March 15, 2011
Before having children, I had a deep, secret fear about which I for many years was ashamed. I was secretly afraid that I would have a child with a serious disability, particularly a disability with neurological or behavioral implications. I wasn't fearful for the sake of my future children, but rather afraid of my own limitations. I couldn't imagine that I was cut out for parenting a child who wouldn't develop typically.
While I am not proud of having once felt this way, I see the same feeling reflected in the relief of expectant parents when screenings and ultrasounds come back with normal findings in pregnancy. I see it in the elation of parents of healthy newborn babies, counting fingers and toes and celebrating strong APGAR scores. That's the same worldview from which I started, and I share my pre-parenthood fear with you now because as badly as I felt about it, I know I wasn't alone.
Being a more evolved person than I am, my sister-in-law says that when her daughter was diagnosed in utero with a disability that would impact development, there was easy peace for my sister-in-law in the idea that she would get to play more of a "mommy role" for her daughter for longer. I admired her acceptance, but my own personal journey into the fullness of my humanity has been slower.
It started when my first child came to me rather unexpectedly as a foster child. I had a friend at church who worked for a fostering agency that was in desperate need of a home for a particular teenager. A "permanent" home was needed, and despite my fears about parenting a child with disabilities – of which he had multiple – I could not let this kid be tossed into yet another group home when what he needed was an attentive set of committed foster parents who would see him into adulthood and even provide him with assisted living later on.
When I think about the pivotal moments in my own development as a person, I am reminded of a scene from a few months after my foster son came to live with me. We were in the grocery store together when he was overcome by the emotional and sensory experience of shopping. I told him we were not at the store to buy a CD and that he was welcome to save up his allowance money so we could come back for what he wanted. Being significantly developmentally delayed and more at the level of a three or four-year old in some ways than a fifteen-year old, he promptly threw himself on the floor and had an all-out temper tantrum. How we made it out of the store without security being called on us, I'll never know.
What both surprised me and signaled my growth as a person is that I was overcome not with impatience, embarrassment, or fury, which I would have needed to tamp down, but rather the deepest compassion I had ever felt until that point in my life. "This is not an abnormal kid," I reminded myself of my foster parent training: "this is a normal kid dealing with abnormal circumstances." And yet, it wasn't pity that I felt. I didn't feel sorry for him. I just held a deep regard for him as a human being, and without judgment I desired to help him get to wherever he needed to be in order to be comfortable again. People gawked, and I stayed focused on my kid. In moments like that, love became my soulful educator. Because my heart opened, I was able to see my child not as his "disabilities," but as a person with unique gifts and strengths, just like everyone else.
It has been many years now, and I have been diagnosed with a disability myself. I'm learning about self-advocacy and acceptance, and I am also a proud and joyful mother of two five-year olds, both of whom have their own unique so-called "special needs." They too each have a unique set of gifts and strengths, and I can barely remember the days of my pre-parenthood fear. As time goes on, I realize my fear came from the prevailing worldview in the society in which we have all been socialized. I am interested in what would happen if we moved from a "disability paradigm" to an inclusive society in which we could all hold one another in deep regard as human beings. What if ten fingers and toes wasn't what we celebrated when babies were born?
Warmly in Faith,
Sierra-Marie
March 10, 2011
When I was fifteen years old, a friend who was a year or two my senior took me to our local synagogue for Dances of Universal Peace. The Dances of Universal Peace group borrowed the synagogue one evening each month. I had no idea what to expect from their gathering.
I walked into a room where people were greeting one another excitedly and entering into a circle formation. Song leaders taught the songs and showed us the dances, but the instruction was consistently brief. I learned the dances by doing them, and learned the songs by singing them. The songs were simple, often chants and sung mantras. We sang them over and over, at varying tempos and volumes, dancing in circle, and something magical and transformative would happen as the words were internalized and embodied in our movements.
The Dances of Universal Peace tradition comes out of the 1960s counter-culture, but unlike many of the movements from that time, it continued to grow through the 1990s. Having been raised in a Unitarian Universalist church, the dances invoked the familiar “circle worship” of my time in youth group. In fact, even some of the songs were familiar.
I soon grew to feel comfortable with the dances, and made it my practice to attend regularly. My friend and I eventually gathered a fairly large group of other youth, and we all went to the dances together. Some of the most spiritually moving experiences I’ve had occurred during the dances.
A year or so later, a group member became inappropriate with one of my friends, and we all immediately stopped going to the dances. Still, by that point my friends and I had begun to take hiking trips together in the Colorado
Every now and then, I hear people argue that teenagers or young adults are void of spirituality. They are, it is said, focused on dating and school, on extracurricular activities and driving, and all kinds of other youthful distractions. On the contrary, I have found the teenage hormonal surge, the emotional rollercoaster of adolescence, to create the ripest conditions and the deepest cravings for the grounding that comes from spiritual practices, reflection, and experiences. There is a reason that rites of passages for teenagers around the world often involve a spiritual quest.
My wife, whose spiritual temperament and religious background is near opposite of mine, says that even she found her way to the local Catholic Church a couple of times when in her first year of college she felt lost and overwhelmed. She slipped out the back door as quickly and quietly as she came, but being in a sanctuary of worship surrounded by candles gave her a brief sense of peace while she made her way through a confusing and new adult world.
I hear the spiritual hunger among track runners, who talk about the physical endurance and the silent concentration of a good run. I hear the spiritual hunger in choir singers, who say there is a unique sense of elation in a spontaneous harmony. I even hear the spiritual hunger of the nicotine-addicted teenager, when I take the time to sit outside with him on the bench where he smokes, breathing slowly in and out with him as he reflects on the day he has had.
We’ve entered the season of Lent, when many, as it has been said, “give up something to make room for something else.” There is a physical immediacy in self-deprivation that is attractive and meaningful to many teenagers. The practice of a fast, or giving up of something to make room for something else, is not unique to the Christian tradition and has implications for people of all ages no matter what the particular theology behind it. How are you sharing in Lent with the young people in your life?
Warmly In Faith,
Sierra-Marie
March 7, 2011
Reprinted From April 8, 2008
It’s a Wednesday morning. I am running late. Actually, I am not running late. My children are running late. I am scheduled to attend a meeting with a few colleagues in a half hour, but my wife, Gina, is at a doctor’s appointment, and I need to meet her there with the kids so she can take over their care.
Unfortunately, like most mornings with two two-year olds, this
one is full of the unexpected. Both the kids woke up an hour early this morning, and woke me up within minutes of their waking. Perhaps counter-intuitively, the kids waking up early does not mean that I am likely to run early with my own tasks. Instead, it means the children are extra tired, extra cranky, moving in slow motion, and extra needy. Morning chores that normally take us a few minutes take a half hour because both kids are at their wits end. In fact, I also am at my wits end.
On days like this, what would be best for the souls of my children, as well as my own, is if I slowed down. “I know we woke up early this morning. We are still tired. It’s hard to do things the way we normally do them, so we’re going to treat one another with care and take the time we need. What is most important always is loving kindness.”
There are days when I am able to say these words to my children. I slow down, and for better or worse, I extend my day on the later end so that the morning is more humane for us all. These are the formative years of my children’s lives, after all, and teaching them about my values is important to me.
I am playing life’s delicate game of balance, however, and in this instance, the need to get to my meeting on time is the weightiest. I force on the kids’ socks, shoes, and coats, stuff the last of the kids’ snacks into the diaper bag, and we rush out the door. As we’re walking out, I pick up one of the kids, and the other melts down into tears. I tell myself that we’ll all be okay in a half hour. Yes, here is the reality of our contemporary society.
I spend my life in conversation with other parents, and as far as I am aware, no parent avoids this struggle completely. The tension is between these two things: the necessary pace of modern life, and the developmentally, emotionally, and spiritually necessary pace of our children’s lives.
Each one is more or less necessary at different times, and there
is always the risk of drawing the line in the wrong place at the wrong time. Miss that opportunity to really hear our children, for example, and we miss a precious, fleeting glimpse into who they are. In the end, could anything really be more important than knowing and loving one another?
And yet, running late, forgetting or canceling appointments, or foregoing opportunities can throw us wildly out of balance (which isn’t, incidentally, good for children either). So in each moment, like all people, I make a new decision about how I am going to be present in the world for that moment.
It’s like keeping balance on a board placed over a ball. Even small adjustments of the feet, some not noticeable to the human eye, can throw me off. It’s an art form, really, and I am proud of the fact that even though there are times when I feel I am about to come undone, usually I am able to keep my balancing board from rolling right over these precious little souls-- my two children-- while at the same time I am able to fulfill many of my responsibilities in the larger world.
But just when I think I’ve got it figured out, something will change. The ball gets bigger or smaller. It loses or gains air. The board gets a crack in it. An object comes rolling or flying straight toward me. My leg cramps. My foot gets a sliver. The board is a new size. I take a risk and invite a friend on. Someone bumps into me.
I recently was tempted to tell a friend with a five month old baby (a friend who is struggling with exhaustion and an overwhelming desire to sleep more), “the bad news is that once you get a good rhythm going, once you get it figured out, it will change. Your baby will go through a growth spurt, or start teething, or get sick, or learn something new, or stop needing so much sleep, or start needing more sleep again.”
Instead, I focused on the good news. “You’re a wonderful mother, and you’re highly capable, so you’ll read your daughter’s cues and adjust as necessary. Eventually, it won’t feel like such a struggle.”
As this is a challenge that in one form or another is common to all people living in our society at this time, it is important for us to build spaces in our lives for slowing down, for being conscious of our breath, for being aware of the state of our bodies and souls, and for restoring ourselves to the fullness of our humanity.
Remind you of why you come to church on Sundays? It is true also for our children. One of the goals the Religious Education Committee wrote many years ago, was to have a children’s ministry that would help children with a restoration of balance in their lives. That's one worthy goal!
Warmly in Faith,
Sierra-Marie
March 5, 2011
Reprinted From October 30, 2007
A number of years ago, I came across a review of research on environmental education in school settings. This piqued my interest because my own public education occurred at the beginning of the era of environmental education in schools.
I have vague memories from as early as first or second grade, of
participating in activities such as a tour of the city’s water treatment plant and discussion on water conservation. At the time, this type of education was groundbreaking!
The review of research was relatively thorough, and it struck me that not all the research on environmental education indicated positive outcomes. In fact, I was surprised by the amount of research which demonstrated negative outcomes from environmental education programs.
Several very important studies showed that no matter how positive the curricula had been regarding the difference a single person can make in helping to “save the earth,” children who participated in these programs were more —not less— likely to have negative attitudes about earth stewardship.
Many young adults who had gone through these programs reported feeling overwhelmed by environmental problems, which led to the perception of an inability to make a difference
through individual action. In other words, kids who had gone through these programs were not necessarily growing up to be stellar earth stewards.
Of course, the research is somewhat conflicting, but the reviewer concluded that we might benefit from rethinking how we deal with global issues when it comes to kids. My older siblings and I grew up also during a time when many liberal religious congregations were extensively involved in social justice issues related to global peace-making.
The congregation I grew up invoted to become a symbolic “nuclear free zone” during my childhood, and we also erected a peace pole (a pole with prayers for peace in a number of languages) in the church yard when I was nine or ten years old. I even remember, as a part of Sunday School, writing anti-war postcards to senators when I was just a beginning writer.
Kids in my childhood church understood that people of faith were called to act in ways that would better the world. I don’t regret that in the least. Social justice was a formative part of my religious education, and it is consistent with the principles and purposes of the Unitarian Universalist Association of Congregations.
Yet, we know much more now about developmentally effective ways to share social justice ministries with children. There is a wounded part of me, exposed to adult level problems too early, and hurt by the grieving I did over what I then perceived to be “earth’s doom” before I had more time to simply enjoy it.
Developmentally appropriate social justice education means that children are given a solid foundation upon which social justice principles can later rest. Though it absolutely should be supported by congregations, to be developmentally appropriate it must take place largely within a family context.
Time spent walking through a natural outdoor area is developmentally appropriate environmental education for young children, especially if the child is free to stop at will and observe the water bug skating over the surface of the pond, the light and dark spots of sunbeams coming through trees, the tree stump with a fresh baby tree growing out of it, and the “rolly polly” bugs living under fallen branches.
People take care of things they value, and children will grow to practice stewardship of the earth once they have learned to love it. We can do more harm than good if we put the cart before the horse.
Outdoor play is the one type of environmental education universally supported by research. When paired with adults (especially family members) who model earth stewardship in daily life, it helps children grow to both love and care for the earth.
Is there still a place for families to participate in cleaning up litter together, or saving electricity, or helping neighbors recycle? Absolutely, but we don’t need to pound the perils of the earth into our children’s heads in order for these experiences to be valuable ones. We can simply and matter-of-factly tell them that we take care of the earth, and together do it.
This pedagogy can be applied to all types of social justice issues. I invite your thoughts and hope you will take some time to share them with me.
Warmly in faith,
Sierra-Marie
March 3, 2011
Reprinted From September 18, 2007
We began grieving the loss of our baby girl, Kayla, the day she came to live with us.
I imagine that most-- if not all-- of us have experienced this kind of grief. It’s the type of grief that comes with terminal illness of a loved one, for example. It is the pre-loss grief of a loss that is possible, or probable, or inevitable. It is both grief for the loss, and also grief for the grief; it is grief for the loss of so much joy that we might experience in the time we have with our loved one if only we weren’t already grieving.
My wife, Gina, and I have been foster parents for a number of years. We adopted our son, Marcus, after foster parenting him for thirteen uncertain months. By the time Kayla arrived, we knew well that in the course of a foster-adoption, anything could happen.
Kayla moved to our home from another foster home because she needed a potential adoptive placement. Yet, while Marcus' adoption had been considered a straight forward one, even in his case I had walked into the Children's Services office one day when he was about a month old-- totally unsuspecting-- and received news from his social worker that she had found a suitable birth relative to care for Marcus.
Birth-relative placements give children a chance to maintain ties with their extended birth family, and thus are often considered ideal. But whether or not this move was ideal for Marcus, it meant we’d be saying goodbye. "He will be moving to her house in two weeks" the social worker told me that day. And though the relative changed her mind the day of Marcus’ move, it was forever etched in our hearts that everything was bound to change in an instant.
When facing such uncertainty, emotional survival mechanisms kick in. One job of the human brain is to protect our fragile emotional state. A disequilibrium of the emotional system can be tolerated for a short period of time, but then the brain must do its job to regulate, otherwise the other systems of the body-- and ultimately, human survival-- are threatened. The human mind is capable of great trickery to achieve this end.
When Marcus was six months old, Halloween came ’round. Gina and I waited until the day before Halloween to make his costume. In our minds, Halloween came into existence on that day when it was no longer “the future.” Somehow, we had to cope with the uncertainty, and limited vision did the trick. Marcus’adoption was finalized seven months later. We did not celebrate his adoption until 31 days after it was finalized in court. The 30th day was the last day of the appeal period.
Over time, the difficulties and pain of the foster-adoption roller coaster faded from our memories. When Gina and I learned of Kayla, we were able to joyfully say “yes” to her placement with us. But the day she was placed in our arms, we went home emotionally exhausted and took a family nap. I awoke with tears in my eyes, my heart heavy and throbbing at the thought that this moment- ANY moment - could be our last together. In this way, I felt a deep kinship with her birthmother who was also grieving a loss.
It has been one year as of this week. Kayla is a beautiful, stubborn, rough-and-tumble, curious one-and-a half year old. Her foster care case was scheduled to be closed in May. Likely, this would have opened the door to our adoption over the summer. Unfortunately, a variety of court delays have prevented resolution. Kayla can't cross state lines, except on a temporary basis when the court will allow a short-term travel order. So Gina and our children live in Washington state indefinitely, though news of any type may arrive at any time. Right now, Gina and the kids are visiting Massachusetts on a short-term travel order. They will return to Washington October 1st.
As for Kayla, I love her so much it hurts. When I watch her laugh, when I see her playing with Marcus, when she runs at me with wide-open arms, I choose joy.
But it is painful too. There is a place inside me prepared to be
her forever mother, and another place inside me prepared to never see her again. In a way, this is the immediate reflection of the struggle of all of us, as mortal beings: to love when it means losing, to love even though it means losing.
Look around at any human being near you. They too are
afflicted by this universal condition. We all are. We love, we lose, and somehow, we love again. We are in this together.
Warmly in Faith,
Sierra-Marie