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About Elea Lee

Foster parent, adopting parent, family advocate, educator, homeschool parent

Answers for hard questions

I force myself to ask a mixture of hard and easy answers–
Do you like scary movies?
Do you do puzzles
Mixed with
Where is your anger
He has a self-effacing way of saying he used to “act up”
This is a little like saying Mussolini used to be into public oratory
So I ask
How is your anger (anyway)?
He says his psychologist
Tells him he is letting it out
(like a Jack Russell terrier roaming the cul-de-sac?)
…When he does ordinary things

It is gone now
the subtext
I am always reading the subtext

Head injuries

The pictures are often similar–tiny faces surrounded by tubes, bruised little faces and bodies.

Shaken babies.
So heartbreaking, so preventable.

In 2007 my father died as the result of head injuries from a helicopter crash. What happened to him was painful, traumatic and deadly. But he knew the risks.

I compare the last stage, the dying stage, of my father’s life to the pictures I see of small children abused to death by caregivers.

No helicopters
No choice
No escape

And no reason on earth why we should look the other way while more than 5 children a day are abused to death in America.

Shame on us.
Do something

A first time voter on election night

My adopted son voted today. He seemed excited about it. I congratulated him.

His biological sister is fully supported by Ohio but I do not know if she voted.

I did not vote.
I did not vote because every republican and democrat I contacted in the last 3 years either washed their hands of us or lied to us.

One party washed
The other lied

Kicked the stuffing out of me.

Democracy. Better than oligarchy, inching toward very expensive anarchy

For something to change someone besides me would have to be alarmed by my story.

The Pittsburgh painted dogs

I like to think there is a multiverse somewhere where African painted dogs gorge themselves exclusively on dandelions.

And another where a hapless mother keeps her grip.

And another where the boy stays away from the railing.

But in one multiverse everything happens the same except there are no lawyers and the adults are very brave.

It is as though they had been training for this their whole lives! They spring Into action.

One adult shepherds the children away.
One dials 911
One hollers for the zookeepers

And every other able bodied human leaps over the rails and starts punching
Kicking
Yelling
Wielding sticks
Whacking wild dogs with cell phones
Cameras
Loose change

In the wild brouhaha that ensues one of these brave souls pulls the child away quickly

Hurt, but still living.

We don’t believe in these brave, fictitious people

Because we are unwilling to be them

Toddler Mauled by Wild Dogs

The story is haunting, devastating, nightmarish–a little boy is killed when he falls into a wild dog exhibit.

I grieve for the family.

And I say we must treat this as a preventable death.

There should have been a secondary safety barrier between the railing and the ground.

Any able bodied adult attending the exhibit should have immediately called 911 and alerted zoo officials.

And yes, we ordinary citizens need to expect that it is our job to insert ourselves between a baby and a pack of wild dogs.

I know I am asking for heroism. And I know this is a rare occurrence (thank God)–but one we must examine closely.

The wiki link above says that these dogs have an 80-90% kill rate. 2/3rds higher than lions. They hunt in communicating packs and will run prey down. They are extremely aggressive and work together.

And here is the terrible irony–these dogs were raised by an ordinary domesticated dog. The Pittsburgh zoo brought her in to nurse the wild pups in 2009.

They were raised in that zoo.
Did the zoo cultivate their predatory hunting skills? I don’t know.

But I do know that they are deadly. The wild African dogs hunt to sustain the life of their pack.

Human predators have no such excuse for the terrible things they do.

To keep our kids safe we must educate ourselves about the animals that live so close to defenseless children.

My prayers remain with this little one’s family.

stats on dog attacks

Church for the rest of us

I don’t go to church. I should. I used to speak in church. Also teach aerobics, Sunday school, and youth group. It was like a one-man band.

The reason why it was like that was the apathy at the heart of that church. It was a social club, not a place of worship, a fact that became quite clear when I went to the leaders about a self-confessed pedophile.

Church is not a building
Church is not good coffee
Church is not the offering plate
Church is not babysitting
Church is the cathedral of the world, built by God not man.

Maybe you are like me–so burned by the wolves in the sheepfold that you don’t want to risk yourself on God or His messy people.

If you feel burned by it all, you probably have a good reason.

So try this–
Ask Him to show you His love
Falling leaves? Squirrels? Snow? Your children?

The world is full of signs of Grace. Look for them.

Then try Jesus. He is church–the strong tower of love. Open the books of Matt, Mark, Luke, or John and read a story –a verse, five verses.

Then listen. Find a quiet place and listen.

He loves you.
That is church.

(God loves us so much that He sent His only true soul’s child to scoop us out of despair and the hells we make for ourselves and give us hope, love and a place of sanctuary close to his motherly heart)

Church.
Built by the hands of Love

Why revenge is not sweet

For at least. a few months after I found out my children had been hurt by their adopted brother I would admit to other people that I had a desire to take him to a roadhouse down the street, announce his crimes and then close the door on him. I do not admit this with any pride, I tell this story because it is one step toward forgiveness.

There are things he could have done and can still do that are worse.

There are things he did which keep me up at night searching for answers.

And all humans are a rum bunch. Let’s be honest.

I am tired of reading about children being hurt. The more prolonged and grievous the hurt, the less I want to face it. But I do and I pray.

And I understand the wild and violent response people have toward the disembodied child abuser. The only problem is our wild cries for blood are not effective. And our response to real abusers is often muted and myopic.

My first question is–why not shut down NASA?

I know, you worry about all the unemployed astronauts, I would too if I did not already have a plan. Let’s take these extremely smart people preoccupied with the elusive quest for martian scat and put them onto the task of keeping children safe–ending child abuse.

You know–like the repair scene in Apollo 13 only with children not tubes.

Stop telling me you want some hairy inmate to put a beat down on those who harm children, call your congressman and tell him you want infanticide eradicated. Call your pastor and tell him you want to start a parenting group. Call the police if you hear a baby crying in a way that suggests abuse, not gas.

Do something to change the world. Because if you are leaving all this to the lawless to sort out, well don’t be surprised when all that is left is the wreckage of a country that might once have been safe for children.

Surviving the Perfect Storm

I went to Cape May once, Atlantic City twice, New York City a handful of times. Places of national iconic memory as well as personal.

I have also survived hurricanes. I know about their massive deadly power, the way they stir the sea. When you are waiting for a hurricane you pray two prayers–God, keep people safe and God, not us.

Most people don’t like to admit to the second one. It is a selfish prayer, a prayer of survival.

I think of the Krims. Their perfect storm was providing kindness to a stranger they thought they knew. The waters will recede, cleanup will restore the streets of New York, but each minute of each day will be a terrible hurricane of loss for an ordinary American family.

My prayers remain, just as I pray for all those who struggle to survive the violence of loss, another kind of fierce and deadly storm.

Dear Krim Family

My heart aches for you. I know your lives have been thrown into the darkest tunnel. You are constantly in my thoughts and prayers. Words fail.

There is an Old Testament story that keeps coming to my mind. A woman whose family was executed to stop a war sits over the bodies of her loved ones warding of the birds.

It is one of the bleakest images of grief–all that remains is her lonely figure on a hilltop. I wish I could ward off the birds of memory seething around you and your beautiful, heartbroken family.

May my words be like hands
Warding off the birds