Farewell, Uncle Bob

Dear Andy, Joe and Kyle,

While I will not be at Bobby’s service I will be thinking about him and about the loss that you are experiencing.  I pray you will find some peace in knowing that his pain and suffering is over even though it is sad that he is no longer with you. 

Your dad was a bright spot in my childhood.  He was 14 years older than me and back then 14 years seemed like a lot (even though it is not really much today.) I was always trying to spy on him and his friends –Kenny Cole, Dave Kidwell, Ronnie and Jerry Ray. I watched him walk back and forth to the barn where the guys were always working on cars.  Sometimes I tried to peek in on them through the closed doors or over the fender of a car.  They would chase me away saying it was too dangerous for a little girl.  I had already figured out that it was the language and the beer that were not appropriate for a little girl and he didn’t want me to tattle on anything I heard.  One time I followed him to the baseball diamond and he said I could sit with him.  I still have the scar on my arm where he pulled me up the side rather than have me walk up the normal way.  I scraped my forearm on the end of a board but I didn’t want to make a big deal about it or he would have made me go home. 

I remember his red car and how loud it was.  Occasionally my mom would holler at him to “cut that out,” when he was just sitting outside the barn revving the engine.  It was exciting to go watch him drag race and to hear my dad brag on how good Bobby was at the lights.  It was clear that he loved it and we all loved watching him.

I remember when he brought Brutus, the St. Bernard puppy home.  What a ball of fur. Bobby loved that big slobbery beast.  I think the way that he treated Brutus and our German Shephard, Bo was a window into his big heart.  They both looked forward to his affection and playfulness.  One day he noticed that my new puppy, Frosty and I were sitting on the porch crying.  We had been kicked out of the house because Frosty peed on the carpet.  Bobby tried to convince me to come over to his house, but I knew I would be in more trouble if I left.  So, he sat on the porch with me until I stopped crying and could laugh again. 

I remember several years when Bobby took a whole car load of friends to Canada with him in the summer.  They would be hoopin’ and hollering on the dock or in the bay –driving the boats fast and riding through the wake.  They also tried to ski with marginal success.  One year, the lower dock was partially submerged and they were skiing off of it as a starting pad.  I watched from the top of the path and laughed.  I wanted so much to be a part of the group because they knew how to have fun.  Bobby always had a group of friends around him and I understand that several remained his friends for life.  That is a wonderful tribute to who he was as a person to have maintained those relationships for a lifetime.  Sometimes friends are “family of choice.”

When Donna came into our family, she brought several gifts with her.  She had a smile so big it almost made her eyes disappear and a genuine down-to-earth warmth.  The other gift she brought was Andy.  Bobby seemed to fall in love with Andy as he fell in love with Donna.  I was so excited to be in their wedding.  More excitement followed with the birth of Joe and Clinton.  I never did get used to calling him Will, but I understand what it is like to choose the name you want to be called.  Shortly after I announced I was pregnant for Audra, my first baby, Donna announced that she too would be having a baby that year.  Even though she was pregnant with her own child she arranged to have a whole box of baby things sent to me in Memphis.  It was to take the place of the baby shower she would have had for me if I were closer.  In the box was a hobby horse that Bobby made himself out of stained wood with a red vinyl saddle.  I didn’t even know Bobby did wood working!  All of my kids rode that horse and I cherished both the gift and the effort it took to make it and ship it. 

Donna continued to write to me as I tried to stay connected while living in other states.  She always signed her letters “the apple dumpling gang.”  I wish I had saved those letters that meant a lot to me at the time.  I am sure it would mean even more to the three of you to hear the stories she shared about your lives on the farm, and in school.  I am sure you all have your favorite stories.  Bobby could tell some stories!  I was grateful that Donna was able to write some of them.  My favorite might be turning road-kill into a ground meat sandwich spread which Bobby delighted in letting co-workers steal.  I guess they didn’t steal his lunch after that.  I can’t believe Donna went along with cooking and preparing it. 

It is hard to maintain relationships across the miles and through the years.  The challenges of navigating disagreements and disappointments is no easy feat in any family.  We all have them and really in the end, I wonder if we don’t all question the value of holding on to the bad while letting the good slip through our fingers.  Our family is not short on stubbornness.  I guess it must be in our DNA.  I remember so many good things about both of your parents.  I wish a preponderance of good memories for the three of you!

Tell the stories and share the memories, good and bad.  The shared experiences, including the loss of your parents can bring you closer if you let it.  I heard wonderful things about how you cared for him.  Thank you for giving him such a loving ending.   There is much love in sorrow for without love there would be no sorrow. 

Blessings to you,

Shari

Hope for Isaac

Meeting Isaac has given me much to contemplate.  How do I tell a story as I am struggling to understand it myself?  I am committed telling the truth of the matter, but how much of the truth is relevant?   I could just tell the good things about a cute little boy, removed from harm and placed in a better environment, sure to give him a brighter future.  But life is rarely so simple and one dimensional.  Everything about the human story is layered and often times some of the layers are messy.  While there is no perfection in this system of caring for our community’s most vulnerable children, there is hope.  It is becoming apparent to me that seeing the imperfections and messiness –and yet finding hope may be pivotal to our learning and being able to sustain this effort. 

As Sam and I drive into this unfamiliar community, I recognize the architectural design and guess that these neighborhoods were built in the late ‘80s or early ‘90s which I later verify.  Nice homes, large by most standards and yet I notice that paint is chipping and faded on many.  There is even the occasional cardboard covering a window.  Many lawns have been taken over by knee high weeds; or the landscape has been neglected and now dying.  The look is puzzling to me.  It must have been beautiful just a few short years ago. These are or were nice homes.  My deeply held values of homeownership and protecting one’s biggest investment make this sight disconcerting.  My mind searches the archives of my experience and education trying to make sense of what I see.  Is this blight caused by the recession?  Don’t people care about their home, their investment, their community? It doesn’t look too hopeful to me. And yet, this is where we are going to meet Isaac. 

Questions and judgments aside, we arrived a few minutes late for the appointment I had arranged a couple days earlier with Shirley, Isaac’s foster mom.  We walked up the sidewalk to a locked security door that had been painted over so I was unable to see through the screen.  I ring the doorbell but I don’t think anyone noticed. I can hear a television blaring and unfortunately, I can also hear loud voices and some profanity over the television.  I remind myself not to judge, and I ring the bell again.   This time I hear a voice exclaim, “who could that be?” 

Sam and I introduce ourselves to Shirley. She had forgotten about our appointment, but quickly welcomes us into her home.   We walk to the family room and meet a younger man who is holding a baby.  I wonder if he might be an adult son.  Another baby is in a walker on the floor.  In our phone conversation, Shirley had mention that she is also foster mom to two babies in addition to Isaac.  They are two little boys from different families –happy little guys with big eyes and big curls.  She picks the second baby up as he begins to fuss then goes to the patio door and calls for Isaac.  Isaac appears quickly, but upon catching sight of me, he hides behind her leg and holds on tight.  Shirley appears to be his safety and refuge.  She has been his foster mom since just before Christmas. One eye at a time, he peers from behind her.  I can only imagine what he is thinking or what his experience of strangers might have been.

“Hi Isaac, my name is Sharalyn,” I say as I squat down to eye level, hoping to be less scary.  “I brought you some presents.” 

Eventually his shyness gives way to curiosity as I take out the superhero backpack and ask him whether he likes Superman or Batman.  He might have actually smiled a little bit as he emerges from behind Shirley’s leg and runs his fingers over the appliques on the backpack.  His face lights up as he recognizes the emblem and characters.   “That’s for school.  What grade are you in?”  I ask.  He seems tall for a first grader, but I am no expert on first graders these days.  My son is now 29 and first grade was long ago. 

I open the bag of school supplies as Isaac peers in with caution.  I remember that a retired school teacher delivered this bag to church on a recent Sunday.  She was beaming with excitement on her face as she admitted to going “a little overboard” and having fun imagining what this boy she had never met might like.  I see crayons, pencils, a notebook and paper, but Isaac reaches in for the colorful erasers that have caught his fancy.  “It is all yours” I tell him.  After taking inventory of the contents, he takes the bag from me and sets it a few feet away, alongside the backpack.  I anxiously start to pull clothes from the next bag until he covers his eyes and holds out his hand saying, “stop, give me a minute.”  The adults in the room chuckle as he appears to be overwhelmed and needs a minute to take it all in. 

This little break in the action gives Shirley the opportunity to share with us that Isaac was supposed to have a supervised visit with his mother this afternoon but she cancelled.  “So this is good timing,” she said. “It’ll take his mind off that.” 

Isaac lowers the hand that he has been holding out in the stop position and uncovers his eyes.  I take that to mean he is ready to commence exploring the bag of clothes.  We take out jeans and shorts.  Then t-shirts printed with soccer balls and other sports equipment.  He smiles and gets more excited.  We can tell that sports have struck a cord with him.  Again, we have to take another break while Isaac covers his eyes.  After a second pause, seemingly taking in the experience, he arranges the clothes neatly across the room with his backpack. 

Finally, we get to the toys and books.  We find some kind of under water scene with action figures.  There is a scuba diver and a manta ray.  I suggest two of the figures are dolphins but Isaac quickly corrects me, “they are fish.”  His shyness is diminishing and his comfort level is increasing as we chuckle again.  On to the books with Curious George topping the stack. 

Not wanting to stay too long or to disrupt the family’s evening we thank them for allowing us to come in and I give Isaac a gift card for a new pair of shoes.  He thanks us and Sam and I tell him how much we have enjoyed meeting him.  We think we are saying goodbye, but Isaac insists on walking us to our car.  The shy little boy has turned into a polite young man, seeing his guests out.  As we walk down the sidewalk, I ask him if he likes school and what is his favorite part?  He surprises me by saying he likes math.  I tell him that is just like Sam.  I wish I had a picture of his newfound confidence as he reached out his young hand to shake Sam’s hand –strangers just 30 minutes ago and now there is a connection. 

I don’t know if Isaac will remember us but I won’t forget him.  On the way home Sam and I talked about his shyness when we arrived and how the backpack Sam had purchased for him broke the ice.  We wondered why, out of all the school supplies, he focused on the erasers.  We noticed how he wanted to place each gift with the previous one, all together, very orderly.  And of course how he needed to cover his eyes and take a minute between each bag.  I don’t have any idea why his mother cancelled their visit or how that might have made him feel, but I wanted to hug him and tell him how much of an impression he made on me.  I would have to settle for the hand he extended in such a grown up fashion.  Upon entering the neighborhood and ringing the doorbell I was struggling to keep hopelessness at bay, but this little man filled me with hope. 

What a cutie! 

I hope he is happy. 

I hope the worst is behind him. 

I hope his foster mom makes him feel loved. 

I hope it is about more than just the money.

I hope he does well in school.

I hope he has a good life.

I hope he knows that he is precious.

I hope he knows that there are people in this world who care about him. 

I hope he knows there is a God who loves him even when people fail him. 

I hope.

 

 Isaac was right, they are fish!

Christmas in May –Faith in Motion

Whew, my second time out to deliver gifts to children who are in the foster care system and are in need of something extra.  There should be less apprehension about the whole process now that I have some experience. 

I had connected with the foster mom a couple weeks ago by phone to ascertain what the kids might need.  Already I am amazed that four siblings have been placed in this foster home –Alice age 9, James age 6, Lisa age 5 and Chelsea age 3.  I had heard it can be difficult to place sibling groups, so finding these four together in one home starts my journey on a hopeful note.  The other addition to my journey is that my dear husband, Sam is now an approved volunteer of San Bernardino County’s Children and Family Services.  It is not an easy process but he persevered when his fiancé signed him up.  I am not sure he knew what he was actually getting himself into but after an interview, fingerprinting, background check, physical exam and drug test he became the navigator for this delivery. 

As I arrive at the locked gate a little apprehension sets in. I remember that during our phone calls to set up this meeting, I had significant trouble understanding the foster mom.  Between her thick accent and my diminished hearing, I felt like I was guessing at what she really said. Now, I was hoping that we could communicate enough for the exchange of gifts and that I could convey the same warmth and appreciation as I had done with the previous caregiver. I am praying that a smile transcends words and good intentions count. 

After ringing the bell, I am greeted at the gate by a small dark skinned man that I would later learn is the foster dad.  He doesn’t seem to have a clue who I am or what I am doing there but opens the gate when I ask for Kim.  At his call, out comes a big smile owned by mama Kim who welcomes me into their home home with an accent that I am guessing is from somewhere in Africa.  Kim is a colorful woman with large expressions and a laid back style.  Inside is a simple yet inviting family room with evidence of young children and filled with the smell of dinner cooking in the kitchen that adds to the feeling of home.  Four curious children are watching my every move.  I introduce myself only as Sharalyn and say that I have brought them some presents.  Instantly there is an 9-year-old girl hugging my waist.  She has no idea what kind of presents I have for them as they are still in my trunk.  She has no idea from where I have come or why I am doing this but she is hugging me.  She has no idea what her hugs mean to someone who didn’t grow up hugging.  She seems only to know she wants to hug me.  If she is not careful she is going to melt my heart and all the boundaries I put up around it.

Mama Kim walks with me to the car and we return with Sam and four large bags of gifts.  James hollers out, “new backpacks!”  And I am thinking, “Oh NO!”  Mama Kim told me that she had just purchased a new one for James so he did not need one.  We had purchased colorful new backpacks only for the girls.  No worries –he was instantly happy to receive a bag of presents so large he cannot carry it.  Sam and I tried to give out the gifts in some orderly fashion but regardless of our best efforts chaos ensues. Clothes are everywhere and toys are already being opened.  Twinkling eyes, rosy cheeks, laughter and joyful voices call out with excitement for each other.   There is no jolly old elf, bells or mistletoe but it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.   

Their foster dad watches as he leans over the breakfast bar.  I think he was attending to dinner preparations but the excitement is too hard to resist.  The older two kids call out the treasures they find.  Mama Kim, Sam and I try to keep some order as we go through the bags with the children.  I am sure there is a better way to do this if I think about it, but their joy takes over and the kid in all of us just gives way to their excitement.  Sam gravitates to James –it is a boy thing and they begin to go through the books and on to the box of miniature cars and trucks.  5-year-old Lisa needs help to untangle the hangers so she can see all her new clothes and I watch Alice help Chelsea go through her bag until they find a book about cats. “Chelsea loves Cats! ” announces Alice with glee. “I will help her read it.”  If I had any doubt, it is certainly clear now that Alice has learned to take the role care giver –looking after the babies.   She is a girl after my own heart. 

For all that is unfair about it, it is just what we do.  We are called to look after the young and the vulnerable.  It is the circle of life, the survival of the species and the call of civilized societies.  It is a creation story written in every language and in every culture.  It is in the sacred texts of every religion.  God calls us all to care for the vulnerable and who is more vulnerable than children who have been removed from their homes and the familiarity of family in order to protect them from abuse and neglect? 

The Christmas story begins with the divine born into this world as a vulnerable child, whose very life depends on the care and provisions of family and strangers alike.  But in no time at all, it is the child who has taught the world the meaning of existence and given us the key to eternity.  Four little kids brought the meaning of Christmas to me that afternoon.

May I be worthy of the lessons they have taught me. 

The names of the children have been changed to protect their identity.  The last thing I would want to do is to exploit the blessings of their trust.