Just: a book review

No one in their right mind writes a book review of their own book so people don’t have to read it.

So here goes:

I wrote Just because books had helped me through some tough times.

It is not a work of literature. It is a cry for help. I wanted to add to the voices of men and women who had helped me–mostly celebrity survivors who had been courageous and told their stories. Oprah, and Ellen, Sugar Ray, Ashley Judd, and Todd Bridges…

What would have I done without them?

So this the story: we fostered and adopted children damaged by neglect and abuse.

Life with them was so hard. It became even harder when we found out my adopted son had molested some of my children and others.

We pushed for legal consequences.
We dealt with the damage.

I was surprised by how little protection the justice system gave us. The book was a cry for help and a warning.

What I would add to that as an epilogue of sorts is that there is another book too painful and personal to write about what I call the shunning syndrome.

If you are brave or foolish enough to speak openly about being victimized by sexual abuse, you lose almost everyone you love.

Tough book to write. Even tougher to live. Par for the course for humans–we let our wolves drive our flocks.

But beyond the lonely places, we are fine (thank you).

Prayers for my reactive attachment disorder children

I face this story every day, every moment of every day:

Once upon a time there were two teens. They both came from stories of neglect and abuse. Someone had hurt them by not giving them safety. Others by transgressing the most basic law of love–don’t hurt a child.

They hooked up. Had kids. Wandered into ways to dull the pain and longing in their hearts.

The children were so young but they still remember hunger, watching their parents leave them locked alone with a single cupcake to share among them all.

Longing. We all long for something–love, truth, justice. But what if that longing is never heard? A child cries but no one holds him? A little girl lives with a gnawing ache for food.

What happens when the search for love and safety comes up empty before they are one or two or three?

I watch her face in each picture. She never smiles. I want to say to her mother–pick her up, snuggle with her, talk baby talk to her and feed her. That is why you get wic, so she can be full.

Break the cycle, girl, for God’s sake, break the cycle.

What is it like to be raised by wolves?

Better than this. Wolves are social animals, willing to hunt for their young.

I search for answers, but there are few that satisfy. I cringe at memory–my own exasperation, impatience, and exhaustion. So many things I would do better.

I say that ruefully knowing that the maxim I had at 27 was true and mattered–regardless of the raggedy look of things. You must hold on. They need years of you just being there.

I am here. I won’t ever leave you.

He asks if we can meet. I say yes, but only me. The others are not ready.

Ready is a placeholder for heartbroken. Reactive attachment disorder can seep into the lives of everything it meets. It takes no prisoners.

I pray. I pray all the time. I pray they do not hurt or kill or disfigure. I pray for safety. I cast about for anyone or anything I could enlist to save them…from themselves. The longing for mother’s love turns to drugs, alcohol and reckless touch. Wires in a machine all shorted or circuited wrong.

Nothing will work but love, and by love I mean compassion. And by compassion I mean Jesus. I do the only thing that makes sense when the disease at the heart of your child is terminal–I cling to the feet of God and say, Save these babies, resurrecting God.

Hypothetical Questions

Imagine you thought you could change the world. No. Not the whole frickin’ thing, just bits and pieces…

Imagine you thought you could do it by taking care of troubled children–oh, sure, it wouldn’t be fun…

There would be the loss, for instance.
People would treat you like you had the plague.
Your family would say you must be doing something wrong.

But you would plough through. Deeply imperfect but there. And, yes, better than the alternative.

You would do it because you believed. You believed in nurture. You believed in God.

Imagine if you did all that and then, well, it seemed like the little tikes turned out to be losers. Yep. Remarkably similar to their genetic roots. Real bonafide knuckleheads.

Well…

If you got discouraged I would tell you what I tell myself.

We are all losers without Jesus.
And…it ain’t over till it’s over, girl.

Can’t drown love. They tried once. He just rose again. My kind of Loser.

Your own mother?!

He tells me in shocked terms that he has lost all his money. More to the point–his family has taken it. Fast. Five or six thousand dollars in under two months.

His mother has lied to him and taken his money. Ugh.

I have ambivalent feelings about what he tells me–I don’t believe anyone should let him babysit. I want to believe he can change. I tell him I will always be your mother, you will always be my kid.. But I still want to tell the people around him–watch out, he can do devastating things.

A judge
A state
A juvenile system
A bunch of elected officials
And two complete communities, two complete families…well, dozens, really, have told me shut up.

But the children…who will protect these children?

Our conversation and my mother’s role in supporting him unequivocally raises issues of intense grief for me.

He is a convicted pedophile and she has given him support and encouragement.

I am her daughter and she has rejected me since I was a young child. It is hard to face the comparison and it is painful to acknowledge the way she sees me.

I run to God.

I run to this Parent who will not leave me. And because He refuses to abandon me, I know He sticks with all of us–our misshapen, sin-harmed souls so far from home, so close to the Cross that saves us.

You Draw Love

You draw love
As you drink
Like a bored housewife beside her
Rotary phone

Judicious sips
When you should
Gulp…
Deep well, girl
This is a deep well
Look down into history

Up, into the face of God
But you are right
About cliches–
playing with fire…
Springs eternal

In the end only He will draw love
With his right hand
And we will hold ours out in supplication
For living water

Explaining Evil?

He picks up a Shutterfly book his father made several years ago…our family before the flood.

There are pictures of flowers taped over my adopted son’s face. One of his victims has placed them over his face because her grief is still deep, and the righteous anger with it.

To her younger brother this is a strange thing. Who is this teenage boy? Why is his face covered?

I explain it to him. I explain the story using the simplest words I can find–the words of a fairy tale, a bedtime story. Only no one wants to tell the story of why the little girl has covered her “brother” in flowers any more than we want to face the hurt that happens when someone you trust and love betrays you and all you hold dear.

Hold dear…
Hm, little girl in the picture, I will always hold you, dear.

It is my job, like breathing.

Fairy Tale Beginnings

Imagine you are a reasonably attractive young person in your 20s. You are educated and have an interesting job with growth potential.

Then…you enter into a completely voluntary relationship with two fairy tale creatures. Think frog in well, old lady at door of castle material. There is a spell that has been cast over them, you, intrepid young person, must break the spell!

This requires enduring a lot of verbal abuse, physical abuse (fairy tale creatures are small but fierce and sometimes quite wild).

You hang on, barely, telling yourself each day that the humiliation and loss you feel is worth the investment in these small people, I mean enchanted creatures. Someone has to break enchantments, why not you?

Yolo; I know. That is part of the heartbreak. To “waste” your youth on the ungrateful and the enslaved can feel like desert living.

When they get older, larger, and more criminal, it can feel like…well let’s just say not a fairy tale.

The other people in the enchanted woods look a little queasy when you spill your tale–what? No magic reveal? No broken spells? What the heck?!

You can see it in their faces–please stay away from us, we live in this forest and are invested in keeping up magic appearances.

But you know the secret–dark, sad, but unavoidable secret. There is only one happily ever after and there is only one handsome prince.

He was the unlikeliest of Redeemer Princes–unremarkable, a tradesman. Itinerate, shekel-less. He died a miserable death and seemed to indicate there would be rough and uncertain times for his kingdom.

His spell-breaking talisman seemed a little too brief–follow me.

Like we would want to do that. Like that would be pretty. Like hell itself would be a picnic.

But of course, hell was just a place on a narrow road for him. It was not his destination. So keep up, girl, the story isn’t over…

Isaiah 58

After the Sea

We sleep in boats
Strewn out across
An unending sea
Cling to blankets, shelter, each other

An archipelago of contained air
All that holds us
Up inflatable dinghies,
Flotsam unstable

We call to each other
Sun-drenched dazed
Testing our new words
Like… beach balls….
Flood….
Antediluvian–
post-apocalyptic always

Cup your hands
Across your eyes
Look to the deep
Where the leviathan hides

Home.

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.

Faith.

Last night I saw a meme for “love never fails” from first Corinthians.

Love wins
Love endures
Love triumphs
Love is stronger than death

Sounds pretty good, right?
Sounds crazy good.
Ok, sounds ridiculous.

Love triumphed in Nazi Germany? In Hiroshima? In Rwanda? Hardly seems to have…

We have to fess up. The Bible is just a bad Hallmark greeting card if love fails.. And there are times when it seems to be coming dead last in the race.

Times indeed. But that is the point. For love to win in the end, win in the world, love has to win in me.. I have to not only believe in love, I have to stake my fate to it. Hard to believe an abstraction can win like that–over the wreck of human history.

What can a single word do? Can it win anything? Can a word truly triumph?

Yes. If the word is Jesus.