Two

With good reason, I could have surmised that it was a ploy to gain a few more minutes of precious play time before beginning his bedtime ritual. Nonetheless, I could not help but be moved by my eldest son's determination to utilize notebook paper and blue painter's tape to wrap "birthday presents" for his two younger brothers. Just hours earlier, as we traveled to Iowa City to celebrate the Feast of Christ's Ascension, an audible sigh reverberated from the back seat where Thomas was strapped in upon my innocent question posed to Russell and Elliot of how old they were going to be. Thomas had followed the sigh with a declaration that seemed more than a wee bit annoyed, "O my goodness. I cannot wait until they turn two." But now blue tape twirled around little packages, tiny scissors snipped in just the right spots, and Thomas posed a question of his own, "Mommy, how do you write I love you?" Granted, this was not a demonstration of generosity on behalf of my son for he admitted that the gifts, a timer and a tape measure, were ones that he did not want anymore. Still it was an act of altruism and one of utmost secrecy. Pulling me over, Thomas confidentially whispered in a my ear, "Shh. I'll tell you what they are. But don't tell Russell and Elliot."

Yes, our two tinies are two. We celebrated their lives on Monday at our home surrounded by a small group composed mostly of family members, as well as one of my oldest friends, who the children affectionately call "Auntie Julie." Grandpa Johnson traveled from Pontiac, Illinois, and Uncle Dan and Aunt Sarah from their new home in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, just to be with us. Thank you! Despite the fact that our local Korean restaurant was closed for Memorial Day, resulting in the replacement of bulgogi and kimchi with Harris pizza, and that white taper candles served as birthday candles in the yellow cakes baked especially for each boy by yours truly, it was a good day in which we each rejoiced in the birth of Russell and Elliot, appreciating all that their presence contributes to our lives.

But on this day, their actual birth day, my mood is more reflective of the chilly, gloomy day outside. I cannot help but feel a profound sadness at my core as my thoughts inevitably turn to the individuals, unknown to us, thousands of miles away. Today I am especially aware of my children's birthparents; the man and woman whose union created my two sons. As a mother of internationally adopted children, it is often painfully difficult to accept that my greatest gifts come as the result of others' greatest losses. And so today I cry for the woman who carried twin boys in her womb for nine months, who labored for hours, experiencing the excruciating physical pains of childbirth until she overcame the struggle and delivered two perfect, healthy boys. I grieve for her who experienced the agony of knowing that at this time in her life, she was unable to parent her sons, and consequently they would be removed from their native land to an anonymous place and adopted by nameless people. I weep for her broken body, for her breasts filled with milk aching to suckle and nourish her little ones, and for her arms empty of her children.

Today, I offer up a prayer for grace and healing in each of our lives, hoping that God will extend His peace to these intimate strangers, Russell's and Elliot's other parents. If you have a moment, please say a prayer for them too. And I want to thank this beautiful, courageous, selfless woman for the sacrifice she made. Happy Birthday to you, Russell Matthew Jin-pyo and Elliot Andrew Jin-seo. Know that you are my heart and that I love you. We all do.

Life and Life Eternal

Not that most Sunday mornings aren't peaceful, but this one was more so than most. You see, we weren't preparing for our weekly, hour-long trek to Iowa City. Instead we were drinking coffee, taking lengthy showers, and calmly getting ready for the 11 o'clock service at a local Catholic parish. It was perhaps because of this relaxing morning, I found myself quite ready to appreciate the beauty of the service we had come to witness, my goddaughter Paige's first communion.

It was truly a wonder to watch the girl who I had held so recently as an infant on the day of her baptism participate in this sacred event. Perhaps because they spent so much of their history in hostile territory, the Orthodox usually pack all three sacraments of initiation - baptism, chrismation, and first communion - into one service. The thought to get them all in before the next Christian purge was probably a practical one, but I also feel it robs children of much needed rights of passage. We need those rites as parents and godparents as well, so we have a moment to truly look and see the little miracles growing up right before eyes.

The parents of my goddaughter have been my close friends from time immemorial, at least immemorial to me. Kim and I have hung out since at least the 5th grade when we were in band together. I knew Doug's name at the time, but only as my cousin's best friend. I think the first time we met was when all our middle schools fed into United Township High School. I still remember when Kim first told me she was dating Doug. I had stopped by her house while out riding my bike. Notice I was riding my bike, not driving a car - we were 15.

This would seem ridiculous, being together from the age of 15, if it were not for the fact that these are two of the kindest and most generous people I know. And they come from two of the kindest, most generous families I know - parents, siblings, nieces, nephews, the whole lot. Whether it was forgiveness when I instigated a school-wide boycot of a chicken lunch painstakingly prepared by Kim's mother (then the lunch lady), dinner when my wife was out of town, fundraisers and donations when we began our journey of adoption, and then more fundraisers and donations when we did it again, or a couch for me to sleep off a hang-over, nearly every member of these two families have shown me and my family some form of hospitality, generosity, and love.

Thus it was that I also understood some of the stifled anguish in the hearts of these two dear families as they fed my boys Oreos and Goldfish crackers, desperately trying to keep my three boys quiet throughout the mass. You see, as we watched this joyous marker in the young life of Kim's daughter, Kim's father was dying in the hospital. The party afterwards, moved at the last minute to Doug's parent's house, was full of honest smiles, wiped tears, and knowing hugs.

Kim's father, Jim, was a good man in the mold that seems to have all but disappeared in the intervening generations. Doug, asked by the family to perform the difficult task of eulogizing his father-in-law, described a man who was a loving husband, a dedicated father, and a caring grandfather. He painted the picture of a man who took his granddaughters on long hikes through the backyard carrying walking sticks with tennis balls on top, "searching for treasures." And at an age when most have become comfortably set in their ways, Jim was apparently still searching for treasures, expanding his musical tastes with a new found love for Jimmy Buffett and struggling with his spirituality.

Having always been a prayerful man, and having raised his children at least nominally Lutheran, it was a dramatic choice when during his last few years here on earth he decided to follow his wife, daughter and brother into the bosom of the Catholic Church. And it was because of this profound choice I found myself at a second Catholic mass in as many weeks. Jim, like his granddaughter the week before, processed down the center aisle wrapped in white. The priest blessed his casket with holy water; this baptism not marking Jim's physical birth but rather his being born again into the presence of the Father.

We returned to the church hall for some refreshments after the service. The hall was full of nurses, teachers, pastors - all people sincerely looking to help those around them. Having my goddaughter surrounded by such a good group of people makes my job as a godfather easy. And to a large extent, I have the man these people called dad, uncle, brother, and grandfather to thank. May his memory be eternal!

Lovely To Be Thy Guest

The suitcases are still loaded in the back of van, a bounty of clothes carelessly stashed inside, waiting another day to be washed. Green, reusable Hy-Vee bags stuffed with shoes, diapers, and sippy cups litter the upstairs hallway. The van, well, the van is cluttered with banana chips, goldfish crackers, and "cookie crackers" smashed into the floor; all remnants of our trip. Though our family has physically returned from our visit with our dear friends in Chesterton, Indiana, I want to deny for a little while longer that we are actually home, opting to treasure the sounds lingering in my mind of laughing adults and children reunited; heartfelt conversations and the being surrounded by those who love me and my family. Thank you all for always making us feel at home in your home. It was lovely being your guests.

Glory to Thee for calling me into being.

Glory to Thee, showing me the beauty of the universe.

Glory to Thee, spreading out before me heaven and earth,

like pages in a book of eternal wisdom.

Glory to Thee for Thine eternity in this fleeting world.

Glory to Thee for Thy mercies, seen and unseen.

Glory to Thee for every step of my life's journey,

For every moment of glory,

Glory to Thee, O God, from age to age.

O Lord, how lovely it is to be Thy guest. Breezes full of scents; mountains reaching to the skies; waters like boundless mirrors, reflecting the sun's golden rays and scudding clouds: all nature murmurs mysteriously, breathing the depth of Thy tenderness. Birds and beasts of the forest bear the imprint of Thy love. Blessed are thou, mother earth, in thy fleeting loveliness, which wakens our yearning for happiness that will last for ever, in the land where amid beauty that grows not old, the cry rings out: Alleluia!

Thou hast brought me into life as into an enchanted paradise. We have seen the sky like a chalice of deepest blue, where in the azure heights the birds are singing. We have listened to the soothing murmur of the forest and the melodious music of the streams. We have tasted fruit of fine flavor and the sweet-scented honey. Very well can we live on Thine earth: it is a pleasure to be Thy guest.

Glory to Thee for the Feast Day of life.

Glory to Thee for the perfume of lilies and roses,

Glory to Thee for each different taste of berry and fruit,

Glory to Thee for the sparkling silver and early morning dew,

Glory to Thee for the joy of dawn's awakening,

Glory to Thee for the new life each day brings,

Glory to Thee, O God, from age to age.

How glorious are Thou in the springtime, when every creature awakens to new life and joyfully sings Thy praises with a thousand tongues. Thou are the Source of Life and the Destroyer of Death. By the light of the moon, nightingales sing, and the valleys and hills lie like wedding garments, white as snow. All the earth is Thy promised bride awaiting her spotless husband. If the grass of the field is like this in glory, how gloriously shall we be transfigured in the Second Coming after the Resurrection! How splendid our bodies, how spotless our souls!

Glory to Thee, bringing from the depth of the earth

An endless variety of colors, tastes and scents,

Glory to Thee for the warmth and tenderness of the world of nature, 

Glory to Thee for the numberless creatures around us,

Glory to Thee for the depths of Thy wisdom, the whole world a living

sign of  it.

Glory to Thee: on my knees, I kiss the traces of Thine unseen hand,

Glory to Thee, enlightening us with the clearness of eternal life,

imperishable beauty of immortality,

Glory to Thee, O God, from age to age.

I see Thy heavens resplendent with stars. Radiant with light, how glorious Thou art! Eternity watches me by the rays of the distant stars. I am small, insignificant, but the Lord is at my side. Thy right arm guides me wherever I go.

Glory to Thee, ceaselessly watching over me,

Glory to Thee for the encounters Thou dost arrange for me,

Glory to Thee for the love of parents,

For the faithfulness of friends,

Glory to Thee for the humbleness of the animals which serve me,

Glory to Thee for the unforgettable moments of life,

Glory to Thee for the heart's innocent joy,

Glory to Thee for the joy of living, and moving,

and being able to return Thy love

Glory to Thee, O God, from age to age.

How Sweet It Is

Saturday morning found our family at a location that has become a part of my weekend routine: the Davenport Farmer's Market. Never mind that it was quite brisk and blustery, the five of us casually strolled around the market, chatting with several friends we met along the way, picking up the necessary items, hormone and antibiotic free chicken and farm fresh eggs from Mr. Grossman, ground beef, sausage, and chuck roast from Mrs. Geest, and playing at the park.

Along the way, I spotted one of the vendors selling locally grown, chemically free strawberries. It did not matter that they were $5.00 a pint, they looked fabulous and their taste did not disappoint; eating one was like eating a spoonful of jam. Russell, who has distinguished himself among the boys as the vegetable and fruit eater, was delighted with these sweet treats. His face and hands quickly became sticky and stained red, and he continuously signed "more" until I had to cut him off lest we had none of these divine berries for later.  For two hours, we sat, talked with friends we had not seen for awhile, watched the boys climb, run, and be little boys (pull tiny American flags out of the ground, pick up unclaimed soda cans and dump them out), all the while enjoying the view of my favorite body of water, one choppy Mississippi River. 

Inspired by the blown-over sandbox umbrella rolling loose throughout our back-yard, Thomas, upon our arrival home, suggested we stick it in the ground and eat the chocolate and raspberry filled doughnuts we had picked up at a local shop on our drive up Brady Street. Thinking it a good idea (what else is there to do on a Saturday afternoon?), we complied, pulling out our "picnic" afghan, usually reserved for our "Tuesday Picnic with Pooh," snuggled in and yes, ate the remainder of the strawberries.

Unexpected Joy

Even now I can almost elicit the sense of excitement I felt when as a child I gently and inconspicuously laid my offering of red tulips, violets, and buttercups, all hand-picked from my backyard, on a neighbor's doorstep. Filled with anticipation, I remember reaching up to ring the doorbell and then bolting down the street once my clandestine mission was accomplished. Perhaps it was the flowers or the sense of mystery and anonymity surrounding the event, but a special place has always resided in my heart for this May Day tradition. Once I myself became a mother and our family departed Chicago for Davenport, this tradition, like so many others handed down to me by my parents, has been incorporated into the lives of my children. For the past three years, baked goods have supplanted flowers as the choice of gifts to be given, primarily because we do not have many flowers in our yard and because I am reticent to pick the ones that do spring up each year. But really, what could be better than discovering a homemade, sweet treat surprise waiting just for you at your front door? Despite our divergence from the traditional May Day present, Thomas and I have continued the custom of constructing "baskets." As all three of the children slept, I wrapped the heavy duty paper that earlier in the week he and I had painted with splashes of blue, yellow, red, and purple watercolors, into the shape of a cone, stapled it together, and crafted three May Day baskets for our neighbors.

Beginning on May 1, 1886, this day came to symbolize more than just a summer celebration permeated with flowers and festive dancing around a Maypole. On that day over a century ago, thousands of union workers across the United States went on strike, protesting their long work hours and demanding that they be granted an eight-hour work day. Subsequently, the 1st of May came to be recognized as a day in which the struggles and victories of the working class are lauded by laborers worldwide.

On May Day, 1933, over 50,000 men and women descended upon Union Square in New York denouncing the appointment of the new chancellor of Germany, Adolph Hitler, and the global economic depression which was in its fourth year and which had left 13,000,000 U.S. workers unemployed. Together these "radicals" also called for worker ownership and control of industry. From their midst, the words of the Communist hymn could be clearly heard, "Arise, ye workers of the world. Arise, ye wretched of the earth for justice thunders condemnation. A better world's in birth."  In the crowd, a thirty-five-year old woman, a recent convert to the Catholic faith, together with three of her friends and co-workers, handed out copies of a newspaper making its debut on that May Day.  In an effort to combat the atheism of The Daily Worker, a Communist paper, Dorothy Day and members of the movement which she co-founded, aspired that their paper, The Catholic Worker, would testify and offer hope to "those huddling in shelters...those who are walking the streets in the all but futile search for work...those who think that there is no hope for the future, no recognition of their plight," that the Catholic Church had "a social program," and that there were people of God "working not only for their spiritual, but for their material welfare."

Last Friday morning, May 1, 2009, our family van pulled up to a nondescript Victorian home located on a corner in Rock Island's Broadway historical district. Though efforts have been employed by the city to return this semi-rundown area to its former glory, public opinion would say the renewal remains a work in progress. While Jared, Russell, and Elliot waited patiently in the van, Thomas and I tentatively walked to the back doorway of the antiquated house, a bag of miscellaneous grocery items in my hand and an Aldi bouquet of roses in Thomas', and rang the doorbell of the St. Joseph Catholic Worker House. We were greeted by a woman probably in her late thirties or early forties with whom I had spoken on the phone the day prior. Kindly she welcomed us into her home - a home which she shares with five other women and their children who have been cast out from boyfriends or husbands, rejected by family members, and who have no other place to go. This woman, whom I will call Michelle, explained to me that soon after her youngest daughter was born, she broke her back, and while confined to a full body cast, her husband decided to desert his family. Disabled and with little money, Michelle suddenly found herself alone and homeless with three children to care for. With nowhere to turn, she became dependent upon the hospitality of others until her life was stabilized. Ultimately, the group of Catholic nuns who own St. Joseph's requested Michelle and her family to remain at the home and serve as its host. 

While our donation was meager, the women were sincerely grateful and Michelle genuinely touched by our $3.99 bouquet stating, "No one has ever brought me flowers." Michelle's eldest daughter, a woman in her late teens or early twenties, explained, "Some women arrive with their children with nothing but what is on their backs." Because St. Joseph's does not receive any financial assistance from the state, anything anyone would want to donate is considered indispensable. Even perfume samples, things I am so quick to disregard and throw away, are vital at St. Joseph's, providing women whose self-confidence and self-worth has been greatly shaken with a boost as they attempt to gain employment and regain their lives. According to Michelle's daughter, at St. Joseph's "nothing is wasted." What cannot be used there will be passed on to others who might have need of the items.  

As I listened to these women's stories and stared at the images of Christ and His mother which Michelle had lovingly placed on her kitchen wall, I could not help but be overwhelmed and humbled by what I was experiencing - the legacy of one of my personal heros in an anonymous home in Rock Island, Illinois. Poverty has a face and while we may want to pacify ourselves and adopt stereotypes of the poor, these are men and women who bear the image and likeness of our Creator. Though Michelle admitted she had never read much of Dorothy Day's writings, unbeknownst to her, she is the embodiment of what Day and the Catholic Workers envisioned: an imitator of Christ who recognizes His presence in all human life and most especially in the poor. 

Later that evening, as I left for a "Girl's Night Out," Thomas, Russell, and Jared scampered out the door (Elliot was still sleeping), three May Day baskets filled with tiny loaves of strawberry bread in their hands. It was a good day filled with old traditions and unexpected joy.

Our new Church building

With the help of many of you who read this blog, St. Raphael of Brooklyn Orthodox Mission in Iowa City, IA, was able to purchase a new space for worship. Anyone who has visited our current space, like all of you who squeezed in for Russell and Elliot's baptism, knows this was a sorely needed move. Through the generosity of friends, family and fellow Christians around the country, we were able to raise nearly $100,000 in just a few months. Below is some video I took at Pascha this year, our first liturgy in the new building. Thank you for your help in making this dream come true. Enjoy the video.