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
Thursday, August 29, 2013
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.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Vines, Branches, and Questions
I'm in Taos, NM this afternoon, enjoying a thunderstorm of biblical proportions. At least it seems that way when you've been in a drought for years. Even our two-year-old cat Ruby hides when it rains - she has no idea what that stuff is.
The saints of Taos First have asked me to reflect on John 15:1-17 for their Session retreat tonight. So I'm going to share my ponderings on this passage with you in hours of focusing my thoughts for them. And if you happen to know anyone on Session in Taos, please don't leak this to them before tonight!
This is a very intimate passage. In just 17 verses, Jesus refers to himself and to us more than 30 times each. Even God only gets 7 mentions. Jesus is talking straight to his disciples, and to us, looking us all right in the eye. It's a monologue; Jesus is doing all the talking. The disciples don't get a word in edgewise. But there's a lot of good stuff to hear.
And what does he say? The thing that really pops out to this 21st century girl is this: ask for anything, and you will get it. Wow! A parking spot AND a new car to go into it? A million dollars? Obedient children? Perfect health? It's like Jesus is our own personal genie: rub the bottle, and, voila.
This is sounding a little too Joel Osteen, "prosperity gospel," for me. If you pull out that one verse, that's what you get. But we can't just ignore the other 16 verses, as much as we might like. Upon further investigation, there's more. (As is usually the case where Jesus is concerned)
Verse 7, NRSV: "If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you." Ah, the catch.
In English, "abide" and"abode" are closely related. Take up residence. Move in permanently. Become part of the neighborhood. No camping, no renting. LIVE in Jesus, and let Jesus' words live in us.
It's kind of like that fruit which he talks about in this same section. It sounds like we are to be as organically connected to Jesus as grapes are to the vine, as Jesus describes himself to be to us.
That's a fairly hard thing to wrap my head around. Maybe it would help to remember (she said, stepping out of her liberal arts comfort zone and into agriculture) that produce, whether it's apples or grapes or cotton or corn, is organically related to that which produces it. Grapevines cannot produce rice. And different kinds of grapevines produce different types of grapes. Jesus even says so himself in the Sermon on the Mount, in Matthew 7: "You will know them by their fruits."
Suffice it to say that if Jesus is the vine upon which we grapes grow, then our grapes will have a certain quality and character they might not receive from another source.
And then, suffice it to say that if we are so connected to the vine, then any questions we might ask will take on an entirely different character. Grapes so closely connected to this particular vine will probably not be concerned with parking places or cars. Our askings might sound more like: Give us this day or daily bread. Forgive us as we forgive others (and while we are at it, give us the capacity to forgive others). Deliver us from evil. Bring your realm to bear on earth, just as it does in heaven.
One last thought: grapes by their very nature know that they must hang together or they will hang separately. The Vine proves all the nourishment that each grape, each cluster of grapes, and each clump of grapes needs to flourish. There's plenty of vine to go around.
I'm thinking that the more connected we are to the Vine, and to the other grapes that surround us, the healthier we all will grow. That very connection is what will help us frame our questions, and then to be prepared to wait expectantly for the answers we are promised.
The saints of Taos First have asked me to reflect on John 15:1-17 for their Session retreat tonight. So I'm going to share my ponderings on this passage with you in hours of focusing my thoughts for them. And if you happen to know anyone on Session in Taos, please don't leak this to them before tonight!
This is a very intimate passage. In just 17 verses, Jesus refers to himself and to us more than 30 times each. Even God only gets 7 mentions. Jesus is talking straight to his disciples, and to us, looking us all right in the eye. It's a monologue; Jesus is doing all the talking. The disciples don't get a word in edgewise. But there's a lot of good stuff to hear.
And what does he say? The thing that really pops out to this 21st century girl is this: ask for anything, and you will get it. Wow! A parking spot AND a new car to go into it? A million dollars? Obedient children? Perfect health? It's like Jesus is our own personal genie: rub the bottle, and, voila.
This is sounding a little too Joel Osteen, "prosperity gospel," for me. If you pull out that one verse, that's what you get. But we can't just ignore the other 16 verses, as much as we might like. Upon further investigation, there's more. (As is usually the case where Jesus is concerned)
Verse 7, NRSV: "If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you." Ah, the catch.
In English, "abide" and"abode" are closely related. Take up residence. Move in permanently. Become part of the neighborhood. No camping, no renting. LIVE in Jesus, and let Jesus' words live in us.
It's kind of like that fruit which he talks about in this same section. It sounds like we are to be as organically connected to Jesus as grapes are to the vine, as Jesus describes himself to be to us.
That's a fairly hard thing to wrap my head around. Maybe it would help to remember (she said, stepping out of her liberal arts comfort zone and into agriculture) that produce, whether it's apples or grapes or cotton or corn, is organically related to that which produces it. Grapevines cannot produce rice. And different kinds of grapevines produce different types of grapes. Jesus even says so himself in the Sermon on the Mount, in Matthew 7: "You will know them by their fruits."
Suffice it to say that if Jesus is the vine upon which we grapes grow, then our grapes will have a certain quality and character they might not receive from another source.
And then, suffice it to say that if we are so connected to the vine, then any questions we might ask will take on an entirely different character. Grapes so closely connected to this particular vine will probably not be concerned with parking places or cars. Our askings might sound more like: Give us this day or daily bread. Forgive us as we forgive others (and while we are at it, give us the capacity to forgive others). Deliver us from evil. Bring your realm to bear on earth, just as it does in heaven.
One last thought: grapes by their very nature know that they must hang together or they will hang separately. The Vine proves all the nourishment that each grape, each cluster of grapes, and each clump of grapes needs to flourish. There's plenty of vine to go around.
I'm thinking that the more connected we are to the Vine, and to the other grapes that surround us, the healthier we all will grow. That very connection is what will help us frame our questions, and then to be prepared to wait expectantly for the answers we are promised.
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