Hey Kind Friend

It was one of those weeks when each day seemed worse than the one before; a week in which morning prayers were anything but peace-filled moments for me and my children, but rather the setting for fisticuffs, unholy looks, and whines which caused me to grit my teeth and mutter under my breath; a week when little boys clamored onto the kitchen table, joyously knocking over precious coffee; a week when after the fourth dirty diaper in three hours, I questioned anew why I exactly insisted upon using cloth diapers; a week when underwear was intentionally stuffed into and flushed down the toilet; a week when meals became occasions for demonstrating my youngest children's throwing arms. It was a week where despite my intense love for my children, I wanted to bury my head in my arms with my ears stuffed with cotton balls to diminish the seemingly incessant cry of, "Mommy" and cry myself. It was a week in which I was less like the iconic June Cleaver and more like the nasty step-mother depicted in fairy tales; a week where sleep deprivation manifested itself in ugly, embarrassing ways - an uncontrolled temper and an uncontrolled tongue - so that my meager apology of, "I am sorry," became a permanent fixture on my lips. It was a week I hope not to repeat, though I probably will.

With hope I clung to the fact that no matter how horrible each day was, I was leaving for Indiana with my eldest child on Friday to visit precious friends who accept me in spite of myself. I knew that despite the distance that now separates these beautiful women from me, I would find solace and comfort within their homes. I knew that as reunited children laughed and played in the background, and as we drank coffee, diet Coke, and wine, we would truly be open about the endless challenges confronting each of us and that by speaking about our struggles they would become less cumbersome and heavy. So thank you kind friends for listening, empathizing, offering your love, and helping me remember who I am. No matter how many miles separate us, you are always close to my heart.

Kind and Generous

Over the course of the last few months, the boys and I have launched into reading a Bible story at the conclusion of our breakfast. The vintage Arch books of my childhood whose clever rhymes have quickly enamored my children and even stilled the usually restless Russell and Elliot are hands down our favorites. There is one story in particular that each of the boys are inclined to choose when their turn comes around, despite the ripped out pages carefully tucked inside (thank you Elliot). Entitled The Boy Who Gave His Lunch Away, it chronicles the story of the feeding of the five thousand from the perspective of a fictional character named Joel.

Hoping to catch sight of a king and a bit disappointed when he finds a rather poor looking man named Jesus, Joel is presented as the young boy who offered up the five loaves of bread and two fish his mother had packed for him in order to quell the hunger of the masses who had congregated to hear Christ's teachings and witness His miraculous healings. What has increasingly struck me each time is the beauty of how one person's willingness to cheerfully deny himself and generously give something away - something as sparse as a couple loaves of bread and fish - resulted in such lavishness and unveiled the kingdom of love which Christ's coming inaugurated; a kingdom which we catch glimpses of each time someone reaches out and selflessly comes to the assistance of another.

Last weekend all the planning, collecting, pricing, and arranging for our fundraiser garage sale finally materialized. As dark clouds threatening rain filled the sky early Thursday morning, we dragged countless tables overflowing with items donated to our cause out onto the driveway, the front lawn, and in the garage itself. Despite the abundance, my parents' basement, living room, hallway, and back patio testified to the overwhelming kindness of the fifty plus donors. Over the course of our three day sale, items remained scattered in these various locations as we attempted to get out everything we had received. While there were some larger items which fetched a few more dollars, most of the things sold were small - books and VHS tapes for a quarter, knicknacks which were rarely priced over fifty cents, hundreds of records for a dime each. The nickels, dimes, and quarters, however, added up and by the end of the sale on Saturday, we had raised $1,815. Moreover, we received several monetary donations, $1,270 to be exact, so that we surpassed our goal of $3,000 (the amount needed for our upcoming dossier fee).

With the exception of a few stray bags of clothes which never made it out to the sale, my parents' living room, bedrooms, and hallway have more or less returned to their normal state. The basement is a collection of leftover items jammed into boxes which we will attempt to sell next month. Thank God and thank you all, friends and strangers, for your kindness and generosity. Truly, we never would have come this far without you.

"...let us not love in word or in tongue, but in deed and in truth." I John 3:18

A special thank you to my parents', Ray and Charlene Swanson, my mother-in-law, Linda Johnson, and our dear friends, Doug and Kim Nimrick, who stored all our donations (Paige noted that the Nimrick living room does not look the same without 3,000 records stacked against the wall); to Susan Curry and Kim Nimrick who graciously offered their time that first frenzied day (we never would have survived without your help); to my oldest friend, Julie DeBruyckere who helped us pack everything back up; to Sue Swanson, not only for your help but for knowing how I "flavor" my coffee and buying me a big cup; to Mike and Kathy Johnson for the much needed tables; and to Cathe Otto and Sharon Tyrrell for helping out with my sweet boys.

For Harry and Bertha - With Love and Kimchi

The Johnsons with Molly Holt, daughter of Harry and Bertha Holt, at KAMP in Cedar Falls, IA

A few years ago, as Jared and I were returning from a homestudy visit with our social worker in Le Grand, Iowa, we stopped at a thrift store in a small town whose name I have forgotten. In a room crowded with haphazardly stacked books I spied a special edition of Life magazine dated December 20, 1955, whose topic was Christianity. Of course we had to buy it and as I flipped through its pages on our way home, I encountered a one-page story with a headline, 'The Lord Is Their Sponsor' and stared at pictures of Harry and Bertha Holt, the founders of our adoption agency, Holt International, surrounded by their eight children aged three and under who had been adopted from South Korea.

Harry and Bertha Holt were your average folks. Harry owned a lumber mill in Eugene, Oregon, and was a farmer. His wife Bertha (who I must add was a native Iowan) was employed like many women of her time as a nurse. In December 1954, Harry and Bertha attended a meeting in which Bob Pierce, the head of the evangelical organization, World Vision, showed a documentary film about the plight of Korean children fathered and abandoned by American G.I.'s. In her work, The Seed from the East, Bertha Holt recounts this watershed moment in their lives:

I looked at Harry. He was motionless and tense. I knew every scene had cut him like a knife. I was hurt, too. There is so much we have never known. We had never thought of such suffering and heartbreak. We had never heard of such poverty and despair. We had never seen such emaciated arms and legs, such bloated starvation-stomachs and such wistful little faces searching for someone to care…

Initially the Holts determined to sponsor ten Korean orphans by sending money in order to help meet some of these children's physical needs. But unbeknownst to the other, Harry and Bertha each began to experience a gnawing feeling that merely giving money was not enough and that they needed to consider moving beyond this comfortable place. "More and more I found myself wishing we could bring some of the Korean orphans into our own home where we could love and care for them. I would walk from room to room thinking of how we could put a cot here…and another bed there. It even occurred to me that some of the rooms could be partitioned and made into two rooms without depriving anyone. In fact, some of the rooms even appeared empty as I looked at them," Bertha wrote in her account.

On April 15, 1955, Harry finally voiced his conviction that he and his wife should adopt some of the orphans in Korea. And while both Harry and Bertha were fifty years old at the time and already had six children, aged 9 through 21, they decided to add eight more children to their family. In October 1955, after receiving a special act from Congress allowing them to exceed the two child limit of the time, Harry Holt accompanied his children Betty, Christine, Helen, Joseph, Mary, Nathaniel, Paul, and Robert to their new home in Oregon.

Two weeks ago, our family traveled to Cedar Falls, Iowa, to attend the retreat portion of K.A.M.P. (Korean Adoption Means Pride). As we pulled into the Riverview Conference grounds where we would be staying with the majority of other families attending K.A.M.P., we had to doge children of all ages walking together and riding bikes. What was different about most of these children was that the majority shared the same ethnicity as my own children. Their family stories were similar to our family's story. Besides, there were no questions about whether my children were adopted, whether Jared and I could or could not conceive, whether my children were brothers, or whether they were Chinese. It was deeply refreshing to be surrounded by men and women who have made such similar journeys. Everyone welcomed our family into this community and we were able to share in their wisdom concerning common adoption issues - issues like how to draw a family tree, what age their sons or daughters began to read their confidential files, or how to talk about biological siblings. Through food (there was kimchi available at breakfast), dance, traditional costumes, and tae kwon do demonstrations, we celebrated the culture of the land of the morning calm from which our children came, ever-grateful to the two individuals whose act of obedience changed the course of adoption history. "Are we in Korea?" Thomas questioned after our first evening at K.A.M.P. "No, it's just Iowa," I replied. "But it's wonderful."

Grateful

It is nearly 9:30 p.m. and this body is beat and begging for bed. My dear husband took the day off work so I could spend time at my parents' attempting to get everything ready for our fundraising garage sale scheduled for a week from today. My feet are black from my their garage floor ( I kept tripping over my shoes so I opted to get rid of them), my hair a ratty mess and a bit fuzzy from the humidity, and I may even smell. And though exhausted from emptying endless boxes, pricing items on pieces of masking tape, and trying to figure out where all this stuff is going to exactly fit for the next week, I am deeply humbled and grateful for the pure generosity once again exhibited to our growing family. The garage and basement are overflowing with donations from family, friends, and strangers. Cribs, coffee and kitchen tables, beautiful rugs, dishes, glasses, etc. crowd the space allotted for them all because so many of you are willing to come to our assistance when we reach out and ask for help. And so on this Thursday, I am grateful. Grateful not only for this overwhelming generosity but also for the time I was able to spend with old neighbors, Aunt Kathy and Uncle Mike, who stopped by with donations and then, noting our desperate need for additional tables, returned hauling a picnic table on a trailer, and my sweet friend Susan, who despite her pregnancy with baby number four (and she is showing!), took time out of her day to load and unload countless boxes. Thank you all. Your unselfishness is inspiring!