After the last week, I feel like Jon Stewart: "I got nothin'." I am saddened, and sickened, and stunned by the act of violence against the members of Emmanuel AME Church. There is no reason. There is no justification. There is no excuse.
I'm referring to the murder of innocent people, of course. But more than that, I'm referring to the response (or lack thereof) of the larger community. "This means you need to take your guns to worship." "It's just another senseless act of violence. So, what's on Facebook?" Really? Fifty years after Selma, fifty-some years after the murder of those four beautiful young girls in Birmingham, and here we (still) are.
My gut reaction is to despair, to move to a bunker somewhere in South Dakota and live an isolated life that's in my control, to drown my sorrows with people who look and think exactly like me and to deepen the divide between myself and those who are different, to mourn the anger and insensitivity of everyone else. That's what guts are for, to think stupid things like that.
If things are ever to change, we're going to have to go beyond our gut re-actions and move into deliberate, courageous action. Now more than ever, the world needs the real church: not the judgmental, pious, politically-driven stuff that we often associate with "church," but the real thing. The place where two or more are gathered in worship, prayer and study, to hold each other when we cry and to hold each other accountable. The place from which we draw the courage to speak the truth in love.
We Presbyterians believe that the #1 sin continues to be that of idolatry: worshiping any thing or any one more than we worship the God of Abraham and Sarah, the God we know as Father, Son and Holy Spirit. In Psalm 115, the Psalmist talks of those who are idol makers and worshipers. The idols, says the writer, have "mouths but do no speak, eyes but do not see, ears but do not hear..." and then goes on to say that "those who make them are like them."
Could it be that, for those of us who find the power to resist idolatry - the worship of flags, of firearms, of race, of violence - that the opposite could be true? That "those who worship God are more like God?" Yes. Those who worship God, not lifeless idols, can find the courage to speak out, the power to resist evil, the wisdom to forgive, and the strength of character to recognize our connectedness with all of God's creatures. But we have to do it. And that's what it's going to take to make any change in the current situation.
We can't feel good about the fact that the evil is in some poor, sick, deranged soul. We can't satisfy ourselves that taking down every Confederate flag will do away with someone else's racism. The potential for evil and hate is within each of us. And only as we see our own complicity will there ever be the possibility of change.
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
Friday, April 3, 2015
A Meditation for Good Friday 2015
Luke 23:44-49
44 It was now about noon, and darkness
came over the whole land until three in the afternoon, while the sun’s light
failed; and the curtain of the temple was torn in two. Then Jesus, crying with
a loud voice, said, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.” Having said
this, he breathed his last. When the centurion saw what had taken place, he
praised God and said, “Certainly this man was innocent.” 48 And when all the
crowds who had gathered there for this spectacle saw what had taken place, they
returned home, beating their breasts. 49 But all his acquaintances, including
the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching
these things.
My son told me last night
about a video he had seen on the
social media site, Vine.
It was a tribute to the death and
resurrection of Jesus,
which he found to be very moving.
He had planned to leave a message for
the maker of the video
to tell him what a great job he had
done.
“But Mom,” he said.
“You wouldn’t believe all the horrible
messages on there.
There had to be something like six
hundred responses
and none of them were good.
I couldn’t believe it.”
When the crowds who had gathered there for
this spectacle saw what had taken place,
they returned home, beating their breasts.
At
first I thought it would have been worse
had
Jesus died in the twenty-first century,
with
all the self-styled paparazzi
who
can’t wait three minutes to post their latest experience
or
hammer down to critique someone else’s.
“Here
I am at Golgotha. Selfie!”
These
days we have more ways at our disposal
to
make public idiots of ourselves,
but idiocy
doesn’t require social media.
Can’t
you just hear the crowds that were gathered
on
their way home that day?
Can’t
you just imagine what some of them were saying?
“Wasn’t
that just the worst thing? What’s for dinner?”
“That
was so awful I couldn’t look away.
So
what is there to do now?”
“I
would have gotten closer,
but
all those people pushed their way in front of me.”
When
the crowds who had gathered there for this spectacle saw what had taken place,
they
returned home, beating their breasts.
For
some, who were gawkers, it was a real sight to see.
A
reality crucifixion.
Something
to tell the grandkids about.
But
there were others, who were watchers,
who
were witnesses,
who
saw something else.
But
all his acquaintances,
including
the women who had followed him from Galilee,
stood
at a distance, watching these things.
To
those who didn’t know him,
it
was just another Vine to gawk at,
just
another video to criticize,
a
diversion to take their minds off
what
they needed to be thinking about.
It
was something terrible that happened
to
some guy and two other criminals –
but
since it didn’t happen to me or to someone I know,
I
don’t have to think about it.
But
all his acquaintances,
including
the women who had followed him from Galilee,
stood
at a distance, watching these things.
They
had watched him in life,
they
had ministered at his side,
and
they witnessed his awful death
with
no assurance of resurrection.
In
life, and in death,
Jesus
had to deal with a certain number
of
gawkers and gossipers –
those
who felt they had more to lose in what he offered
than
they could ever stand to gain.
And
as you know,
in
every life there’s no shortage of those who gawk and gossip.
Far
smaller is the number of those
who
watch and witness and wait,
who
testify even to the most awful truth
with
their presence.
Those
who didn’t know who Jesus was,
in
any sense of it,
went
home talking about the awful death they had seen happen
before
setting the awfulness aside as fast as they could
and waiting
for the next awful, gossip-worthy event
to
come along.
But
all his acquaintances,
including
the women who had followed him from Galilee,
stood at a distance,
watching these things.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
She Had Me at Hello
"The platter does not diminish. The jobs, the requirements, the requests continue to pile up. But I do know this: we are equal to the mountains that confront us."
So wrote Maya Angelou in a Facebook post during 2010.
As usual, her writing hit me right between the eyes. If anyone knows about the requirements and requests that pile up, she would. But she also knew that, with God's help, we were equal to the task.
God was just braggin' when God created Maya Angelou. So many times she has given me perspective in my life, mainly through reading her books and her poetry. I guess that's one way to tell that she was a "citizen of the world" - so many of us thought of her as our good friend, our favorite aunt or grandmother, someone whose wisdom was always reliable and true.
I got to see her one time. She was coming to Salt Lake City for a book signing when we lived in Provo. I was just beside myself with excitement. I'd bought 10 copies of her latest book, hoping to get 10 autographs for loved ones. And just to breathe the same air as Maya Angelou - well, the autographs would come in second.
There were hundreds of us at the bookstore that morning, forming an orderly line outside the door, eager to get in. We were also told that she would only be able to sign one book per customer. So those of us who had brought several began weighing the difficult decision of choosing one book to be signed. Once we got inside, we waited and watched the curtained platform they had set up for her to speak. Shortly, however, we got the word - Maya was ill and could not be with us. We were crushed!
But as we castfallen were preparing to leave, sure enough, Maya came out to talk briefly to the crowd. Dressed elegantly as always, she apologized profusely for being too ill to stay. We could tell that her voice was hoarse and not strong. Even so, she said that she wanted to make it up to us. To strangers that would have understood, even if they didn't like the news, she said: "They will give you my address. If you will mail me your books, as many as you like, I will sign all of them." And then she went back behind the platform curtain.
I saw her for about three minutes. And I was changed. I was changed by her generosity and her integrity and her consideration of strangers, for heaven's sake, even when she herself was ill. Of course, I got her Wake Forest address from the bookstore, and mailed off my books. To tell the truth, imagining her office being swamped with packages from Utah, I wondered if I'd ever see them again. But sure enough, in the fullness of time, here came a package from Wake Forest, North Carolina, to Provo, Utah, with ten signed books inside.
Honestly, she had me at hello. But I have been hers ever since. And I pray that, through speaking her name, sharing her story, sharing MY story, and doing all that I can to empower and encourage women and men of all stripes, her spirit will continue to live.
So wrote Maya Angelou in a Facebook post during 2010.
As usual, her writing hit me right between the eyes. If anyone knows about the requirements and requests that pile up, she would. But she also knew that, with God's help, we were equal to the task.
God was just braggin' when God created Maya Angelou. So many times she has given me perspective in my life, mainly through reading her books and her poetry. I guess that's one way to tell that she was a "citizen of the world" - so many of us thought of her as our good friend, our favorite aunt or grandmother, someone whose wisdom was always reliable and true.
I got to see her one time. She was coming to Salt Lake City for a book signing when we lived in Provo. I was just beside myself with excitement. I'd bought 10 copies of her latest book, hoping to get 10 autographs for loved ones. And just to breathe the same air as Maya Angelou - well, the autographs would come in second.
There were hundreds of us at the bookstore that morning, forming an orderly line outside the door, eager to get in. We were also told that she would only be able to sign one book per customer. So those of us who had brought several began weighing the difficult decision of choosing one book to be signed. Once we got inside, we waited and watched the curtained platform they had set up for her to speak. Shortly, however, we got the word - Maya was ill and could not be with us. We were crushed!
But as we castfallen were preparing to leave, sure enough, Maya came out to talk briefly to the crowd. Dressed elegantly as always, she apologized profusely for being too ill to stay. We could tell that her voice was hoarse and not strong. Even so, she said that she wanted to make it up to us. To strangers that would have understood, even if they didn't like the news, she said: "They will give you my address. If you will mail me your books, as many as you like, I will sign all of them." And then she went back behind the platform curtain.
I saw her for about three minutes. And I was changed. I was changed by her generosity and her integrity and her consideration of strangers, for heaven's sake, even when she herself was ill. Of course, I got her Wake Forest address from the bookstore, and mailed off my books. To tell the truth, imagining her office being swamped with packages from Utah, I wondered if I'd ever see them again. But sure enough, in the fullness of time, here came a package from Wake Forest, North Carolina, to Provo, Utah, with ten signed books inside.
Honestly, she had me at hello. But I have been hers ever since. And I pray that, through speaking her name, sharing her story, sharing MY story, and doing all that I can to empower and encourage women and men of all stripes, her spirit will continue to live.
Friday, September 20, 2013
The Spirit Bowl
Had a wonderful day going out to the Laguna Pueblo yesterday for their Feast Day. And indeed it was a feast - visual, physical and spiritual. My friend Ed and I got out there around 10:30 and checked out lots of the booths.
We learned from one potter about how she learned the skill from her great grandmother, and how the rusty and black dyes were made. Ed picked up one very large pot that we both expected to be heavy; the only thing heavy about it was the base. The walls were a little thicker than eggshell, but very strong. It was a glorious work of art.
After we wound around the displays a while longer, we finally found our friend Molly Curtis. Molly is a member of the Presbyterian church on the pueblo, and she and her family had a booth set up to sell her pottery. Her work is amazing. I've never seen anything like it. Molly designed the communion ware for worship when General Assembly was held here in Albuquerque. Her decorative patterns are probably the most intricate of all that we saw.
Ed ended up buying one of Molly's pots. I came away with a bear which had a spot of blue on it - "Oh, I just felt wild that day" said Molly. A couple of refrigerator magnets with Molly's pots on them also followed me home. But my other treasure, largely because I learned the story behind it, was a Spirit Bowl.
In Native American tradition, each dinner table has a Spirit Bowl as part of the setting. When dinner is served, a bit of the food goes into the Spirit Bowl, to be shared with the ancestors. It's a lovely reminder of the presence of those who have gone before. And then, after the meal, the food is taken to the cemetery to be shared with the ancestors.
Being a genealogist, I of course loved to hear this tradition. But then Molly told me that one of my colleagues, Judy Wellington, a Native American pastor, uses a Spirit Bowl on the communion table. When the bread is broken, a little goes into the Spirit Bowl for the ancestors. If that's not "the communion of saints," I don't know what is.
I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. And I believe in honoring those who have gone before us, and their Maker, with our offerings and our lives.
We learned from one potter about how she learned the skill from her great grandmother, and how the rusty and black dyes were made. Ed picked up one very large pot that we both expected to be heavy; the only thing heavy about it was the base. The walls were a little thicker than eggshell, but very strong. It was a glorious work of art.
After we wound around the displays a while longer, we finally found our friend Molly Curtis. Molly is a member of the Presbyterian church on the pueblo, and she and her family had a booth set up to sell her pottery. Her work is amazing. I've never seen anything like it. Molly designed the communion ware for worship when General Assembly was held here in Albuquerque. Her decorative patterns are probably the most intricate of all that we saw.
Ed ended up buying one of Molly's pots. I came away with a bear which had a spot of blue on it - "Oh, I just felt wild that day" said Molly. A couple of refrigerator magnets with Molly's pots on them also followed me home. But my other treasure, largely because I learned the story behind it, was a Spirit Bowl.
In Native American tradition, each dinner table has a Spirit Bowl as part of the setting. When dinner is served, a bit of the food goes into the Spirit Bowl, to be shared with the ancestors. It's a lovely reminder of the presence of those who have gone before. And then, after the meal, the food is taken to the cemetery to be shared with the ancestors.
Being a genealogist, I of course loved to hear this tradition. But then Molly told me that one of my colleagues, Judy Wellington, a Native American pastor, uses a Spirit Bowl on the communion table. When the bread is broken, a little goes into the Spirit Bowl for the ancestors. If that's not "the communion of saints," I don't know what is.
I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. And I believe in honoring those who have gone before us, and their Maker, with our offerings and our lives.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Amazing Grace
It's not much. And, it's everything.
I just got off a conference call with friends who also happen to be colleagues. One's wife is having major surgery on Monday for cancer. And we gathered from Albuquerque, Pittsburgh, Peoria and Houston to pray with and for her. Or, as it says in scripture, "they will come from east and west, from north and south."
It was just about 10 minutes. It's always a little awkward to pray with someone over the phone. But I am not sure there was a dry eye among us.
I wonder what the Apostle Paul would have done with email, and even just telephones, not to mention the ability to make conference calls across thousands of miles. Can you imagine?
One call. Ten minutes. We move forward and wait for surgery on Monday. It's really not that much. And yet, it's everything.
I just got off a conference call with friends who also happen to be colleagues. One's wife is having major surgery on Monday for cancer. And we gathered from Albuquerque, Pittsburgh, Peoria and Houston to pray with and for her. Or, as it says in scripture, "they will come from east and west, from north and south."
It was just about 10 minutes. It's always a little awkward to pray with someone over the phone. But I am not sure there was a dry eye among us.
I wonder what the Apostle Paul would have done with email, and even just telephones, not to mention the ability to make conference calls across thousands of miles. Can you imagine?
One call. Ten minutes. We move forward and wait for surgery on Monday. It's really not that much. And yet, it's everything.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
The Dream, Backward and Forward
Yesterday was the 50th anniversary of the March on Washington. I still cannot listen to Martin Luther King Jr.'s speech without tears. What incredible bravery, statesmanship, wisdom, prophecy and oratory skill. And he was all of 34 years old.
My dad had his own business at the time, with offices in Dallas and Houston. About once a month he would go to Houston for the week to take care of things. Sometimes my family would ride the train down to Houston towards the end of the week. We would stay somewhere, usually the Ramada Inn on Allen Parkway, and swim and eat silver dollar pancakes and shop. Then we would drive back to Dallas with Dad on Sunday.
It was probably that same summer, the summer of 1963. For once we didn't stay at the Ramada Inn, but instead at the very glitzy Sheraton downtown. I had never seen such a fancy place. The swimming pool was on the roof, on something like the 12th or 13th floor probably. You were out there swimming, surrounded by skyscrapers and the noises of the city. It was the most glamorous thing I had ever done - and might indeed still be. (then again, there was the Shamrock Hilton in Houston, but I digress...)
That weekend, we had just gotten ourselves to the pool. It was glorious. I guess we had been there about ten minutes when another family arrived to swim. All of a sudden my dad said, "Let's go." What? We had just gotten there. Now there was even a child my age for me to play with. But then I heard it in his voice: "Let's GO." So we did. I also heard in his voice that there were no questions to be asked. So we moved on with life, hoping that there would be another occasion to hit the pool before we had to leave.
It occurred to me some years later that the family who joined us at the pool that day was African American. To his great credit, my father used no other adjectives to describe the family, and he never talked about the reason he wanted us to leave. He was a man of his age, a Texan, trying to do the right thing as he knew it. Even so, I still regret that he was not able to allow us to do things differently.
If Martin were alive today, he would be 84. If Dad were alive today, he would be 91. Martin has been gone for 45 years; Dad has been gone for 39. I remember Dad telling us later in the sixties that Martin was just a "troublemaker." I wonder how his perspective might have changed over time - and I pray that it would have.
Fifty years later, we have an African American president. My daughter's best friend is biracial. I have close friends who are African American, Asian American and Native American. There's a lot being written about the fact that we are living in a "post-racial world." Unfortunately, I don't believe that's the case. Even though we have definitely come a long way we all still struggle with racism, whether it is spoken or not. One of my closest friends, with whom I celebrated the night that Obama was first elected President, says that he still looks at our President and still sees a "black man" before he sees anything else.
How well do we have to know someone before race differences are no longer an issue? Or gender differences, or differences in sexuality? "Social location" defines the basis for our theology and worldview. Will my social location - female, anglo, native Texan, Presbyterian - always define who I am to others? Or is Martin correct, that some day all of that stuff will be secondary at best? Perhaps it begins to happen when the focus is less upon my own uniqueness, or the uniqueness and differences of the other, and more upon the One who deliberately created us to be diverse.
Do not remember the former things,
or consider the things of old.
I am about to do a new thing;
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?
I will make a way in the wilderness
and rivers in the desert.
The wild animals will honor me,
the jackals and the ostriches;
for I give water in the wilderness,
rivers in the desert,
to give drink to my chosen people,
the people whom I formed for myself
so that they might declare my praise.
--- Isaiah 43:18-21
My dad had his own business at the time, with offices in Dallas and Houston. About once a month he would go to Houston for the week to take care of things. Sometimes my family would ride the train down to Houston towards the end of the week. We would stay somewhere, usually the Ramada Inn on Allen Parkway, and swim and eat silver dollar pancakes and shop. Then we would drive back to Dallas with Dad on Sunday.
It was probably that same summer, the summer of 1963. For once we didn't stay at the Ramada Inn, but instead at the very glitzy Sheraton downtown. I had never seen such a fancy place. The swimming pool was on the roof, on something like the 12th or 13th floor probably. You were out there swimming, surrounded by skyscrapers and the noises of the city. It was the most glamorous thing I had ever done - and might indeed still be. (then again, there was the Shamrock Hilton in Houston, but I digress...)
That weekend, we had just gotten ourselves to the pool. It was glorious. I guess we had been there about ten minutes when another family arrived to swim. All of a sudden my dad said, "Let's go." What? We had just gotten there. Now there was even a child my age for me to play with. But then I heard it in his voice: "Let's GO." So we did. I also heard in his voice that there were no questions to be asked. So we moved on with life, hoping that there would be another occasion to hit the pool before we had to leave.
It occurred to me some years later that the family who joined us at the pool that day was African American. To his great credit, my father used no other adjectives to describe the family, and he never talked about the reason he wanted us to leave. He was a man of his age, a Texan, trying to do the right thing as he knew it. Even so, I still regret that he was not able to allow us to do things differently.
If Martin were alive today, he would be 84. If Dad were alive today, he would be 91. Martin has been gone for 45 years; Dad has been gone for 39. I remember Dad telling us later in the sixties that Martin was just a "troublemaker." I wonder how his perspective might have changed over time - and I pray that it would have.
Fifty years later, we have an African American president. My daughter's best friend is biracial. I have close friends who are African American, Asian American and Native American. There's a lot being written about the fact that we are living in a "post-racial world." Unfortunately, I don't believe that's the case. Even though we have definitely come a long way we all still struggle with racism, whether it is spoken or not. One of my closest friends, with whom I celebrated the night that Obama was first elected President, says that he still looks at our President and still sees a "black man" before he sees anything else.
How well do we have to know someone before race differences are no longer an issue? Or gender differences, or differences in sexuality? "Social location" defines the basis for our theology and worldview. Will my social location - female, anglo, native Texan, Presbyterian - always define who I am to others? Or is Martin correct, that some day all of that stuff will be secondary at best? Perhaps it begins to happen when the focus is less upon my own uniqueness, or the uniqueness and differences of the other, and more upon the One who deliberately created us to be diverse.
Do not remember the former things,
or consider the things of old.
I am about to do a new thing;
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?
I will make a way in the wilderness
and rivers in the desert.
The wild animals will honor me,
the jackals and the ostriches;
for I give water in the wilderness,
rivers in the desert,
to give drink to my chosen people,
the people whom I formed for myself
so that they might declare my praise.
--- Isaiah 43:18-21
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Adoption Day(s)
Yesterday we celebrated what we call in our house "Adoption Day." That's the day when the judge in Vologda, Russia, dropped the gavel to say that we were now a family. We celebrate that day because, up until the moment that gavel was dropped, any family member or any Russian at all could have come into the room to say that they wanted to adopt these two children, and it would all have been over. Paul and I still marvel that no one did that. Obviously they did not know these children, or there would have been a line forming outside the courtroom. But by God's grace, we found each other and we were able to stay together.
The timing of the whole thing has always amazed me. Russia didn't even allow foreign adoptions until somewhere around 1992, which was the year we got married. And then the year that we began the process in 2001, Vladimir Putin took office and decided that adoption laws needed an overhaul. Our agency warned us of that. We just laughed, until it actually happened. The bad news is that we lost six months in the process; the good news is that our children were not even on the register until after that six months had passed. And now we see the global politics which in 2013 have once again caused Russia to close adoptions to Americans...
Once the gavel dropped, we had to wait to obtain two red passports, so that we could obtain two green cards, so that we could obtain two blue passports. Some number of Russian officials were so ill-disposed to the adoption of Russian children to foreigners that they had begun to drag out the time required to issue the red passports. So they had made a regulation internally saying that the passports must be issued within 72 hours of the court ruling. Some officials, including ours, would take every minute of 72 hours to make sure that our children were not terrorists or spies.
That gave us lots of time to go shopping for them. The rules also said that the children were ours, but that all their possessions were those of the state. So on the night that we departed for home, we had to arrive with new clothes and shoes and toys for them. We didn't shop very well - we had no experience in guesstimating sizes or thinking about what would actually be necessary. But we did our best.
On the appointed night, we arrived at the Baby House at 10:00pm. Amazingly, both of our children were awake and neither of them was crying or afraid. There was something absolutely baptismal about taking off their old clothes and putting new ones on. They were shedding their old life and preparing to enter the world, virtually for the first time, as Alexander Driskell Watson and Tatiana Meredith Watson. Accompanied by parents, affirmed by passports and paperwork.
We tied their shoes, hugged everyone in sight, and bundled ourselves into a jerry-rigged VW van to go to the train station. The good news is that we were accompanied by two friends, a translator and another Gladney worker, who could help us communicate and pass the first hurdle of parenthood: the first night together!
We rode the overnight train to Vologda, our family in one sleeper car and our friends next door. There wasn't much "sleeping" going on. I think that Meredith and I slept a little bit. But that night, Paul taught Alex his first words of English: the light switch could either be "on" or "off." We heard those words all night long!
When morning dawned, Alex was glued to the window, taking in all the sights. Every so often he would see something fascinating, like a tall crane or a dump truck, and he would squeal with delight. Meredith was more reflective, taking it all in. They continue to display similar traits to this day.That morning, Alex says he remembers some woman buttoning up his shirt for him - if that wasn't me it was probably Natasha - and he remembers jumping down off the train into Paul's arms.
We spent the next few days in Moscow, getting the blue passport, getting physicals, filling out more and more paperwork, and taking in the Moscow Fair as our first outing. Two toddlers at one of the world's largest fairs in the one of the world's largest cities... thank God there were other adults to help us! But we navigated it all, with their help and with God's, and found ourselves on the plane coming home on September 5, 2001.
Of course, the world changed for everyone on September 11, 2001. We missed the morning's drama because we were safely at home in Austin, having breakfast and watching Barney and Mister Rogers. Our world had changed already. We heard the news of the day from another mother at the park near our house. After some play time we came home and had lunch, put the kids down for their nap, and then turned on CNN and cried with the rest of the world.
When we were in Moscow, our translator and driver were showing us around one day. We had been to a Russian Orthodox church, which was fabulous. I noticed another building and asked about it. It was an Islamic mosque. I asked if we could go in and see it too. The driver inquired, and they enthusiastically invited us in. I have never been given such a tour. The fellow who showed us around was not the Imam, but he was wearing something resembling a monk's robe. I assumed he was either an assistant or maybe even someone in training. He had blondish hair and green eyes. He was so thrilled to see us - he said I was the first American that had ever been inside their mosque. He took me every single place a woman could go in that building, including the boiler room - he was so proud!
We ended up in the Imam's study, and he thrust a copy of the Koran at me for my reading pleasure. It was a parallel translation, in Arabic and Russian. Neither of which I could read! So I asked him to read me his favorite passage. He read me from the first of the book, which our translator said was their version of the creation story. And then he read me a passage that is always used at funerals. His face glowed with delight as he read.
On September 11, 2001, that young man was the first person I thought of. I still remember him and pray for his well being and safety, and hope that he remembers that crazy American woman with some level of fondness. Who knew that the adoption of our children would include Christian-Muslim detente?
Those days between August 26 and September 5, 2001, were absolutely unforgettable and life-changing, both for our children and for us.
The timing of the whole thing has always amazed me. Russia didn't even allow foreign adoptions until somewhere around 1992, which was the year we got married. And then the year that we began the process in 2001, Vladimir Putin took office and decided that adoption laws needed an overhaul. Our agency warned us of that. We just laughed, until it actually happened. The bad news is that we lost six months in the process; the good news is that our children were not even on the register until after that six months had passed. And now we see the global politics which in 2013 have once again caused Russia to close adoptions to Americans...
Once the gavel dropped, we had to wait to obtain two red passports, so that we could obtain two green cards, so that we could obtain two blue passports. Some number of Russian officials were so ill-disposed to the adoption of Russian children to foreigners that they had begun to drag out the time required to issue the red passports. So they had made a regulation internally saying that the passports must be issued within 72 hours of the court ruling. Some officials, including ours, would take every minute of 72 hours to make sure that our children were not terrorists or spies.
That gave us lots of time to go shopping for them. The rules also said that the children were ours, but that all their possessions were those of the state. So on the night that we departed for home, we had to arrive with new clothes and shoes and toys for them. We didn't shop very well - we had no experience in guesstimating sizes or thinking about what would actually be necessary. But we did our best.
On the appointed night, we arrived at the Baby House at 10:00pm. Amazingly, both of our children were awake and neither of them was crying or afraid. There was something absolutely baptismal about taking off their old clothes and putting new ones on. They were shedding their old life and preparing to enter the world, virtually for the first time, as Alexander Driskell Watson and Tatiana Meredith Watson. Accompanied by parents, affirmed by passports and paperwork.
We tied their shoes, hugged everyone in sight, and bundled ourselves into a jerry-rigged VW van to go to the train station. The good news is that we were accompanied by two friends, a translator and another Gladney worker, who could help us communicate and pass the first hurdle of parenthood: the first night together!
We rode the overnight train to Vologda, our family in one sleeper car and our friends next door. There wasn't much "sleeping" going on. I think that Meredith and I slept a little bit. But that night, Paul taught Alex his first words of English: the light switch could either be "on" or "off." We heard those words all night long!
When morning dawned, Alex was glued to the window, taking in all the sights. Every so often he would see something fascinating, like a tall crane or a dump truck, and he would squeal with delight. Meredith was more reflective, taking it all in. They continue to display similar traits to this day.That morning, Alex says he remembers some woman buttoning up his shirt for him - if that wasn't me it was probably Natasha - and he remembers jumping down off the train into Paul's arms.
We spent the next few days in Moscow, getting the blue passport, getting physicals, filling out more and more paperwork, and taking in the Moscow Fair as our first outing. Two toddlers at one of the world's largest fairs in the one of the world's largest cities... thank God there were other adults to help us! But we navigated it all, with their help and with God's, and found ourselves on the plane coming home on September 5, 2001.
Of course, the world changed for everyone on September 11, 2001. We missed the morning's drama because we were safely at home in Austin, having breakfast and watching Barney and Mister Rogers. Our world had changed already. We heard the news of the day from another mother at the park near our house. After some play time we came home and had lunch, put the kids down for their nap, and then turned on CNN and cried with the rest of the world.
When we were in Moscow, our translator and driver were showing us around one day. We had been to a Russian Orthodox church, which was fabulous. I noticed another building and asked about it. It was an Islamic mosque. I asked if we could go in and see it too. The driver inquired, and they enthusiastically invited us in. I have never been given such a tour. The fellow who showed us around was not the Imam, but he was wearing something resembling a monk's robe. I assumed he was either an assistant or maybe even someone in training. He had blondish hair and green eyes. He was so thrilled to see us - he said I was the first American that had ever been inside their mosque. He took me every single place a woman could go in that building, including the boiler room - he was so proud!
We ended up in the Imam's study, and he thrust a copy of the Koran at me for my reading pleasure. It was a parallel translation, in Arabic and Russian. Neither of which I could read! So I asked him to read me his favorite passage. He read me from the first of the book, which our translator said was their version of the creation story. And then he read me a passage that is always used at funerals. His face glowed with delight as he read.
On September 11, 2001, that young man was the first person I thought of. I still remember him and pray for his well being and safety, and hope that he remembers that crazy American woman with some level of fondness. Who knew that the adoption of our children would include Christian-Muslim detente?
Those days between August 26 and September 5, 2001, were absolutely unforgettable and life-changing, both for our children and for us.
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