The Central American Crisis

For nearly 20 years young people, mostly women, have been the victims of rape and murder in Juarez, a city neatly adjacent to El Paso, Texas.

They even have a name for it–feminicidio, the murder of women.

Not once have I ever heard anyone in our government say we need to provide asylum to the women and children of Juarez.

Perhaps we should.

But as a one-time resident of Central America and a long-time advocate for children, especially those who have refugee issues, the sudden trucking out of an “emerging Central American crisis” feels deeply political and not very honest.

When in our lifetime has Central America been stable? The eighties?!?

Not a chance.

This particular iteration of the absolute disaster that is American foreign policy ignores completely the fact that…

These countries have been de facto war zones for decades.

The children have not just started coming, some of them came years ago. Many came to the US and joined gangs affiliated with the conflicts in their home countries.

And many also have the usual spectrum of emotional and mental problems that go with trauma, upheaval, social disintegration, and loss of caregiver relationships.

We cannot afford to anonymize these minors. Where they go, who they go with, and how they cope all matter so much.

What do you know about the gang affiliations of refugee and immigrant teens in your area? What do you know about attachment disorder?

You cannot haphazardly throw money or executive orders at children.

You gotta have an actual plan.

Yep. And I still think we owe the children of Mexico an apology.

Isn’t their failed state as disastrous as all the others?

A cage for freedom

I read that Carl Sagan’s wife has interpreted the story of Eden lost as a triumph of human freedom.

Ironic considering she surely sees it as a mythical tale.

Ironic considering that we have chosen holocaust, genocide, neglect, and violence as the measures of our freedom.

And there is this as well–when you see ultimate love and beauty as a confinement, one might rightly ask–

what do you know of love?

Casey Kasem’s Dilemma

I used to listen to him regularly. I bet at one time or another most Americans have.

All those years, if you had told me Mr. Kasem would end up dying of thirst and starvation and medical neglect, I would have been shocked.

And yet no one besides his wife seems shocked now?

Our country has become a full-on fulfillment of sci-fi dystopia. We fight and argue for hardened child-rapists and -murders to have the right to die of old age but we let our judges rule against basic rights for the dying.

The right to water should not be withheld.

The right to nourishment is so basic. And yet time and again the most fragile members of our society are starved and dehydrated to death.

Shame on us.

We neither acknowledge the pain of the dying nor the ultimate cost to our souls of suborning justice to lower a hospital bill.

But who will pay for our lost compassion and our broken souls?

The Darkest Days

Jesus gave them plenty of warning–he said he was going to die. He warned of betrayal and grief. He told them things they did not want to hear.

Even so, the space between the last supper and the resurrection was almost unbearable.

Almost because he took the unbearable part.

Just short of unbearable.

That is the promise of Christian life–it might get pretty awful, but it will never be as awful as the atonement.

The grief of the disciples seems so dark. So painful. And their brokenness was pretty broken.

But

It is finished

And Sunday is one Son-rise away.

Dear Veronica Badamo,

In the fall of 1998 I lost you. Since I was your foster mom, I never had much legal right to you anyway.

What happened to your real mama. What happened to your whole family was awful. Criminal awful.

I was just a broken bystander.

You were, for one precious year, my baby. And when they took you away I was broken.

Barely survive broken.

Whole world changed broken.

I was pretty sure the people who took you would erase me, but I could not let you go without a benediction.

The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette published it. I knew that they would change your name so I called you Little One.

And for year I have been calling and calling, Little One.

I missed you. I missed the years, days, hours with you.

You were my lost treasure.

One good thing happened; losing you gave me a plumb line for love.

Anyone’s child could be you. Suddenly the world was full of Veronicas.

It was a painful gift. I would have rather had you, real you.

But I was the ghost. And I can give you these two promises–

I loved the world better because of you.

And I love you. Always, always, little one.

Adoption Stories

You should know that no matter how old you are, I see you as the little girl you once were.

I say this because you tell me you can’t ask Yahweh because you don’t believe in Him.

Because you don’t believe in Him is exactly why you should ask Him. What do you have to lose?

Don’t worry, I know you do have stuff to lose. So let me phrase the argument as a parable:

In 1998 I lost a daughter. In my mind I lost 3. She was a triplet. She was taken from me because I was a foster parent in a place where the laws of custody and adoption were not held in high regard.

Her mother wanted the babies back. If she could not have them herself, she was willing to allow us to adopt them. Brave mama, tough story.

They took the babies. Broke my heart. Drove me to desperate measures.

The last desperate measure was leaving a record.

If you go to the archives of the federal court of western Pennsylvania you will find my record–a quixotic lawsuit I filed so that if I could not get her back, at least she could find me.

If she ever looked.

If she wanted the true story.

Because I was pretty sure she would not find it without a little help from the public record.

And since she was just a baby when they took her, I knew that they could erase me pretty easily.

But I am real and I love her. I was her mother for awhile. And I have never stopped loving her and her family.

God is like that. He is always our first mother, our foster mother, who can then be erased by another story.

But never forget. The story of His love for you is in the public record. It is your job to find it.

I have known for years that my daughter had a choice to look for me or choose to look away.

But I can assure you that I am real.

And I have loved her since the day I met her.

5% You

In the end I decided to meet you
In the same place I found you
A waiting room near bridgewater

I squeeze myself into the Fisher-Price
Playhouse
And wedge myself into the picnic table alcove
Has your life always been this small?

You were Thing One
He was Thing Two
And you whirled in
Nonstop noise

Your first foster mother
Expressed infinite relief
In the space around her eyes
At the imminent prospect of
Handing all 200% of you
To me

I am handing it back.

But since 95% has been
Yours for years now

I give you all that is left:

An expression about turtles and hope
A song about going to town
All the way to town
A pocketful of french fries of indeterminate age and origin

And telling the truth on the one day it mattered.

Community College

You used to stand
In the doorway of winter
Receiving the Russian men
With their flowers and words of love
As transparent as their motives

Never letting on
You were a sucker
For their swarthy accents and abundant facial hair

But not that much
That you would fail

To mark each hour of rising light

Not yet
The full Twelve
He speaks of so casually
Before dark.