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!

Adventures in Eating: Beyond the Kale

There are many things I find endearing about our middle child - how he signs "music" and "more" when he hears a melody he likes, how he demands to be noticed, waving and yelling "hello" to anyone and everyone we encounter, how he throws his arms around my legs and gives them a big squeeze while I am cooking dinner, and his infectious giggle. But from a purely practical point of view, perhaps the thing I am most thrilled about as a mother, is the fact that unlike his two siblings, who sneer and turn up their noses at the mere mention of fruits and vegetables, Russell relishes these succulent gems from the earth. Bowl after bowl of blueberries he will consume while Thomas and Elliot pick and pull at the skin, pain-filled expressions across their faces. Russell loves pineapple, strawberries, bananas, apples, tomatoes, especially those fresh from our backyard (thank you Grandma Johnson for the plants) and yes, even a bite from my spinach salad. Now to be fair to dear Thomas and Elliot, while their palate may be somewhat limited, both delight in hummus (don't forget, Elliot likes to eat his with a spoon), split pea soup, black beans, and lentils, so I must remind myself that perhaps my complaints are slightly unfounded.

As most of you know, in an effort to combat and gain victory in our family's constant war over fruit/vegetable eating, I have engaged in countless hours of steaming, pureeing, and freezing these vitamin-rich foods into ice cube trays so that at a later time, they can be thawed and unsuspectingly slipped into foods my picky eaters have deemed unobjectionable. A bit of sweet potato in the grilled cheese. Cauliflower in the scrambled eggs and potato soup. Carrots in the chili and spaghetti sauce. Pumpkin in the waffles and oatmeal. And kale. My goodness, a cube of kale can be thrown in about anywhere and remain undetected.

Not too long ago, at the suggestion of my favorite pediatrician, Dr. William Sears, in his work, The Healthiest Kid in the Neighborhood, I ventured to add thinly sliced zucchini to our Tuesday morning pancakes. This time, old Eagle eye, Thomas, called my bluff. "What are the green things?" he questioned. Quickly I contemplated my options: I could lie (which I must admit I have done before - "No, there are absolutely no tomatoes in this soup.") or be honest. This time, I opted for honesty, assuring Thomas that there was really no taste to the addition and that a bit of maple syrup covers a multitude of sins. After great dramatics, Thomas, not too willingly I might add, finally ate the pancakes.

The following week I decided to replace the zucchini and throw in one strawberry cube (why I cannot just make regular pancakes may indeed be indicative of some neurosis) and all hell broke loose. "WHAT ARE THOSE RED THINGS?" Thomas demanded. He spent the remainder of the meal pulling out miniscule pieces of strawberry while I clenched my mouth shut. Later that afternoon Thomas asked me what the green things in last week's pancakes had been. "Zucchini," I replied. His response: "Mom, next time can you add zucchini to the pancakes?" "Oh yes, my love", I thought, "and who knows, maybe some kale!"

Together Again

Chicago
Carl Sandburg

Hog Butcher for the World
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler:
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with a tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding.

With open arms and enthusiastic hugs we were welcomed back to Chicago, a city whose streets - Dakin, Drummond, Diversey, Austin, La Salle - I have walked too many times to count and which I esteem as sacred places, overflowing with memories tucked into my heart. Three years ago, our then family of three left this city confident that it was time to go. And though many of my precious friends had likewise departed to other places like Indianapolis and Chesterton, Indiana, many who over the years had become like family remained in Chicago. We returned last Friday, the first time in almost a year, to these dear ones and generously they carved out time from their lives, opened up their homes, and laughed with us as we reminisced about old times and created new memories. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Thank you to our beloved Mauretta who still cannot remember where we live - Rockford? Des Moines? Thank you to our gracious hosts, Greg and Marian (who my youngest two now call "MiMi," much to Greg's chagrin), to Aunt Carrie, and to the McCarthy crew. Thank you to the lovely Matushka Stephanie whose big hugs and sincerity of heart causes me to feel that no matter how long we have been gone from Christ the Savior, we are never forgotten but instead always missed, always loved, and always welcome back. Thank you all for carousel rides at Lincoln Park Zoo, late night dinners and home cooked meals, a day of splashing at Millenium Park (both in the rain and in the fountains), and most of all for loving our family despite its craziness.