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I took piano lessons for seven years as a child, but I was not faithful to practice as I should and as result did not become the pianist I could have been. For years afterwards, I sat down before those black and white keys only occasionally but as I entered my late thirties, I began to long for more music in my life.
Night after night, during the hour between dinner and bedtime for my children I began play. I would sit at our old upright, place the music before me and struggle to coax my rusty brain and fingers into producing melody. It was slow work at first, and most likely painful listening for my family. Persistence paid off however, and I began to make progress. My husband encouraged me and eventually we decided I would take lessons once again.
This time around, I was determined to work hard and do my best and I made progress rapidly. Somewhere along the way, I became skilled enough to recognize that old upright was not the sweetest sounding instrument in the world and that no amount of tuning would ever soften its harsh tones. Privately, I began to long for a new piano and deep within, I dreamed of a baby grand.
One day, I mentioned my dream to my husband. This man you see, loves me well. He began to research pianos. He educated himself on every aspect of pianos and at last found a piano all the way across the United States that caught his attention. It was an Italian piano by a company named Shulze Pollman. That year only twelve of them had entered the United States. It was a fantastic instrument. The showroom selling it was changing the line of pianos they were selling but could not began selling their new line until this one last remaining piano was gone. The asking price was about half of retail.
We thought about it and prayed about it. We have five kids and almost never make large purchases anymore. We have an almost pathological fear of debt, but we just could not get that piano out of our heads. Finally, one night I looked at my husband and said, “I think if we let this pass by we will regret it for the rest of our lives.” He agreed and the next day placed a call. The piano was ours.
Recently, I have begun tackling the final movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Long ago, I mastered the first and most well known movement of this piece. Then, in just a couple of weeks I nailed the second. The third movement is a monster all its own. It is frenetic and passionate. A wild ride that never slows until it crashes at the end. The first time I heard it on the radio, I was mesmerized. The notes flew so quickly that at first I thought it was a duet.
To say the least, it will be a long term project for me and I have already served noticed to my teacher that if I ever master it, I will throw a party in celebration. I love the challenge and my family is so patient to listen to the same first few scores over and over again. Certainly, I am optimistic about the piece but deep within, I know that there is a chance it may be beyond my ability no matter how long I work on it. It may be that my 38 year old brain has past the point of wrapping around such complexities. Perhaps, these middle aged fingers so often numbed by the arthritis in my neck are simply incapable of such coordination.
My teacher however, is a wise woman and in addition to the first few scores, she has assigned me one additional stretch of notes: the final score in the piece. See, she understands that when a student is faced with a tremendous work, sometimes they need to envision the triumphant last strains.
God understands that too. For the child of God who genuinely desires to walk in Holiness and experience sanctification, it can be easy to get discouraged. The flesh is so weak and our hearts such idolatrous, wandering creatures. With Paul we too often find ourselves sizing up our lives and saying, “What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?” Romans 7:24
Romans 8:22- 23 echoes the struggle with these words: “We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies.”
So, our merciful God shows us the final score of the symphony of our lives.
“How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are! The reason the world does not know us is that it did not know him. Dear friends, now we are children of God, and 
what we will be has not yet been made known. But we know that when he appears, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is. Everyone who has this hope in him purifies himself, just as he is pure.” 1 John 3:1 -3
We shall be like him. The struggle will be over at last because the battle has been won.
The work right now might be difficult, but the final notes of our song are sweet.
Adonai
I was unloved.
You cherished me.
Those nearest to me saw only my faults.
You told me I was the apple of your eye.
I was broken
You made me new.
I was utterly alone.
You became “Father” and “Emmanuel”.
My emptiness was cavernous.
You filled me as with the richest of foods.
I was lost.
You carried me home.
I was hopeless.
You promised me a bright future.
I was in bondage, weighted down by lies.
You set me free with your Truth.
All was dark; I despaired for my life.
You rescued me.
I was naked.
You clothed me with robes of righteousness.
My days and nights were filled with mourning.
You dried my tears.
I was far away.
You drew me close.
I did not know who I was…
You whispered to me that I was the daughter of The King.
Claudine:
Age January 2006: 5 yrs. 4 mos. Age Jan. 2007: 6 yrs. 4 mos.
Height January 2006: 37 1/2″ January 2007: 44 3/4″
Weight January 2006: 33 lbs January 2007: 43 1/2 lbs
Size when she came home: 3T Size one year later: 5/6
Language at homecoming: Haitian Creole
Today: English
School skills at homecoming: draw a circle with a crayon
Today: Beginning reader
Gross motor skills at homecoming: Could not pull herself up into the van without assistance. Struggled to climb the ladder to the swingset. Had never sat on a swing. Very little muscle tone.
Today: Climbs everything. Runs like the wind. Swings so high she frightens strangers. Jumps rope. Skips rope. Can cross the monkey bars. Solid muscle.
Emotional state at homecoming: Frightened. Experienced night terrors. Shy and insecure.
Today: Described by others as “a happy child”. Everyone loves her because her smile lights up a room. A colossal jokester. Extraordinarily loving and generous.
Character at homecoming: An incredibly courageous, determined, beautiful child.
Character Today: An incredibly courageous, determined, beautiful child.
Roseline:
Age January 2006: 2 yrs. 4 mos. Age January 2007: 3 yrs. 4 mos.
Height January 2006: 25″ Height January 2007: 37 7/8″
Weight January 2006: 18 lbs Weight January 2007: 30 lbs
Size clothing Jan. 2006: It depended on the garment but an average was 9 mos.
Size clothing January 2007: 3T
Language at homecoming: 3 words: Mama, Daddy, Bye
Language today: Still speech delayed but can sass her Mama complete with the rolling of the eyes.
Pre-educational skills at homecoming: virtually non-existent
Pre-educational skills today: Recognizes all of her numbers, colors, and shapes. Can sing many songs including the ABC song. Counts to 20.
Gross motor skills at homecoming: Fell down constantly. Had very poor balance. Could only ascend a flight of stairs by using a “crawling motion” with hands and feet. Slid down stairs on her rear. Could not run, or jump and had very poor muscle tone.
Today: Runs, jumps and climbs. Can walk a balance beam. Can peddle a tricycle and PUMP A SWING!
Emotional state at homecoming: Terrified of EVERYTHING, withdrawn and shy.
Today: The life of the party. A complete clown. Specialty: The Crazy Baboon Dance from The Wild Thornberry’s.
Character at homecoming: Fiery as a habanero and as sweet as a stalk of sugar cane from her homeland. A survivor.
Character Today: Firey as a habanero and as sweet as a stalk of sugar cane from her homeland. A survivor.
And just in case you forgot today….GOD IS GOOD!
“Taste and see that the LORD is good;
blessed is the man who takes refuge in him.”
Pslam 34:8
*Note: An adoption story by its very nature is a never ending story. The everyday miracles in our home are abundant. So, just because this part of the narrative has concluded, doesn’t mean there are no good chapters to follow. I hope you will come back again and again as we savor stories of God’s grace together.
And I hope you will send me a few of your own…
The days, weeks and months that followed our daughters’ homecoming were joyous but incredibly difficult for all of us. For the first two weeks after we returned home, Roseline’s diarrhea rampaged unchecked as we struggled to pinpoint the source. Surprisingly, the initial tests revealed she was parasite free so our pediatrician began to explore other possible causes. Her diarrhea was so epidemic that sometimes it seemed all I did was change diapers and wash sheets. One night it was very late and I was downstairs cleaning the kitchen after the children were in their beds upstairs and I thought I smelled diarrhea. I thought to myself, “Great. I have changed so many diapers I am now experiencing olfactory hallucinations.” I did not think it was possible that I would be able to smell a dirty diaper all the way downstairs! I continued to smell the odor and as I walked upstairs it became stronger. I entered our room and went to Roseline’s crib. She was sleeping soundly….in more diarrhea than I would have imagined a 18 lb child could produce. Sinister tendrils of fear begin to wrap themselves around my heart.
“My God! Help us know what is wrong with this child!”
Wearily, I began the all too familiar routine of cleaning up the disaster. My little one never woke. I will never forget the night a week or so later when for the very first time, Roseline soiled herself in her sleep and woke crying. Tears of gratitude came to my eyes as I said, “Thank you, Jesus. She realizes she is dirty and she realizes that if she cries, someone will come.”
In the end, it was her Daddy who discovered what was wrong: a soy allergy. Many Haitian children are lactose intolerant and therefore, are fed soy formula. It had been Roseline’s main source of nutrition for the first two years of her life. She was so accustomed to it that transitioning her to whole milk was a gradual process in which we began to dilute the formula a little at a time with the milk. I was hesitant to begin the transition until I knew what was wrong because she was so tiny and needed all the nutrition she could get. Michael however, had a gut feeling that she was allergic to the formula and at his insistence, we began the switch. Almost immediately, the diarrhea lessened in volume and as she began to drink more and more cow’s milk and less soy, it ceased entirely.
Emotionally, she was very fragile. She clung to me and cried if a stranger spoke to her or attempted to touch her. When she was especially stressed, she instantaneously fell asleep. She fought the other children if they came near seeking my affection and I was constantly forced to make the judgement of who needed me most at the moment. It seemed no choice was ever really a good choice.
Claudine altered between clinging to me and shoving me away. One moment she wanted to be held and the next she would tell me I was not her mother, that the woman who had been her house mother in the orphanage for two years was her mother and that she was going to return to her.
Fortunately, our agency had required extensive pre-adoption education for us and we were somewhat prepared for the process of bonding. I strove to be objective and rational but it was still extraordinarily painful for me.
Once, when we were in Haiti, the orphanage director contemplatively looked at Claudine and said, “This one has a lot inside her. I am glad for her sake, the process is almost over.”
Yes, she had a lot inside her: a lot of loss, a lot of memories, a lot of brokenness, a lot of longing and need. There was so much more there however, for inside her was also an incredible capacity for love. It was this fierce love and loyalty for her house mother that made her homecoming so difficult but it was this same ability to give her heart fully to another that enabled her to heal.
One evening, months after Claudine and Roseline came home, the three of us were sitting on the chaise lounge in our living room. They were laying all over me. One girl was contentedly snuggled close while the other lovingly brushed my hair. Suddenly, to my surprise I realized, “This is it. They want me.” I was stunned to realize that ever so gradually, moment by moment over the past months as I had fed them when they were hungry, held them when they were sad, kissed skinned knees and cheered each hard won victory, that the walls between us had crumbled. They had always been daughters to me, but at last I was “mother” to them.
And so that is how I will end this story, with Claudine, Roseline and I cuddled together there in the living room. Just a simple scene, nothing dramatic or grand. It seems the most precious miracles are often right in front of us, just waiting. Just waiting to be noticed. Just waiting to be cherished.
Father. Mother. Sister. Brother.
The making of a family.
Marisa Vanderveen needs you. She needs you today while you wash the dishes or check the mail. She needs you when you tuck your kids into bed tonight and think of her kissing her three young children good night. She needs you when you look at your spouse and realize how thankful you are that they are healthy and well. She won’t take much time, I promise.
But…she needs you. She needs you to pray because she is fighting for her life.
Marisa plays many roles. She is a loving wife to Mendelt and mother to three small children. She is an amazing basketball player and can make a piano sing.
And Marisa has cancer.
If you missed it, and I hope you didn’t, her husband Mendelt wrote a letter to cancer on Easter in which he and Marisa served notice to her disease that because of Jesus Christ, their victory is already won. “Dear Cancer” is powerful, courageous and inspiring. If you have not read it, go do so now.
Then, as the every day moments of your life today ebb and flow pray for Marisa. She begins her third round of chemotherapy today. Pray that it will be effective and that her body be spared the violent side effects. Pray that her courage and faith will not wane. Pray for her husband. Pray for her kids. Forward this post to everyone on your e-mail list and ask them to do the same.
Let us all join our hearts today to pray for a miracle for Marisa.
Updated Post, 12-05-07 “Dear Cancer: This Is Not The End”
” love one another deeply, from the heart ” I Peter 1:22
It was Sunday morning and we had been home from Haiti less than 48 hours. Michael and I had discussed at length whether or not we should attempt to take our newly formed family to church so soon. Not only did we want to be sensitive to our new daughter’s emotional state during a time of tremendous adjustment, but we also were genuinely overwhelmed by the prospect of feeding, clothing and washing five children before time to leave for church at 8:45am.
Could we do it? Should we do it?
Finally, we decided that if we kept the girls protectively in our arms a church service would be far less traumatic than our head long dash through the airport had been. We also wanted to share the joy of their homecoming with our church family. We decided to go for it.
That Sunday morning was chaos and my sister provided an extra set of arms to fill in the gaps and if she had not been with us, I seriously doubt we would have actually made it to church. Despite our best efforts, we were late. We entered the back of the sanctuary to find the congregation standing as the choir finished leading them in the first song of worship and we began our descent down the aisle to our seats as the last notes were fading away. Claudine was in Michael’s arms, and Roseline was in mine. My sister carried Jeremiah as our older two children, Christopher and Meghan, filed in with us.
At that moment, several members of the choir spotted us and began clapping and cheering. The celebration spread to the congregation as the place erupted in applause and shouts of praise and thanksgiving. The band joined in and all around us, there was a symphony of rejoicing.
My pastor left his place at the front of the congregation and met us in the aisle. He hugged us in greeting and beaming said to Claudine, “We prayed for you.”
In the middle of it all, I looked at Claudine to see if the commotion was frightening her but I found her face glowing with surprise, joy and pleasure. Somehow, she knew it was all for her. It was a beautiful moment of promises fulfilled, and prayers answered.
There was another beauty however, that shone above all the rest: The beauty of a church living out the mandate to be the Body of Christ. Romans 12 :15 tells the church to “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.” We were so honored to be in the middle of God’s people as they walked in obedience to that command. Some of the faces that filled the auditorium that morning were as familiar to me as my own family, others were virtual strangers but they all were rejoicing with us that our daughters, their daughters, had come home at last.
Romans 12: 4- 10 says:
“Just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to all the others. We have different gifts, according to the grace given us. If a man’s gift is prophesying, let him use it in proportion to his faith. If it is serving, let him serve; if it is teaching, let him teach; if it is encouraging, let him encourage; if it is contributing to the needs of others, let him give generously; if it is leadership, let him govern diligently; if it is showing mercy, let him do it cheerfully. Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in brotherly love. Honor one another above yourselves.”
That morning, my church family was fulfilling that command. It was not the first time they were faithful to be the hands, feet and mouthpiece of Christ to me. In the darkest days of our adoption journey when I felt I absolutely could not withstand the grief and longing for my daughters, God used a hand full of women in our church to reach out to me. Without fail one of these women would come to me when my struggle was at its worst, and say, “God has had you on my mind constantly. The burden never leaves. I am praying for you.”
Once, when I was at a particularly low place this group of women surrounded me after a prayer service to pray for me. I sat in a chair while some knelt in front of me, others beside me, and some behind me. They laid their hands on me and prayed. I remember one friend rubbing my back, while another stroked my hair in comfort as they called down the strength of Heaven upon me and implored the Deliverer on behalf of my daughters.
The Body of Christ.
They had mourned with us, prayed with us, and labored with us to bring our babies home and that Sunday morning when we presented our daughters to them for the first time, they rejoiced with us as well. As I looked around that cheering sanctuary, I knew I was privileged to witness just a little bit of Heaven for a moment. A sea of people from every possible background surrounded us. Wealthy and poor. Old and young. Black, White, Asian, Hispanic, and Native American.
And they were all, together, praising God for His goodness and mighty deliverance.
I have been thinking a lot about the Body of Christ lately and yesterday, over lunch, one of my best friends and I were discussing it. I could not help but notice the occasional stares of the people around us as they observed this odd pair settling into intimate conversation in the restaurant. She is an African American; I am Caucasian. Her hair is dark and curly; Mine is blonde and spiky. She is from Baltimore; I have never lived outside the South.
But God says we are sisters and that is what unites us.
Together, over our meal we began to dream about what the world would look like if God’s people had taken seriously the Lord’s last, sweeping command to his people, the command that he said, summed up all others.
Love each other.
Preaching the Word of God, dividing the Scriptures, exhorting one another to holiness, assembling to offer praises to God…all of these things are good and right but according to Christ, they are not what is most important. Jesus was ready to return to the Father. The hour of his death, burial, and resurrection was drawing near and he had one last opportunity to reinforce one lesson. What did he do with that moment? He wrapped himself in a towel, and knelt to wash the dirty feet of his disciples one by one and as he did he said,
“Let me give you a new command: Love one another. In the same way I loved you, you love one another. This is how everyone will recognize that you are my disciples—when they see the love you have for each other.” John 13:34 -35 (The Message)
And I can’t help but wonder what the world would look like today, if we had. 
Can you picture it? The church would lead the way in feeding the hungry and clothing the poor. Unity, not division, would reign. The local congregation would be the example to all in matters of racial reconciliation.
And perhaps, if we were united by love for one another, we would have had the energy to spread the good news of the gospel to the very corners of the earth.
Can you envision it?
What if we began today?
Happy Thursday everyone!
I know I said we would begin the Everyday Miracle Challenge today so that you could share your stories of God’s “Divine Interruption” in your lives but I am entrenched with preparing to speak at a women’s conference this weekend and I don’t think the time is right. If you have your story prepared and can’t wait to share it, send it to my business e-mail sherri@sherrigragg.com
I also have some other things in the works I think you will enjoy so meet me here Monday after my conference to find out where God is leading us next. It promises to be sweet. After all, “every good and perfect gift” comes from Him. (James 1:17)
If you are itching for something to read, check out Everyday Inspirations if you have not done so. I hope to be posting some new meditations soon.
Stay tuned and have a blessed weekend! ~ Sherri
*Don’t miss Pericles’ posting today at 7 degrees of grace.
When it was time for her bath last night, Claudine rummaged around in her basket and found an almost empty tube of Hello Kitty bath gel. I had taken this tube of bath gel to Haiti the first time I visited her. It is not unusual for Claudine to hold on to things. This practice is not to the extreme of hoarding, a common behavior among newly adopted children, but she does see treasures in the everyday things some children would deem worthless.
She opened the tube and squeezed most of the remaining gel onto her wash cloth and then held it to her nose.
“This smells like Haiti,” she said. “It smells like the first time you came to visit me.”
“You remember that?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied with a soft smile. “I remember.”
“Let me smell,” I said.
Then, inhaling the soft, sweet, floral fragrance, I too returned to Haiti and my heart was filled with homesick longing.
“You are right,” I said “It does smell like Haiti.”
Suddenly the small tube of bath gel seemed precious and I felt sorry it was almost empty. It seemed that when it was gone, a little bit more of Haiti would be lost from us as well. Already, we both struggle to remember our Creole and as the months, and now years drift by I find that Claudine much prefers the taste of pizza to beans and rice.
A shadow of disquiet and sadness crossed her face as I shut off the water and wrapped her in a fluffy, white towel. Her eyes sought mine, and fear darted through them as she realized part of her was fading away and although she gladly embraced the present, something innate within her also needed to touch the past.
“Mommy, tell me about Haiti,” she said “Tell me the story about how I came home.”
And so I began. The story is a long one but she stood beside me listening to every word as I held Roseline on my lap to brush her hair free of tangles and coax it into afro-puffs. I continued the story as I brushed Roseline’s teeth and somewhere along the way Jeremiah was drawn to it as well. We sat down in the floor and told the story still. There were no pictures but my three little ones’ attention never waned.
Sadness flooded Claudine’s face as I told her about how we could not obtain the passport and that we feared we would not be able to bring her home. Her face lit with wonder and fulfillment when I told her about her birth parent’s call to the orphanage director while we were sitting in the passport office because he wanted to know if his girls had gone.
He cared.
I told her about how I had a decision to make that morning when all seemed lost as to whether I would believe God could bring her home or not. Would I praise him or not? Was he really able to do miracles? Her eyes watched my face intently to discern whether I ever had given up hope and then her face broke into a smile when I told her my faith held firm.
Together, we revisited our joy when we finally held the passport in our hands and we all clapped as we remembered how God delivered Claudine to come home. Side by side, we waded back through the sorrow of her good-byes.
I told the story until the plane landed in Tennessee but wanted to end it there because the hour was late and the children needed to go to bed.
“But, Mommy,” she said “Tell me about coming home.”
And so I did.
And I did not stop until she was settled safely in bed beside me that first night.
After the story, it was time for prayer and when it was Claudine’s turn, the English might have been broken in places but I know God’s ear was attentive as she said,
“Thank you God, for my family. Thank you for Mommy, Daddy, Christopher, Meghan, Jeremiah and Roseline. Thank you for this house, these toys, these books and my bed.
And thank you God, that I came home.
Amen.”
Amen.
“God sets the lonely in families.”
Psalm 68:6a
If this had been a fairy tale, I could have nicely and neatly ended with the words “and they lived happily ever after”. This story however, was no fairy tale. It was an adoption story made up of real, flesh and blood parents and children; and although, we are most certainly happy, it has been hard won.
As our airplane landed on the tarmac at Nashville International Airport, we began a new journey. We began the journey to become a family. In adoption lingo this is called the “adjustment period”. For many families this involves a “honeymoon period” in which the child is in on their best behavior and eager to please, a phase that is a precursor to bonding. True bonding, in my experience, is an often painful process. I remember thinking during those first few grueling months at home that it was much like the process of grafting two plants together, healing must be preceded by wounding. There was no person in our family of seven who was spared this.
So, the words “adjustment period” while they may be accurate, are at the same time inadequate and far too sterile to describe the process of becoming a family. Even though it was most certainly difficult at the time, I am thankful that we were spared the “honeymoon period” of the process and jumped right into the thick of things. Our children, all five of them, were uninterested in pretense. We all struggled in the “becoming” but a family we became.
No person in our family struggled more than the little boy with whom this story began. We understood that to ask our cherished baby boy Jeremiah to abdicate his place as the doted upon baby of the family would be difficult to say the least and we did all we could to prepare him for the two new sisters who would be so close in age to him. My warrior child would not cede his position without a fight. He had been the baby four years, his next oldest sibling four years older than him, and he was suddenly faced with two new sisters who felt equally entitled to the comfort of my arms at any given moment. It was a rude, painful rending for him. I remember vividly how each day after nap they would all three awaken feeling fragile and lost and vie for position on my lap, each crying and pushing the other away. The hard truth was that they all were genuinely in need of me. I would dryly joke at times (to keep from crying) that I was going to gain a hundred pounds so that my lap would be big enough for everyone at once.
In a cruel twist of circumstances, my husband’s work began to demand tremendous amounts of his time and energy. One morning, it was before 7:00am and he had already left for the day. The night before, he had returned from work long after all five of the children were in bed. So, there I stood in the kitchen, attempting to prepare breakfast with all three little ones crying while hanging on my legs at the same time.
There were fairytale like moments dispersed in between the struggles, however. The night we returned home from Haiti, it was late and as we entered our home with our daughters in our arms at last, it was completely without fanfare. In moments, I had ushered the babysitter out the door and the house was utterly quiet. Michael began to bring in the luggage while I, with Roseline in my arms, led Claudine into our living room which was lit only by the Christmas tree. She looked around in shy wonder for a moment before she spotted Meghan’s double doll stroller sitting in front of the fire place with her “twin” babies inside. Longing for these, more beautiful toys than she had ever dreamed existed, won out over her nervousness and she timidly made her way across the room. Gently, she lifted one of the dolls from the stroller and stroked its soft, shiny hair.
“Belle,” she whispered. (“Beautiful”)
I would have been blind to miss the significance of the moment. So many years before, another child entered his family. He too, was long awaited and although his appearance had been eagerly longed for by many, he also arrived quietly, and without fanfare.
It was quite a contrast in other ways, however. This first child left a Heavenly Kingdom to be born into a filthy, foul smelling manger. Our daughters traded the poverty of an orphanage to come to a home where they would never need for anything ever again. He left eternal glory to be clothed in flesh and learn what it meant to be hungry, tired, despised and rejected. Claudine and Roseline would soon begin the process of embracing what it meant to be filled, rested, cherished and accepted.
The life, sacrifice, death and resurrection of the first child made it possible for the redemption, blessing and fulfillment of all others. It was quite a trade.
And thank Heaven, it was no fairytale.
“Surely He has borne our griefs
And carried our sorrows;
Yet we esteemed Him stricken,
Smitten by God, and afflicted.
5 But He was wounded for our transgressions,
He was bruised for our iniquities;
The chastisement for our peace was upon Him,
And by His stripes we are healed.
6 All we like sheep have gone astray;
We have turned, every one, to his own way;
And the LORD has laid on Him the iniquity of us all. “
Isaiah 53:4-6 (NKJV)
Beautiful crown of curls and waves, sometimes braided, sometimes worn loose and free. Can’t you see that it’s all good hair, when you look at me? Do you think God made a silly mistake when he formed my frame? Was it His ‘off day’, or was he tired, or simply engrossed in ‘the game’?
How dare you insult the King of Kings? That is not my reality!
Don’t you know God don’t make no junk? Can’t you see it when you look at me?
It is Friday, and the story of my girls’ journey home is complete. I will be continuing with an “epilogue” for three entries beginning next Monday. Then, on Thursday I will launch the “Everyday Miracle Challenge”.
The Everyday Miracle Challenge is simply this: I am inviting my readers to come and give an account of an ”everyday miracle” that has come their way. You see, this world we live in is a dark and brutal place. This was especially evident for me this week as I pondered the comments of Don Imus, the gangsta rap culture, and the bombing in the Iraqi Parliament.
I still believe however, that God is faithful and because of that, there is hope. I also belive that if we discipline ourselves to be aware of it, there are everyday miracles all around. We just need to open our eyes to them. If we then share them with each other and the world, we are reminded about the true nature of God and inevitably he receives glory and we are encouraged.
So, mark you calendars and join me next Thursday for the challenge. Let’s spread some light, shall we?
Also, today I am taking a cue from a very smart guy I know named Josh over at Unbound who occasionally realizes that something he said once long ago needs to be brought to the front again. I am re-posting my article entitled Hair.
It is a true story about a little girl of color. It is a window into the pain of racism, and a clue about what is powerful enough to defeat it. It is the story of how God took a white, southern born and bred woman and made her the mother of a black child and how God enabled her for a moment to truly understand and even more amazingly, speak words of truth, victory and healing.
And that my friend, was an everyday miracle.
Hair
When my husband and I committed to adopting our Haitian daughters, I knew I needed to learn how to “do hair”. Like most white women, I had no experience with African hair but somehow, I knew that in the African American community hair was very important and that it was imperative I learn to do it well. I never wanted to be in the grocery store and have an older African American woman feel the need to shake her head in sympathy for my daughter and say, “Look at that poor child’s head.”
I wanted my daughters to hold up their curly heads proudly. I wanted them to feel beautiful.
So, I studied. I bought a book to educate myself, and asked my black friends lots of questions. I even bought a Barbie head and practiced parts, braids, twists and cornrows.
The first time I took my oldest Haitian daughter’s hair down to re-braid it she wailed! Then, when I was finished she looked into the mirror and smiled delightedly. She later told me she did not think I would know what to do.
Crazy white lady. Yellow stick up hair. What does she know about parts and braids? I’m in trouble now!
The Haitian women scrutinized her head with a careful eye. “You did this?” they asked incredulously.
Since then, I have done a lot. I love my daughters’ hair.
But I never really, really understood why it was important until I sent my black daughter to school in a white world. Suddenly, she was outside the protective cocoon of church and home and the people who loved her. Suddenly, she was very much the minority. Suddenly, I realized that life for a black child in a white world can be brutal.
Suddenly, I realized why hair is important.
The attack on her ethnicity and place in our family came sometimes like an ice cold bucket of water thrown in her face. Every day on the bus ride home…..
Is that your sister? She doesn’t look like you. What is she? Adopted?
Then, spat like something indecent- She looks biracial.
Sometimes, the attacks came like noxious fumes borne on the wind. Stealthily, softly, and perhaps even more deadly than more blatant attacks.
A little girl comes up to me.
Are you Claudine’s Mommy?
Yes, I am!
Our teacher told all of us that you are lighter than her.
What?
Our teacher told us all that you found her.
I feel sick.
Then, one day I did an innocent thing. I bought her a new head-band. It was wide, fuchsia and studded with “jewels”. I saw it and knew she would love it. She did.
Mommy, I want to have “big hair” tomorrow. I want to wear my head band!
Okay, sweetie, I will twist your hair tonight and tomorrow you can have big hair.
The next day we undo the twists and put on the colorful, flamboyant head band. She looks in the mirror and squeals with delight.
Pretty! she cries.
She comes home from school and some of the light is gone from her eyes. She turns those big brown eyes up to mine.
Mommy, my teacher loved my hair but no one else did. I don’t want to have big hair again.
Then, I understand. I understand down in my heart and not just in my head. I understand why for generations African American mothers have braided, parted, and added beads, beads, and more beads to their daughters’ hair. It is because a white world sends a very clear message to those sweet babies- African hair is not pretty. African hair is bad.
I lean down to hold her close to me.
I love your big hair. Your hair is beautiful. Do you know why it is special?
Her soulful eyes bore into mine. No.
I have told her before but tell her again.
You can style your hair anyway you want. We can make rows of hair planted like corn in a field. We can twist, braid and bead. Those little girls can’t have braids, twists and beads like yours. Do you know why? They fall out! Their hair won’t hold them.
She giggles as if I have told her a secret.
I pull her close and whisper fiercely in her ear. Your hair is beautiful. Don’t you listen to those little girls who tell you it is not! Don’t ever listen to them.
It seems so unjust for a child who has already suffered so much to endure more. It is as if life is determined to knock her down and keep her down. Then, I hold her face in my hands and tell her a greater secret. I pull the sword of truth from its sheath and place it in my strong little girl’s hands.
Listen to me my child. You are the daughter of the Most High King and He is so, so strong. He is so strong that He can take whatever bad happens in your life and turn it around for your good.
She wraps her small fingers around that weapon and holds it close. And for a moment I am sure I hear the gates of Hell shutter as the angel God has placed to watch over her shouts the shout of victory.
A conquering warrior for the Kingdom is born.
