:6.

Meditation: Let me start with grandkids. Anyone who has grandchildren knows just how special they are. The relationship is different from the relationship with one's own children but equally bonding. I remember a friend telling me when my daughter-in-law was pregnant with our first grandchild that she loved being a grandparent because you were not 100% responsible for the grandkids; you can send them home when you are worn out. I found out something different, though. I love being a grandparent because it is heartwarming watching my son, Shane (the only producer of grandchildren for us to date), be a good parent!

Now, for the second part of that verse, about parents being the pride of their children. It was interesting to see that side of things emerge over time as the children grew older. When they were younger, they always tried to protect me -- I think that had a lot to do with my ineptness in areas in which they were competent. Come to think of it, they still do it! (I must be really inept!) But the pride part came along a little later. Maybe because once you become a growingly older adult, you understand better what it is your parents did for you and in life in general and what they had to go through to make that all happen successfully.

Contemplation: That is far as I can go with you this Monday morning. I now retire to private prayer to thank God for my children and grandchildren, repenting for all the mistakes (scads) I made with them over the year and expressing gratitude for coming out of each mistake wiser and without scars. I will praise God for designing a creation that keeps renewing itself. I will ask God to watch over my children, helping them be good parents and successful (or at least, happy) adults, and my grandchildren, keeping them safe. Then I will move on to contemplation, my favorite part of the day, letting God take over the direction in which my relationship with Him moves.

I will leave you now to your prayer and contemplation. First, though, I would like to bring to your attention a Monday morning prayer post that you might enjoy:

Fr. Austin Fleming, priest of the Archdiocese of Boston and pastor in Concord, Massachusetts, posts a prayer each Monday morning that he calls "Monday Morning Offering." I enjoy his prayers very much. I think you also will find them inspirational. He has graciously given me permission to include a link to his blog on my Monday Morning Meditation posts. (During the week, he also posts great homilies and other thoughtful discussions. I enjoy reading those, too, as do readers of this blog who have taken the stroll over to his blog.)

For additional inspiration throughout the week, I would point out two sets of blogs: (1) the list of devotional blogs on my sidebar and (2) my blogroll, where I am following a number of inspirational priests and writers about spiritual matters. I learn so very much from all these people. I highly recommend them to you.

Bear Witness to the Light

2011-08-03T23:05:00.000-07:00

One of the blogs on my blogroll has disappeared. Well, disappeared may be the wrong word. The blog is still there, but no posts have been posted in nearly two months. Fr. John Sullivan, Springfield, Massachusetts, posted regularly on his blog, Bear Witness to the Light. He was a kindly priest as I found out in his responses to my occasional comments. After a full month of seeing nothing posted, I became concerned. It did not seem that someone who had posted regularly for seven years would close down a blog without a word. One would expect to at least a final, good-bye post, but Fr. John's last blog was simply a routine post in keeping with his other posts. Something seemed wrong. No matter how I added two and two, I was not getting close to four.

So, I did a little research. After all, in a former life (uh, career), I was a pretty good academic. Therefore, I know how to research. So, off I went in search of one missing priest. And I found him, well, sort of. It turns out that Fr. John was injured by the tornado that flattened Springfield in June. He suffered a separated shoulder and broken leg and required surgery. He will be in a rehabilitation facility for a while.

In addition, St. Michael's Retired Priest Residence, where Fr. John was living, was damaged by the tornado. In fact, a good part of it was reduced to rubble. So, even when Fr. John is released to another residence, there is a likelihood that he will not have a computer for a while. (Of course, this is quite secondary to his health.)

I also tracked down an address where cards can be sent:

Fr. John Sullivan
St Michaels Cathedral Rectory
86 Wendover Rd
Springfield, MA 01118

So, if you happen to also be a reader of Fr. John's blog, you might want to send a card to him! I am going to try to send this information to all his followers -- if I can track down there email addresses. I ask you to pass along the information to any of his blog followers you might know.

Whether or not you know Fr. John, have interacted with him in the blogosphere or not, I would ask you to pray for him. I am sure he can use our prayers!

posted on all Mahlou blogs

Doah Has a Bed

2011-07-30T14:00:00.000-07:00

Doah comes to visit us each weekend. Generally, he comes on Saturday, and we take him back to his nearby group home one town away so that he can sleep overnight. From time to time, in spite of his allergies to cats, of which we have three, he has expressed the desire to stay overnight. Until now, though, we have not had a bed for him to sleep in. He has used a tent and sleeping bag and slept under the stars -- that actually has worked well for avoiding cat fur. Once we moved into our new house last February, he developed great hopes of being able to use our new guest room. However, until two days ago, all we have had in it is a table and a window with a great view overlooking the town and valley, like all the other windows in the house.

Then, we got a new bed for Donnie and me because Donnie now needs something more like a hospital bed to deal with his sleep apnea and gout. The movers carried our bed into the guest room. The room is still quite sparse, but at least it has a bed. When Doah came for his Saturday visit, I told him to open the guest room door (we keep it closed to keep the cat fur off the carpet -- the only carpeted room we have). He shot out into the living room with the comment, "I stay tonight? I no be 'lergic to cats no more." With the cats off-limits to that room, he may be able to sleep there. So, we have some new kinds of overnight adventures to look forward to!

Amazing, isn't it, how it is the littlest things in life that bring us the greatest pleasure?

What to Do about Noelle?

2011-07-23T10:04:00.000-07:00

Noelle, maybe not unlike many people, has moments of sheer brilliance, where she has overcome all kinds of odds to do things that most handicapped individuals don't dare consider, such as learning to roller-skate with chest-high braces and a walker as a child, and moments of sheer stupidity, where any logic behind decision-making is tidal-waved away by a churning sea of emotion. A call last night from Molly, her part-time caregiver, who helps her with laundry and housecleaning a couple of times a week, revealed the latest maelstrom. Noelle is about to be evicted from her low-cost, handicapped apartment, to which information she has reacted in aggressive and self-destructive obliviousness. "Won't happen," she told Molly. "And don't tell my parents; they will try to do something about it, and I plan to wait it out."

Here is the back story. After Ray died and then Noelle's cat, Prince Shadow, mysteriously died at a young age, Noelle was alone. She would not admit to being lonely, but then Noelle never admits to anything she thinks will make her look weak -- and as an extrovert par excellence, being lonely would certainly seem like a weakness. Nonetheless, she clearly was lonely. She had given up everything -- school, potential career -- to be home with Ray, who, for more than four years, spent the last days of his life in and out of comas and hospitalized in one venue or another. Although we suggested to Noelle that she could now return to school, finish the college degree that she had started years ago, and find a career for herself, Noelle was not ready to make such a drastic lifestyle change.

Before she could develop any readiness for moving on, along came Dreamee, a friend of a friend. Dreamee floats through life on other people's clouds. We do not know if she has any relatives, but we have heard that she has a godmother somewhere in the area. She does not talk about her past or even her present. She clearly has some disabilities -- she is very tiny for an adult in her thirties, her teeth are in bad order (but that could be from not taking care of them), and her face has a haunted look to it (but perhaps that comes from chain smoking). Dreamee and Noelle developed some immediate rapport, and Dreamee within days had moved in with Noelle. She pays no rent and does not help out in any way that we can see. Molly says that she now does Dreamee's laundry, too. I suppose none of that is any of our business, except that Noelle has in the past been used by people who learn that she is so good-natured and selfless that she will give away her last dime if someone else says he or she needs it. (In fact, we found out a while back that she was giving away every penny left over after paying bills every month, literally amounting to hundreds of dollars, to a "friend." It took us almost two years to convince her that a "friend" does not show up at your door right before payday, asking how much money you still have from the previous payday and demanding to have all of it because she is in tremendous need of it.) Now, there is Dreamee, who is, in essence, freeloading, but were we to use that world, Noelle would be terribly offended.

The matter has come to a head, though, because Noelle is in Section 8 housing, which is all she can afford, and the landlord has learned that Dreamee is living there, too, in a one-bedroom apartment. The landlord has sent a letter, demanding that Dreamee leave immediately or Noelle will be evicted. (Molly has seen the letter and is going to get a copy to me.) Noelle has told Molly that she has no intention of responding to the letter -- and certainly she has no intention of asking Dreamee to move out. So, something will come to a more frightening end here very soon if Noelle does not pull her head out of the sand.

The more complicated part of the matter is that Noelle has told us nothing. She acts like life is all hunky dory. Molly does not want us to let Noelle know that we know. She is afraid that Noelle will not only be angry at her but also fire her as her caregiver. That would be truly bad -- but within the realm of Noelle's more illogical responses to situations she does not like -- for finding another caregiver like Molly, who really becomes involved and tries to help, would be difficult.

The core of the situation seems to be Dreamee's hold over Noelle, who, at times, has told Molly that she really does not want Dreamee living with her but that Dreamee insists. Then, after Molly has left, Dreamee seems to take over and when Molly returns, Noelle contends that she does not want Dreamee to leave and Molly must have misunderstood. Clearly, the situation is driving Molly nuts, but more than that, Molly is genuinely concerned about Noelle's welfare.

So, what to do about Noelle? She does not want us to know, but we do know -- and I would rather do something now and not after she has ended up on the street. How to help her keep her independence while wanting to help out? How to break up a destructive relationship without appearing destructive ourselves?

Moreover, Noelle's dilemma has appeared during a moment of depleted resources for us, having just forked over more than $2000 last week to Lizzie for cat surgery and helping out Shane to the tune of $600 or more each month since he is still coping with a lowered salary from having been fired when Nikolina's $2 million hospital bill was too much for the insurance company at his place of employment to handle (the company refused to provide policies on any employees unless Shane was removed from the group).

Has anyone seen a similar situation? Any ideas for a creative and supportive resolution?

Divorce

2011-07-02T11:56:00.001-07:00

One of my young, senior managers came into my office on Thursday and told me that he wanted to let me know before I heard from another source that he and his wife were getting divorced after quite a number of years of marriage -- well, at least a dozen since they have two children in the upper grades of elementary school. I immediately felt guilty because I have sent him out of town at least twice a month for the past two years: he oversees ten of our non-local branches. At one point, I had asked him how this was affecting his family, and he said that they understood and there was no problem. Now, I wonder if his traveling schedule had been a problem.

I asked him again on Thursday, but he said again that it was other matters, not the travel, that were a problem. I know his wife and children well. They are a very nice family and seemed supportive of each other. I suppose the inside of a house looks different from the inside of a home. He says he wants to drop by my house some day this month and talk to me at length about the situation. Of course, I will listen and try to be supportive. I am not sure I will understand, but I will try.

When these things happen, they cause me to reflect on my own situation. Donnie and I just celebrated our 41st anniversary, but it has not been easy. If either of us were focused exclusively on our own happiness (the orientation that some psychologists today seem to encouraging), I don't think we would have made it this far, especially since we are so very different one from another.

Many people were surprised when we married and made the assumption that the marriage would not last -- all except for a professor of sociology of a course that a friend of ours was taking when we were into our third year of marriage. The friend interviewed us for his course as a study of a married couple, and he came to the conclusion that although we clearly loved each other, we were too different one from another for the marriage to last. He showed us the comment his professor wrote on his report: "It will last if they want it to." Clearly, we have wanted it to last and still want it to last for all kinds of reasons.

Since my employee has thrown me into a reflective mood, let me do what I do when I am reflecting: make some lists. The first list would be the ways in which we differ; the second why we want it to last; the third why it has lasted. So, here goes:

List #1: How we differ
1. Donnie is a scientist and artist (graphic arts, photography); I am a humanist and linguist.
2. Donnie is big (rotund and significantly taller than I), and I am small (could lose a few pounds, but not a lot, and could add a few inches since I would like to be able to sit in a chair and have my feet touch the floor at the same time).
3. Donnie comes from the upper middle class, and I come from a farm where the poverty line was something all the families in our farming community ogled in anticipation of some day making enough money to at least be sitting on the poverty line, not swinging from it.
4. Donnie went to an in-school university; I went to an out-of-state university (but it was the same uni, at least); similarly, the only time Donnie has been out of the USA was the two years we lived in Jordan, whereas I have lived and worked in 24 countries (while Donnie kept the home fires stoked).
5. Donnie loves outdoor leisure activities, like backpacking, kayaking, and fishing; I love indoor leisure activities like reading, writing, and taming little wild animals (i.e. feral cats).
6. Donnie was a doctors-and-teachers-know-best parent; I was a discuss-it-with-me-and-consider-my-input-or-I-won't-listen parent.
7. Personality-wise, Donnie is an ISTP (introvert, senser -- grounded in reality and actuality, thinker, perceiver -- keep all options open until the last minute and schedules flexible); I am an ENTJ (extrovert, intuiter -- floating in the realm of possibility and dreams, thinker, judger -- devoted to the production and following of schedules, planning, and deadlines).
8. If an expert tells Donnie that something is too dangerous, highly risky, and should not be attempted, and he stands back (i.e. he is risk-averse); tell me the same thing and I rush to try it to see if I can overcome the odds (i.e. I am a risk-taker par excellence; hence, the willingness to travel the world alone).
9. Donnie speaks only English and while he tolerates my friends who do not speak English, he has been unable to learn another language except for a few necessary phrases in Arabic while living in Jordan; I have studied 18 languages and easily communicate in a good many of them.
10. He likes adventure movies and reality shows related to logging and whaling; I like chick flix and spiritual movies.

List #2: Why we want it to last
1. We took an oath of "until death do us part"; that meant something -- and we are not yet dead.
2. We have children; they are now becoming spouses and parents; they need to see that marriage can last; they need an example.
3. We have children; they need a sense of stability; parents who stay married (at least, amicably married) provide that sense of stability.
4. We have grandchildren; they need the same sense of stability, and grandparents are part of the equation.
5. And we have not yet lost the love that brought us together although it has taken a different shape over time; we want to be with each other.

List #3: Why it has lasted
1. We have wanted it to last; while sometimes it seemed easier to each go our own way, neither has put our own happiness and desires above family needs;
2. By going through a lot of travail together and not taking divorce as the easy way out, we have become intertwined, imprinted on each other; we are perhaps now more like family than lovers, but whatever the nature of the love, it keeps us bonded.
3. We learned to accept each others' interests; I learned to fish, kayak, and backpack. Donnie, of course, was always able to read and write, but there was a time early one when we worked together on photojournalism activities, he as a photographer and I as a writer, publishing some things in local and national publications; more recently, he has turned to graphic arts and we run a publishing house together (he does the graphics, cover design, and typesetting, and I do the copyediting in my, hah!, "free", time).
4. We valued each others' differences and allowed each other to explore his/her interests, develop his/her talents, follow his/her own career path -- and provided support (not always perfectly, but the desire to support was always there) to each other along the way.
4. We raised children who clinically died from time to time, and that created a tremendous family bond. I thank God for trusting us with these children. I also thank God for giving us these experiences because these experiences taught us, shaped us, and bonded us.

Maybe there is something to be learned from these lists. I don't know if there is anything helpful for others, including my employee (will have to see what he has to say when he drops by), but it has been revealing for me to stand aside an look at our situation from the outside (as much as I can do that). I think the bottom line is clear: we have wanted it to last, so we have worked through the difficult times and the differences from the point of view that we are family first and last.

Now, what would be interesting would be to have Lizzie, our little professor of psychology and oldest daughter, write a post on why she thinks the marriage has lasted.

What about you? Comments?

Weeping Icon

2011-06-23T01:24:00.000-07:00

In an earlier blog post on Clan of Mahlou (From Siberia to the California Coast Flew Wunderkind Shura.), I related the story of Shura, a dying child artist from Siberia, who came to stay with us in order to save his life, a story crammed with miracles.

Shura's story took many twists and turns. However, we did erroneously think that the story was over when he survived all his surgeries and especially when a couple of years ago he returned to Russia. One of the key players in this story had been Max, the INS supervisor who helped us tremendously when it came to visa problems. We met Max when he coincidentally stopped by St. John's Orthodox Church in Washington DC when the priest included a moleibin (prayer service before surgery) for Shura during a feast day observation on a Tuesday evening when Max felt the need to attend Mass after work, the only time he had been at St. John's in a year because he had moved to Baltimore a year earlier and attended Mass there (and, as it turned out, he never returned after that evening, choosing to continue at his own church in Baltimore). Shura's story was not over because we did not know Max's story until barely a year ago. And so I add here -- and in my second book -- the fuller story of Max.

-----

Just when we thought we had completed the puzzle, the picture expanded. A few months after Shura returned to Russia, Nadezhda Long called me from Washington. She had been reading a newly published book and wanted to share a story from it with me.

“Beth, you are simply not going to believe this,” she bubbled over the phone. I wondered what could be so exciting that it caused her words to tumble out at a speed requiring concentrated listening. I was about to find out.

“Remember Max?” she asked.

Remember Max? Without Max, Shura would have long ago been shipped back to Russia, before his health had stabilized. Without Max, Shura might even be dead now. And, of course, who could not forget the oddity that Shura’s unannounced moleibin was the only Mass at St. John’s that Max had visited in the year since he had moved to Baltimore and, in fact, was the last Mass he ever attended at St. John’s. I mentioned all this to Nadezhda, commenting that his appearance that evening seemed nothing short of miraculous.

She cut me off. “Oh, we did not know but a small part of the significance of Max being there that night!” she exclaimed. Now she had my attention!

“Max is a convert to Orthodoxy from atheism, and his story is included in this book about a special icon.” Instantly, I liked Max even more. His story paralleled mine—but it did not. What Nadezhda then related to me left me without words.

“Years ago,” she said, “an icon that wept oil with healing powers was brought from Europe to the United States, where it was presented at a number of Orthodox congregations. Among these congregations was our church, St. John’s, and among the congregation was a blind boy, who had lost his eyesight to disease. When doctors could not help, his parents brought him to the icon in an attempt to try anything to help their child. When the icon passed by the boy, it began to weep oil. The priest placed the oil from the icon on the boy’s eyes, and the boy saw. From that day on, he was no longer blind. And from that day on, his parents, Max and his wife, having converted from atheism to Orthodoxy on the spot, have been devout worshippers.”

If there had been no icon miracle ten years before Shura was born, there could have been no miraculous appearance of Max on the night of Shura’s moleibin. When Nadezhda relayed the story to me, I had no words with which to respond. I still have none.

--------------

excerpted from my forthcoming book, A Believer in Waiting's First Encounters with God

also posted on Modern Mysticism

Our Amazing Modern World

2011-06-20T01:31:00.000-07:00

During the days of the Cold War, when my oldest daughter Lizzie (for some insights into Lizzie, see Lessons from Mom) and I were traveling and living in Russia (see Back in the USSR), we would always say goodbye to friends when we left, realizing that the likelihood of seeing them again was slim, of keeping in contact by writing difficult, and of seeing them in the United States totally impossible. Likewise, a decade later, while living and working in Uzbekistan, I stayed with an elderly teacher by the name of Lida. She was the aunt of one of my colleagues, an immigrant from Moscow, and I became the conduit of information, money, and gifts between them. Both knew that they would never be able to see each other again, politics being what they were, and so I became a living link. Lida always referred to me as "rodnaya," which is a term that one uses with one's flesh-and-blood to demonstrate bonding and love.

It has been ten years since I last saw Lida. When politics became even worse between the USA and Uzbekistan, my consults for the Uzbekistan Ministry of Education dried up. I, too, became resigned to the fact that Lida was part of my history, no longer a part of my life.

Then, the wall fell, and the Soviet Union dissolved. Still, relations with Uzbekistan have remained poor.

Somehow, though, the thaw between the USA and the former Soviet countries in general has had a meliorating effect on tourist visas, and I learned two weeks ago that Lida had received a 3-month visa to visit her relatives in the USA. Today they showed up on my doorstep!

San Ignatio held its annual fiesta today, and I had clean-up duty. None of that deterred us, however. We all got together at the fiesta, enjoying the extraordinary experience of being together in one country, even in San Ignatio. We will, of course, get together again -- and again -- over the next three months in San Ignatio and in the nearby town where Lida's relatives live.

The weather was balmy with a slight breeze today. The sun shone upon us in all senses of that word. A perfect day! One that began with a big hug from Lida and the greeting to "rodnaya." One that ended, as well, with a big hug from Lida and the parting to "rodnaya."

What I learned this day (and have always known): one does not need to share blood to share blood! I also learned something that I have not always known: our modern world is amazing and marvelous. Whoever would have thought that Lida, who befriended me so kindly in Tashkent a decade ago, would be sitting on my sofa today!

(photos coming -- I did not have a camera with me, so will have to wait for those who did to share photos)

No Words Needed

2011-05-28T22:41:00.000-07:00

This picture was shared by a colleague (source unknown, or I would give credit). I posted it on 100th Lamb for the Spiritual Sunday series, and I thought that those who read this blog but not that one might enjoy the picture, too. As for comments, I would not know what words could be added that would do anything except detract from the picture. Enjoy!

House Blessing

2011-05-23T00:28:00.000-07:00

I have been planning for some time to post some pictures of our house blessing a couple of weeks ago. Unfortunately, the only person who thought to took pictures had his camera on video. So, while I have a very nice recording of the ceremony, I do not have any stills. (Perhaps if I were more technologically astute, I could clip out some stills from the video, but I don't know how to do that if indeed it is possible.)

Lack of pictures aside, the blessing was beautiful. Padre (Fr.) Julio, about whom I have blogged from time to time, came up from San Diego, where he is currently assigned, and scooped up his brother, P. Mario, in Stockton and spent the day wihttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifth Donnie and me. We had lunch at a local restaurant that is a favorite of Padre's, then the blessing, and then P. Julio came to the catechism class I taught and talked to the kids (high school sophomores) about social justice, a particularly compelling topic for him since he founded a school and self-sustaining farm for children in a rural and impoverished area of Colombia (see his website, which Donnie and I designed, Por Amor a Los Ninos de Colombia -- there is a Spanish and an English version).

P. Julio tends to be very imaginative, and the way in which he conducted the blessing was very much in keeping with this tradition. He and P. Mario took turns reading Scripture and homilizing in English and Spanish. We also sang in English and Spanish -- most of the people in my community know both languages, and we were divided pretty much 50/50 among those whose first language was English and those whose first language was Spanish. Padre then blessed the house and the people at the blessing with holy water I had brought back from Jesus's baptismal site in the Jordan River, using a deep red rose that a friend brought for the housewarming/blessing.

About three dozen people filled our house, and I was glad that we had lots of open space so that everyone would fit. After the sprinkling of one and all, P. Julio asked each person to talk about our family, why they came to the blessing, what they wished for us, etc., etc. It was very touching. Then he asked me to say something about each there, which was not difficult, in spite of quite a variety among those who came -- neighbors, co-workers, family, parish members.

Afterward, we enjoyed a pot luck with an international flavor. We had chairs and tables set up outside, hoping the weather would cooperate. It did. The sun streamed down lightly all afternoon. One could tell that people were enjoying themselves and not just saying that to be polite.

The best part of our house blessing, at least for me, is that Padre Julio really enjoyed doing it. And he got a chance to see his brother, which, I understand, does not happen often. As far as my family is concerned, Padre Julio is a member of the clan of Mahlou, and when the clan gathers, there is much laughter and warmth. I had wondered whether it would be worth the effort to pull everyone together for such a brief event.

PS. We were able to find some stills among the video. So, below are pictures of the event:

(1) View from the window
(2) Padre Julio steps away from the blessing circle to gather holy water onto a rose.

(3) Padre Julio begins blessing the house with a rose.

(4) Padre Julio and Padre Mario in conversation after the blessing with Beth and a friend.

(5) Padre Julio in conversation with a fellow Colombian, the adopted daughter of one of our friends.

(6)The food.

(7) People eating inside.

(8) People eating outside.

(9) Donnie and one of our friends picking lemons afterward.

Match the Words to the Situation

2011-05-14T22:32:00.000-07:00

Finding an effective treatment or cure for a problem means identifying the right medicine. My grandmother used "pink pills" (wintermint drops) as a disciplinary measure (bribe) for kids with imaginary illnesses. Therefore, we would all develop an imaginary illness from time to time. My mother used sulfur and molasses any time any one of her children developed a cough. That stuff tasted horrible, but it was a magic cure. None of us would dare cough within hearing distance of her.

Using the appropriate medicine for an illness has a parallel in human relations. It is called matching the words to the situation. Sometimes they need to be soft, and other times they need to be direct. They always need to be in a language that can be understood.

My youngest son, Doah, whom we stole from a Pennsylvania hospital (we shall call that place Renboro Hospital) where he was dying from a subglottic stenosis, treated with a tracheotomy, and where the doctors angered us with their arrogance, was finally cured in Cincinnati. However, we were warned that while his airway would grow quickly, for several months it would be marginal and that Donnie (husband), Lizzie (oldest daughter), and I should keep our CPR skills current for those times when Doah might stop breathing. So, although we expected periods of apnea and knew that getting through these few months was the only way to get get Doah to the point where he could consistently breathe without a tube in his trachea, the apneic episodes were always unwelcome occurrences.

The first apneic episode after our return from Cincinnati resulted in my doing 15 minutes of CPR before Doah began to breathe again. While we were en route to the hospital, Donnie driving and I doing CPR (faster than waiting 20 minutes for a volunteer ambulance crew to be assembled), the local small-hospital staff contacted the Life Flight helicopter to fly Doah to, sigh!, Renboro Hospital. Even though Doah was breathing on his own by the time we reached the local hospital, he was whisked to Renboro.

Of course, we were not allowed on the helicopter with Doah, so we arrived somewhat later than he did. When I walked in, an ENT resident was sitting beside Doah and reading the ten-inch file on him. When he learned who I was, the doctor lectured, asserting that all the Renboro Hospital procedures had been correct, that I was an impatient parent who had erringly taken my child to another hospital, and that clearly Doah had needed a tracheotomy and still needed one because he had scar tissue in his larynx. He told me that an operating room was being readied as we were speaking. I explained the opinion of the doctor in Cincinnati, who had not replaced the tracheotomy when Doah had accidentally removed his breathing tube in his sleep: The problem was not the old scar tissue in the larynx but the new scar tissue caused by the tracheotomy that was now interfering with Doah's breathing and that if everyone were just to leave him alone, he would outgrow the problem. (We sure loved that doctor in Cincinnati! Dr. Robin Cotton is his real name, and he has a large fan club, formed of the parents of all the children whose lives he has saved.)

The Renboro Hospital resident patronizingly pointed to the laryngeal area. In condescending tones so typically used with parents, he said, "Right here is where the scar tissue is, and we must put in the tracheotomy again."

I was very tired from the CPR, the 45-minute drive to the hospital, and the late hour. Further, Donnie was still parking the car so I was alone with this insolent, obtuse (my opinion), and impolite doctor-in-training. At that point, I chose to talk to the resident in a language that he could understand quietly and calmly and, therefore, effectively.

"Doctor," I said firmly, "this baby does have subglottic anomalies, but the area of gravest concern is the site of the tracheotomy itself where there has been a significant build-up of granulation tissue." (Comfort with that language comes from my study of Greek and Latin--and much time spent reading medical journals.

The doctor looked at me for a minute or so silently. Then, he picked up Doah's chart and walked off with a monosyllabic comment, "Oh."

I fell asleep beside Doah, not waking up until morning. At that time, Doah was released without further discussion of another tracheotomy. We finally got Renboro Hospital to do it our way!

----

Excerpted and adapted from a collection of vignettes I published about real-life events, copyright 2003.
Note: Also posted on Mahlou Musings and 100th Lamb.

My Wife Made Me Do It

2011-05-03T00:16:00.000-07:00

"My leg smarts," Donnie told me a few evenings ago.

"Let me see it," I requested.

He demurred. "It's no big deal. It seems to be weeping."

Now, people weep. Drama queens weep. Tragic heroines weep. But a leg should not weep! I insisted that he show me the leg.

Indeed, it was weeping -- for some good medical care. Donnie has diabetes, and one of the side effects is reduced sensation. Nonetheless, I could not believe that he was not in agony. The skin was off his leg by at least two layers from knee to ankle, and a growing infection was re-coloring it to a putrid yellow.

In the morning, I sent an enote to my boss, telling him I would be out for the day and dragged Donnie off to the doctor.

"My wife made me come," he complained to the doctor.

"Good for her," he responded. "I am going to make you come back much more frequently now, and right this instant I am sending you to a wound care clinic at the hospital."

As soon as we got to the hospital, Donnie complained, "My wife made me come."

"Good for her," said the staff. "We caught this infection in time. Otherwise, you might have lost your leg."

Whew! Next time I will also "make" him go to the doctor, too. What is it about the male ego that keeps them from dashing off to the doctor at the first instant of pain. (While I have a big of the macho "I'll do it when it gets worse" attitude in me, I am much better at deciding that I need qualified help than is Donnie.) Is it really a male thing, or does it just seem that way because all the men in my life are this way?

(Note: picture of Donnie with a friend, picking Meyer pears from the tree in our new backyard.)

Beware of identity theft this Easter!

2011-04-14T23:44:00.000-07:00

Here are some fun Internet pictures forwarded to me by my brother:

Moving Cats

2011-03-28T05:05:00.000-07:00

I have heard tell that getting some groups to go where you want them to go is like herding cats, which, I suppose, truly is impossible. Moving them comes close to that. When we moved into our new house, the cats were quite unhappy.

Murjan let us know his unhappiness. For two days, he stomped through the house, yowling. He would not let us touch him, and when we got near, he would yowl again. He hissed at Intrepid and Simone whenever they approached, which had very different effects on each of them. Then, finally, he got his revenge. I had opened the window a paw-crack wide so he could have a breath of fresh air. Somehow, he managed to push that big heavy glass plate open wider, wide enough to slip out and jump the twenty feet or more to the ground. Intrepid, not being intrepid at all when it comes to the outdoors, was balancing on the windowsill, wanting to follow his big brother but a bit hesitant, when Donnie walked by, instantly understood what was happening, and swooped Intrepid back into the room, and closed the window. Then, he went looking for Murjan. He did not have far to go. Murjan had found what he was looking for: mud in the back yard from all the rain. He had rolled around in it until his pure white coat was pure grey and was standing at the door to be let back in so he could let us know of his unhappiness at the move.

Intrepid would have moved easily. He is an easy-going cat and quite independent. He had to be. He was found as a tiny kitten, looking more like a bird than a kitten, after his mother had apparently died. We don't know if there were other kittens and, if so, what happened to them, but Intrepid is a survivor. He approached the inhabitant of a near-by house, and sitting in the grass outside the door, squawled until someone (a professor at the university in Jordan where I was dean) picked him up, and gave him something to eat. The professor had no idea what to do with a cat, so he brought him to me, and I could hear Intrepid meowing hungrily all the way up to our third-floor flat. Murjan, the alpha cat, raised him. So, when Murjan, after the move, started hissing at him, Intrepid was not about to be intimidated. He kept trotting after him, tapping him lightly when he was ignored, and sitting beside him, which prompted Murjan to hiss and move away and start the whole routine over again. Ultimately, Intrepid won out, and we found Murjan cleaning him as so often in the past. How Murjan got clean, we don't know, but it did happen.

Poor Simone, however, was completely traumatized by Murjan's hissing. Herself a rescued feral cat, she has just very recently, after two years, stopped hissing when someone picks her up. She returned to her old defensive habits and spend entire days hidden under the sofa. Once Murjan returned to his old self, however, she timidly moved out from the sofa and started exploring the rest of the house.

The cats seem to like the new house now. We have also purchased cat-proof screening and Donnie is in the process of rescreening all the windows. Sheesh! Had we known it was so important to the cats, we might have asked their permission (or at least opinion) before buying the house!

All's well that ends well. Our grandson likes the house. At least, he likes the lemon tree. That's something!

Golf Afficionado Cat

2011-03-27T03:03:00.000-07:00

I thought I might take a light approach and share pictures of our cat, Simone, who loves to watch golf. It is the strangest thing because Donnie and I neither play nor watch golf. However, one day as a news item on a local gold tournament was playing on the television, Simone, the feral cat we trapped and tamed two years ago, stopped in her tracks as she was passing the TV and sat watched the entire ad. Now we turn on the tournaments for her, and she will watch for 20-30 minutes. She loves chasing the golf ball -- stands on her hind legs and reaches for it with her paw. Her little head goes back and forth, watching the ball ping around the golf course. For a smile, here are the pictures.

Hitchcock Comes to the Mahlou Residence

2011-03-24T19:47:00.001-07:00

Yes, indeed, it was a Hitchock-like affair at the old Mahlou residence earlier this week. Donnie and I have moved (one of the reasons I have been absent from the blogosphere for the past month -- that and the fact that I just this past week received my replacement computer after three months of repair effort failed, along with a heavy travel schedule, about which I should mention that I am currently traveling, taking a respite for some work in North Carolina before heading to Qatar tomorrow). Perhaps someone out in blogland has a better explanation of what happened to us than my assumption that Hitchcock came to visit. Actually, it was a rooster that came to visit.

After purchasing a new home and moving everything the six blocks south and up to a hilltop, we returned to our old home to clean and pack out a few final items. When we drove up into the driveway, it was already evening. First, we turned on the light in the shed and divided the few items still there for trash or final moving later in the week when we would have a truck. Then we headed to the house. That is when I saw the really big, white rooster strutting into the shed. Shooing him out, I turned off the light and locked the door.

Assuming that the rooster would disappear, not ever having had any visit us before that I could remember while living in this particular house (although we had raised one in our former house), Donnie and I walked up the stairs onto the deck and into the house. As we were cleaning the floor, I heard a knocking at the door. I went to open it, and, to my surprise, it was the rooster pecking at it and urgently wanting to enter.

"Go away now," I tried to shoo him off and closed the door. That did not deter him. Soon, we heard beating at the window. It was the rooster, wanting to come in. Suddenly, it was as is we were being besieged.

Unsure of how to handle the situation and concerned that perhaps the rooster was rabid or crazy, Donnie and I sneaked out the front door and came around to the back, where the deck is, to get into the car. We hoped that the rooster had gone, but no, there he sat, patiently or impatiently waiting. For what?

We think that perhaps he had made friends with our cats and was now missing them. But who knows? We are willing to consider other possible explanations if anyone wants to offer them.

In any event, we drove away. Out of curiosity, I asked Donnie to drive around the block. He did, and when we drove past our house again, the rooster was in the same spot. I suppose, though, he has since left!

We have not returned. Our new house is on a hill overlooking San Ignatio. We are looking forward to some peaceful days and evenings there. At the same time, it is walking distance from the mission, a requirement that made the decision whether or not we would buy a house. This house has it all: proximity to the mission, sweeping views, spacious living (although I am not sure why we need spacious living now that all the kids are grown and gone). Still, it was the house that fell into our hands, so I think we are supposed to have it. At least, I am taking it that way. Besides, crazy roosters don't make it that far up, so we can rest assured that we will not be besieged again.

Leave It To Beaver Training Camp

2011-02-06T02:41:00.001-08:00

Apologies for the dearth of posts. Keeping blogs going when having to use a borrowed computer is difficult. So, I have been concentrating mainly on 100th Lamb. Even that has been a challenge. (Yes, my computer is still in the shop, going on almost two months, but I don't complain; the mother board, it turns out, was fried by an unnoticed power surge that, at any rate, should not have fried it -- the power adaptor should have been fried, too, but was not. The fine print exempted it from warranty coverage, but the local shop is trying to persuade the national shop to fix it for free, so I am waiting patiently. Waiting is better than having to pay hundreds of dollars for repair.)

I am still finishing my latest book (almost done), A Believer in Waiting's First Encounters with God (BIW), which continues where Blest Atheist leaves off. From time to time, I have been pecking away (well, until my computer died) at Raising God's Rainbow Makers (RGRM). By the time my computer comes back, I should have a BIW off for publication; the final edition is almost done, following feedback from ten readers of the pre-publication manuscript. My grand plan is to be all done this week. I will then be able to concentrate on RGRM, sharing some of those promised pre-publication pieces. In the interim, here is a short piece, which I may include, about Doah.

Most people's children learn from Sesame Street. Doah learned from Leave It To Beaver. That created some moments of havoc in the Mahlou household. Take, for example, the following event.

Doah, one early evening, clutched his stomach and started screaming in pain. When I tried to touch him, he would push my hands away and say, "hothpital, hothpital." He had no fever. He had no odd coloration or behavior or any other indication of illness other than the pain.

Since I don't generally try to cover up pain for myself or my children, preferring to root out the cause instead, I was forced to take Doah to the emergency room of the local hospital although I had little to go on except the unexplained pain, about which he continued to wail. The doctor, too, was baffled.

Trying to determine the cause of the pain, the doctor ran Doah through a series of tests. They took x-rays. They took blood. Doah continued to cry. None of the tests showed anything, but later I learned that the cost was nearly $1000 for all of them.

The doctor finally shook his head in consternation and said, "Look, we have no idea what is wrong here. There are no real symptoms that we can use for diagnosis. There are no signs of infection or injury. I just don't know. Admitting him for observation is probably not going to give us anything more than you can get at home. I would suggest that you give him something for the pain and observe him. If he develops any kind of symptoms, bring him back."

I agreed, and Doah and I walked out. As soon as we were outside, Doah stopped crying. He looked up at me with a wide smile. In a bright voice, he asked, "We get ice cream now?"

"Ice cream? What are you talking about?" I asked.

Doah explained, "Beaver get sick. Beaver go hothpital. Beaver get ice cream."

That ice cream cost me $1,002.59. I decided to ban the Leave It To Beaver Show!

Finding Doah

2011-01-11T01:33:00.000-08:00

My continuing apologies for not being able to deal with graphics on this old computer--my laptop is STILL in computer repair land on the East Coast, and I am told that those experts have not yet figured out the problem nor made a decision what to do. In the interim, Word does work, and so I am hard at work on my next book, in and around travels and real work. I have completed six of nine chapters, and chapter seven is nearly done. As promised, here is an excerpt. It is a just-finished section of chapter 7, which I will post on all my blogs for which the topic is pertinent.

As a child and through his teenage years, Doah had a habit of slinking off, mainly from curiosity or because he wanted to go somewhere and there was no one to take him at precisely the time he wanted to go. It was not the kind of disappearance that a fully mentally competent child of the same age would make. Rather, it was a matter of marrying “want” with “immediate fulfillment” prompted by naivete and complete trust in the safety and kindness of the surrounding environment associated with the simplicity of mental retardation. Usually, we would find Doah a couple of aisles away in the grocery store, in the backyard on the swings, or at a neighbor’s house. Scarier disappearances, however, did occur, like the time he decided to walk down the middle of Lee Highway, the main thoroughfare in Arlington, Virginiua.

One Sunday morning when Doah was twelve years old but the size of a seven-year-old and with the mental age of a seven year old, I emerged from the shower and could not find him. I checked the entire house. No Doah. I checked the backyard. Empty swings. I checked with the all the neighbors. No visit to their homes that day. Frantic panic set up, and I began walking the streets in our subdivision, calling his name. Neighbors I had never before met told me that they knew Doah. Really? He had been wandering farther afield than I had known. When? I suppose I will never know the answer to that question. At the time, though, I was more interested in how far his wandering might have taken him. I returned home to Donnie empty-handed.

“Why are you losing time by walking all over the neighborhood?” he asked me. “Just think where he is.”

“Thinking” actually referred to what I often knew about my children from unexplainable sources. For example, I occasionally “knew” in advance that one or another would get hurt at school that day, creating a dilemma in that I had no way to tell a teacher to be careful and try to prevent the accident. No teacher would believe me, yet each time the child in question in woulds indeed return home with some minor injury. If I were sitting quietly, thinking about nothing at all, sometimes an image would appear of the child, either where the child was at the moment or what would happen to the child in the immediate future.

“Nothing comes to mind about Doah,” I told Donnie.

“Just calm down and think for a minute,” Donnie advised.

I emptied my mind and, blast!, in came an image of Doah, clothed in white with a blue belt. He was standing, surrounded by white. White everywhere. Well, one can imagine the worst possible scenario from that.

“I think he’s dead,” I told Donnie. “Everything around him is white.”

“What else?” Donnie pressed, knowing that I am one to miss details. “There has to be more. What is he doing? Is he saying anything? Is there anyone else there?”

Ah! I could not see whether or not there was anyone else there, but he was standing and clapping! Clapping? Church!

Although Donnie was agnostic and I atheist, we did allow our children to attend church services if they wished. Doah had taken up recently with a church downtown, about a mile from where we lived. He would get there by bus, or someone would pick him up. If the latter, the van driver would always come to our door, and that had not happened this time. Still, I knew Doah was at the church.

Donnie and I drove to the church apprehensively. What if he were not there? Then what?

I walked in the door and immediately knew I was in the right place. The inside of the church had been painted—all white. I wandered through one of the rooms, heard some singing, and moved in that direction. As I turned the corner, I saw another white-walled room, and there in the front row was Doah, standing and clapping, dressed in white clothes, with his blue money belt around his waist. Thank God!

I do not know how to interpret these out-of-the-ordinary experiences in my past. I find it hard to believe that such “help” would come from something demonic. Yet, clearly most parents do not find their missing children by emptying their minds and allowing an image of the location of their children to enter. In some ways, these images presaged how nowadays I approach contemplative prayer. Perhaps back then they reflected God’s way of dealing with an atheist in the only way she would (or could) accept.

Welcome, 2011!

2011-01-01T00:02:00.000-08:00

Wishing everyone a happy new year on the remarkable date of 1/1/11. I managed to get back into an older post and copy out the image. (Where there is a will, there is a way.) I have not been able to peck out as much as I would like on the new book in the past week on this computer, so I am awaiting with great expectancy the return of my own laptop, either repaired or replaced, in a few weeks -- a new start to a new year.

One great thing about Face Book is watching the New Year be embraced in country after country as it approaches our California coastline. We are among the last to welcome the new year, but the advantage to that is we get to enjoy a lot of other celebrations, beginning on the morning of December 31 (which I fortunately had off this year).

As the new year enters, we have had a remarkable change happen. Our little Simone, the feral cat we rescued when we moved nearly two years ago, changed from being aloof and afraid to affectionate. For the last few days, she has been following me everywhere, has nestled beside me on the couch, and has wanted to be petted. I always thought she would domesticate -- I am pretty successful at domesticating feral cats, the key to which is being patient. Two years is a long time to wait, but it looks like at least one little Leaver is entering the new year in great style.

So is Nikolina. She got her leg braces on Tuesday. They are pink! When I am able to post in a normal fashion and add new pictures, I will put a copy of Nikolina in her braces on the right sidebar. In the interim, it is great to see how she likes wearing them and knowing that in a while she will be able to stand and walk. The question asked when she was born in April 2009, will she be able to work, has been answered: Yes, she will!

Wishing a brave new world for all of you in 2011 -- and may it be gentle to you, as well!

A Thought for the Quiet Period

2010-12-27T17:38:00.001-08:00

Since I am reduced to silence for what would appear to be a few weeks, I would like to invite followers to guest post. Just send me a post (elizabeth.mahlou@gmail.com), introducing yourself and, if pertinent, your family, your blog if you have one (and a link if you would like), and post about something you would to share. You can re-post something from your blog or talk about something new -- whatever tickles your fancy. Let others get to know you. I think it will be fun for readers to discover who is behind the pictures under the follower list.

Here Yesterday, Gone Today, Back after Some Tomorrows

2010-12-27T10:38:00.000-08:00

Just as I took vacation time to work on my next book, my computer died. This is called Leaver luck; it has happened to us on so many occasions that I was not surprised. You see, Murphy's home is on a cloud right about our house, and whenever we start to feel comfortable with life as it is, he drops some raindrops, hail, blizzard flakes, and the like. The computer repair shop said that the computer was too dead for emergency CPR, so they have to send it to a hospital far away to see if it can be resurrected (perhaps not). That is going to take "weeks," they assured us. How many, they cannot say. Happily, the computer is under extended warranty. I am glad I had the foresight to purchase that. So, if it cannot be resurrected, I will be sent a brand new baby.

In the meanwhile, Donnie has loaned me his very old, but functional Macintosh laptop. I used to know how to use Mac; I am re-learning. The problem is that the computer is so old, it cannot handle even my Word files, and every single document I want to use, Donnie has to convert on his machine. Internet is difficult. I seem to be able to get onto blogger and publish comments, so please feel free to explore and comment on old posts. What is difficult to do is write new ones because I have no access to my graphics, no way to upload graphics, no way to handle large files, etc.

So, it looks like I am out of commission for some weeks. I can get online to read your blogs, and I will continue to do that. Posting on my own blogs, though, is, unfortunately, on hold until my electronic life returns to normal.

I am indeed still working on my next book. Donnie was able to convert the book file, but all my notes are not available. :( Well, I thought of those ideas, they will come back, or God will plant some new thoughts. I actually ended up drastically revising the table of contents while waiting for Donnie to convert the old document on his desktop computer, put it on disk, and pass it along to me in a format that the laptop will recognize. I also changed the title of the book: A Believer-in-Waiting's First Encounters with God. I seemed to be getting more inspiration coming my way now that nearly all I can do computer-wise is work on that book. (I am also getting more family and friend time, which is not all that bad, either.)

As for posting anything on my blogs, I am afraid I will have to wait until I am past the computer crisis and my electronic life is back to normal, which looks like nearly the end of January -- right after the book is due. Interesting, how dates and tasks work out that way!

Find the Angel

2010-12-24T00:49:00.000-08:00

In nearly every situation, there is an angel who could help. They are often easier to find than one thinks.

Probably the most literal example was at a Christmas party held a number of years ago by a group of Czech immigrants who taught in one of the foreign language education programs I supervised at the time. They invited Doah, who has made a lifetime habit of asking people for help, to attend.

Doah did not know Bohemian traditions, but he quickly figured things out. All the children sat in a circle while Mikolaz (St. Nicholas) read a list of their bad behaviors during the year (prepared, of course, by each parent). The, for each, Mikulaz decided whether the devil, who was dancing up and down in gleeful anticipation near the child in question, could throw him or her into his sack for transport away from this world, or whether the child's behavior had been good enough or contrition deep enough for an angel, also standing nearby, to give a present. Each child quaked. Some cried.

When it was Doah's turn, he must have thought that there was no hope for forgiveness for him. Partway through Mikulaz's reading of Doah's "sins," Doah got out of his child, walked over to the angel, took her hand, and said, "I in trouble. You help me? It your job help people in trouble."

To this day, some people cannot stop laughing at what they perceived as the difference between the "American approach" and the "Czech approach" to a problem. Actually, I don't think Doah's behavior had as much to do with cross-cultural
differences as with his own skill at finding angels. Of course, the angel helped him.

----

Excerpted and adapted from a collection of vignettes I published, copyright 2003.
Note: Also posted on Mahlou Musings and 100th Lamb.

Some Brief Steps Away

2010-12-15T00:52:00.000-08:00

As this goes up (automatically), I should be on a plane for Hawaii, where I have some end-of-year business to conclude. After that, on Saturday, I will fly back home, just in time for the Christmas season to descend in full tempo. This year, though, Christmas cards will have to wait until February (January if I can manage a trip to Korea and card writing). We have no tree -- our cat Intrepid eats all plants, including artificial ones, and nearly died from the latter a few years ago so we have given up on a tree -- therefore I will not be distracted with tree decorating. Some holiday activities will, of course, take place as they should and as we want them to. However, I will be stepping back a bit from my normal kinds of blogging posts and the normal tempo of my blogs.

I have taken some days off from work to do a second edition/sequel of my book, Blest Atheist. Unfortunately, over the past two years, the title has been snagged for a variety of odd things, none of them having to do with the remarkable kindness of God, which is what the book is about at its core. Even a furniture store has taken it, along with an atheist reading group! In fact, although it is a spiritual book, essentially Christian, most bookstores carry it in the atheism section. (I guess no one reads books before categorizing them!) That has caused some angry, even rude, reviews from atheists who got a conversion story, rather than a confirmation of their atheism -- which must have been quite a surprise for them. (Christian readers and believers belonging to other religions generally review the book well.) So, the book needs a new title, which I am working on, and since time has passed and my spiritual experiences have continued on a path of deepening conversion, I plan to revise the book dramatically, as well as include those new conversion experiences.

For publication and marketing purposes, I need to turn in the manuscript no later than December 30, so I will reserve most of my writing effort for the book. Monday Morning Meditations will continue, and I will post excerpts from the book as I go along on Mahlou Musings. So, for the next 15 days, my posts may be sparse in spite of having prepared a few backups in case of situations like this.

I will indeed take time to enjoy the Christmas season. San Ignatio, as you can see from the pictures above and below, goes all out for Christmas. (Note: the placard under each lighted wreath/halo is the story of a saint important to this town: St Francis for it was founded by the Franciscans, St. John the Baptist after whom it was named, the real name of this town being San Juan Bautista -- I used San Ignatio as a pseudonym in my book and so I have continued to use it in this blog.) If this town has a year-round sacred feel to it, at Christmas that feel intensifies, beginning with the lighting of the streets, intensified by the daily performances of La Virgen de Teyepac (Our Lady of Guadalupe) by our local El Teatro Campesino, and concluding with our midnight Mass, which usually realljavascript:void(0)y is at or near midnight, depending on how you count the caroling.

So, please forgive my moments away. I will catch you when the book muse takes a recess and will be back on full-time blog duty in January.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Please Help Us Choose

2010-12-14T00:21:00.000-08:00

For years now, after our children grew up and became adults, rather than spending money on gifts that are neither needed nor particularly wanted, we have taken a family collection of the money we would have spent on each other and have instead spent it on things that others both need and want. For example, last year we gave visa cards to all the staff (cooks, janitors, librarians, handymen, monks, etc.) at the St. Francis Retreat Center, who do much to make sure that retreatants are able to devote their time exclusively to spiritual matters.

Each year we select a charity that has some special meaning to us. The retreat center is a place where both Donnie, my husband, and I have spent time that has contributed to our spiritual growth. Years ago, floods in India destroyed the homes of relatives of Appu, the college roommate of my daughter, Lizzie. When we were living in Jordan, we gave the money to the only animal shelter there, one which took in more than two dozen cats that I rescued from the streets of Amman. And so on and so forth. Family members nominate various options, and we all vote on which we would like to support in a particular year.

This year we have four "charities" from which we are choosing. Before we take a family vote, I thought it might be interesting to hear what readers thing. Here are the options we are considering:

(1) Afghans for Afghanis (see the link in the right sidebar under Ways to Help). Having spent time earlier this year in Afghanistan, I have developed a soft spot for this very impoverished nation. While factions in the leadership may have been working toward mutual extinction for decades, if not centuries, the everyday man is the one doing the greatest suffering. From the little I could see, by Western standards they have very little, even considering that their desires, values, and concepts of what a "normal" life looks like is quite different from those same concepts in the USA.

(2) Adopt a Box. Our parish has collected Christmas gifts for troops in Afghanistan. Ah, there's that Afghanistan soft spot again! The amount of gifts collected has far exceeded what the parish member who headed the drive anticipated. She was prepared to pay for the mailing of the gifts, assuming that if the collection can were entirely filled, it would cost her about $100 in postage. Well, our parish donated not a can-full but a truckload of gifts, and the postage will be about $1200. So, our pastor has asked that individuals offer to adopt a box of gifts for mailing. As a family, we could adopt a number of boxes. (There is an additional option, as well. I have told the parish member that I would use God's credit card for any orphan boxes.)

(3) Bennie's Homeless. Our friend, Bennie, works with the homeless in a nearby city, providing them with blankets, clothes, food, and personal articles, thanks to the generosity of his friends and neighbors. In return, the homeless work to clean up the local river along which they live. Thanks to their efforts, the salmon, which had nearly disappeared, are now returning "home" to spawn.

(4) Hope. Doah works for Hope, which gives work to the handicapped, who do janitorial and other kinds of simple tasks that they are capable of handling. Doah mentioned that Hope is short of money this year, so it seems that this is a charity that truly "touches" home.

We will take a family vote very soon. In the interim, I would love to hear readers' opinions: which would you choose if you were a member of our family? (I will let you know the result from all the blogs and from our family's vote.)

Our Friend, Bennie

2010-12-11T22:00:00.000-08:00

Bennie called me today, trying to reach Doah. Now, he rarely has trouble reaching Doah. Doah calls him every morning very early and says, "Good morning, Bennie, this is your wake-up call." While most people would be annoyed since Doah is not very good at telling time and often calls when he wakes up, which can be as early as 5:00 a.m., Bennie (shown in the photo above with Donnie, Doah, and Noelle) at the Mission Thanksgiving dinner) loves it and worries if he does not get his wake-up call.

Bennie has been Doah's special friend since the two met. When Doah was living in Santa Clara, Bennie would drive up sometimes to have lunch with him. He also introduced him to Phil, a local police officer, who kept an eye on Doah and even took him to his house for Thanksgiving one year. Bennie has taken Doah fishing and camping, and Doah often hangs out at the Mission gift shop where Bennie works. After Doah's rape, Bennie took Doah under his wing, and for a few hours every day, Doah would spend time at the gift shop with Bennie. It did much to help Doah recover.

In addition to helping Doah, Bennie helps a whole host of people and even creatures of nature. A Secular Franciscan, Bennie takes very seriously St. Francis's commitment to animals and to poor people. With his brother, he has undertaken a project to clean up a stream in a nearby city so that the salmon, which had nearly disappeared, can come home to spawn. How did he do it? By enlisting the help of the homeless people living along the banks of the river. In return, he provided clothing, toiletries, and warm blankets to those people, no questions asked as to why they chose to live outdoors rather than indoors. (Some of them have alcohol and drug dependencies; some have other reasons for staying outside while shelters are, in general, available.)

Bennie asks no questions because he has been where these people are now. For many years, Bennie was known as a local drunkard. He is the first to admit the depths to which his life sank. However, thanks to the help of God and a decision to allow God to help, using the 12 Steps program, Bennie pulled himself out of that morass and commits his free time to helping others also climb back up to the dry heights of a normal life (however one might define normal).

Bennie is not wealthy. He makes a living by piecing together income from two different jobs. Although sometimes he does not have all that one might consider necessary even to "get by," he never complains, and whatever he has, he shares. Maybe because of this level of generosity and humility, Bennie has a special relationship with God. He assumes that his prayers will be answered, and they always are. He has shared with me understandings of what God might want in one or another spiritually significant situations. When I listen, often magic happens. Many people say the same thing.

How lucky we are to have Bennie as a member of our extended family! Or, just perhaps it is not luck but an intentional blessing.

From Bad Experience to Blessed Existence

2010-11-29T00:09:00.000-08:00

I think I have blogged enough in September about Doah's rape experience that everyone is aware of what happened then. (If not, see Time to Quander.) What has happened since, though, I have mentioned less frequently and in less depth because things rolled out slowly, over time, to the point where they are now.

Initially, we brought Doah back to our home. Because he is severely allergic to our cats and cannot sleep where they are present, we made him a guest room outside -- in a backyard tent. He loved it, especially since he was the one who had talked a store manager into selling it to us at considerable discount a few weeks earlier. San Ignatio is a perfectly safe and always warm little town, so, except on checking on him occasionally throughout the evening and night and hearing his comfortable snoring, we had a temporary solution that worked for everyone.

In San Ignatio, everyone rallied to Doah's defense and support. Fr. E spent time talking to him. The Sisters of Atonement whose convent is located in San Ignatio showered him with love and kindness. (The picture above is of Sr. Delores and Doah at the recent Old Mission Thanksgiving dinner for the entire town of San Ignatio where Doah has helped with cleanup in the past -- as well as for the Old Mission fiesta days in the summer.) Bennie, who works at the Old Mission gift shop had Doah helping him there for a few hours a day to keep him busy while we were looking for a group home for him. Everyone in town seemed to adopt him and take care of him, distracting him from too much dysfunctional reflection on his bad experience.

Then, with the help of the state of California, likely the best state to be in if one has any kind of disability, we found him a wonderful group home in the nearby town where Shane and his family live. In fact, he is about a ten-minute walk from Shane, Lemony, Nathaniel, and Nikolina and a one-minute car hop from them. It seemed ideal. Then, we learned that the owner of the group home was from Russia, and his daughter managed the home. Lizzie visited shortly thereafter. She is about the age of Alex, Evgeny's daughter. So, the four of us and Doah went to lunch. Lizzie and Alex were instant friends, sisters even, lost from us in the excited comparison of the K-12 days in the schools of Moscow. They each knew the locations, behaviors, and customs that the other was talking about. Evgeny, it turned out, has a degree in my field although he is now working in a different field, so we, too, had a great conversation. It is so wonderful having Doah in a place that is just minutes away from us, safe, and where we can speak the language (Russian or English) of the owner. The relationship is entirely different from homes of the post where Doah has lived. Soon, thanks to the intervention and active support of Evgeny, Doah was back to work at Hope in another nearby city, where he had worked as a janitor and order fulfiller (Is there such a word?) when he first went into a group home at the age of 21 and is doing the same now. (In California and perhaps elsewhere, it is very difficult to get the full range of services, including employment, if one is living at home. More important, however, living with other young people has helped Doah feel and be more important and given us the comfort of seeing while we are still alive how Doah will manage when we are not.)

Another added benefit is that Doah can come visit far more often. Every day if he wants to. He can stay overnight if it gets late, but since his home is only 10-15 minutes away, there is rarely a need for that. He comes to Mass with me on Saturday and Sunday. In some ways, he owns this town. Everyone watches out for him, talks to him, treats him kindly, relates to him as another "townie." I mentioned this to the owner of a local gift shop, the former mayor, yesterday, and she replied, "Well, of course, he is a town son. That is just the way this town is." Thank God for places like San Ignatio. Small, humble, kind.

Good from bad. From bad to blessed. Isn't that the way God so often works in our lives? So much gratitude!! How does one express it all??

Happy Thanksgiving!

2010-11-25T09:12:00.000-08:00

I am taking the day off from blogging to attend morning Mass and then help out all afternoon at Old Mission's community dinner -- open to all, regardless of SES or church affiliation. I will also take some time during the day and evening to drop in to followers' blogs with Thanksgiving greetings.

Wishing you all a happy Thanksgiving!

Doahisms

2010-11-21T12:43:00.000-08:00

Today, after Mass, Doah and I went to lunch. During lunch, Doah caught me up to date on what has gone on while I have been out of town and what plans he would like to make. I realized after the conversation that I really have a 19th language almost under control: Doahan, the language of Doah. Not everyone is proficient in Doahan. Complication matters, Doah is nearly alingual in English, Russian, Spanish, and sign language and therefore Doahan often include parts of other languages as well, making it more complex. So, Doah's communication in general tends to take effort on both sides (listener and speaker). The gist of our conversation today was as follows:

1. He wanted to mind me to do something.
2. His boss was tired while I was gone.
3. He had been being have, or so he considered.
4. He plans to help out at the mission on Turkey Day.
5. He would like to go to see his Uncle Honk on either Ho Ho Day or Count Down Day.
6. Because it has been raining, he needs to find his rainbrella.
7. Because it has been raining, they don't need any cold heat at his group home -- not that they use it very much, anyway.
8. The crazy doctor is too far away now.

And now here is the translation.

1. He wanted to REmind me to do something. (Minding does not come easy to him, so I know that he does not mean the word he chose.)

2. His boss REtired while I was gone.

3. He has been BEHAVING, or so he considered.

4. He plans to help out at the mission on Thanksgiving.

5. He would like to go see his Uncle Rollie (dunno where Honk comes from, but it took and everyone in the family calls Rollie that) on Christmas (Ho Ho = Santa Claus) or New Year's.

6. Because it has been raining, he wants to find his UMbrella.

7. Because it has been raining, they have not needed air conditioning at his group home -- not that they use it much, anyway.

8. The psychologist he sees is far away (now that he has moved = he needs to find a new psychologist.)

How did you do? We are thinking of writing a dictionary with Doah, called Cold Heat and Crazy Doctor. Today's conversation was about par: I understood about 40% before analyzing and questioning and over 90% after doing so. Doah is usually patient about these communication gaps, but sometimes that patience runs thin. We might have to start teaching a course for friends of the family (family members, too, it sometimes seems) in Doahan.

Nonetheless, hamburger's at our local JJ's Burgers is a universal language. So, Doah had a good day, and so did I.

A Tale of Two Lords

2010-11-17T00:23:00.000-08:00

People in Blogland generally know me as a multi-childrened mother and senior administrator of some kind of international organization. I have been quite vague about where I work because of the connection with the US government and security issues. I will continue to be vague about that out of necessity. However, there was a time a while back when I spent ten years in international educational consulting, traveling from country to country, helping minister of education after minister of education to improve child and adult experiences and learning success in that country's classrooms. In ten years, I worked in 24 countries, where I learned much about learning but not as much as I learned in raising seven exceptional children. (I kept waiting for the typical, average child to appear in my life, imagining how "easy" and "fun" that would be -- although at some level I knew that no child, no matter how "typical" and "average" is truly easy and at the same time, regardless of health, talent, or lack thereof, they are all fun, well, most of the time.) So, I may have learned as much about learning from my seven children as I did from the seventy times seven children in seven times three plus three countries.

At one point, in the mid-1990s, I wrote a book about teaching and learning any subject at any level in any location by any kind of learner that has now been translated into a few different languages and is in use in many of the countries where I consulted and in others where I did not. That book ended in an epilogue, couched in the form of a folktale, that put everything I had learned into one short story. I am departing from my usual type of post to bring this to you a decade later because I think (hope) that you will find it not only interesting but perhaps helpful with your own children.

A Tale of Two Lords

In a far-away land in a far-away time there lived two lords, each with his own fiefdom, His Excellency Dejan and His Excellency Mejan. Now Dejan and Mejan each hoped to wed the king's daughter and ensure security and riches for his own fiefdom. The price of the bride was to make a present to the king of the best honor guard in the whole kingdom, as determined by the most successful completion of an unknown task to be assigned to all contending honor guards.

In preparation, Lord Dejan and Lord Mejan each gathered together ninety-nine of the best soldiers in their fiefdom for training as an honor guard. They determined that members of the honor guard needed three skills: marching, firing, and collecting intelligence. So, each selected thirty-three soldiers with strong legs, thirty-three with strong eyes, and thirty-three with strong ears.

Lord Dejan put his chief administrator in charge of the training for the soldiers in his fiefdom. The chief administrator agreed immediately; he had a number of ability and achievement tests that his staff had been developing that he would be able to use in the service of his lordship.

The chief administrator first tested all the men nominated for the honor guard on ability and found two-thirds of them lacking in marching skills, two-thirds lacking in firing skills, and two-thirds lacking in listening skills. He immediately found three remedial instructors, one for each subject area. Soldiers with strong legs spent most of the next six months in remedial firing and remedial listening classes. They sat for most of the day, and their legs grew weak. Soldiers with strong eyes spent all day in remedial marching and listening classes. They marched to the point of fatigue, and their eyes clouded over. Soldiers with strong ears were sent to remedial marching and remedial firing classes. The noise of the weapons dulled their hearing. After six months great progress had been made. All of the soldiers tested "average" in all skill areas on achievement tests.

The chief administrator knew that "average" would not be good enough for Lord Dejan, so he implemented a motivation program, associated with periodic progress testing. For testing, he used multiple choice test items, based on a componential analysis of each of the three skills, as well as hypothetical tasks. When soldiers assigned to a particular instructor exceeded their previous percentile scores by more than 10%, the instructor received a bonus. Soon, the instructors were familiar enough with the test items that they could begin direct instruction of the soldiers in the specifics of those items and how best to handle the test questions. The instructors initiated an incentive program for the soldiers: the higher the test score, the more privileges a soldier would receive. The scores of the soldiers began to rise dramatically, and the chief administrator was immensely pleased. When the scores reached nearly 100% for all soldiers, the instructors received a big bonus, and they were immensely pleased. The instructors handsomely rewarded the soldiers with lavish benefits for their high scores, and the soldiers were immensely pleased.

Nearly a year had passed, and the time for the competition for the king's daughter neared. Lord Dejan, assured by his chief administrator that objective test results proved that these were the very best soldiers in the entire kingdom, proudly presented his honor guard to the king for the competition. As the king prepared to reveal the unknown task to the honor guard, the soldiers looked at each other nervously, wondering if the task would match any that had been on their tests and what would happen if they failed to be the best honor guard in all the kingdom.

Now, during this same time, Lord Mejan also established a training program for his soldiers. First, he approached a retired, old general, who had been known for his exemplary service and multiple soldiering skills, tested and honed in some very fine battles. He asked this old general to oversee the training program for the new soldiers. The general, at first, declined, "Sire, I am too old. I no longer walk well, let alone march. I no longer see well. I no longer hear well. How can I train your soldiers to be good marchers, good marksmen, and good intelligence collectors?"

Lord Mejan would not listen to the general's demurring. He replied, "You do not have to march or to walk or to see or to hear. I have thirty-three soldiers with the strongest legs in the kingdom; they will carry you. I have thirty-three soldiers with the best eyes in the kingdom; they will see for you. And I have thirty-three soldiers with the best ears in the kingdom; they will listen for you. You have been the best of all my soldiers. You have accomplished remarkable feats. You can share your ways of soldiering with these new soldiers. They, not you, must now do the marching, the firing, and the intelligence collection; they need you to support them in doing this the best way that they can.

And so, the old general agreed to teach the new soldiers. He knew that they would all need to be able to do all three skills well, so he organized them into groups of three. In each group there was a soldier with strong legs, a soldier with strong eyes, and a soldier with strong ears. When the soldier with strong eyes could not march well, the soldier with strong legs guided him into a marching rhythm. When the soldier with strong ears could not fire well, the soldier with strong eyes helped him aim his weapon for better marksmanship. When the soldier with strong legs could not collect data well, the soldier with strong ears showed him how to use his legs to get just close enough and positioned well to hear better.

To help the new soldiers, the old general selected the best marcher, the best marksman, and the best intelligence collector in the fiefdom and gave them roles as counselors. When individual soldiers determined that they needed extra help or simply wanted assistance, they could come to these counselors to practice under their mentorship, to receive individualized instruction, or to have questions answered. The counselors' roles were to serve as mentors and role models, as well as to be foster the growth of skills and confidence in each soldier by observing how each soldier went about soldiering, making him aware of what he still needed to know (and why he needed to know it), showing him the best strategies for improving his soldiering skills, and encouraging him to take risks and to experiment with his own training program.

When all the soldiers had improved their weaker skills, the general tasked them to complete meaningful missions. Often, these missions involved going to far parts of the fiefdom where information on subjects' living conditions could be brought back to Lord Mejan. The soldiers had to march there, use marksmanship skills to forage for food, and listen well to bring back accurate intelligence to his lordship. Sometimes, when they had done this, Lord Mejan would send a detail of soldiers back to those same subjects to bring to them the supplies and assistance they needed. The soldiers felt good about this—they were helping their countrymen, and their countrymen loved them. Their confidence grew, and they became better marchers, marksmen, and intelligence collectors.

The old general sometimes went with them, and they did carry him. Sometimes he stayed behind and allowed them to fend for themselves, debriefing them and making suggestions when they reported back to him. Sometimes he gave them detailed instructions in advance. Other times he simply provided general information and let them determine what they needed to do. What he gave them and asked of them depended upon what he knew they could do and where they still needed support. With time, he removed more and more of the support. With time, they stopped relying upon him and began relying upon themselves and their developing skills.

The old general did not check the soldiers' knowledge through standardized exams; instead, his observations served as informal "tests." He would have examined the soldiers objectively, had Lord Mejan required it, but then he would have used the test results only to supplement his observations. He watched the soldiers complete their missions. He listened to their descriptions. He evaluated their successes. He analyzed their failures. Where he found the soldiers lacking, he provided individual or group instruction or practice, as need dictated.

In a year, when the time for the competitions for the king's daughter neared, he approached Lord Mejan. "Are my soldiers the best in the kingdom?" asked Lord Mejan.

The old general answered his lordship, "Sire, "best" is a relative word. Those with strong legs are still the better marchers, those with strong eyes the better marksmen, and those with strong ears the better intelligence collectors, but all the soldiers possess strategies for accomplishing all these tasks both independently and as one unit. Sire, these soldiers are capable today, and they will not disappoint you. But more important, they have the knowledge and skills to become better tomorrow and even better the day after that. Your soldiers have competed not against peers but against their own potential. They have cooperated in helping each other become better. They have the thinking skills to handle both the known and the unknown and enough self-confidence to take any risk. They are ready for this competition."

Lord Mejan marched with his soldiers to the castle and presented his honor guard to the king. Standing at their head, carried there by the soldiers with the strong legs, was the old general. As the king prepared to reveal the unknown task to the honor guard, the soldiers looked at each other in anticipation, wondering what exciting challenge might lie in store for them today.

Now, which honor guard do you think won the competition?

Note: Also posted on Mahlou Musings. Excerpted from book on teaching, copyright 1997.

Saturdays with Doah

2010-11-13T01:29:00.000-08:00

Today being Doah's birthday (#31), it seems the perfect day to blog about him. It will be a simple day, like Doah. Donnie and I plan to take care of home tasks until mid-afternoon. Then we will go pick up the ordered-from-Safeway birthday cake, take Doah on board, and wend our way back to San Ignatio for Doah to spend a few minutes with a pal who takes him fishing and works in the mission gift shop. (He cannot come to Doah's party tonight because he has to work a second job, so he wants to say happy birthday to Doah before Mass.) After Mass, Doah and I will join others from church and elsewhere, about twenty in all, at the local pizza factory to celebrate not only Doah's birthday but also Donnie's, which was November 1, and that of Evgeny, the owner of Doah's new group home, which was two days ago. Prediction? Lots of fun will be had by all!

For some time now, Saturdays have been our day with Doah. Of course, it makes sense, since Saturdays fall on the weekend. Now that Doah is nearby, we do such things as go to the Monterey bay Aquarium together. We are members there, and when we were living in Salts, a bus ride from the aquarium, Doah would frequently hop the bus to visit the aquarium. He liked watching the fish, but he especially liked eating the fish at the aquarium's cafe. His idea of how best to observe fish is not to look at them in the tanks (except for the otter tank which fascinates him) but to go outside and looks out over the ocean where they live. There is a special connection between Doah and nature. One feels this watching him in his natural environment: the outdoors.

We also drag him along on any shopping trip. Unlike me, Doah loves to shop, and he always has great ideas about how to spend my money.

Spending Saturdays with Doah made even more sense during those years that Doah lived in a group home in Santa Clara. Every other Saturday we would make the long trek north to have a few hours with him. I guess that is what is called quality time. It was always his choice, and his choice was always simple. Perhaps the simplicity is why we enjoyed those Saturdays so much. Mainly, we would go somewhere to eat and talk, both being equally important to Doah. Then, generally, we would stop into CVS, and he would pick out something to take to his group home, and I would purchase it for him. He would always pop out his CVS card, of which he is as proud as most young people his age are of their driver's licenses, so that he could get credit for the purchase. (I have never known what CVS does with the "credit" that goes onto those cards, but I figure if I lose my wallet, a good citizen will be able to turn it into a CVS store which should be able to contact me -- or is that delusional thinking?)

And those made up the majority of our Saturdays with Doah. The last Saturday in Santa Clara was spent at Subway. Doah and I finished our lunch early, so while we waited for Donnie we took a walk around the two-storey building in which Subway is located -- and around it again and then again and again. It was a nice walk albeit a tad directionless. At the end, we climbed up onto the second floor and took some pictures. Little did we know at the time that this would be Doah's last Saturday in Santa Clara. It was the following three nights that he was raped at his group home, immediately after which we brought him back to San Ignatio until we were able to find him a new group home, lucking out in finding one in a small city nearby.

That last Saturday was full of hope. The staff at the group home had been planning a fishing trip, and Doah wanted to pick out a fishing pole. So, we went to a camping goods store near Subway where Donnie, an experienced fisherman from many years of both spinner fishing and fly fishing (used to tie his own flies when we lived in Montana), helped Doah pick out an appropriate fishing rod. As we were leaving, Doah's eye settled momentarily upon a tent that was set up in front of the store, then settled there. "I want a tent," he declared.

"What would you do with a tent, Doah?" we asked.

"Sleep in it," he replied.

"Really? Where?"

"In my back yard." He as already beside the tent and starting to crawl into it.

"I want this tent," he declared. "Look. Cheap." He pointed to the sale sign.

He was right. It really was cheap. $45 for a $90 tent. While we considered it, Doah settled inside and declared himself at home in "his" tent.

Entrapped by Doah's enthusiasm, we headed inside to find the tent, although we were certain that the tent would never be used. Inside there were all kinds of tents, mostly rather expensive ones, but none were the model or price that Doah had seen on the front lawn of the store. We asked a salesman for help, and he determined that this particular model was entirely sold out.

"Sorry, Doah, they are all gone," we said, but Doah was not listening. He was not there with us any more. That kid can slip away faster than a greased pig at a pig-handling contest! We looked around and found him in deep discussion at the front of the store with the store manager. Now what? We hurried over to find out what was going on.

Amazingly, Doah had talked the store manager into selling us the tent that was on display -- and into giving us an additional deep discount on it since it had been on display. We paid, in all, $30. "Cheap!" Doah pronounced, and he was right.

We brought the tent home and put it in storage. After all, we did not believe that there would be any need for that tent. Ironically, we needed that tent only a week later when Doah came home to stay with us. While we were baffled as to how to balance Doah's sleeping arrangements and his allergy to our cats, Doah had an answer: "I sleep my tent back yard." And so we pitched Doah's tent in our back yard, and there he slept comfortably and peacefully every night until he moved into his new group home.

This is so like Doah. We make plans that we think will contribute to his continued development and integration into the greater world. We try to excite him with our sophisticated ideas and all that he could be involved with were he to develop some additional skills. Instead, he comes up with something simple, something we never anticipated, and something that turns out to be more meaningful than any of our plans for him. I have no idea how he knew he would be sleeping in a tent in his back yard, but he was convinced of it, and, lo, it happened.

With time as he has grown from infant struggling to live through years of special education to supported adulthood, we have learned to give up our dreams for him in order to live in his reality. It is a simple reality, and it brings him happiness. I have rarely known Doah not to be happy. He wrote a book once (of course, with my help), and it is a happy book (you can find excerpts on Mahlou Musings from time to time). Doah could not write something serious. He views life as a good place; he sees people as good no matter how they treat him; he "needs" only one thing -- to know that God is with him.

When we first moved to San Ignatio, which has been called by a friend of mine "a place drenched in prayer," Doah came to visit. On his first trip, he stood in our front yard, turned around a few times, then suddenly stopped and remained quiet for about as long as he ever can -- a second or two. He looked at me and announced solemnly and with obvious satisfaction, "God here."

The sacred simplicity of Doah is something greater than all the secular sophistication of our plans for him. I wonder who is really learning from whom?

Wall Art

2010-11-02T02:02:00.000-07:00

Our grandson, Nathaniel, came to visit recently. He excitedly shared with us his newly found interest in astronomy. He described his visit to a planetarium and told us how sad he felt that poor Pluto had been downgraded from planet status. (We told him that we were sad about that, too, because now we had to relearn the solar system, and old minds don't relearn things as quickly as young minds learn things from scratch.)

So, to help us, Nathaniel sat down and drew us a picture of the solar system. We told him that we thought it was quite a nice picture and very helpful to see the solar system without Pluto in it. About that time, Lemony decided it was time for Nathaniel to go home since it was a school night, and off they went.

Later that evening, as I walked through the living room, I noticed a paper affixed to the living room wall. It was the picture of the solar system. I guess Nathaniel left it to help our old, feeble minds remember the new solar system. He does that at times. Our walls are getting decorated enough that we just may have to resort to measures that we took when Lizzie was little.

We were living in a building that we also used a day care facility that we ran. Our living quarters were in one part of the building, and the day care in another, with long corridors. Those white corridors were really tempting for the day care children and for Lizzie. We were constantly washing crayon drawings off the walls, paranoid that we would end up removing the paint as well and have to pay a fortune to have the place re-painted. Then, we got the idea that rather than working against the children's yearnings to draw on the wall, perhaps we would be better off to go along with those yearnings.

So, off we went to the local newspaper publisher. We asked if there were leftover newsprint rolls that we could have for the center. (When the newspaper is printed -- at least in the days of printing presses -- the paper rolls on which the newspapers were printed would always have some leftover paper. The size was perfect -- 2-3 feet high and a length of whatever was left on the roll, but usually 5-6 feet. It covered a corridor wall quite nicely. We had no more messes on the wall paint, and the children could then draw and color on the wall paper to their hearts' content.

The children loved seeing their art work on display in this way and having the opportunity to draw whatever they liked whenever they had some free time without getting into trouble for drawing on the wall. (Is there a child in existence who has never drawn on a wall?) When the paper was completely used up, it could be replaced with a new roll, and we could cut out the individual children's wall art to be taken home.

That might be just the thing for our walls and Nathaniel. Now, if we can just find a newspaper publisher that still prints on newsprint, using printing presses...

Ghosts of Halloween Past

2010-10-30T15:32:00.001-07:00

This Halloween Nathaniel decided to go out as Dr. Who. Lemony did a great job on his costume. Somehow, the character fits him. As I take the day off (yes, really), thanks to a virus that slugged me strongly enough to lay me out all weekend (but might not have had I not worked all week while fighting it), Shane and Lemony are preparing to take Nathaniel and Neela around the block, gathering treats. Donnie and Doah are preparing to hand out candy. As for me, I am lounging about on the couch, supervising. (And gathering strength for a wicked week ahead at work.)

One Halloween brings back reminiscences of past Halloweens. Of course, some were spent abroad and, therefore, not celebrated, but most years we have been in the USA in October. It seems that each year, though, there are fewer knocks on the door. At least, here in San Ignatio, life is safe, and kids can walk the streets and knock on doors with no fear. When we lived in Salt, no one in many of the neighborhoods went out because children were hurt and/or candy was deliberately contaminated. The police started a tradition of bobbing for apples and other games at the police stations. Those games were always a part of my childhood Halloweens and induce a sense of nostalgia when I saw children and now see my grandchildren playing them. It is good that Halloween has not gone the way of May Day. Even my old childhood neighborhood no longer celebrates May Day.

Costumes blur into costumes. I never bought any for the kids; I always made them -- mice, turnips, clowns. There were original ideas, as well as the tried and true.

Perhaps the most vivid memory of Halloween, though, comes from my own childhood. I had grown old enough as a pre-teen to stay home to help with the handing out of the treats. While there were future confirming events and situations, that night was when I first learned that we were poor. We quickly ran out of treats. My father then started handing out real food, feeling bad that we had nothing to offer: crackers, even hot dogs. I wondered what we would eat the rest of the week. Then, finally, he sighed and said that we had nothing left to give except our talents. He went to the closet where he kept his violin. When the next group of children chorused, "trick or treat," he countered, "here's my trick," and he would play them a song. How embarrassing! However, the next day, everyone commented on how fun it was to get a trick instead of a treat and how they did not know my father could play the violin so well. (Somewhat after that, I asked my father to teach me to play the violin, but I never learned to play more than a few notes; Noelle played the violine in the elementary school orchestra for a couple of years, however. I guess talent skips generations sometimes.)

I learned a lot more from that Halloween night beyond the simple fact that we were poor. I learned that no matter how little you have, you do have something to give. I learned how to give beyond what is convenient to pass along and to give from one's very essence. And I learned that an intangible gift is every bit as good as a tangible one.

Remembering San Diego

2010-10-30T01:31:00.000-07:00

Donnie and I spending time with Fr. Julio in San Diego this last weekend brought back a host of memories of the days when Lizzie, Blaine, and Noelle lived there. They are now scattered into three locations, so the memories evoked a sense of nostalgia for a simpler time (or maybe it just seems simpler in retrospect). I will share of few of the many memories that flooded us during our three days there.

First, there was Angel. Noelle and Lizzie moved to San Diego a year before Blaine joined them. We had no idea where were the good and bad parts of town, safe and not safe areas. We did know where the areas were that they could afford the rent and where they could not. Where they could afford afford the rent was not as comforting to me as their mother as were the areas where they could not. However, the manager of the apartment complex upon which they ultimately decided reassured me, promising to watch out for them as if they were his own daughters. His name? Angel. I figured that was a good a sign.

While Angel was watching over them, I did not worry about them. Then Blaine moved to San Diego, and life became more interesting (for all concerned).

For starters, there was the time that the kids were coming home to visit. Lizzie called me as they were leaving San Diego so that I would know to plan for their arrival and just because parents like to know these things -- where their kids are, when they are leaving for home, and all that stuff. Several hours later, Blaine called to say that they would be home in approximately an hour. I did a quick calculation and remonstrated, "You had better not be!" because that meant that they had been driving too fast for my comfort. Two hours later, they showed up. "That's more like it," I told Blaine. "I thought you could not be only an hour away." Lizze later pulled me aside and told me that they really had been only an hour away, but they all decided to sit beside the road for an hour so I would not be unhappy with their arrival time! (Kids!)

Then there was the time that we had just spent a small fortune on new glasses for Shura. (He brought very little with him from Siberia, so there were many new supplies to be acquired for him, including some very important things such as eyeglasses.) He was quite proud of those glasses, and we did not have to enforce his wearing them. He always did. In between surgeries in Charlottesville, Virginia, where we had been able to set up his care with the help of a philanthropist, John Kluge, a wonderful man who died earlier this year, he came "home" to California and decided to spend some time in San Diego with Lizzie, Blaine, and Noelle. I should not have been surprised by the phone call later that week because there was something scatterbrained about Shura. Maybe it is simply the artist's temperament. In any event, Blaine and he were cruising along the coast, enjoying the sun and wind, and Shura, not used to cars, stuck his head out the window to feel the greater effect of the wind. Whisk! His expensive eyeglasses were gone with the wind, literally. Chagrined, he had to go get a replacement pair. (Kids!)

Then there was the time that Noelle took the wrong bus home. Her trip turned out to be a different kind of joy ride from that of Blaine and Shura. A bit ditzy at times, Noelle, realizing that she did not recognize the areas the bus was traveling through, decided to stay on the bus until she did recognize something. It never occurred to her that she was on the wrong bus. Well, the bus finally reached the outskirts of town and stopped. End of line. It was nor returning. End of day. So, Noelle hopped off the bus, in her braces, with her crutches, carrying her backpack, and hitchiked back into town. Some kind man picked her up and brought her all the way to her house, where Lizzie proceeded to give her quite a lecture on the dangers of hitchhiking (although one thing I have noticed with handicapped children: they bring out the best in people, and rarely do the "bad guys" want to "mess" with them -- I think God keeps a pretty close eye on them. (Kids!)

Of course, if I can complain about kids (!), then I guess they should be allowed to complain about parents (!). When the kids were living in San Diego, I was working on a couple of books for publication, and I loved using Lizzie's library (University of California at San Diego) for research. So, I would visit quite frequently. In the beginning, Lizzie's supervisor at work (she worked in the bookstore while going through college) would offer to give her the day off so that she could spend time with me, but Lizzie would tell her that I had come to visit her library or that if she visited with me she would end up helping with research (which she did not mind doing, but she preferred earning money from working more), so soon her supervisor stopped offering, and Lizzie and I and the other kids just spent evenings and weekends together -- and even on some of those occasions when I had a close deadline, they all ended up helping me with library research. I am sure that their response would have been: Parents!

And the bottom line? The kids needed the parents, and the parents needed the kids -- and the complaints were all just in fun (well, mostly).

My Children Are Unnumbered

2010-10-20T00:16:00.000-07:00

I suppose you could take the title of this post in more than one way, and it would be accurate. I have four birth children, three others who moved in as teenagers, and four more young adults from the Middle East who call me Mom (and treat me like their mother) but never lived with me. And the number of them grows...

What I am referring to in this post, however, is the tendency that was rampant in my children's growing-up years to put a number to each child. That number, his or her IQ, then let him or her enter programs or denied him or her entry into programs. Control by number was the game of the 1970s and 1980s. It continues today, but at least is disappearing in many parts of the country. More and more educators and parents are beginning to realize that our children are more than numbers. Take my children, for example, who, by the way, for the most part, were never numbered by school systems or anyone else who might use the number to their disadvantage or to their advantaging over their peers. I would permit neither the use of IQ for program selection with them nor even testing them for IQ by the schools, but I did have insights into what their levels were and in three cases actually know the number the schools would have attached to them had they had the same information I had.

Lizzie, the oldest, learned much about life very early because of two multiple-handicapped siblings. She probably is gifted. She skipped two grades in school, and by the time she was in fourth grade was studying genetics as a hobby, sat through my university classes when babysitting was unavailable, and was taken into the university honors biology program (the only non-university student there). I could trust her with anything. The Red Cross trained her in CPR at age nine (four years younger than their 13-year-old prerequisitebecause she convinced them that she needed to be able to save Doah, who had a trach at that time, if he stopped breathing while I was in the bathroom); she was their best student (that had a lot to do with real-life, immediate applications of knowledge, I am sure). In fourth grade, her teacher, who had been reading Tennyson with her, proposed her for the gifted program, but that required an IQ test. I demurred because the gifted program was only part-time, would not stretch Lizzie enough, and would serve only to mark her as different from the other kids. I did take her on my own to a psychologist to satisfy my own suspicions that her learning styles (especially reflectivity instead of impulsivity -- we in the USA equate speed with intelligence, erroneously, in my opinion) would result in an inaccurate representation of her potential. It did. At least, it did to the extent that the test could even be scored. Lizzie, in pure Lizzie fashion, refused to give in to those parts of the test that required her to respond in a way inconsistent with her learning style. She is concrete by nature and needs to work from within context. When she was asked to define a list of words, she refused, commenting "words do not exist out of context; give me a context, and I will define them." Keep in mind that this comment from a 7-year-old, whose ultimate score turned out to be high average (probably inaccurately so). In high school, based upon performance and given the fortunate lack of an IQ score in the files which would have held her out of advanced courses, Lizzie was placed in the gifted group, working a year ahead of grade level (on top of skipping two grades), and by the age of 15 had taken two college courses and seven Advanced Placement courses in foreign language, math, and science. Today, she holds a doctorate as a professor of cognitive neuroscience. Not bad for high average IQ!

Noelle, of course, experienced some of the traditional difficulties that spina bifida children with hydrocephalus and Arnold Chiari malformation encounter: specific brain damage from placement of the shunt that destroys the part of the brain that deals with higher mathematical functioning. Nonetheless, Georgetown University Hospital at one point decided that it would be helpful to have an IQ test for her. Her IQ at that time was flat average: 100, just a few points behind Lizzie. However, because she was physically handicapped, she was denied placement in all but special education programs. We sometimes fought successfully to keep her mainstreamed; other times we lost that battle. In fourth grade, because she was in special education, she was excluded from the school's spelling bee. The next year, I began the fight early, she was allowed to participate, and she won first place. Nonetheless, during her years in special education, her IQ slipped down into low average levels; the hospitals, not the schools, tracked it for us, mainly out of curiosity as to how good and poor education and availability and lack of educational opportunities can affect IQ. Clearly, it can, when one compares Lizzie and Noelle, who started out so close. Noelle did complete two years of college, then dropped out to be with her significant other, Ray, who died earlier this year. Now that nine months of mourning have passed, she is working on returning to college. I suspect that in spite of being flat average, she will do fine, as she did in her first two years.

Shane began life very inconspicuously. Situated in birth order between two multiple-handicapped siblings, he pretty much raised himself due to our lack of time to spend with him. I usually found out after the fact what he could do. For example, at 23 months he could read books -- he read one to me; it was the first time I heard him talk (and he was not yet walking because Noelle, who could not walk, would pull him down whenever he stood up, afraid that he would hurt himself). At age 3, when we put him in the university nursery school, the administration moved him the next day to first grade since he was not only reading but also understood science and was able to do math calculations at fourth grade level. By the time he was seven and in the fifth grade, he dropped out of school. We took him to a school clinic for diagnosing educational problems. The answer: too gifted to be educated by public schools. Although we asked that the total IQ score not be added up and our wishes were observed, we were told that no one had ever before achieved a perfect score on the Wechsler math section. So, after money ran out for an ungraded private school, Shane grew up in homeschooling at a time when homeschooling did not yet exist. He studied with college professors, went off to college at 14, and is clearly my best-educated albeit least educated child. IQ unknown.

Contrary to my wishes, Doah's IQ was tested: 52. Two points above the category of "moron." We paid little attention to that. He was fortunate that our push to make sure he had only good teachers saw results. Our "near-moron" lives in a nearly unrestricted group home, was voted "class flirt" in high school (he was the most popular graduate that year -- no one will deny that assertion since his popularity made the front page of the local paper), is semi-lingual in five languages, can take care of all his personal needs independently, travels independently by bus throughout the county, and wrote a book that was exhibited at the National Book Exhibit in Los Angeles in 2003. He loved autographing copies! When his HOPE helper left, I overheard the departing helper say to the incoming helper, "This is a case of the greatest delta between potential and performance that you may ever see." That is probably because we chose not to react to Doah's number.

Blaine had obviously been numbered before he arrived to live with us because he attended the gifted program at the local high school. We know he is also dyslexic, but he manages to keep that under control as head of IT at one of the branch campuses of the University of South Carolina.

Ksenya and Shura have no numbers. Raised in the USSR, where all children were taught with equal expectations of full performance, they never encountered the need to be numbered.

So far, my grandchildren have not been numbered. Their school district appears more enlightened than ones of the past.

Now, I mean no offense meant to educators. After all, I am one myself (my organization is one that hires teachers and focuses on education). I understand why teachers, educational administrators, and school districts like to be able to label, categorize, and "file" students. It is easier and less messy than having to deal with each student individually in accordance with his or her learning strengths and needs. The latter, though, is the only way that every child will reach his or her full potential. Not leaving any child behind is not really the point. The point is for all children to enjoy learning and experience success in learning, and even special education children, taught in accordance with their learning styles and needs, can do that.

Even more important, though, are the traits that go beyond number: trust, resilience, kindness, problem-solving (rather than problem-creating), forgiveness, compassion, insight, faith -- those things that come from the grace of God. I don't care what number my children have. I care that they possess these other traits. I care that they are Good Samaritans. While I have been proud of their better school moments, I am prouder as I watch them sometimes literally go 200 miles out of their way to help friends and classmates. I have watched them accept foreign children into the family as brothers and sister, not complaining about the significant amount that they had to personally give up in order to accommodate their additional "siblings." These things are enough for me. I don't feel any need to know their number because God's graces come without number, innumerably.

Differences

2010-10-12T03:54:00.001-07:00

It has been a long while since I have written about Donnie and me, at least in terms of our relationship. There is no particular reason for me to write about that now except perhaps it is time to return to my first post and develop it more.

The odd things about Donnie and me is that 40 years ago no one gave our marriage a chance. It would never last, we were told by nearly everyone, because we were so different.

They were right about the being different part. Certainly, it is difficult to find much that we have in common except a passel of kids and easy to find what we do not share. The list is very long.

(1) Donnie is a scientist; I am a humanist.

(2) Donnie prefers to work outdoors; I prefer to work indoors.

(3) Donnie is an introvert, who likes being alone in nature; I am an extravert, who seeks out people and interaction.

(4) Donnie prefers to stay at home and speaks only English, once trying to learn Russian, that experiment ending in abysmal failure; I am on my 18th language of active study, being able to read nearly fifty and not even knowing what some of those are that I can understand, and as a result, I love to travel and live among people of differing cultures.

(5) When we travel, Donnie looks for comfort and familiarity, i.e. he likes to live at home abroad; when we select a community for settling in, I look for one where traditional American culture shares the streets and institutions with people of other cultures, i.e. I like to live abroad at home.

(6) When we travel, Donnie dreams of flying first class but has never done so; because I travel more than 100,000 miles a year, I sometimes get upgraded to first class, which is unimportant to me, and generally sleep through the whole flight anyway.

(7) In college, Donnie was a poor student, and I helped him with his studies; in college, I was a good student (which is perhaps why I initially became a teacher and then an educational administrator).

(8) Donnie likes to photograph; I like to write -- at least, there is possibility of complementarity and collaboration here (and we do collaborate on publications).

(9) Donnie is a night owl; I am awake during "normal" hours, i.e. day time.

(10) At the end of the day, Donnie would want to know that our kids' bellies were full; I would want to know that their minds were full.

(11) Donnie likes to climb real mountains; I like to climb the allegorical kind.

(12) Donnie likes to watch ball games; I like to play ball games.

(13) Donnie likes moderate climates; I like really hot ones (like Jordan and Uzbekistan where I have spent summers) and really cold ones (like Maine where I grew up and Siberia where I have spent winters) and get confused by moderate ones.

(14) Donnie collects gadgets; I collect people.

(15) Donnie grew up in the middle class in a city and attended one of the best public high schools in the USA; I grew up in the lower class on a farm and attended one of the worst public high schools in the USA (strange then that I would become the better student -- ah, right, motivation and interest...).

(16) Donnie can fix things easily, especially technological ones; I can break them easily, especially technological ones.

(17) Donnie cooks well; I cook abysmally.

(18) Donnie loves to eat; I forget to eat.

(19) Donnie likes to play; I like to work.

(20) Donnie likes to play computer games; I like to play musical instruments.

(21) Donnie wanted no children; I kept turning up pregnant and when I was done with that kept bringing home other people's children to raise.

(22) Donnie likes an empty nest; I fill it with cats since the children I have been gathering lately are fully grown young people.

(23) Donnie likes to drive; I like to be driven (hm, another complementarity, perhaps that works okay).

(24) Donnie prefers air conditioning; I get sick in air conditioning -- fans, including the kind you wave in front of your face, are my preference.

(25) Donnie forgets important dates, like our anniversary; I forget them, too. Ah, finally, something in common!

This is just the tip of the iceberg. I could go on and on and on with all the differences we have encountered over the years. People are right. We are very different from one another. Perhaps they are also right that opposites attract but the marriages of opposites don't last. There is always that possibility. Time will tell. Right now, we are at 40 and counting.

Where in the World Is Elizabeth?

2010-10-06T10:40:00.000-07:00

I just thought of an interesting little competition. While I am gone tripping, please leave a comment, guessing where you think I am and why. And since I will not have access to the Internet, no one will see anyone's answers until I return so there will be no influence one upon another!

I will send a surprise gift to everyone who guesses correctly.

This will be fun, no?

On Giving Away Everything

2010-10-02T18:30:00.000-07:00

This year, Lizzie and Shane have needed large weekly monetary infusions due to lack of work. Lizzie's summer semester courses were cut, and Shane, as reported earlier in Clan under Siege, lost his job as a result of a threatened insurance premium hike on his employer for all employees due to the more than two million dollars that the insurance company had to pay out for Nikolina. Without going into the question of the value of life versus the value of money (I always choose life over money, and Nikolina at 18 months is showing that she has the will to make the most of the life she has been given), my son was left stranded with a wife who needed to stay home to care for a baby who could not be given care through babysitters or day care and no income.

I can state without equivocation that life fought for comes at a high cost in emotions, time, and, yes, money. So, here I am again in the position I was in when the children, especially the ones with birth defects, were small and needy, juggling bills. Now the kids are big and needy, and the bills I am juggling allow me to help them to juggle theirs. Of course, no one in the family has any savings. With million-dollar medical bills (not only for Nikolina but for three other children in the family), who would? I have to note here, though, that Stanford University Hospital, upon learning of the critical financial situation of Shane due to his summarily losing his job, told him that they wanted to keep the baby as a patient (the doctors are pretty darn proud of themselves -- as far as we know, only one other such baby, now a small girl living in Pennsylvania, has survived) and would help him however they could. They forgave every cent of the co-pay bills from birth up until Nikolina's second birthday (which will be in the spring of next year), at which point her medical expenses should taper off.

Nonetheless, living expenses remained a problem. Shane burned through his savings and withdrawn retirement funds while unemployed and took a 25% salary cut on his new job. Some day he will catch up to where he was. For now, I help him.

Some day Lizzie, too, will catch up. First, she needs to repay her student loans, and second, she needs tenure and promotion to associate professor. After that, she will be able to be on her own. I hope so since after that I would like to retire and devote full-time to writing and part-time international consulting. For now, that option is only a distant dream.

Recently, I told Lizzie, "I don't mind giving you all that I have. Just keep in mind that based on financial affairs to date, there will likely be no inheritance for you kids."

"No problem, Mom," she wrote. "I hate the idea of getting rich from your death." (Hah! No danger of that! In 2000, we moved from a 13-room house into a small RV and in the process gave away everything to the kids that they wanted, sold all of the rest that we could, and gave away all the rest to a neighbor who provided libraries in the Philippines with our books and needy families there with our household goods. We really did literally what Jesus said: "give away everything" and live for and with God. We have never missed any of it, and the joy of being unencumbered was surpassed only by the joy of all the people we were able to help with our accumulations.)

Personally, I hate the thought of my kids ever getting rich. That would mean a change in values. It would mean that they are no longer giving away all that they can, and I know that they do give away everything that they have at the moment if someone needs it more -- including what I give to them. I also know that they and my grandkids are as chronically happy as I am. I imagine it has a lot to do with not worshipping the god of money.

Sad News: Fr. Thomas Dubay

2010-09-28T18:56:00.000-07:00

I have mentioned Fr. Thomas Dubay's publications a number of times on my blogs, and they are in my recommended reading list. For me, his works have been my sanity checks and mainstay when it comes to dealing with the mystical experiences that have come my way. About two years ago, after a string of locutions and having just finished his book, Authenticity, I wrote to Fr. Thomas to tell him how helpful I had found that book (probably not one of his most popular because it is directed to those people who have experienced sound, voice, touch, and, as I have found over the past four years, they are not found in every pew in the church). I also told him of some of my experiences, of the details of my quest to determine their authenticity, and of some of my questions and concerns. I did not ask for a response and did not expect one. Nonetheless, a few weeks later, I received handwritten comments on my letter from Fr. Thomas, who apologized for the format but said that he had just arrived from another trip, was tired, and wanted nonetheless to respond to my note immediately. He told me that he thought that my experiences, as described, were likely authentic and why, commented on my comments, and suggested some answers to my questions. His letter gave me greater confidence in moving more deeply into contemplation and not pulling away from God at the most intimate moments.

Fr. Thomas passed away this weekend, and his passing feels like a personal loss. I will now treasure those handwritten notes even more. If you have not read Fr. Thomas's books, please find some time to do so. They are, for me, second only to The Cloud of Unknowing/The Book of Privy Counseling on my list of books to which I am addicted.

The following is from the Little Sisters of the Poor in Washington, D.C., who cared for Father Dubay during his final days; I have blatantly "stolen" (borrowed?) this information from his publisher and am certain that the publisher will be happy to have the word spread.

Rev Thomas Dubay, SM
RIP September 26, 2010

From Washington, DC:
This morning at 4:45, the Lord welcomed into His Kingdom Rev Thomas Dubay, SM, after suffering kidney failure and massive bleeding in the brain. Father’s frail health had been declining ever since his admission to the Little Sisters of the Poor home in Washington more than a year ago, but his suffering was even more noticeable in recent months. Despite this fact, Fr Dubay was just as witty as ever.

When Father’s superior, Fr. Bruce Lery, SM, called the Little Sisters on Sunday morning to tell them, he said, "We have a saint in heaven" –how true! Fr. Dubay was hospitalized about a month ago and then transferred to a rehabilitation facility for specialized treatments but his health was steadily declining. Yesterday he was re-admitted to the hospital with bleeding in the brain, and he was put in coronary intensive care. Although the ventilator was removed, he continued to breathe on his own.

Although he suffered from his loss of independence, he was happy to concelebrate Mass almost every day in the chapel of the Little Sisters Home in the shadow of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in our nation’s capital.

The Marist priests and brothers visited him almost daily, and Father depended very much on his superior, Fr. Bruce, who was always there for him. In a few words, Fr. Dubay literally practiced what he preached! Father was happy to give weekly classes to the Little Sister postulants –classes which he enjoyed as much as they! From his room, Father continued his spiritual direction with many persons who called on him and this also was extended to letter writing.

We can render prayers of thanksgiving for the wonderful support Father gave to religious communities spending a good part of his life giving conferences and retreats. Although his preaching and spiritual direction was delivered to contemplative communities, his teaching was not for them alone. Religious the world over benefitted of his spiritual wisdom and guidance for years. He will be sorely missed. May he rest in peace after leading so many souls to true spiritual peace during his lifetime! The opening prayer of today’s liturgy says it all: “Help us hurry toward the Eternal Life you promise and come to share in the joys of your kingdom”.

For more about Fr. Dubay's writings and work, see his author page at Ignatius Insight.

My note: Many have said that Fr. Thomas Dubay is one of the greatest spiritual directors and writers of our day. I believe it.

If the Road Comes to an End, Find a Path through the Woods

2010-09-23T00:05:00.000-07:00

I grew up barefoot and suntanned on a farm in rural Maine, the oldest of eight children. My father was a shoe cutter in the winter and a farmer in the summer. All the children I knew in the Maine farmlands grew up barefoot, suntanned, self-confident in the country air, and a little insecure when confronted with city bustle and impersonality.

We were bussed to the city for school. Everything in the city seemed better than on the farm. Our classmates had nicer clothes, shinier shoes, and spiffier haircuts. Life seemed to move faster, and you were supposed to have toys, gadgets, candy, money, fancy book bags, and all sorts of things. The differing levels of affluence were painfully obvious to all of us.

So, when it came time for the science fair, I did not consider the possibility of entering. I loved science, but the cost of supplies was not within my reach as a single exhibitor. I could not partner with one of the city kids because I could not provide my fair share. I could not partner with one of the farm kids because even together we would have no money.

My science teacher would not listen to my explanation. He personally signed up my girlfriend and me and challenged us to figure out a project that we could do with what we had.

"You don't have to buy science," he told us. "Science is all around you."

We picked the topic of light and color, then scoured our houses and barns for anything useful: some leftover pieces of glass from a broken barn window, oddly shaped pieces of wood from the woodpile, and some scraps of wool from my mother's sewing basket. We realized that we had the makings of a display. Perhaps our science teacher was right. Perhaps we could, indeed, make something from nothing.

First, we cut the broken window glass into triangles for homemade prisms. We found, though, that the light diffracted into a multitude of directions so that we could not get the clean spectrum that we wanted. After thinking a bit, we conceived the idea of gluing black construction paper remnants from art class to the flat slides of the prisms to absorb the ambient diffusion. It worked. We made a couple dozen homemade prisms to hand out.

Next, we built a stand by hammering and sawing the pieces of wood to the approximate size and shape we needed, and we hung the scraps of wood on the stand to make a lightproof enclosure. It teetered and sometimes tottered, but it worked.

Using scrap materials was fun. It required creativity and really helped us to understand principles of light and color better than learning about them in a book. We were satisfied that we had put together a credible project that cost us absolutely nothing.

On the night of the science fair, we carefully packed our multi-piece exhibit into some old cartons we found in the barn, lining them with newspaper to keep everything clean. Arriving at the school gym, which had been set up with dozens of conference display tables, we saw the projects our classmates had assembled from beautiful, expensive science kits. Suddenly, our window-glass, black-paper prisms and our rickety stand seemed shoddy. We could not even begin to compete with the blood circulation machines and the fancy optic displays of our classmates. Without a word to each other, we both turned around at the same time and walked out of the gym. We would have gone home, but there stood our science teacher with a stern look on his face. He marched us back into the building.

We spent the rest of the evening in embarrassment, watching the judges look at the impressive, professional-appearing exhibits of the other students. We crossed our fingers that none of our classmates would walk by and poke fun at our display. They did not. They were too busy showing their displays to the judges and parents. Although we did not understand how our homemade apparati could possibly interest the judges, we were enthusiastic about our project itself and appreciative that they came back several times to ask us ever more interesting and challenging questions. We were especially appreciative that they did not laugh at our homemade displays but thanked us and pocketed the prisms that we handed out as if they were just as good as those pretty, store-bought, sparkling ones.

As a seventh-grader, I was surprised and puzzled when we won first place although our science teacher was not. As an adult, I have found many applications of the lesson I learned at the science fair. It is not what you have that counts but what you do with it. Or, when the road comes to an end, find a path through the woods.

Double-posted on Mahlou Musings and Clan of Mahlou.

The Worst Is the Best

2010-09-21T19:07:00.000-07:00

A while back I was attending a First Friday gathering where we had an interesting experience-sharing activity. Fr. Gavin asked us to write down for later sharing the best things that ever happened to us (and the reasons we considered it the best thing) and the worst thing that ever happened to us (and the reasons we considered it the worst thing). As I reflected on my life, pondering over what really and truly I would consider the best thing and what I would consider the worst, I stumbled against a dilemma: the best thing and the worst thing were the same thing! I didn't think that Fr. Gavin would expect that particular outcome, and when I shared my thoughts, his stunned surprised indicated that he clearly had not considered that the best and worst things might be the same, but he understood my reasons for saying this.

I identified the birth of Noelle, with her array of birth defects, as the worst thing that had happened. This was not the cute, cuddly baby we had expected. In fact, it would be some time before we could even pick her up because she had to be airlifted out of town and run through a series of surgeries. Thirty years ago, surviving spina bifida, epilepsy, Arnold-Chiari malformation, paraplegia, and hydrocephalus, along with some of the surgeries done to manage her life, such as a colostomy, was not as likely as it is today. Never, though, is it easy to handle all the physical, psychological, emotional, educational, relationship, etc., etc., needs of a handicapped child. Learning that my perfect baby had some imperfections in the eyes of the world, at least in the eyes of the medical world was not the best moment of my life.

Or was it? I could not think of anything better that had happened to me. Through Noelle, I learned much that I would never have known. Through her, I became ready to mother Doah. Through her and Doah, our family bonded, our able-bodied children learned compassion, and all our children learned a lot about creative problem-solving as we struggled to figure out ways to incorporate all our children into all our activities (e.g, traveling, hiking, roller-skating -- even paraplegic Noelle learned to roller-skate, braces and all). None of them are afraid of life because they have met it head-on, thanks to unique situations that first Noelle, and then Doah, and the Shura introduced us to. And, of course, thanks to Noelle and Doah, we were all ready to open our home and hearts to Shura when the time came.

Interesting, isn't it? Just when we think something really bad has happened, God puts it all into a different light, using it for good, and showing us the very worst can actually be the very best.

Days of My Broken Back

2010-09-16T16:39:00.000-07:00

Having had Doah at home for a couple of weeks now, once again balancing family needs and work requirements, I find myself remembering the days when all the kids were home and I was doing the same -- balancing family needs and work requirements.

At one point, years ago, I needed to have a psychologist's note for work. It was a routine type of thing, dealing with a back injury that had reared its head, something that rarely happens but was probably the result of both work stress (the reason the psychologist was involved although, for Heaven's sake, a simple doctor's note should have done but was unacceptable because this was a ten-year-old injury, not a new one) and the physical stress of caring for seven children, one of whom could not walk (due to paraplegia) and was getting pretty big for lifting and carrying. All I needed was the note, relieving me from certain activities at work for a few weeks, and in the end that was exactly what I got. However, being a psychologist, the lady felt that she should have a little psychological discussion with me. It went something like this:

She: So, tell me, how do you spend your days?

I: Well, I get seven kids ready for school in the morning, then dash off to work, where I sit in front of a computer for long hours at a stretch, answering dozens of email notes, then I run around visiting classes, counseling teachers, attending and conducting meetings, hiring people, firing people, and working together with our resource office on budgets that don't quite meet the needs of work requirements, a very stressful endeavor. The physical running around is actually great. It relieves the stress on my back, but the sitting at the computer, in the classes, and at long meetings has been problematic lately.

She: Forget the back, let's get back to your schedule.

I: Okay, well, after work, my oldest daughter picks me up because she has the car during the day. She needs it for work more than I do because I can walk to and from each of my 12 buildings, which is good for my back.

She: Forget the back for a while. Let's get back to your daily routine. What do you do when you get home?

I: Oh, well, fortunately, I don't have to make supper. My kids won't eat anything I cook, so my husband does that. While he is preparing supper, I go over the homework of my teenage son who is being homeschooled. We discuss the various papers he has written, research he has done, and any questions he might have. I also want to know what he thinks he has learned. I check his understanding of the books that are not in English, and we have some debates over the meaning of various novels and stories he has read. Then I work with the littlest one. He is retarded so the schools think he cannot learn, but he can. He just has his own way of learning. Right now, he and I are working our way through 1984, and he gets Orwell's intent. However, he explains it in ways that would not work in a regular seventh grade class because of his speech disinhibition. I know he understands much more than he communicate because when I ask him who the protagonist is, he will say "little guy, like me." Then, dinner is usually ready. I always forget to make sure that the kids have washed up. They seem to remind themselves, though, and at the table we discuss what the other kids have done during the day, any particular problems (often, we attack the problems as a group), and highlights in which to delight. Then, Noelle has to catetherize; she does that pretty well for herself but I need to ensure that she has no oncoming urine infection or body sores. If she is out of her braces because they are being repaired, then I have to do range of motion exercises on her. After that, there is a scramble for baths, one on one time with the kids, helping with homework with the kids who are still in school: Lizzie and Ksenya have graduated and help as they can. Then, often, Ksenya, who is not my birth daughter, likes to crawl up in my lap because she misses her mother in Moscow; we spend time reminiscing about Moscow in Russian. Sometimes, Lizzie joins us because she went to school in Moscow and can speak Russian; it is good for her not to forget Russian. On a school night, the kids go to bed around 10:00, but if it is a Friday night, we generally gather at that time for a family meeting to make family decisions on expenditures (money is always tight) and forthcoming activities.

She: Well, that's interesting, but what do you do for yourself?

I: Oh, right, after that, somehow I squeeze in dishes. It's only fair I do them since Donnie makes dinner, and I get some thinking time while washing them. Also, laundry and some light housekeeping. Donnie does the trash detail. The kids help, too, and the heavy cleaning we do as a family on Saturday morning.

She: That's not what I meant. I mean for yourself personally.

I: Well, I used to do some exercises to try to keep my weight normal, but I cannot do many of them lately because of my back -- which is why I need to have that piece of paper I came here for -- so that I can take a couple of weeks off and let the back recuperate.

She: We can talk about your back later. I am curious as to what you do for self fulfillment.

I: I thought I already told you. I get the delight of entering my children's minds every night and helping to develop their thinking -- both ethical and analytical. I get to discuss literature that I love with my own children. I get to shape the education of my home-schooled son. I get some one-on-one time with myself while doing dishes and laundry. I get to relax with my "adopted" daughter and my oldest daughter, reminiscing about Moscow and helping the former make the transition between cultures. Sometimes, I even get to talk to my husband before or right after tumbling into bed -- and sometimes the two of us get to talk even more while doing chores together. If I have time, I will help him with the trash, and he will help me with the dishes. (Actually, we met doing dishes, so that is appropriate.) And, if my back is okay, I spend a few minutes exercising.

She: Lizzie, you have a serious problem. When do you put your family aside and do things for yourself?

I: I don't quite understand your question. I would want to put my family aside, why? Doing things for my family is doing things for myself. That's the source of my happiness. You are right, though. I do have a serious problem. I need that note for work so I can take a couple of weeks off to heal my back!

She sighed and gave me the note. Mission accomplished. Sheesh! Why did it have to take so long? I would be late getting home and miss my reading time with Doah. Big help that lady was!

Evening Conversation with Murjan, The Cat Who Thinks He Is Human

2010-09-15T00:12:00.000-07:00

Murjan, about whom I have blogged before, truly does think he is either a dog, or more likely, human. I have mentioned how he loves to have his belly rubbed and lies down on the floor as soon as I walk in the door, proffering his belly to a ready hand. I have also mentioned how he follows me from place to place, lying at my feet as I go about my work. Then there is the little yip whenever he wants some attention from me, especially treats.

There is another trait of Murjan's, however, that makes him seem part human. As can be seen in the picture above, he is quite good at lounging on the couch, sitting propped up against the arm in much the same way I have seen Donnie sitting. The more compelling evidence, however, are his midnight chats and snuggles with me. Since pictures are worth a hundred words, here are the pictures, without commentary, that Donnie snapped one night recently (please overlook my unkempt look; I was not planning to model).

"Goodnight, God"

2010-09-12T01:47:00.001-07:00

Doah has been sleeping on our couch while we are waiting to find a new group home for him. (That event may be very soon, ilhamdu Allah/Thank God.) Last night I spent time on the couch beside him, perseverating on computer work until the wee hours of the morning, unlike on the weekday nights when I usually tumble into bed before Doah goes to sleep because I have to get up early and go to work -- and, of course, for now, he does not.

It has been years since I have watched Doah go to sleep. As a child, he would make a nest of blankets under my desk and sleep there. As a mentally challenged child, he did not think of the world in the same terms as those around him, and I always wondered what his teachers thought of us as parents if he told them that he slept in a nest!

Since Doah was right beside me, I could see him drifting off to sleep as his breathing slowed and became regular. Right before he totally zonked out, I heard him whisper, "Goodnight, God." Then he was unwakeably asleep for the rest of the night.

Once he no longer slept in a nest, I no longer observed him falling asleep -- and it has been years since his nesting days. So, I was unaware that he always says goodnight to God.

How funny! So do I! It must be in the genes!

I always say good morning to God, too. I consider it a prayer of sorts, albeit a very short one. I wonder if Doah, who is usually up before I am, does the same? I bet he does! After all, it's in the genes!

(re-posted from 100th Lamb on Sabbath Sunday -- the day I take a rest and therefore re-post older posts or posts from other blogs)

Doah's Divine Protection

2010-09-10T00:02:00.000-07:00

Since Doah has been in our "news" nearly exclusively, it seems appropriate to post an excerpt about him from the book I am working on now, Raising God's Rainbow Makers. (I do want to thank all of you who have been praying for him. He is doing well; I post updates on the right sidebar of the 100th Lamb blog.

One time Doah decided to take a walk. Doah always loved to walk, but where he ended up was sometimes a mystery and often a worry. He could slip away faster than loose change in a holey pocket. In this instance, Doah was about 5 years old and was planning to accompany me to work. Apparently, tired of sitting on the stoop for longer than he thought it should be necessary for me to dress, he headed off down Lee Highway, a major road through Arlington, Virginia where we lived at the time.

When I emerged from the house, ready to scoop him up into the car, there was no Doah to be seen. I could only imagine what might have happened had he set off down a 4-lane road on foot. Heart pounding from exertion and fear of the worst, I ran up and down each of the side streets, calling his name.

Fortunately, the fourth street I ran down, I hit pay dirt. A man, who had been standing somewhat bewildered in the yard of the church — I didn’t even notice the the name of the church so focused was I exclusively on finding Doah — ran up to me and asked if I were looking for a small, blond boy. Was I? Yes!!

The man was as relieved as I was. He had seen Doah walking down the highway and, worried about his safety, had taken him to the church, confident that the church members could track down his parents. That was before they met Doah. The dialogue with him, as I understand it, when something like this:

Church man: “What is your name?”

Doah: “Doah.”

Church man: “What is your father’s name?”

Doah: “Daddy.”

Church man: “What is your mother’s name?”

Doah: “Mommy.”

Church man: “Where do you live? “

Doah: “Home.”

Everyone was relieved that “Mommy” had shown up to take Doah to where he lived: “home.”

This was just one of many times that Doah seemed to have divine protection.

Time to Quander

2010-09-02T01:59:00.001-07:00

I ask the indulgence and prayers of readers of all my blogs. Other than for an occasional, already-written post or the Monday Morning Meditation (I never miss an "appointment" with God and right now that is especially important to me), I will be taking a week or so off to quander (ponder a quandary).

Donnie received a shocking call today from the work place of Doah, our youngest son, who lives in a group home from the mentally challenged, and immediately called me: Doah had been raped. I immediately left work, and we headed north. We met with the sheriff's department, the folks from Doah's workplace in whom Doah had confided, doctors and nurses, an advocate for victims of violent crimes, and Doah himself. Doah went through five hours of medical tests and over an hour of interrogation from the sheriff's department. The medical staff said that Doah inspired them with his obviously deep faith that gave him an extraordinary resilience. The deputy told Doah that he was the best crime victim he had ever met -- Doah was straightforward and explicit, got the details right, and did not back down from uncomfortable truth. By the time the evening was over, the deputies had tracked down the rapist, an illegal alien without documents who seemed to have disappeared according to everyone who knew him, and had him behind bars. Impressive! So was the orderly procedure and all the help made available to us.

Nonetheless, this event has thrown our lives out of kilter, and I need some time to put things back together. We have brought Doah home with us until we can find another group home for him. We have to decide on any legal action we wish to take against the group home -- a difficult decision because I am suit-averse by nature. There is also more testing to do and results of testing to receive: hepatitis, gonorrhea, chlamydia, syphilis, HIV/AIDS. The latter is very frightening and very possible. I am asking all our friends to pray that Doah passes through this terrible experience without contracting HIV/AIDS as a permanent reminder and life-threatening consequence.

Thank you for your understanding and any prayers you are willing to say for Doah (or candles you are willing to light). God bless you until I am up and running regularly again.

Outdo God? Impossible!

2010-09-01T01:03:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Desiree, the young woman who has been sharing the apartment with Noelle since Ray died in January, called Donnie, quite upset. The apartment manager was kicking her out because the apartment was rented only to Noelle. (Ray did not live in that particular apartment; he did not even visit because Noelle rented it after he went into a coma in 2006 and was in and out of a coma from then until he died this year.) There being no other option, Desiree is now looking for another apartment.

She called Donnie because she is Noelle's age, does not have local parents (is not in touch with her parents at all, as far as we can tell -- we don't push her for information), and has adopted us as family in loco parentis, calling us Mom and Dad. She has enough money on a monthly basis to pay for an apartment of her own, but she has no savings. The typical $200 security deposit for the size and location of apartment she was considering was out of reach for her. She wanted to know if she could "borrow" the money from us, "borrowing" in this case being a euphemism of asking us for a gift for there is no way she will be able to pay it back and we would not expect her to do that.

The timing of this call was particularly bad. I gave Lizzie 25% of my salary this month because the summer courses she was supposed to teach at the university were underenrolled and did not run. I give Shane 5% of my salary every month. It is not a lot, but it helps bridge the gap between what he earns at CHP and what he used to earn before he lost his job with the city police department. Doah always needs something since he makes only a pittance at the sheltered workshop, and this month those needs were more than $100. Beyond that, I had used God's credit card to send $300 to Wajeeha in Pakistan (an expense I fully expected would be paid back without any effort on my part -- and in the three days since I sent the money, all but $25 has come in from unexpected sources, as is typical with God's credit card).

Hm, what to do? I pushed the budget around this way and that way, but little seemed to help. Water, which is very expensive here in our arid region, and rent are both due from this bi-weekly pay check. There just simply was not a spare $200 to be found. I contemplated using God's credit card for this. After all, Desiree seemed like a person in trouble, and usually that is what God's credit card gets used for. However, I do not put God's credit card to personal use, so somehow this particular need of Desiree's did not feel right. Would God want me to use the card for this? I wondered about that even as I told Donnie, with a bit of uneasiness, that he could call Desiree in the morning (this morning) and agree to the $200.

God answered my question within a couple hours of my getting up in the morning. On the way to work, I had to run into the post office in the morning to pay the box rent, so I picked up the mail. There I learned that my uneasy feeling was not without basis. I must be going to need God's credit card for something else in the near future because in the post office box, when I checked for the mail, lay the answer to my question: a check for $202 for royalties from one of my publishers, almost precisely the amount Desiree needed, arriving a month earlier than the publisher typically pays. In fact, there was also a note from the publisher in the box, saying that the check would be sent at the end of September!

So, I could use the unexpected check for Desiree's need. That lets me save God's credit card for whatever is out there awaiting me for its use.

Sabbath Sunday #2: Elizabeth and Donnie

2010-08-29T11:06:00.000-07:00

Fr. Christian Mathis (Blessed Is the Kingdom) has made the suggestion that we "rest" on the Sabbath by taking a break from our normal blogging and sharing an older post of which we are particularly fond. Rest? Gladly! I don't get to do that very often, but now, thanks to Fr. Christian, I get to do it at least once a week -- and it gives me more time to spend with God, which is a wonderful gift.

For this week, I thought it would be fun to go back to the first post on this blog, Elizabeth and Donnie. That was almost exactly a year ago. I had hoped to add more information and pictures to it, but other topics have pushed that plan out of the way. Actually, I think a couple of the stories did come later. Now, I am just posting them on the day they come up and linking them back to the earlier posts. I think that makes more sense as I get a little better acquainted with the way most people write their blogs.

In any event, happy reading and happy Sunday!

My 911 Call

2010-08-28T22:35:00.000-07:00

Today I learned some important things: (1) we live in a small community, (2) my son is a professional, (3) I can be a dingbat at times. Now, I already know these things. I have certainly had plenty of confirmation of at least the third thing, but reminders and new experiences of them are reinforcing.

This morning I experienced small community in the gathering of some of our congregation to paint our fiesta booths a bright yellow and red for next year's fiesta. We put on an annual fiesta, open to all from near and far, as a fundraiser for Old Mission, our church. By the time we were done, the front of all the booths were painted, and the backs of some of us were painted (accidentally) by the spray gun wielded by a certain John, who supposedly knew how to use the thing. We shared breakfast before we began and lunch partway through. Fr. Ed helped out the entire time, and we were "community."

Then came Mass, after which Donnie and I headed into a nearby small city with a supermarket (we have only a country store) to get some groceries. On the way right in front of us, a car dove off the road into a tree, seemingly as if planned. Very strange, we thought, and called 911. The dispatcher took the information and asked some questions about location specifics which we were able to answer. He told us that he had already dispatched, as he had been speaking, the local sheriff and an ambulance in case there was a medical reason for the accident. (They showed up nearly instantly; after hanging up, I got out of the car, found the tree-stopped driver who was by then out of his car, too, and determined that he was okay just as the sheriff walked up to us.) Before hanging up, the dispatcher added, "by the way, you are talking to your son." Oh, my! I had not recognized Shane's voice. He sounded so professional that I never thought of the connection with Shane, with the fact that he is now back with California Highway Patrol and now doing dispatch for the two local counties. In spite of the "goofy mother" syndrome, it was quite pleasant to hear what a professional and calm response he had to someone calling in. One does not always get an opportunity in life to see what a good worker one's child is.

Similarly, years ago when Lemony was pregnant with Nathaniel, a friend, already a grandmother, told me that being a grandparent is better than being a parent because you can enjoy the kids without being responsible for them. Over the years, I have come to agree that being a grandparent is very special and perhaps even better than being a parent but for a different reason than my friend had given: the best part of being a grandparent is watching your child be a good parent. The traumas that Shane and Lemony have managed competently and calmly with Nathaniel and especially with Nikolina have been rewarding to observe (and, of course, to help with).

Heralding Doah

2010-08-26T21:05:00.000-07:00

As promised, here is another excerpt from Raising God's Rainbow Makers, my next book, which is currently in progress. Comments welcomed and adored! I prefer to get comments, especially negative ones, before publication. After publication is a bit late!

“Lord, another baby?” the angel asked with a bit of incredulity.

“Yes, another,” the Lord replied.

“But, Lord, why this baby?”

“Why not this baby?” the Lord countered.

“Well, you know, Lord. The mother said that she could handle any physical problem. As long as there were no mental defects, she could manage...” The angel stopped, wondering perhaps why more needed to be said.

“She did say that, didn’t she?” The Lord was unperturbed.

“Lord, this one will have a mental deficit.”

“Yes.”

“A very serious one.”

“Yes.”

“An obviousto-everyone serious one.”

“Yes.”

“But, Lord, she said she could not cope with that.”

“She will cope. I will help.”

“But, Lord, she does not know You exist.”

“The baby does.”

God works in mysterious ways, thought the angel and put away the record book after recording: Don & Elizabeth Mahlou…baby son, Doah.

Copyright 2010

Does Anyone Know the Pope?

2010-08-26T06:59:00.000-07:00

I was contacted by someone who seems to think I have contacts everywhere -- I do not -- and can convince anyone -- I cannot -- to do anything -- I would not. However, in this case, the request is as simple as it is difficult.

I am writing on behalf of my 16 year old daughter, Ariana Argueta, who, a year ago, on September of 2009, was diagnosed with Glioblastoma Multiforme, also known as GBM. To provide you with some context about Ariana’s condition, GBM is is the most common and most aggressive type of primary brain tumor in humans and has a very poor prognosis. As a result of this diagnosis, we were put in touch with the Make A Wish Foundation in hopes that the organization could grant Ari a wish. Ari has asked to meet Pope Benedict XVI and receive an individual blessing from his Excellency.
As of today, the Foundation has graciously been able to arrange for Ariana to attend a papal mass on October 20, 2010, however, she will not be receiving a personal blessing from his Excellency, which is her wish. Ariana is so excited and grateful for this opportunity, but as you can imagine, receiving a personal blessing would mean so much to Ariana because of her strong Catholic faith and her belief that God is with her during every step of her journey and that her wellness is in God’s hands. Despite this difficult journey, Ari has never once asked “why me,” complained about her predicament or even questioned her faith. Ariana is a 16 year old Mexican American young lady who has been raised in a traditional Mexican family whose Catholic roots stem from multiple generations. She has been enrolled in Catholic schools since Kindergarten and is currently a student at Santa Catalina School.

Our bishop has not been able to help. Do any of you know anyone who can help? I do have two friends in Italy (neither in Rome, but one is not far from Rome), and I will see if either happens to know a journalist in the Rome area who would at least be willing to write a story that might capture public and Papal attention. Other ideas? Contacts of any sort?

Family or Orphanage?

2010-08-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

I made a phone call tonight. Padre Julio called me from San Diego, saying he needed me. That voice mail landed in my iPhone at the same time that a text message popped up, "Mommy, I need you."

No, Padre Julio was not calling me Mommy; that was just coincidence. The latter, simultaneous message had come from Noelle's roommate, Desiree. The message took me back to a Facebook exchange yesterday. My kids, both the birth kids and the non-biological offspring we took in, are in continuous contact with each other on FB, and, given the nature of FB, I get to eavesdrop a lot on them -- more than I ever could when they were growing up!

Noelle had written to Lizzie, who may be visiting next month, asking her to stop by and meet her new "sister," Desiree. Desiree has, indeed, adopted us as family. I have no idea as to where her real family is or if she even has any relative who is alive. She never talks about her relatives, and I don't pry. Well, at least I have not pried yet. Noelle commented on FB that she wanted Desiree to meet the rest of the family.

Lizzie responded, "What family? The Mahlou clan is not a family; it is an orphanage." She, of course, was speaking tongue-in-cheek and quickly agreed to drop by and meet Desiree.

Actually, Lizzie's comment may not be far from reality. In addition to our four children, Donnie and I have taken in several others, and we continue to acquire "offspring." When our kids were teenagers, stray teenagers moved in with us, hailing from the local barrio (Blaine), suburban Moscow (Ksenya), and Siberia (Shura). Then, when our children became young adults, they brought in-laws and, most lately, Noelle's roommmate. Also, as I traveled the world, I managed to gather in four other young adults from Iraq, Jordan, and Bahrain, who, for one reason or another, call me Mom as well as call whenever they need help of any sort or want to share a special happiness or success. I am in near-daily contact with my entire "clan."

And then there is Padre (Father) Julio from Colombia. Assigned to our parish for a short period of time as the priest for the Spanish Mass, he prayed Noelle through her brain surgery at Stanford University Hospital -- an interesting phenomenon since she understands Spanish poorly and he did not understand much English at the time, but prayer is not something that needs translation. Donnie and I built his website when he began an organization to help the children of Colombia with education, clothing, and work opportunities. Then, the bishop assigned him to the English Masses in a nearby city with little warning, a tough assignment because of the language. For the ten months he celebrated English Masses prior to returning to Colombia for the past year, Padre Julio spent 8-10 hours a week at my house, learning English in the evenings. I worked with him on the kinds of vocabulary, grammar, phraseology, and text organization that he needed for his homilies and on pronunciation for the gospel reading and liturgy. In the beginning, I helped him put his homilies into English(I do understand Spanish though I speak it not thrillingly well); later, he would write the homilies himself and email them to me for correction; toward the end of his study he did not need my help in this way and we simply moved forward in improving his overall English, talking about all kinds of daily and spiritual topics. As much as he thought I was a blessing to him, he was more a blessing to me. Padre seemed like a younger brother -- even more so after his mother came from Colombia for a long visit. I called her Mama, and, a mother of seven boys, three of whom became priests, she told people that I was the daughter she never had. After Mama and he returned to Colombia, Padre occasionally Skyped me, especially when he was at home with Mama. She pushed the limits of my Spanish, but one does not need linguistic erudition for familial bonding and love. Padre came back to the USA a few months ago and was assigned to the San Diego diocese, to a parish near Tijuana on the Mexican border. In the phone conversation tonight, Padre asked Donnie and me to come to San Diego to visit him; he misses us. Yes, he knows how far it is from us: more than eight hours since we need to go all the way to the border. One just does not think about those kinds of things with family, though. Family always comes. Family is always "there" when you need them. Of course, we will go visit Padre. I am his big sister. We are family.

Oh, by the way, the reason Desiree needs help is that the building manager will not let her stay with Noelle because she does not qualify to live there -- it is a building for the handicapped, to which Noelle moved when Ray was long-term hospitalized in 2006, having fallen into a coma that lasted nearly nine months. She needed something smaller, more affordable, and more accessible to a wheelchair since she was living alone. Desiree moved in a few months after Ray died. Of course, we will help her. She is now, after all, also family.

Reflecting upon matters, Lizzie's tongue-in-cheek comment about being an orphanage, not a family, is inaccurate. I am certain that in a serious moment she would agree that we are not an orphanage. We are definitely a family.

Paths Not Taken

2010-08-21T22:30:00.001-07:00

Many paths can lead us through this life, but we can travel only one at any given time. Each path presents us with differing opportunities, "scenery," and "sputniki" (fellow travelers). We must choose our paths with very limited foreknowledge of any of these. Sometimes when I am in the mood of reverie, I enjoy pondering what might have happened had I chosen a different route through life, and then I have to wonder how much of a choice we really have, anyway. Here are my thoughts on a few of the paths I passed by.

(1) Physics. I loved physics in high school. In fact, I won the science fair with a physics project, and I had the highest grade in my physics class (99%), which had all of six girls (and 34 boys). There was a reason for that imbalance: girls did not study physics when I was in high school, and my physics teacher bemoaned the fact that I was a girl: "If only you weren't a girl; you would make a great physicist." I suppose if I had studied physics, or like my youngest sister (born late enough to see a change in attitude toward women scientists), nuclear physics, I might have ended up working at a place like NASA. Instead, I ended up majoring in foreign languages, through my books and my work success earned a national reputation for being able to develop highly successful foreign language programs that brought students rapidly to high levels of proficiency, and, would you believe it, ended up working at NASA for a while in order to establish the language training program for American, Russian, Canadian, and European astronauts/cosmonauts assigned to the then-planned International Space Station. Because I had nativelike proficiency in Russian, I spent time shuttling back and forth between Johnson Space Center in Houston and the Gagarin Cosmonaut Training Center in Star City, Russia.

(2) Study abroad. As a linguistics undergraduate major, I had an opportunity for study abroad in France. When I tried to budget out the opportunity, however, I realistically decided to spend my junior year in my own university, Penn State. The cost, while likely within the means of any middle-class student, was out of reach for an impoverished farm girl who was attending college only thanks to a full scholarship, supplemented by working in the university dining facility, waitressing, tutoring, and, upon occasion, go-go dancing. Having turned down what I thought was my one and only opportunity for an international experience, never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that after my kids were grown, I would spend a decade as an international consultant to ministries of education, institutions, and organizations in 24 countries, let alone earn my PhD in Russia and run a university in Jordan.

(3) Going home. At one point in my marriage, when Lizzie was still an infant and Donnie had just lost his job in Montana, where we were living, I was offered a job as an admin assistant in Maine, near my relatives. It was not a teaching position as I had hoped for, but all I had been able to land in Montana was a position as a substitute teacher in the area junior high schools and high schools, not enough to feed a family of three with Donnie out of work. I accepted, thinking and hoping that I might be able to get into teaching over time. Donnie refused to move and found himself a summer job in Idaho. Tearfully and fearfully, I bundled up Lizzie and returned from my visit home, a productive visit home with the promise of full-time work, to very part-time employment as a substitute in Montana. We could not afford rent; we lived in an A-frame, unfinished cabin in a field behind a farmhouse for free in exchange for finishing the work on the outhouse and the roof of the A-frame (for a while we had to line pots and pans wall to wall when it rained). Over time, we pieced together a living. Donnie earned some extra income from selling photographs to the local paper, and I wrote some articles. We teamed up on some photojournalistic efforts for that paper and for magazines. He also worked as a bar tender at the Elks Club. I gave up teaching for organizing and running a day care center with the help of some of the community leaders. It became well known, and even Mike Mansfield helped us with obtaining funding. When we left Montana, we were no longer the outsiders. We were the people who had established the one and only day care facility there and an award-winning one to boot. The City Council took it over when we left and ran it successfully for another ten years, at which time the concept of day care became commonplace and several other centers sprang up. I learned a lot about child care in that way, including the care of a multiple-handicapped child who attended the center. I would need that knowledge not only with my own children in general but with my handicapped children in specific -- Noelle, Doah, and ultimately, Shura.

(4) Children. As for those children, Donnie and I early one decided that we would remain childless. We tried every form of birth control available -- and each form brought a new child, for a total of four. Then people started handing us their children -- Shura, Ksenya, and Blaine -- for a total of seven. An addition four "children" have attached themselves to me as adults, not entirely symbolically for they come to me for advice, visit and expect me to visit, and need maternal support from time to time. Now I cannot imagine life without those children. They have informed my work as a manager and as a teacher; more important, they have been my greatest reward and joy.

(5) Footloose and on the road in an RV. After the children grew up and left home, which they did almost all at the same time, we bought an RV. This was Donnie's dream more than mine. He wanted to travel the country, reviving our Montana efforts as a husband-wife photojournalism team. As it turned out, we never could afford the truck to pull the RV, which was a 40-foot fifth-wheeler. So, we parked it on the Arroyo Seco River in California, and from there I drove to the airport and flew around the world on my various consults if the river did not rise, literally. (We lived on the uninhabited, unroaded side of a normally almost-dry ("seco") riverbed and had to drive through a few inches of water to reach our home, the RV. However, there were times when the river ran high, and we had to cross over a long, swinging bridge to reach the other side. If too much rain fell while we were parked on the "wrong" side, i.e. the RV side, of the river, we would become marooned until all the water tumbled down the mountainside, allowing us to escape again into the outside world.) We loved the drama of not knowing when we might get marooned. We loved the irony of driving through a river to get home, and I loved swimming in the river every day that I was home. Had we had our way, we would probably still be tooling about America. That is not a bad thing, but I would have missed out on some opportunities that nearly no one gets: consulting in 24 countries to the point of becoming a redistributor of knowledge from one country to another, earning my PhD (probably would not have had the time, effort, interest, or need), and experiencing the Middle East up close and personal. These opportunities have been not only fun and rewarding; they were essential for functioning adequately where I have ended up working decades later.

(6) Professor. Much of my life I wanted to be a professor. Even when I was doing other things, I kept wishing I had followed the path through the woods of life that anyone becoming a professor takes. That path beckoned me, but I could never make it over there. Downed timber, forest fires, and boulders of all sorts precluded me from going in that direction. Yet, perhaps as a consolation prize I have had the opportunity to teach as a visiting professor at a number of institutions: Middlebury College, NYIT in Jordan and Bahrain, Bryn Mawr College, Monterey Institute of International Studies, Universidad Federale de Rio Grande do Sul, University of Pittsburgh, and Allegheny Community College, among others, and I have trained thousands of university professors and administrators worldwide. What I have learned from those experiences is that I don't really want to be a full-time career university professor at all. That experience can be accomplished by Lizzie, who currently is a university professor of neuroscience.

(7) Middle East. The last path I was on (before my current one) took me to the Middle East for two years. I fell in love with the culture and the people. The language, being self-taught, was a challenge but interesting. There I found a place where I could have settled forever (well, there or Siberia, the other place where I lost my heart and could settle forever). That was not to be. However hard I tried to continue down the path I had chosen, my way was diverted back to the path I had left in 1993. (I blogged about that on 100th Lamb: The Jobs God Would Not Let Me Have and the One He Insisted I Take and Keep.) I still go back to Jordan, however, because my current job requires occasional business trips there. It is one of our more important locations -- and I did not know this when I took my current job (uh, more honestly speaking, was forced into accepting my current job, which, again honestly speaking, I truly love).

Although I returned to the organization that I left in 1993, I came in at a much higher position, and I needed every experience I had gained in the Middle East, from my consultations in various countries, and as a result of the languages I had studied. I also needed that degree I had earned and even my mothering experience. All those paths connected to provide a route through life that led to my being in the ideal position for me (although I did not initially recognize that). There was just one more experience along that route that was needed to make it all work: conversion. While faith has changed my life deeply on a personal level, my conversion was necessary for the spiritual and emotional needs of those who work for me -- a highly ironic need, considering that I work in an institution that requires separation of church and state. Yet, the need is there, and I have to wonder if God occasioned my conversion for the good of others. He does things like that, you know.

As for all those paths not taken, I am grateful that I had the chance to taste of some of the fruits that grow along those paths even though I was not on them. I am, in fact, grateful for every step along each of the paths I did take, whether I chose them or was pushed onto them.

What about the path(s) you have not chosen? Have you ever wondered what your life might be like right now had you taken or been allowed to take those paths that beckoned you?

Bessie the Cow and Mae

2010-08-20T00:07:00.000-07:00

I have made no progress this week on Raising God's Rainbow Makers and so have no posts to share from there, a situation I hope to remedy next week. This week, though, nearly every morning I have had to be at work early, and nearly every evening I have worked well past dark. So, except for trying to get the word out about Wajeeha's journey (see right side-bar), I have had to limit my writing time. The thought hit me, though, that a nice change of pace would be to intersperse the past with the past from time to time and share anecdotes from my childhood. While it was a highly abusive period in my life, it was not without its moments of humor, joy, and nostalgia. So, herewith, the story of our alcoholic cow, Bessie, and our eccentric neighbor, Mae.

I have some odd memories of our neighbor, Mae, who lived the next farm over when I was a child. Or, perhaps I should say, I have some memories of our odd neighbor, Mae.

My most vivid memory of Mae was chasing our cow, Bessie. Bessie would get into the apple orchard and eat apples, which made her drunk. Totally inebriated, she would dance down the road to Mae's farm. Bessie delighted in pulling Mae's clothes off the clotheslines, and many times I saw Mae, half-clothed, chasing Bessie with a broom, "Go home, drunk cow, go home! Sober up!" A dancing cow and a half-clad wizened lady, brandishing a broom, made quite a sight coming up the road!

Mae had this thing with clothes, you see. She did not like to wear them. Once, the mailman came to the door with a package, and Mae stepped out of the shower, dripping wet and totally nude, to answer the door and accept the package. The mailman was not shocked. She often answered the door nude. Then, there was the time that she was driving on an interstate highway in New Jersey and broke down. She heard that the police in that state would stop and help if there were a white cloth on the antenna. So, having no other white cloth around, she quickly took off her underwear and tied it to the antenna. The police stopped. After some fiddling, they managed to fix her car without calling for him. One of the officers looked at the antenna and remarked to Mae, “You are good to go now. Don’t forget to take your underwear off.” Mae looked at him and with a straight face, for she was entirely serious, said to him, “I already took it off.”

It might help if you knew that Mae was almost 90 years old when all this was happening. It might. But then, I never met Mae at 20, so who knows…

Come Along on a Journey to Help Pakistan One Family at a Time

2010-08-18T19:31:00.000-07:00

Perhaps a few years ago, many people would not have been able to place Pakistan on a map -- well, those of us who were around when Bangladesh (East Pakistan) ran into trouble in the 1970s might have been able to put two and two together. Pakistan, however, was rarely in the news, at least in the regions where I lived, until right after 9/11 when the US needed help from that country. Now that country needs help from the USA -- and from the rest of the world, from you, from me, from anyone with a heart. Perhaps people gave all they had to Haiti; perhaps Pakistan is too far, too Eastern, too foreign for those of us living in the West. Whatever the reason, assistance from the West, which usually comes through for people in dire need, has not been as forthcoming in this instance, a place and time when help is needed in an overwhelming amount: 16 million Pakistanis are suffering from the devastation caused by the floods. (Help, of course, is needed and welcomed from everywhere and anywhere. Readers of this blog come from 109 different countries, including Pakistan. I hope that among you, there will be people who can help.)

Among the readers of Blest Atheist, the blog that preceded 100th Lamb, was Wajeeha, a young acquaintance of mine from Karachi, Pakistan. She and I mainly communicate via FaceBook. Over time, I have come to feel like she is just another of my children, and I am proud of what she is doing, both in college and in her current plan to help her country. A college student, living in an area unaffected by the flood but nonetheless concerned with the lack of help coming to the families stranded, impoverished, and left starving by the floods, she and her college classmates are taking matters into their hands and trying to help the people of Pakistan one family at a time. I asked her to write a post about her journey, and so I will let her tell it in her own words:

I, Wajeeha Asrar Siddiqui, with some friends and colleagues of mine have started the effort to help those who are affected by flood in Pakistan. We are collecting funds in this regard and have decided to take up the charge of everything under our own control. As prior we had trusted some government official with our money but there is nothing come to name of progress and God knows where the money gone. Now, we have decided to do everything by our own.

We are up for the task of rehabilitation for the people of Besham, Kohistan and connected districts. Our main motto is not to just provide them with food. The main motto is to let those back to their normal lives with all their respect and dignity. We are up to help those people without let them feel inferior to other members of the society.

We have aim to help those with food, water and clothing at first and then with books, raw material and space to practice and sale their handicrafts. People in those regions are masters of handicrafts. As we are already having Ramadan here so, the very first thing that is needed is drinking water and then food.

We would leave from Karachi to Besham and beyond by the end of August 2010. Our first target is to help 2000 families. An average cost of drinking water, food and clothing of a family for a month is around $150 - $200. We still need hands to join in and help us making our targets possible.

As we do not have much time left I request all those you’re seeking to help to send us their donations in cash. As the fact is, transferring of cash would take less time as compare to transferring of good. For all those who are looking forward to help can reach me by email ID: Wajeeha.thewonderful@gmail.com. (Money needs to be transferred via bank transfer or Western Union, so those wanting to help will need to contact Wajeeha and get the information to do so. I am reluctant to put this kind of information on a public site.)

You can also reach our representative in Besham, Engr. Said Mehmood (s.mehmood@crspk.org) who is working with Catholic Relief Services to help all those who are affected by flood.

I promised her some help from God's credit card now that it is paid off once again (see God's Crazy Math -- it took only two days for money to appear to pay it off), but that has a credit limit (probably a fortunate thing). Won't you help, too? Even a couple of dollars can make a difference. Given the exchange rate and the cost-of-living difference, a little can go a long way. I will ask Wajeeha to report on her journey periodically when time and electronic resources permit. Let's measure the compassion of the blogosphere with Pakistan as a criterion!

Note: I tried to put a summary and link in the right side-bar (well, actually I did put it there), but the right side-bar keeps hiding below the left-side posts. I don't know how to fix it, and I did not want anyone who might want to help Waheeja miss the opportunity because of not being able to see the sidebar. If you are having trouble seeing the right side-bar, please let me know. If more people than I have trouble seeing it, I will have to get some help with fixing the page.)

Sabbath Sunday: A Big Miao from the Littlest Mahlous

2010-08-15T10:10:00.000-07:00

Cat Lessons

2010-08-14T18:12:00.001-07:00

Continuing with the cat theme of earlier this week, I thought I might share the eight most important things I have learned from my cats:

1. When you climb too high, you will have to trust someone else to get you out of the tree.
When we were living down on the Arroya Seco river, far from anywhere and everywhere, the cutest little kitten appeared one day. He was all white, except for gray curtains on either side of his eyes -- looked a lot like Murjan, just with gray touches rather than red. He would never come close but would sit on the fence in temptingly near-touching distance from us. One day, though, he climbed high into a sycamore tree. Donnie heard his piteous meowing for over an hour. He was afraid to come down. Finally, I decided I had to do something. I got a ladder and climbed to the top, then pulled myself up the branches to where the kitten was. He tried to move away from me but somehow realized the danger of going too far out on a limb (literally), and so I was able to grab him, skinny back down to the ladder, and carry him to the ground. I could feel his little heart beating with fear, but he did not jump out of my arms until we reached the ground and his sense of home.

2. A bed is a blessing.
Newbie never took anything for granted. We took him in from the street when he approached me outside my university office in Jordan, meowing from hunger, half-dead from worms. Our vet gave him little hope, but I eagerly ran off to the drugstore for children's liquid aspirin for his fever, there being no pet stores there for this sort of thing. Of course, the clerks thought I was a crazy American when, in response to their question as to the child's weight in order to tell me the right amount, I said, "hatha lil bissa" -- this is for a cat. "Nam, ana majnuneh, sahih" (yeah, I really am crazy), I agreed, leaving with the medicine tight in hand. The medicine helped with the fever and shots helped with the worms, but Newbie was always cold until he discovered the bed. He crawled under the blankets, and from then on he always slept with his head on the pillow and his body covered even after he had fully recovered.

3. If you throw yourself in your master's path, your belly will get rubbed.
Murjan seems to have got his species mixed. He is a cat, who is the size of a dog, and he has the behaviors of a dog. He follows me everyone, sleeps at my feet, and when I come home, he immediately rolls over in front of me, wanting his belly rubbed.

4. The best place to sleep is snuggled against your master.
I have never had a cat -- and I have rescued dozens -- not want to snuggle up with me and go to sleep. That's one of the rewards of rescuing cats. I like the snuggling as much as they do. Maybe more...

5. If you have a protector, you need neither to roar nor to hiss.
Little Bissa, adopted by Shane when we brought her back from Jordan, is the tiniest little thing. She weighs only a few pounds. However, when we first rescued her from the university grounds where she would beg for scraps, she hid under a bed and would not come out. She had never been indoors and did not understand the nature of this big cage, our house, she had found herself in. Everyone was afraid to come near her because she would roar and hiss. One visitor found me in the kitchen and declared, his eyes big with disbelief, "bissatek tigr" (your cat is a tiger). Finally, one day, I just picked her up and held her and held her, and her roar turned to a tribble (really, she does not purr, she tribbles). A few weeks later I found her curled up beside Donnie, sleeping. Ever after that, she was his cat, until she moved in with Shane, Lemony, and kids, who all adore her. So, now she has a protector; she no longer needs to roar and hiss.

6. Letting go and letting your master take over can be scary at first but in the long run wonderful.
Snowball was scared at first, but bit by bit, he let me get closer and closer. When he finally let me pick him up for the first time after the tree-scaling incident, he seemed to like being held. Soon, he was crawling into my lap every evening, pushing aside my computer with his paws, licking me, combing my hair with his claws (the only cat I ever had who did that), and sleeping for hours on my lap. Simone, our newest feral addition, refused to let anyone close enough to touch her for months, but finally I coopted her into a relationship by offering her treats. Now she likes both the treats and the petting. (At first, she did not separate the two. After I petted her, she would trot out to the cupboard for treats. Now, the petting is enough.)

7. If you didn't get born into a family with a master, go find yourself a master.
That is what Newbie did. He just marched up to me and asked me to take him home. Similarly, into our house one day very confidently strode Snowflake, Doah's cat, who got adopted by a British family in Jordan (because of his size and the heat we were unable to take him on the plane with us the summer we left but they could take him to the UK in the winter. Born in the USA, he has become quite the world traveler -- and he always knows where to find a human to care for him.

8.If you are hurting, it is worthwhile to make every effort possible to get back to your master because there is your help.
We lost, gained, and lost a wonderful little cat, Fuzzy, when we were living on the Arroyo Seco River. A feral cat who preferred the outdoors, he nonetheless spent every night sleeping with me until the day he got hit by a car. We were able to save him, thanks to a talented vet, but he did lose his tail. One day, though, when there were bobcats reported in the area, he simply disappeared. I published a story about him in a volume of stories by Middle Eastern authors. (At that time, I was living in the Middle East, so that made me a de facto Middle Eastern author.) If you are interested in reading it, I posted it post-publication on my Mahlou Musings blog: The Tale of Fuzz.

In ending, I will say only: metaphor intended.

No Words Needed

2010-08-06T09:30:00.000-07:00

Since I have limited time to post right now but have been gathering a collection of photographs of the littlest Mahlous, I thought I would share some of these with you. (Sorry about the quality; they came from my cell phone camera.)