Celebrating miracleness

Sunday, I attended the birthday party of a one-year-old and yet the next youngest child was a sixth grader. There were balloons, cupcakes and gifts, but beyond that any similarity to other children's birthday parties ended.

Even the birthday boy didn't eat his cupcake – didn't even try. Born very early, he's on par with an eight-month old, yet thriving in his own way thanks to a very loving couple whose children are grown and, mostly, out of the house.

My neighbors, Mark and Bev, have tended this little guy for three-quarters of a year, bringing him home hooked up to monitors and oxygen, dutifully ferrying him to hospital and physician appointments, setting the alarm for middle-of-the-night feedings because his diminished appetite won't wake him up and, generally, lavishing as much love as they can on their foster child.

The teary highlight of the afternoon was a video Mark and Bev's daughters made with original lyrics they sang to the tune of "Hey, Jude" and how this baby boy was marked by God for greatness. It was a beautiful tribute to life, this life, this boy and these amazingly giving foster parents.

This poster is borrowed from the Judson Center, a
human-services agency in Michigan. It reached in
and pulled my heart out.

We began the party with an assignment: taking a sheet of questions related to the care and nurturing of this baby from person to person to find the answers and break the ice. Apparently, this was a diverse group of guests. Some of us had prayed for him, held him, known him when attached to oxygen, understood his diet, paid visits to the NICU with him, been told the origins of his quirky, but well-suited name and known Mark and Bev before. It was an ingenious ice-breaker that was relaxed and gathering. That's just how these neighbors are.

Last December, they offered the perfect foil to a busy holiday season: soup, conversation and board games. It was just about my favorite event. Simple, hospitable and no pretentions. Just people gathering for informal companionship. All four of us attended that and still talk about how amazing that one, simple evening was.

For the birthday party, I escorted my mother. She spent a good deal of time on the couch with another neighbor, Margaret. They are similar in age and both Iowans. They've gotten to know each other through the book club Bev started about 15 years ago. As they chatted, I became reacquainted with the woman who used to live behind us. I had no idea how much help she's been recently to Bev and Mark, caring for the little one during a particularly stressful procedure. I  ran into other favorite neighbors whom I never see, but spent time with the week before at a Halloween party. Lucky for me, I remarked, that I'd run into them twice in one week. I also met some wonderful new faces and was charmed by a red-headed sixth grader with a generous smile and easy manner.

As I steered my mother into the kitchen for tea, we lingered a few minutes with Bev. She lit up as she talked about their foster child and how much fun it has been raising a boy after three girls and, besides, "the one in Heaven." They'd had a baby boy whose life had been cut very short before their three amazing daughters. "Boys are so very different," Bev had commented, relishing the new experience. There's no question that Mark is in love with this little bundle. He and the boy shine around each other.

I'd counted Mark as an unassuming, quiet engineer until a few summers ago. At an open house for the arts exploration I host for at-risk kids, Mark parked himself in the hallway with the boys and drummed his heart out – the entire two hours. Giddy from the interaction – we all were – he rocked the van in a gesture of complete zest as we all packed up to leave.

Before the infant, the couple fostered a fourth-grader, whom Mark walked around the neighborhood stopping by friends to properly introduce his charge. She was darling, posessed a wonderful sparkle in her eye and shared a dog-eared photo she rescued from her pocket. It was a picture of her amid her beloved brothers, all separated at the moment. Mark had taken the photo for her. You could tell it was a prized possession of memory and hope.

Over the years, they've fostered other kids and raised a guide dog in addition to their own three incredible young women. One is at home until she funds her ministry in Italy caring for refugees. Another is off in somewhere between Russia and the Middle East working and spreading God's love. The third teaches music in Korea, where she lives with her husband and young daughters. All of these women baby-sat my girls. In fact, the older two were Autumn's first sitters and they set the bar. High.

Bev has been such an inspiration and support for me over the years. She understands what it's like to listen for God and live on the fringes, your identity tied to others.

They don't think they do anything special, just what they are called to. In fact, the entire birthday revolved around how their friends, faith community and neighbors have shared in the joy of fostering this small child. They called it a celebration of his year of miracleness.

• Who inspires me?
• Who are my models for faithful living?
• How does their humility touch me?
• How have I witnessed community form around need and in support of others ministering?
• Where do I find my own ministry?


this wee one
launched into
life early
very

into to such
circumstance from
which God would
rescue him

if only
briefly

and into
the arms

of waiting, loving
servants

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Riot of rainbow colors

My neighborhood book club just read Binocular Vision by Edith Pearlman. We had an incredibly lively discussion last night with a variety of opinion, but a collective nod that she’s an incredible writer with a knack for dropping in on lives, carving detailed characters and leaving much unsaid.

The women in this club are as varied as the author’s stories and last night’s group was less than half our total. While I missed the others, I enjoy the intimacy of a smaller gathering, when we can really connect and talk about the book, which, often, means talking about our lives and how the book touches them.

Y said it drove her crazy that there was no resolution in these stories. A successful IT manager, she is no nonsense, but also very honest about herself. We gather, first, over food and catch up. It was fun to hear about Y’s trip with her family to Disney. She was a woman with a plan and they stuck to the daily itinerary and did everything everyone wanted, often walking onto rides sans any wait. Even her sixth and 11^th-graders, boy and girl, got along. If I’m ever stranded on a desert isle, I want her there with me! I think this club is still going strong 14 years out because of her ability to gather us and keep us on task.

It was K’s birthday and, as she’s an empty nester and her husband was out of town, we celebrated with a deep-chocolate goddess cake. It really suits her earthiness and position as a junior-high counselor and wonderful, tender ear for friends. She’s listened to me rant about my youngest and offer calming, right-on advice, but only if that’s what I desired. She’s lived with a similar temperament and, in a sense, is still raising her children while also getting ready to move her parents nearby from out of town. Some would say she’s a saint … with a wicked sense of humor.

My mother, who joined the club when she moved to town a few years ago, was motivated to write her own short story, which I am dying to read. She’d forgotten it, but remembered cheese and crackers and her constant traveling companion, Puff, the magic oxygen tank. She reminded us of the elements of a short story, of which we realized Pearlman was master. Her favorite was shared. The story of the beautiful toddler trapped in a diseased body and mind, caged and worshipped, and finally set free by her mother tapped us all down deep. We’re all mothers and know the burden of doing the sometimes unthinkable because it is the loving thing to do. As my mom and I talked about the book earlier in the week, she seemed regretful that she had not nursed me and my twin. One of the stories centered on a stubborn health minister who bucked the government trend of manufactured milk, chucking her career. I know on some level I missed that closeness with my mother, but in that moment I laid that down, trading if for gratitude that she thumped convention to ensure my sister and I developed as individuals, not a set. I’d like to uncover what other unthinkable things she did for me.

C sent me a thank you this morning, complementing our house and how, as she was packing up her appetizer plate and basket, she noticed the painted fireplace surrounding the kitchen vent. I’ve been in my house too long and only seem to see the work and mess. It was wonderful to be reminded that it can be a welcoming place as well. My family generously pitched in (I can’t say I was so gracious when I had to remind them for the third time) to get it in shape. For a moment, I settled back into when my girls were pre-schoolers and they would toddle down on cold mornings and sit by what they called the warm spot. In my grandmother’s house, it was a forceful grate that transformed our soft, flannel nighties into blooming mushrooms. The warm spot enticed me into giving it a Victorian mantel.

C had also picked this book, so I was especially grateful for her. She has a knack for selecting things I wouldn’t ordinarily read, but that I adore. Carefully culled choices from a thoughtful reader and person. Though they moved a few years ago, she’s still very much a part of the neighborhood. She and her husband drove the church van, transporting families in subsidized housing, for the Artsy Fartsy open house in June.

Of course, we missed our regulars: they each bring unique gifts, voices and presences to the group. It’s really more of a nurture group in my mind than a book club. Y even organized a letter-writing retreat one summer for all of us at Grailville. It was powerful.

My heart, now, is on M, struggling with a reconstructed ankle and unable to join us last evening. She and my mom have so much in common and the connection has been good for both of them. She’s surrounded by loving, attentive family, but I am certain the neighborhood women will be needed when that procession ends. That’s what this group does: bring food when we’re delivering babies or ill, calling to check in, rallying around local social causes, inviting us to graduations and weddings and just being present and available.

Certainly nothing like the flat, lonely misfits Pearlman so beautifully animates. Her work seems cloaked in grey tones. My book club is very much a riot of rainbow colors.

• How does what I read touch my life?

• How has a group enriched my life?

• Who, exactly, are my neighbors?

• How have they colored my life?

• How do/can I share my gifts with them?

delicately wrought

characters,

broken and real

calling me

to read on

and on

brought to

life again

in a book-

club discussion

only to remind

me of the

solid, compassionate

women who

constantly

surround me

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