Equality! And the wrong sides of history

Let’s say, just hypothetically, that you arranged a legal transaction with a person who turned out to be immoral, abusive, felonious. Now suppose after years of attempting to do your best to hang on to the relationship you are forced into the difficult decision of protecting yourself–from abuse.

Now consider two potential wrinkles to this scenario:

You are a child and your “legal partner” is an adult.

Or….

You are a parent and your “legal partner” is a dangerous minor.

In the first scenario children are at the mercy of a legal system that does not want to intervene on their behalf. Why? Money, Oh, and maybe discomfort. But there is a third option–older people get significantly reduced sentences or no punishment at all for serious or deadly crimes against children because children do not have equal protection under the law.

They do not have equivalent civil rights.

And parents of mentally ill or abusive teens? Just try finding legal protection from abuse. It would make sense to simply call the police when a crime occurs, but parents are on their own if their abuser is their own child.

The law should be the arena of protection for a civilized society, but the murders of Thomas More and Dietrich Bonhoeffer were legal. We are not only as good as the laws we enact; we are only as just as the ones we choose to enforce.

Immoral laws, immoral judges, and myopic citizens make for a country where a baby can be shot in the face on the street and a distracted nation thinks it is a brave new world for futzing over the sexual practices of adults.

Oh, yeah…Brave New World.. Thank you, Mr. Huxley, for giving us all a prophetic heads up on how all this will end.

Is it?

Imagine.
You have resuscitated the carrier pigeon.

you bred raptors?

Why yes.
Actually I did.
they live far from me now
One is a runner.
Not like track.
Tracks. Lines…
In the spring snow…

The other?
An enigma.
I wish I had a machine…
Like Enigma.
I could put it all down–
My coded message to you
About the hurt and confusion
Injustice was a U-boat
Sinking good men
He says,

life is sweet right now

And I wonder,
What is the unbreakable
Code
I could write you this and know
It will be clear.
It will all be
Made clear
In the end.

The Survivors

It was a swish dinner at a faith-based gathering. The professional, well-heeled white folk were chowing down on their deep-fried exotic game.

A pediatrician asked me why our family structure had changed. I was still hoping someone would do something, so I told her.

Stunned silence.

Afterward the doctor and her friend were surreptitiously imbibing when I apologized for casting a pall over dinner. They accepted my apology and chided me for my temerity. They gave me suggestions.

Memorable suggestions from a children’s doctor and a social worker–

Don’t talk about the victims

Don’t tell what happened to them

Decide what you want from people then soften your message to reach them.

Such well meaning criticism. But it still shocked me. Not because they did not care about my children’s safety.

Because they did not care about theirs.

Milk Names

I once lived in a country rich in cultural rules and ancient traditions. One I remembered: give your children ugly nicknames so that the spirits will not snatch them away. Seemed logical.

As a Christian I adapted this idea somewhat–live in a broke-down house, even live a broke-down life, but treasure the eternal.

So I did. My house was a mess. My hair was a mess. My children were bright orbs of light. I thought I had it mapped out.

But I had not calculated the cost of broke-down minds in our broke-down life. Everything like shattered glass in their heads.

I am shocked by the damage. I survey the damage. No easy answers, only the beacon of truth–our lives themselves are the houses, mansions, temples, of the eternal God of love.

Who will give us our real
Names
Someday.

Hypothetical Family

In the fall of 2009 our family as we knew it imploded in a fierce burst of awful. This was after years of maintenance strange and two years of ascending chaos as our adopted daughter burst forth into mental decline. Epic mental decline. Followed by the revelation that her biological brother was a pedophile. Then things got worse…

Actually, not worse. Safer and blindingly honest. Grandparents punished the victims and rewarded the perps. Uncles were cowards. Aunts were um, not helpful.

The nuclear families that my husband and I had been born into were destructive forces. I think that the stigma of being in a relationship with the victims of sexual abuse was too much for them to handle. They blamed the victims. It was like an acid bath. They said terrible things.

I drew a wall around us. There were months of fasting and debilitating heath problems. There was our children’s grief. There was the cost to our marriage. It was enough.

We skipped a wedding. We cut off our phone. We changed. Our family became orphaned not just from these near familial relations but also from a church we had served for years.

Our older children remember. Our young ones do not. They do not know their aunts or uncles, their grandmothers or grandfather. My son knows that my father died the year he was born. He knows that we live on a small island of ourselves. He sees these relationships played out on the children’s shows he watches. Dora has a cousin named Diego. Word Girl has a cool grandfather. Every so often one of us will refer to the missing uncle or grandmother he does not know. His eyes will light up as though we are discussing Christmas–I have a grandfather?!. He will ask incredulously.

Yes, I say.

Then his face grows serious. Oh, but he is not safe for us, right?

Right, I say, he is not safe.

The loneliness and loss in his face is the reminder: the ghost of hypothetical family.

Maldives Rape 2

Upset?

First step–google “contact Maldives”

Email a few of these tourism sites and tell them you will NOT visit their lovely but despotic spot of sand until they protect young children from rape.

Next contact your representatives. Tell them you want the US to raise concern about this vicious and destructive law.

The Maldives survive on tourist dollars. Help send them a message–state sponsored terrorism of raped children is not compatible with happy tourists.

And…research western interests/resorts in the Maldives. Complain. It will take a lot of voices to help these girls. So agitate.

And please– spread the word.

Maldives Rape

I remember missionaries who taught in the Maldives recounting a story about their students cheering the destruction of 9/11.

Now this: Maldives whips rape victims. They take girls who have been sexually abused and whip them 100 times.

It is hard to be a rape victim anywhere. But in the Maldives the perps are handed a carte blanche to abuse.

Poor little ones. If their stepdads don’t get them, the law will.

Be Open

Mark 7:31-35 (NIV)
Then Jesus left the vicinity of Tyre and went through Sidon, down to the Sea of Galilee and into the region of the Decapolis. [32] There some people brought to him a man who was deaf and could hardly talk, and they begged him to place his hand on the man. [33] After he took him aside, away from the crowd, Jesus put his fingers into the man’s ears. Then he spit and touched the man’s tongue. [34] He looked up to heaven and with a deep sigh said to him, “Ephphatha!” (which means, “Be opened!”). [35] At this, the man’s ears were opened, his tongue was loosened and he began to speak plainly.

The man’s disability was hindering his integration into community. His community responded the way it should (at least in the context of this story). They begged God for help.

Who needs help in your community? Too often our communities silence and marginalize the different, not recognizing we are all different, we all need healing.

We all need a voice.

Many, many people suffer because they have been deprived of a voice.

One summer years ago I took ASL. Part of our class assignment was to go to Union Station and pretend to be deaf and mute. It was a valuable exercise. To see how servers responded to my verbal powerlessness…who was kind? Who was impatient?

Jesus heals the man in a very visceral way–he puts his fingers in his ears, spits and touches the man’s tongue and then sighs deeply as he commands the healing.

Why?

He could raise the dead from a distance, why such raw physicality?

Because Jesus speaks the language of each human heart. His physical actions are a form of sign language the man can understand.

Nobody talks like this guy. He is the Word made flesh.

He sets the captive free.

Dog Stories…

Mark 7:26-28 (NIV)
The woman was a Greek, born in Syrian Phoenicia. She begged Jesus to drive the demon out of her daughter. [27] “First let the children eat all they want,” he told her, “for it is not right to take the children’s bread and toss it to their dogs.” [28] “Yes, Lord,” she replied, “but even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”

I used to see this story differently. I will talk about my used-to-see story separately: the Christian I used to be.

But for now I have to let the woman I am speak.

I have lived in countries where dogs were food. I have seen them wandering emaciated and lost on the street. Some dogs have a tough life.

But not our brothers’ dogs. Not my mother’s dogs.

My mother loves dogs more than me. It is a function of her askew thinking. So now when I see this conversation I see a woman who might plead for her little dog over the life of her daughter.

Hard to face.

Or my mother-in-law…

Who once refused to restrain a dog menacing her grandchild.

Strange choices. Unless you face the truth: in our country we are more comfortable advocating for the rights of dogs than children.

Worldwide the practice of sex-selected abortion is rampant. Our daughters are not safe. We do not plead for them anymore.

And my babies?

My father-in-law once refused his granddaughter a piece of meat from my plate. His anger was palpable and his misogyny extends beyond what is moral.

Small dogs get crumbs indeed.

In my family it is the little girls beneath the table, while the adults let the dogs ravage the meal.

Weddings where the dog is the maid of honor, and the children are not welcome at the table.

I will not go back. Please, God, protect my children from…

The dogs at the table.

All Our Happy Endings

Been readin’ some quotes–GK, CS, JC…the usual dudes, and then a couple off the beaten path.

Hitler, for instance, said that it was harder to overcome faith than knowledge.

And Christopher Hitchens recounting an anecdote about a Rwandan survivor who had lost everyone–her whole history and future wiped out.

Faith indeed, to say there is a God to answer that.

But I do believe, not in spite of the Hilters and Rwandas littering the floor of history. No. I believe because of them.

See– if adoption is a mirror of our relationship with God we should face the raw stink of the adoptees–us.

We stink.

We kill
We maim
We steal
We lie about it.
We do it again.

But that is the heart and soul of the story–a perfect and compassionate Parent adopts the worst kids in the universe.

A real mess.

Only His love can change us.
And it does.

But remember–no faking. He can tell when we are lying about the state of our deadly hearts.

And we are all gonna get a bath eventually–one way or the other…

Better the hands of Love