They climbed the tree hollering down, “I found one!” The others stood below to catch the toss. Wrinkly, yellow passion fruit landed in the cupped hands. Cracking open they slurped the pink, fleshy insides. I remember when I used to pull life to my face and suck the passion with a childlike hunger.

February bears the nickname Mud Month. How glorious to enjoy the back yard connected to the house. Complete with a sink and spigot the patch of grass and soggy dirt beckoned a frolic. A final fling with friends before school starts next week meant muddy fun.

Digging deep holes with spoons and letting them fill with sludge.

Throwing spades to break up clods and clip through the long blades overgrowing the plot of land.

Water balloons smashed with a plastic cricket bat by squealing children clad in swimming goggles.

The itchy dirt dried on bare kid skin.

A growing teen conscious of the afterwards quietly sets to work the mud back to its origin.

These 29 days officially inaugurated by a loud rumpus in the mud. I watched from the kitchen window, tethered to my grown up world of work and worries. I reassure myself of the goodness in the hardy play they display. Driven by desires, free from the mantle of duty, they simply play. I traded inhibition for ambition long ago. I wonder if I can ever right that wrong. I wonder if I should. I wonder.

At least the wonder still resides. While other adults bury and build and harvest crops in the mud of this month I watch wonderful play. Wonder whirls around with hope like the shady leaves in the passion tree my children climb.

Ambition says grasp.
Inhibition says bask.

Ambition clenches fist and jaw.
Inhibition breathes deep and long.

Ambition aims.
Inhibition flings arms wide open, face to the sky, toes squishing in the wet earth.

Who doesn’t love the opening of Dumbo when the stork struggles all plucky over the clouds until he finds the train where Mrs. Jumbo awaits the arrival of her precious child? Such sweetness when he plays a note and then sings Happy Birthday to the little tyke.

Where did all this stork business start anyway? Wouldn’t the pouch of a kangaroo make more sense? Or if this delivery creature had to fly why not a big strong pterodactyl?

So we somehow have this idea that offspring find their way to us by a mystical force. Logically a stork has little or nothing to do with the acquisition of children, so maybe fate plays a hand, or possibly God. As parents we know the process involves more than the multiplication of cells and the influence of genes. Heredity gets us closer to idea of a child placed in our family by design. Be it through conception, adoption, marriage, or other family-making ways it would seem that a force is at work placing children in the arms of their parents.

Some intimate conversations followed my writing an article on our orphanage blog called “Sometimes I don’t know how to pray“. Then a few other blog posts trickled in giving me cause to pause. One friend speaks of the waiting pangs as they painstakingly walk the steps to adopt their first (or first, second and third kids all at once). Another dear friend rejoices over the eleven children God has blessed them with; arms wide open to more should they come into their lives.

So I wonder which ones are mine.

Hannah cared for Samuel for just a few years after month after month of agonizing infertility.

Moses’ mother let the child suckle at her breasts in preparation for a destiny of liberation away from her.

Jesus started to pull away from his mothers’ grasp as a youth as he discussed business with grown-ups.

Rebekah had a boy with failure to launch issues.

Moses ended up running away from his adoptive mother after a life of privilege.

Our children never really walk out of our lives. No matter how long, or short, they stay physically close to us a mother is changed forever. Each child leaves a mark.

I currently mother five children. They are mine. I know this.

We have an orphanage. We provide for the kids. We interact with them and they know us. We have placed caregivers in the home.  But, someday I will be more closely involved in the lives of the children who live in The House of Dreams. I have yet to mother these children.

Because, I wonder which ones are mine.

To date 53 children have lived at the House of Dreams. Seventeen of those are still with us: 10 boys and 7 girls; ages 10 and under. Two of those 17 are assigned to be adopted soon. Two others are on a course to be reunited with their birth parents. The math and statistics tell us the 13 that are left will grow into adults under our care.

So, I wonder which ones are mine.

Should you choose to believe in dreams one of those 13, a little girl, is destined to a family. I saw another of the 13, a boy, running to his adoptive parents in a vivid dream one night some time ago. That would bring the number to 11.

11+5=16.

Which ones are mine?

When we started our adoption process (before we knew how things worked) there were three little girls in our orphanage we would have loved to adopt. Pati, Carolina, and Ximena are now lovely European young ladies. Our girl is Kaitlynn. She came to us as a surprise, hand-picked for our family from an orphanage on the other side of town.

People ask us if we will adopt again. It was never in the plans. So to give the surface answer I say no. Yet I know that about a dozen or so kids will be dropped in my mothering arms. Maybe sooner than I think.

I ask myself why I do not yet mother them, the 17 over there. The reasons too deep and hidden still, I settle back into mothering my five. I don’t feel guilty about it. It just doesn’t feel like the time for more yet. I know it’s coming. I know there will be a time when some of the children living now in the House of Dreams will be mine.

So I wonder why I don’t run over there now and squeeze them all tight. I wonder why I don’t say to each of them, “You are mine until you belong to another.” What am I waiting for?

I am waiting to know which ones are mine.

Dare I ask the Great, Stork-like, Pterodactyl, God person?

Which ones are mine?

Sunday’s a day of hope. It’s the day we remember the very first resurrection Sunday when Christ conquered death, hell and the grave opening a way of salvation to all who would believe on Him. What better day to look ahead at the coming years and bear my soul of some of the hopes I have?

I hope…

10. …we can get the Dreamers into a permanent home with a big yard they can call their own for years to come.

9. …we can get a home with a big yard and guest quarters for the Washington family that we can call our own.

8. …we can help the church purchase or build an excellent facility.

7. …I can get a book published, in English. (more than one would be great too…)

6. …we can help our two youngest kids become bilingual in speaking, reading and writing.

5. …we can do some big time traveling with our kids.

4. …we can solidify and grow the mechanisms we have began to provide for us when we get old.

3. … we can get our kids started out well on their adult lives.

2. … we can establish and implement a working plan for helping launch the Lifetime Dreamers into adulthood.

1. … we can stay focused, strong, and impassioned about knowing God and doing His work.

*** Next and final list in this 10 Lists series: 10 Scariest Things About Missions  [Because it is Halloween... scary... get it?] ***

 “Wherever you are, be all there! Live to the hilt every situation you believe to be the will of God.” – Jim Elliot, missionary martyr to Ecuador

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness.” – Mark Twain

When I was a small child people asked me what I wanted to be. I told them, “Famous.” Later I added a farmer’s wife and someone who travels the world. I consider DaRonn a spiritual farmer and together we have traveled a bunch. We’re not through yet, either.

A list of my 10 most favorite spots in the world, so far.

10. Standley’s Chasm – West of Alice Springs in Australia. As a foreign exchange student fresh out of high school I explored this beautiful reserve along with other kids from our group. Not many other tourists were there that day. The mystery of the native land and the formation of the chasm took my breath away.

9. The Old Market – Omaha, Nebraska. The Antiquarium, cobblestone roads, nook and cranny coffee shops, contemporary musicians and artists, the slides, tall old brick walls, and the reminiscence of my new-found teenage independence behind the wheel of my convertible.

8. Colorado – Skiing by moonlight as a seven-year-old girl, long winding drives, my first glimpses of the gentle giants, gondola rides, our honeymoon, and my tan corduroy cap.

7. Walking a dirt path under the African sun – The expanse stretching out to the left, right, behind and before rolled dusty golden swirling steamy with the cerulean sky.  Grass huts with smokey stems dropped strewn across the grass plains like dried sycamore figs. As our deep, dark brown and sunburned peach elbows interlocked Flora smiled and spoke to me of her beloved land which shall ever hold me in her heart.

6. At an airport people watching – Some of my most inspired writing takes place during this very act.

5. In cool water swimming – Not just splashing around, rather the athletic activity of swimming happens to be the only sport I enjoy doing. Love it.

4. Salar de Uyuni – I visited the world’s largest salt flat twice. Happens to be right here in good old Bolivia.  Can’t wait to go again. You know you can see Chile from there? And petrified mummies on the side of a volcano? And flamingos? And the most exotic landscape on the face of the planet… you’ll think you are in another world.

3. Summit of Mt. Tunari – The rigors and glories of climbing to the summit of a mountain transcend the capacity of printed words to express its fullness.

2. Oceanside beaches – With my family as an 11-year-old child I took my first airplane ride for a historical site seeing trip in the Maryland and D.C. area in the States. As a teenager I swam in the Great Barrier Reef of Australia. I discovered I was pregnant with my first child on the Costa Rica shoreline. To celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary we watched beautiful couples dancing the tango in Buenos Aires, Argentina. For our 12th wedding anniversary we walked the ruins of Machu Picchu after a spin through Lima, Peru. Someday I would like to see come European seasides.

1. In my husband’s arms – As prompted by a survey floating around the internet a while back I asked my children a series of questions. When I asked Raimy, “Where is your mom’s favorite place to go?” She replied, “Into bed with Papa.”  Yep.

*** Next list: 10 Tastiest Foods in Bolivia ***

Cliches are to be avoided like the plague. Or so say the experts. The title just did such a great job summing up my thoughts I couldn’t resist.

From a number of sources recently a common critique has come my way. They urge me to, well, cut to the chase.

Get to the point quicker and with more drama. Bring us to the climax and don’t shrink from the emotion. You don’t need so much build up; I like the way you were so concise this time.

I second guess myself about how far I can push the emotion factor without losing credibility. I also worry about mistreating my listeners or readers through manipulation. Examining my process brings me to the truth behind my lack-luster communication. Pseudo people pleasing inhibits my creativity.

I say pseudo because really when I shirk from full expression of thought in order to avoid offending certain pockets of society I actually set up barriers that push others away. When I interact with the creation of another person (writing, speech, dance, movies, paintings, etc.) I yearn for stimulus that allows me to feel deeply the emotion of the creator. Why would I deny my audiences this same pleasure?

My analytical brain burns with the logical follow-up question: how? Instead of the boring old bullet points I opted for a more colorful conglomeration of thoughts. Behold the spider graph of how I might go from inhibition to activation.

image of my thoughts on how to go from inhibition to activation

Please feel free to share your thoughts about how one might trade in inhibition for activation.

*Bonus link for fiction writers: http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/art/scene.php Challenging yet extremely insightful information for ‘writing the perfect scene‘.

Alternate title: The Labor of Relinquishment as Parents

She told me days before their arrival to Bolivia to serve a three year term as missionaries, “We are pregnant!” I had a hunch. So these months as her belly grew so did our expectations. Their baby room closet filled with pink things, soft and sweet smelling.

Then just weeks before the birth of their daughter a surprise came to our lives. She would come to be known as Jolee. Once a scrawny scrapping infant fighting to live on a doorstep now a plump and doted upon big sister cuddled every day. A most beautiful family has been born.

As they cared for the one we still waited for the little girl all curled up comfy in her mommy’s tummy. Graciously these brave parents gave me permission to attend the birth.

Finally, the day arrived. Plans set in motion as we all headed to the clinic. My mind flashed back to the birth of my own son in the same place some four years ago. Antiquated though it was these halls held hope. What an honor to introduce my friends to this inexplicable experience of labor and delivery.

The afternoon and evening of Saturday, March 26 was passed with contractions. As the night fell we all wondered if this child would come exactly one month after the birth date daddy had given some days ago to his eldest daughter: February 26, 2011.

They told us it was time to move downstairs. The minutes turned into an hour as this new mama pushed. Old fashioned aid was given as the anesthesiologist climbed on the slender table and planted his knees next to the laboring woman’s shoulders. He placed his hands on the bulge. At the next contracting of muscles they all pushed together.

Daddy and I were made to stand at the open door a few feet away from the action. We spoke out encouraging words, “You can do it. You’re doing great! Keep up the good work!”

The doctor motioned for us to come in, he could see the head. We rushed to the side of our dears. How odd the birth that hurts so much as we push our babies out of us. This pushing begins the lifelong painful push to relinquish our children to the world.  Instinct bonds us tighter than superglue. Instinct also tells us teach, prepare and train this being to live a life away from us.

Just minutes before the stroke of midnight beautiful Jalynne Miranda Gore was born to this earth. The doctor made quick work of untying the cord that had wrapped itself tight twice around the little neck of this new girl. Breath filled her lungs and her first cry brought relieved sighs and smiles throughout the room.

The first words of this mommy after releasing her child from her body, “I miss her.” Then she saw her daughter and made the observation before laying her head back to rest after such work, “She has eyebrows!”

Oh yes, the child has eyebrows, and ten tiny toes, and ten large fingers. And she is strong! The pediatrician had to replace the little oxygen mask three times because little miss flailed her arms around and yanked it off with one arm while grabbing other instruments with the other.

As the custom goes she gets a quick rub down with a blanket, diapered and then is bundled up in many layers and handed back to mama. She will get her first bath late in the next day.

We return to the laboring room with the precious girl. She suckles as the parents adore her. A quick visit with a doctor who looks as though he just won the world cup, so happy! Then I slip out and drive home in the twilight hours. I fall asleep so tired yet with the same smile I have had all night, fully aware and overwhelmingly grateful that I was a part of a miracle.

The next day I returned to pick up the threesome and bring them home. Later the sisters would meet. Here are some pictures of this blessed event. I love it!

A personalized look at the city I live in and my top 12 points of interest. Following the video you will see the complete list with a few links to past blog posts I did about that spot. A special thanks to my husband DaRonn for helping my with the technical side of putting this together, some filming and for his cameo appearance.

Running time of video: 2 minutes and 45 seconds

Click here to view the embedded video.

1. El Cristo

2. The Botanical Gardens

3. The Market

4. Cine Center

5. The Tunnel

6. The Recoleta (where the best meat in all of Bolivia can be found at a restaurant called Churrasqueria Tunari)

7. I.C. Norte Supermarket

8. El Prado (My Flickr file of images from this area of town)

9. Divas

10. Mount Tunari (2009 summit, 2010 summit, 2011 almost summit)

11. Bowling

12. Juice Zen

Mamita de cara curtida

El aguayo en tu espalda

Sonríes aun cargada

Contenta con tu jornada

-

See the mountains that grow high above our heads

Bent down low to the earth the Bolivian woman is small

She lays the woven fabric on the ground

Then in those colored threads she lays her burdens

A fold, a twist, a swing and the thing she flings

Upon her sturdy back nestles on her shoulders

-

Tucked from view, hidden in the yarn

There in the dark a protected bit of her life

Precious baby, her wares or some goods

-

How does she face the monotony of the daily haul?

Does she fuss or complain

Trudging through market, street, bus and barrio?

-

Her cloth, el aguayo

Traditional weave, el tejido

Of coarse hairs of the herd

Of her land

-

See the looming mount standing in our path calling itself change

Bent down low to the earth I weep small prayers

Laid before me the fabric of my life, the people dear to me

Then in those diverse folds of humanity I lay my burdens

My love, my fears, my pains and joys, the things I fling

Upon my back made sturdy by living, I let it all settle in

-

Tucked from view, hidden in the threads

There in the dark a protected bit of life

Precious family, work or dear friends

-

How do I face the relentless change of the daily haul?

Do I fuss or complain

Labored steps crossing the street; crossing the world?

-

My cloth, el aguayo

Traditions woven, las tejidas

Coarse prayers are heard

Of clasped hands

-

You the red with the firey passion

You the blue with the calm reflection

You the green with the new ambition

You the yellow with the warm welcome

You the pink with the staying smile

You the black with the tenacious style

You the purple, happy through the trial

-

You are wrapped around me

Woven through me

-

The dust ground in the tiny overlaps of existence

Wetted by the rains and stayed by the wind

The strings stained permanent

A reminder that the only thing that doesn’t change

Is that things always change

-

I grasp for what I know, fingering the familiar knots

Holding on tight as my neck is choked by the haul

That familiar pain of strain in the bones pulls at the soul

-

The woman, the bearer

Bears in her womb posterity

Bears on her shoulders life

Borne in her heart the elation and devastation of love

-

The woman gratefully wraps the aguayo around her body

She knows it weighs her down

But its contents are the sustenance of life

-

So I embrace the changes before me

Or rather let them embrace my heaving frame

For these are the tejidas of life

“Seven Streets”

A baker, a cobbler, a crocked lawyer and a flower seller are tied together in a risky human trafficking scandal. Set in the sweltering Santa Cruz de la Sierra destinies entwine. Will revenge prevail? Or can there be a way of escape?

—————————————————

That’s the teaser for my next novel. I told myself that I would decide by the last day of September if I would write during NaNoWriMo or not. I stipulated that the answer would be a firm ‘no’ if there was no outline. Yesterday and today I sat down with my Moleskine and a story spilled on the page. Yes. I am going to participate in National Novel Writing Month 2010. Thirty days; 50,000 words, international camaraderie.

Anyone want to join me?

The glossy pictures

Of the perfect bathroom

Towel racks hung

With His and Hers.

Careful lift of the corner.

Turn the page

It slips from view.

A sigh, a twinge,

Someday… maybe.

With choices that were smarter

I would have a head that’s clearer

That would make my account richer

And my character kinder.

Then I’d have a body that was lovelier

And a house that was cleaner

Surely my heart would be happier

And I would grow much faster

To have everything bigger

And be a person who is better.

Ers.

All the Ers.

Elusive Ers.

Liars.

The towels.

I can’t blame embroidery.

Those satiny letters spelling out perfectly

His and Hers.

The good enough

Will have to be

The Is and the Ers.

My Ers

and His Is.

A marriage of truth.

The Ers that make me grumble and strive

Covered in the Is of Him all alive.

That is the enough

That I always have wanted.

Letting His sufficiency

Cover my insecurity.

Begging His complete

To fill my ends don’t meet.

Relieved at last I sigh

Exhale the h sound long.

The H stripped from the words

The two words of facade

Leaving loose strings

Tangles and a mess

Of all my Ers

And all His Is.