Walking

Asher and I took a walk around town today. The weather cleared up just long enough for us to get out of the house and get some fresh air. It was also an opportunity to mess with our new camera and take some shots of some prominent places in town. So I bundled Asher up in his jacket, loaded him in the stroller and headed downtown. After pausing a few different times to snap some photos I ended up at the bluff overlooking the Willamette River. Our town has this old elevator that people use to make a quick trip from the lower part of downtown to the upper area. As I leaned against the railing looking out over the river I noticed a woman coming out of the elevator. I wouldn’t have taken a second look had I not noticed the walking stick she was carrying. Once she had my attention I noticed that her pants were a little dirty, her hair looked as though it hadn’t been washed in days and her skin almost hung on the frail frame of her body. She watched me take a few pictures and then walked up and stood right next to me looking out over the river as well. It’s funny, the bubble of comfort we all have. This woman walked right into my bubble and popped a squat and then looked at me and said “Whatcha doin?” I would have assumed that the camera made it obvious, but her question was more out of a desire for conversation than to get an answer. We talked a few minutes about great photo ops in town and then the conversation became more personal. 

The woman, whose name I never asked for and now wish I had, told me all of the places she’s lived, relationships she’s had, bad decisions she’s made, and things she hopes to do in the future. As the woman unraveled the scroll of her life in front of me I kept glancing at Asher to see what he was doing. Every I looked up he was just smiling at her, or reaching out his hand to her, or stringing together a jumble of baby jargon that he desperately wanted this woman to hear. She would stop now and then and just look at him, smile and then continue on with her stories. And then, in an instant she got up and walked away. I was a bit dumfounded, no good-bye. No have a nice day, just got to her feet and headed on down the path. But then midstride she stopped, turned around and said, thanks for the chat. I’ll look for you here again some time.

Why is it that we instinctively shy away from people that make us uncomfortable? I mean, I know it’s because they make us uncomfortable, but there must be something deeper. Is it because we don’t know how to respond to what they may throw at us? Is it because we feel they aren’t worthy of our time? I know I have brushed off a number of people in my lifetime that may simply have needed to have a conversation just so they could feel human again.

I think about Asher. He had no bubble to keep this woman at a distance. The ironic thing is that he didn’t have words to communicate with her, but he communicated so much more lovingly than I did. I responded to her with polite “Yeps” and “Uh huhs” but Asher wanted to touch her, to laugh with her and merely connect.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my town lately. How most of us go about our day to day lives with those we are comfortable with and have built relationships with. Yet most of us don’t even know the names of the people in the houses next door. Maybe I’ll start looking for simple ways to connect. No deep conversations or community programs needed, just simple touches, laughs, and maybe some baby jargon to ease the tension.

Attached

People often ask me what I love most about being a dad and I guess the response will be different depending on what has happened that day. Yet there is one thing that makes me smile without fail…it happened just a few hours ago.

I have class every Thursday (I’m finishing my Masters of Arts in Ministry Leadership at George Fox Seminary) and I am blessed to have in-laws that will watch Asher so I can go to class. Today I also had an afternoon meeting after class so I was going to be gone extra long. My in-laws had a prior engagement later in the day and so they dropped Asher off at our friend’s house where I was to pick him up after my meeting. So after a long day of class and a great meeting I walked through the door of my friend’s house and called out “Hello?” Somewhere in the distance I hear a little voice start to babble and slowly get more and more excited, and as I walked around the corner and looked at Asher he started clapping his hands while saying “Dadadada.” There is something about knowing you are needed that warms the heart. In the case of an adopted child this type of reaction is even more significant.

One of the main emotional concerns with children of international adoption is what experts call Reactive Attachment Disorder or RAD (Great, now I bet you’re totally thinking back to the 1980s cult classic about BMX biking). RAD stems from the failure to create normal attachment to primary caregivers in the infant stages of life. On the surface this may not seem like such a dire strait but the effects can be severe.   What is feared most in this situation is that the child displays extremely inappropriate relational behaviors which can involve haphazard or excessive attempts to receive affection from any available adult. It can also manifest in a child’s extreme unwillingness to accept comfort from a parent or a move to deep isolation.

So, when Asher looks at me, gets excited, claps his hands and calls me dada I melt because I know he sees me in a different light from all the other people around him (besides his mom of course). He looks at me and somewhere inside he knows that I will meet his needs and that he can trust me to be there. The expectations that come with that are of course daunting, but the coupled excitement that comes from those expectations make me crawl out of bed each morning, grab my coffee, walk into Asher’s room and say “Good morning.” to an amazing blessing.

The Chain

So I was on my way home from the grocery store the other night and I found myself tearing up to a song on the radio. There are a couple things that make this situation a little odd. 1) I’m not a crier. I have nothing against criers. In fact I wish I was more emotional the simple fact is you’ll rarely see me tear up. 2) I was listening to a country station. Now I know not everyone has the sophistication it takes to listen to the heartfelt songs pouring forth from these country bumpkins but I find I relate to this genre, whatever that says about me. So there I am a mile from my house tears rolling down my cheeks and asking "What in the world is triggering this?!” The song on the radio was Zac Brown Band’s Highway 20 Ride. The basic premise of the song is the story of a divorced father who makes a trip each week on Highway 20 to pick up his son and spend time with him. The line that got me going is this:

“A day might come and you'll realize that if you could see through my eyes There was no other way to work it out And a part of you might hate me But son please don't mistake me For a man that didn’t care at all.”

In a time when 50% of marriages fail, I have been blessed with a family that has stayed together despite tough times. But there is something deeper in those lyrics that brought out my emotions. It’s the idea that good or bad we pass on our “stuff” to our children. Some call this family of origin issues, some call it generational sin, but whatever you call it, the fact is, we either continue to add links to the family chain of dysfunction or we break that chain and offer our children freedom from those bonds.

There are things my family has given me that I cherish, there are things I wish were not there and this is a truth of any family. Whether the good outweighs the bad or vice versa we would all do well to ask ourselves the question “What are we passing on to our children?” As we ask this question and the answers start coming I hope we commit to break the chains that foster dysfunction, strengthen the chains that foster health and pray for grace in the times that we will fail.



I’ve included a link to Highway 20 Ride for those of you brave enough to listen :-)

Plinko

Yesterday morning Asher and I were sitting in the basement just hanging out. He was sitting on the floor playing with some blocks; I on the other hand was completely engrossed in the woman on the television getting ready to play Plinko.
If you’ve never heard of Plinko it would lead me to believe that you have never seen, or have seen only small snippets of The Price is Right. My grandfather watched the show religiously and now that I have the opportunity to watch, I do so with great enthusiasm. So there I was sitting on the couch belittling the woman on the screen for guessing that a can opener could possibly cost $50 (and now she’s lost a Plinko chip and therefore another opportunity to win $10,000) when I suddenly feel a small hand on my knee. I divert my attention away from the television and peering over my leg are these bright shinny eyes. Asher had pulled himself up to a standing position and was now looking me square in the face with a big 5 tooth grin. I wasn’t sure how long he had been standing there until I noticed the sizable drool pool that was slowly oozing larger and larger on my pant leg. He had been standing there for quite some time, at least a couple minutes which for little baby legs has got to be quite some time. I instantly felt like a buffoon. I mean really, what dad that is worth anything doesn’t even realize that his son is standing next to him, a little hand touch his leg simply wanting to be noticed. The moment my eyes met his he had let out a giggle then dropped to his diaper cushioned rear and went back to building the leaning tower of Duplo. So here is what my son’s need for recognition stirred in me…just because we are all grown up and have adult responsibilities has not lessened our desire to be noticed, to be recognized, to be accepted as worthy. Yet that is also held in tension with the fact that being noticed can be scary. Bob Dylan once said “Being noticed can be a burden. Jesus got himself crucified because he got himself noticed. So I disappear a lot.” Indeed being noticed can be a burden, but where does that burden come from? It comes from other human beings that at times are more worried about telling their own story than listening to someone else’s.

“The greatest danger, that of losing one's own self, may pass off quietly as if it were nothing; every other loss, that of an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc., is sure to be noticed.” Soren Kierkegaard