Got Everything?

We can't spend more than five minutes on this post. As you all know, we have a big day tomorrow. We just wanted you to see for yourselves that all the important things have been packed. Watch for our next post in about 36 hours.

Our First Post

We just got home from Forgiveness Vespers and got Thomas to bed. In spite of our sore legs (from too many prostrations!), we're trying to get a few more details squared-away before our trip on Tuesday. One of those details is this blog. We're going to try and post something on here daily during our trip, so be sure to check back. (And don't forget that "daily" will mean nightly for those of you here in the Central Time Zone. There is a 15 hour difference.)

Keep us in your Prayers!

What A Day Will Bring

It was a gray, chilly, October Wednesday. Thomas and I climbed into our '93 Ford Tempo, affectionately known as "Little Blue," attempting to ignore the rattling of the defunt automatic seatbelt, and headed for our destination. Our friend Susan, who truly has a gift for opening her home to family and friends, had invited us and several of our friends, to join her children in baking and decorating "fall" cookies. Thomas and I dutifully arrived with our small contribution to the event, store bought frosting, and together with six other children, rolled out, decorated, and ate sugar cookies shaped as ghosts, pumpkins, and sundry. We had a wonderful time, but even more exciting was Susan's announcement that she was expecting her third child.

It was past Thomas' normal nap time when we arrived home. Since I covet my children's naps and the hours of quiet they allow me, I strongly encouraged Thomas to move quickly up the stairs and prepare for his nap routine. Noticing the flashing of the answering machine, I pressed play and listened to the messages: there were two, both from our social worker.

In my opinion, there are two phone calls that adoptive parents of international children desperately wait for: the referral call and the travel call. Even now I feel the nervousness I experienced after listening to our social worker's message: "Give me a call. I have good news." It was the referall call. I knew it, despite the fact that I had not expected this call for months. I tried to remain calm, but my trembling fingers betrayed me. I attempted to steady my wavering voice as our social worker answered. And then from her mouth came words I truly never ever expected to hear: "You have been given a referral - twin boys."

Perhaps I should not have been so surprised. After all, Jared and I had marked in our paper work that we would indeed accept twins. But twin boys? My goodness. The prospect made me absolutely giddy. Somehow I managed to maintain Thomas' nap routine, despite this life changing news. We read a book, said our prayers, I kissed my sweet prince, closed his door, and finally made it downstairs to dial Jared at work. "Our social worker called," I related. "You better sit down." Guessing it was our referral, he was excited, but did not believe it warranted changing his posture. Once I gave him the news, he wished he had sat down.

Twins. We only had one name picked out and now there were two. The paperwork on the children would not be received by us until the next day. And since Jared and I had previously determined not to tell anyone until we had officially accepted the referral, I could only call immediate family members, and pray that none of my friends would call since I knew I would not be able to share our joyful news. Later that day, an email was sent by our adoption agency. Attached to the email were five pictures of our sons, Jin-pyo and Jin-seo. You remember the ones. The two sweet faces. My children dressed in clothes decorated with elephants. Jin-pyo and Jin-seo holding hands. They were simply beautiful.

A day later the phone frenzy was launched as friends were called with our news. We needed another car seat, crib, high chair, a double stroller. Forget my notion of a Subaru Outback, we were going to need (gasp) a minivan. Our initial plan to have the baby room with Thomas was thwarted and Jared would have to relocate his office from our third bedroom and into the basement. (He is such a good sport.) Lists were drawn up with potential names - Stephen, William, Edward, George - which would it be? Jared liked Elliot, a derivative of Elijah, the Old Testament prophet. And finally so did I. Russell Jin-pyo and Elliot Jin-seo (who would later become Russell Matthew Jin-pyo and Elliot Andrew Jin-seo, after the tragic death of our cousin Matthew Andrew Tyrrell, may his memory be eternal).

As he did with Thomas' referral pictures, Jared had multiple copies developed. We hung two on our refrigerator, and as the days passed, Thomas and I began to talk to Russell and Elliot. And yes, they did answer back. With high, squeaky voices, they would greet us in the morning, in Korean or in English. And, Russell and Elliot, in the form of their frozen faces, would join us for breakfast. And when Thomas would ask if they wanted to join us for story time under the table, they always complied. Hoping to decrease sibling rivalry, Thomas and I journeyed out to Target (little did we know that those days were numbered) and he chose two Winnie-the-Pooh outfits, and firmly decided which was Russell's and which was Elliot's. And then we waited for the call that our precious ones were ready to travel home.

When I was received into the catachumenate of the Orthodox Church, the formidable priest Fr. Joseph inquired whether my name was Elizabeth. Much to my chagrin, it is not, just "Beth." Perhaps because Jared and I were received near a feast day commemorating St. John the Baptist, Fr. Joseph authoritatively declared that in the eyes of the Church, my name was now Elizabeth, after the mother of St. John the Baptist. And now, as I walk about, two children in a double stroller and one in a bjorn and people stop to comment on how full my hands are, I nod yes and smile, joy full in my heart. Like St. Elizabeth, I too can rejoice, for God has made the barren woman to be a joyful mother.

Beth

October 20, 2008

An Ordinary Man

The nightmare began on a Sunday afternoon in early September. After arriving home from celebrating Thomas' first birthday at our home in Chicago, my parents received a frantic answering machine message from my father's older brother and only sibling. Robbers had broken into his home and money had been stolen from his wallet. Anxiously, my parents departed for Uncle Russ' house. Thirty minutes later, to their horror, they discovered that no crime had been committed. Rather, the alleged occurrence was the result of my uncle's imagination. Desperate for an answer to this atypical behavior, a fateful doctor appointment was scheduled. Consequently, per the doctor's advice, it was determined that Uncle Russ be admitted into a local hospital and then later transferred to a restorative care facility. The unimaginable prospect that Russ' deterioating health and lucidity might terminate his ability to live independently became a haunting reality in our minds. The active, vibrant man of my youth had transformed into the nearly blind, stumbling, elderly man of my adulthood - a mere shadow of what he once was.

Uncle Russ was a constant presence in our lives. Since he was my father's only sibling, and best friend, and he had suffered the loss of his wife, my Aunt Margaret, in 1979, and only son, David, at birth, we were his only family. Indeed, it is difficult to remember a time when Uncle Russ did not share both significant and mundane events with us. We celebrated birthdays and holidays with him, as well as vacations and Sunday dinners to Bishop's Buffet (dad and Uncle Russ relished the "All You Can Eat Buffet" and the multiple desserts it awarded them). And after any Cub game - victory or defeat - our phone, without delay, would be ringing: Uncle Russ.

The nightmare ended in the late hours of an October evening. For several days, my father, mother, and I had spent every waking hour at the hospital with Uncle Russ. On that last day, Russ had already commenced his journey from this life to the next. As he lay in his bed, eyes closed to the world, our modest sized family gathered around his bedside and kept vigil with him. In his solitary room, we held his hands, prayed silently, and read aloud prayers and psalms to comfort him as he walked through the valley of the shadow of death, and to comfort ourselves as we already felt his absence from our lives. And then death came, and Russell departed this life without us to join the wife and son who had left him so long ago. Let all mortal flesh keep silent.

There are so many commendable things I could attribute to my uncle. He was a simple man, never showy or ostentatious, kind, generous, quick to laugh, responsible, and faithful, to his family, friends, church, and God. He was an ordinary man and like most ordinary men will probably be forgotten by the world. Yet what I have discovered to be the most extraordinary thing about him was that despite all the adversities he encountered throughout his life - the poverty of his youth that forced him (like many of his time) to acquire employment at age fourteen, his enrollment in the army which took him to Europe during World War II, the premature death of his beloved wife, the heartbreak of losing a child and then suffering childlessness, and finally the affliction which caused him to lose his sight and independence -he never despaired, became bitter, complained, or rejected his Lord.

In typical Uncle Russ fashion, on a paper contained in a safe desposit box under my father's care, he had mapped out the details of his funeral. One request was that the hymn, "Children of the Heavenly Father," be sung. Now I am not sure if this particular hymn, like the addition of cream of mushroom soup to any entree, is analogous to being of Swedish descent, but I have yet to meet a Swede who does not know and love this hymn. (I can even sing the first stanza in the mother tongue.) Its words, though simple, are profound and typify the life of the man, my uncle, Russell Swanson.

Children of the heavenly Father
Safely in his bosom gather;
Nestling bird nor star in heaven
Such a refuge e'er was given.

God his own doth tend and nourish,

In his holy courts they flourish.

From all evil things he spares them,
In his mightly arms he bears them.

Neither life nor death shall ever
From the Lord his children sever;

Unto them his grace he showeth,

And their sorrows all he knoweth.

Though he giveth or he taketh,

God his children, ne'er forsaketh,

His the loving purpose solely
To preserve them pure and holy.

Russell George Swanson
February 15, 1922-October 27, 2005
Memory Eternal!