In Cochabamba, the city of Eternal Spring, Fall comes and goes unnoticed when the world celebrates the resurrection of Christ. So we have a pretend Autumn when the months start to end in brrrrr. Our luck this year brought early rains which usually don’t start until our Summer comes in November. Our September Spring chilled off a bit and put me in the mood to celebrate Northern Autumn.

While in the States I visited my favorite bean shop in the whole wide world. Spice Merchant in Wichita, Kansas has never failed me. I found a new decaf flavor: Pumpkin Spice. Whence first I laid my eyes on it I knew I had to have a party.

This week my coffee loving friends gathered around the fresh brew and the Autumny yumminess they graciously brought to share. I opted for an evening party so the house felt more cozy with candles and low light. Knowing the theme a few of the gals even dressed in warm Autumn colors. What a night! The kids buzzed around indoors and out. The conversation rivaled the treats with a tantalizing nature. My heart swelled with the goodness all around.

Even though in all that fun I forgot to snap a few pics I do have a nice fallish one to share. My daughter Gabrielle and I just happened to be both wearing orange to a different party not long ago. A clown there gave her an orange heart shaped balloon. A perfect photo op if I do say so myself.

Happy Autumn my friends!

You know the comparison lists people make of pros and cons? Usually we weigh one against the other to help make a decision. Every so often I am sizing up the upbringing of our children looking at the pros and cons. At this moment one of the pros in their extraordinary lives I can see is their colorful friendships. The following pics were taken at the field day on the step bleachers at our school. How beautiful the mix of skin, heritages and languages; just to name a few of the differences giving my kids a step up in life.

When DaRonn was a teenager he became passionate for the things of God. He began a group at his high school dedicated to studying the bible and doing outreach projects. He signed up to teach a Sunday School class and got paired with me to lead the 3rd and 4th graders. He was in church every time the doors were open for morning services, evening services, youth group and every other special meeting. He even hung out with the pastor in his free time.

Our friendship began in those hallowed halls of a mall turned church. We were a part of a group of young people from that church who hung out together. There was a couple at church who invited us to come over one night a week to hang out and talk about the things of God. We filled their home with energetic teenagers hungry to learn and grow spiritually. God was at the center of everything we did.

It must be clarified, though, that DaRonn was not a saint all the time. I had to laugh when his mother had no other recourse but to ground the boy from church. She forbade him from going to church for some kind of misbehavior. She knew that would get the message across to her son. At the time I just found it funny.

Now I can have a double laugh because I did a similar thing.

My Gabrielle is great friends with a girl in The House of Dreams. We are closer than neighbors with our orphanage seeing as it is located on our property just down the steps from our apartment and across the yard and paved soccer court. Every day Gabrielle asks me if she can go play at the orphanage. My answer is usually yes.

So most afternoons she can be found mixing it up with the 18 kids who live a stones throw away. They jump rope, do Barbies hair, make believe, swing, slide, run, and even get a smidgen of homework and chores around the orphanage done together every once in a while. Can you imagine? How clever it will be for her to tell people when she is older that she grew up in an orphanage.

The other day Gabrielle made some choices that crossed the line we had clearly drawn. She is naturally a limit pusher so this sort of thing has happened before and will most likely happen again. The infraction committed involved behavior at the orphanage. So it occurred to me that the only consequence that would have any impact on her would be to restrict her from the most favorite thing in her life. I grounded her from going to the orphanage for a certain number of days.

Trust me, I do realize that most parents would be thrilled if their nine year old daughter preferred to spend most of her time at an outreach center. It makes me so proud to see her caring for the younger ones, folding clothes, helping the kids with their homework or serving plates of food. I know this will have positive benefits in her life long term. I just didn’t feel as though I had any other recourse at the moment because of the choices she made.

That only lasted a few days. She is back to having a ton of fun. She learned that it is important to make better choices. I learned something too. I now understand my mother-in-law’s action when she grounded her son from church. We mothers are a funny bunch of folk.

Back in 2009 I posted some pics from an 8 year old Gabrielle. She still takes pictures every once in a while. As I was looking through her file I was struck with the eye she has. Back for a second time here at ‘ the @ ‘ a now older and wiser 9 year old Gabrielle shares some shots.

Enlarged versions of the images available with a click.

Back and forth a handful of times my parents always brought exotic treasures from Haiti. My favorite a game called Kay [kahee]. Haitian people visited, too, gracing our doors and sitting on our back deck until late at night with us. Their hands blending with the twilight as they laughed so deep and full every time their smooth clay balls outnumbered ours in the end.

Rolling the balls around in my fingertips I saw the tiny grooves of fingerprints from afar. Running my hand over the carvings of faces and flowers in the wood stained a deep reddish color I wonder about the blood running red through our veins. Differences only skin deep our needs are the same as the story of the game. The twelve large dips in the wood plane are homes. At the start four people sit neatly in each divot. The people start to move by mysterious forces from on high. A hand picks them and moves them one by one to different places. Now some pockets hold ten, others two, others one lone person sits and waits the next move. Belonging dances with emptiness through the turns as people come and go. The play simple to understand and do; in life we comprehend yet balk as we are forced to learn new normals against our will.

Quilt of my heritage weathered over ages, we sit on the stitches of aunts and mommy. She the age I was when learning the game thinks and reasons about the moves. Memories visiting to make new ones she and I play game after game. Game of simple moves, life of moves thousands of miles long. Is she learning from me to trust in the times we are hidden, dark in His palm, being shaken and moved? Can she celebrate the times of fullness and much people surrounding her with joy? Will she find peace in the solace of alone times?

Rocks rescued from dirt and given purpose are the people in our Kay board. Wood wounded with cuts and holes, re-purposed for a game sit between us. During my childhood we played on a board carved by poor, dark fingers brought to a land of wealth and played with by fat, white hands. The board for my family now bought at a store in the USA brought to us by a friend for my tiny missionary kids holed up in a hotel room, bored, lonely, visiting the land of their birth. This board taken from the land of plenty brought to a land of scarcity, our home. Dented and scratched we play, swirled dark and light skins touching, moving, dropping, picking up the game, the life. Sometimes empty holes surrounded by, yet not reaching, the happy fullness so close yet so far away. Sometimes full to overflowing the vacancies forgotten like a bad dream. Stillness comes when conversations interrupt the flow. Counting resumes and moving replaces talk. Smiles finish a game and life continues: conversations, silent moving, picked up by Mystery’s hand, moved, changed, empty, full, and counted.

Returning to the starting count of four in a little house wins you points. The four so celebrated for a few fleeting moments. Then dropped in a slot not thought of again until the end when making the final count. We breathe and fill our chest as the step closer to the win celebrated and cheered reaches our ears. Then wait, what is this? We are dropped in the slot. Categorized and frozen we sit not thought of again until maybe at the end. This is what all the fuss was about? Can we start again? Can we get back into the action?

Maybe I am being too dramatic. Maybe one game is not like a lifetime but rather like an attempt. This little slot of time when we accomplish something and then sit to wait for the end could be just a part of life and not the whole. It could be that we get many goes at this thing. It could be that we need to appreciate the time for what it is. Are we being moved around, changed and rubbing up with people, sometimes rubbing the wrong way, sometimes rubbing for sharpening and good? Then let us not wish we were elsewhere. Are we sitting still and resting after a big win? Then we should not wistfully pine for more action. Preparing to play, playing, winning, sitting still, we humans cycle through life.

“Ye also, as lively stones, are built up a spiritual house” (1 Peter 2:5)

When my youngest boy, Tyler, was an infant we used taxis to get around. Some taxi drivers are chatty. One afternoon I ducked into the cab of one such chatty driver with my baby boy on my lap. The man began with the usual questions of where I am from, how long we have been here, etc. Then he asked about my boy. Is he your son? Yes. Was he born here? Yes. Then the oddest thing happened. The opinion expressed with beaming pride had me scraping my jaw off the floor mat of the back seat of his car.

“Ah! So he is Bolivian! How good that he is improving the Bolivian race!” he nodded his head and looked once more at the light skin of my son through the crooked rear-view mirror. Personally I find that saddening.

In related news some years back Miss Bolivia commented, “It is wrong to assume that all Bolivians are short, poor Indians. In the tropical region I am from we are all tall, white and speak English.” She was ridiculed in the press and many shameful articles were published denouncing the racism that runs rampant in Bolivia. It never ceases to amaze me that in a nation with the land mass the size of Texas and the population comparable to that of New York City there is so much hatred between people groups. The Cambas have words to say about the Collas. Those of the Altiplano criticize those living in the Amazonian region. The light the dark. The European and the Native. Those who purely speak Castellano and those who speak a more ancient tongue. Not to mention the five major political parties ranging from Socialist to Autonomous. The divides run deep and dark, as I am sure they do in most lands.

I digress.

Recently the issue of race was raised on my cousin Lynde’s blog: A Wordy Girl Mom ‘The R Word”. She and her husband are as caucasian as they come. Last year they were blessed to bring home a beautiful, vibrant daughter from Haiti. Their daughter is in Kindergarten this year. Amongst the multitude of adjustments to be made there have been some discussions that have arisen about race. Lynde addressed a few ways that they are teaching their girl about race. I thought this would be a wonderful opportunity to talk about race in our family.

Here is one of the comments I left over there on her blog that got me to thinking about doing a dedicated post:

… I wonder why race is such a huge issue in the States, the supposed Melting Pot. Ever since my kids could be aware of stuff like that we have lived in Bolivia. This morning after reading your post I thought to myself, “Oh, I have never even fielded this race business with my kids. I wonder if they have been hurt or something by someone.” So I went immediately one by one and asked them if anyone had ever brought up the fact that they are a different color from their papa, that their mama and papa are different colors, etc. Nope. Not one. Raimy is 12, and the most sensitive, yet no one had ever brought that up with her. Maybe we are just generally “odd” in Bolivian eyes and so the race stuff gets lumped in with all the other stuff that sets us apart. I am very curious if when we come to the States [for a visit] in January if the race stuff will come up.

During the beautiful stages of coloring books and learning our colors when my three big ones were little I threw a question out there just to see how they would respond.

“What color are you?”

They looked at their arms for a while and then to each other. The corporate answer was finally, “We are skin color.” I told them that was great. Then I took it one step further, “What color is your papa?” They decided that he, too, was skin color just a little more brown than they are. “And me, what color am I?” They tell me I am skin color too, of course, but with a little more pink in it.

Since then we have had other talks not so much about race but about ethnicity. To fill you in, in case you did not know, my husband, DaRonn is African American. I am as white as all get out. Living in Bolivia has opened their eyes to the beautiful spectrum of humanity. To allow them to identify with their roots we let them play with some titles. Here is the way that they describe each member of our family.

Papa – African American

Mama – Caucasian American

Raimy, Timothy and Gabrielle – African Caucasian American

Tyler – African Caucasian Bolivian American

Kaitlynn – Bolivian American

I truly hope that this list does not offend anyone. We celebrate our African American roots. We enjoy the Caucasian influence in our lives. We revel in the tri-racial aspect that the Bolivian boy and girl bring to us. Then through it all we live in a hammock sway between the Northern hemisphere and the Southern hemisphere, knowing the rhythms, tastes, weather and speech of more than one place.

In the middle of it all I know in my heart that the culture rich existence we provide them will be to their benefit. Then the temporal worry wart whispers once in a while in me wondering if I am inflicting irreparable damage. Inevitably within minutes there come a reminder that it is ok in a hug around my neck, a Spanglish make-believe wafting to my ear, the feel of the brush in my hand as I style and shape hairs, or in the look in their eyes when they call me mama.

I think often about their futures. I wonder who they will choose to fill their hearts with. I imagine that the multi-cultural kaleidoscope will be one of my greatest treasures when I am old and wrinkly.

P.S. I didn’t plan on writing a 1,000 word post on this topic. Must’ve been important to me.

EDIT: Since this is my 700th post I am going to take the liberty to add some irresistable charts. You know how I love my charts!

Racial Ethnicity Demographic comparisons in the U.S. 2008

Racial Ethnicity Demographic comparisons in Bolivia 2002

This famous poem was writ by an unknown author:

Sugar and spice
and everything nice
that’s what little girls are made of

Sunshine and rainbows
and ribbons for hair bows
that’s what little girls are made of

Tea parties, laces
and baby doll faces
that’s what little girls are made of

My girls are not so little any more. The oldest Washington child is a tween venturing the uncharted waters of change on all fronts. The sister following her is a spunky nine year old, as of today. So, really, the only little girl in this family is the two year old baby who has snuggled in quite nicely as the youngest of our clan. Though age may say otherwise I still feel they are my little girls, forever and always.

All my children are so distinct in character, abilities and dreams. It is nothing short of mind blowing to sit and consider the wealth of humanity with whom I have the honor of abiding. On this the day we celebrate the birth of my Gabrielle I am pondering the young women we are raising.

Sugar and spice… our Raimy. She is indeed endued with persuasive deliberating skills making peace in the sibling spats giving her a sweetness I envy. The spice comes when her emotional affinity goes a bit hay wire and some consoling is the only thing to make it all right. Everything nice? Pretty darn close. This young lady is remarkably flavorful in her interaction with the world. Not yet a teenager she still hops back and forth between playthings and grown up things. I pray she never loses the confident innocence that graces her countenance.

Fernanda and Raimy, classmates

Sunshine and rainbows… our Gabrielle. Sparkly, shiny and upbeat is the girl whose personality is larger than life most of the time. I dare you to not smile at least once when you sit down to converse with my dear. She colors her black and white moral standard with a thirst for learning and a keen inclusion of people of all kinds. Challenging, thoughtful, penetrating is my valiant lady to be. Look out world!

Gabrielle surrounded by all her siblings

Tea parties, laces and baby doll faces… our Kaitlynn. She has been called by various people an old soul, a grandma in a little body, and a leader. Be not deceived by her tiny stature, there is a depth, a wisdom and a sharp intelligence in her. Social as all get out she can disarm the hardest of hearts with the myriad of expressions upon her baby doll face. As the third sister she is sponging up the love and gentle instruction her two generous roommates extend to her.

Kaitlynn

Lord, please help me to treasure the uniqueness of these three precious girls. Let them know for certain they are loved with an Eternal Love. May Truth be their Guide as they grow. Amen.

I imagine that the family and close friends will be the only ones that will want to invest the two minutes to watch some everyday antics at the Washington house. That is cool with me. The camera was just there on my desk as I worked so I pushed play without them knowing. Here they are in all their hilarity.

Yep, she’s fitting right in. My kids are wondrous!

See related vlog post:

Vlog Two Minutes with my Two Year Old Tyler

“Gabrielle Moriah likes Papaya”

This little rhyme has been true since the girl ate her first bite of solid food. It was when we were living in Santa Cruz that she got her first tastes even before she cut a tooth or could walk. My baby ate papaya like it was going out of style.

Now that she is eight she still enjoys papaya along with her two sisters. I eat it every once in a while. My boys won’t touch the stuff. Personally, I think it smells like feet. Not the pretty manicured feet. Nope. The stinky, sticky, hours-in-the-gym, hold-your-nose-I’m-coming-through feet.

The papaya tree is lanky and tall with very few leaves. To see the bulging fruit swaying at the top of the trunk you think that it will double over. Papaya: tropical and comical.