Dream House Hustle

Last night I dreamt that my wife unilaterally made the decision to adopt another child, bringing our total number of children to four. It wasn’t the fact that she acted without consulting me that bothered me, nor was I put off by the idea of having another child. Instead, in the dream, I was angry at Bethany for her ulterior motive for the adoption. Knowing six of us would not fit comfortably in our current, four bedroom house, Dream-Bethany was making a power-play which would force me to agree to buy a bigger house to accommodate our growing family. Even while sleeping, that woman is an evil genius.

I needn’t bother delving into a Freudian analysis of my dream to discover its meaning. For some time now, Bethany has been grumbling about outgrowing our current accommodations. When we bought our house in 1999, we were a family of two. Half of our rooms sat empty and unused for the first year we lived here. But now there are five of us sharing this space, and despite owning ten-acres of Heaven on Earth, our spacious spread doesn’t feel so spacious anymore. Realizing, but not fully admitting, that my evil genius wife was right, I relented and told her that I would consent to buying a bigger house under two conditions: The new house must be in the SoBoCo school district, and Bethany has to be willing to listen to me whine about not wanting to hassle with packing and moving everything we own, not wanting to fill out change of address forms, not wanting to call the satellite people about setting up service in the new house, not wanting to clean our current house from top to bottom in order to make it presentable for selling, not wanting to go into debt again to get a new mortgage, not wanting to rent a car trailer for the rusting hulk of an Impala that’s been parked in our pole barn for the past three years, not wanting to trap our two semi-wild barn cats and moving them, not wanting to say goodbye to the party porch I built with my own two hands, and not wanting to deal with all the unpacking and settling in to a new house. She said, “Deal!” without hesitation. I should have held out for an increase in my beer money allowance. Evil. Genius.

So the house hunt has begun, and I am already starting to whine. I know people pack up and move all the time, but I haven’t had to move in almost fourteen years, and as anyone who knows me at all will tell you, I hate moving. From the day I was born through the day we bought this house, I moved over two-dozen times. When Bethany and I bought this place, our real estate agent predicted that we would move within five years. I told her she was dead wrong and that I never planned on moving again as long as I lived. She laughed and said, “Wait till you start having kids. You’ll see.” Well, as anyone who knows me will also tell you, I can be quite stubborn. I swore a blood oath right then and there to never move, no matter how crowded our house got, just to prove our realtor wrong. “I’ll show her,” I said. Well, I nearly tripled the number of years she thought we would live here, so I guess Madame Smarty Pants Suit’s crystal ball must have been on the blink that day. “You really showed her, babe,” my wife says, in an “if-I-feed-his-ego-he’ll-give-me-what-I-want” sort of way. Well played, evil genius. Well played.

Where y'all from?

(Originally published in Boone County Journal: Wednesday, September 5)

My children aren’t altogether sure how to answer when people ask them where they’re from. They usually cite Ashland as their hometown because they ride through there on the way to and from our house, they go to school there, and they eat pizza there. (Home is where the pizza is.)

Technically, we have a Hartsburg address, but our house is actually situated somewhere in-between Ashland, Wilton, and Hartsburg. I reckon quite a few other SoBoCo residents have the same quandary as my kids when it comes to identifying their hometown. Or maybe not. What’s the protocol in this situation? If they identify with Ashland, then shouldn’t they call Ashland home despite their address? Would that be an affront to Hartsburg? Shouldn’t we consider Wilton’s feelings, too?

I don’t have the answers to these questions because I’m not originally from this area. But does that fact make Ashland/Hartsburg/Wilton any less my Home? Am I not a full-fledged, card carrying member of the SoBoCo community just because I’m not indigenous? No, I wasn’t born or raised in Southern Boone County. Instead, I moved to this area—on purpose. My wife and I chose to live here, raise a family here, and grow old here. Ever since I saw the movie Doc Hollywood, starring Michael J. Fox, I wanted to move to a small town full of friendly folks and quirky characters who would accept me, an egocentric outsider, as one of their own. Ashland is that town. Since 1999, we have called the greater Ashland metropolitan area Home. And we’ve never regretted it for a second.

When Bethany and I first moved here we felt slightly removed from the community, and rightly so. We didn’t know a soul. But no one “from here” ever made us feel like we weren’t really “Ashland people.” No one treated us like outsiders. People were always friendly and quick to return a wave. I think our new area neighbors were just giving us our space, which we appreciated. As our kids entered school, we became much more in touch with the fine folks of Southern Boone County. We made lots of friends and realized just how kind, generous, and accepting the people around here truly are.

 

Something has been troubling me lately, however. In the aftermath of the recent school board scandal, I overheard some grumblings that suggested the problems were because of people living around here who weren’t really “Ashland people.” While I won’t weigh in on the facts/rumors flying around in the post-Deffenbaugh Letter era, I think equating non-natives with problems in our community is a dangerous precedent to set.

SoBoCo is a microcosm of America. It is a melting pot. With the possible exception of any Ashland-area Native Americans who may still be living here, the overwhelming majority of area families migrated here from somewhere else. People with a dream of making a better life for their children and for themselves continue to be welcomed to our community year after year. Folks from all walks of life are making our small town a diverse and enlightened one. While uninhibited growth can present problems, Ashland is one of the few towns in Missouri (and possibly the nation) that continues to build new homes, businesses, schools, libraries, and infrastructure despite the national economic downturn, while still maintaining its down-home, farming-community feel.

The reason for Ashland’s success: the people. Farmers and entrepreneurs. Young and old. Black, White, Asian, and Hispanic. Life-long residents and recent transplants. We are all “Ashland people” and I am proud to call Ashland/Hartsburg/Wilton my hometown(s).

Truman's First Bus Ride

(Originally published in the 8-22-12 edition of the Boone County Journal)

Dear Bus Bullies,

Thank you for apologizing to my son Truman for the way you treated him on the school bus last week. Although your apology only came after school officials confronted you about your behavior, I will assume that you are genuinely remorseful following your insensitive actions. I would like to think that because you are so young yourselves, you did not know how hurtful your comments were to my young child. I am grateful to the staff at your school for addressing this situation immediately, and I am hopeful that you will never treat another person in this manner again.

I feel that it is very important to let you know a little more about the person you were being so mean to that day. Truman is five years old, and the day you teased him was only his second day of kindergarten. Having picked him up at school the previous day, Thursday afternoon was his first-ever ride on a school bus. He had been looking forward to that ride for a long time—ever since he first saw his big brother Alex step off that big yellow bus nearly four years ago. Imagine how upset I was when I greeted Truman at the bus stop and asked him how he liked his first bus ride and he said, “Some kids made fun of my hand.”

I am not naïve. I know that kids sometimes tease people who are different. I expected this situation to present itself at some point. I just didn’t expect it on Truman’s first-ever bus ride. It breaks my heart to know that what should have been a wonderful and fun memory will be forever tainted by your unfortunate choice to make my son feel bad about himself. From what I understand, you loudly proclaimed that Truman’s left hand was gross. You yelled, “Ew!” when you saw that he only has three fingers instead of five. I could excuse your reaction if you had immediately stopped drawing attention to Truman’s deformity and apologized, but witnesses claim that you continued to make a big deal about it even after several of your peers told you to cut it out. In other words, you knew what you were doing was wrong and that it could hurt Truman’s feelings, but you continued anyway. Shame on you.

You should know a few things about the little boy you bullied that day. Truman was born in China almost six years ago. A day or so later, he was found on a sidewalk in a big city after being abandoned by his biological parents. No one knows for sure why he was abandoned, but our best guess is because of his deformed left hand and foot. In some cultures, birth defects are considered a curse against a family and the innocent baby is often abandoned—or worse. Truman was lucky, because someone found him on the sidewalk and brought him to an orphanage before it was too late. My wife and I were lucky, too, because we were able to adopt him when he was two years old and bring him home to live with us here in Ashland.

Have you ever seen the movie “Finding Nemo”? It is about a young fish who was lucky enough to survive an attack by a barracuda that left him with a deformed fin which he and his dad called his “lucky fin.” Well, we call Truman’s left hand his “lucky hand” because it was likely what started the chain of events that brought us together. He is proud of his lucky hand and has never felt self-conscious about it for a single moment. It is just a part of who he is, and he is a wonderful human being. Truman is a lively, happy, funny, and positive kid. His spirit shines so brightly that he makes everyone around him feel glad just to know him. And yet, you tried to make him feel bad about his hand. You tried to make him feel bad about who he is. How would you feel if someone tried to make you feel that way?

I tend to believe the best about people, so I choose to believe that you are good kids who just made a bad choice. Learn from your mistakes and grow as people. And get to know my Truman. You’ll be glad you did.

Love & Fried Chicken

(Originally published in the 8-8-12 edition of the Boone County Journal)

In defending his company’s stance against same-sex marriage, Chick-Fil-A president Dan Cathy recently stated his business is “based on biblical principles, asking God and pleading with God to give us wisdom on decisions we make about people and the programs and partnerships we have.” One of the partnerships Mr. Cathy’s company maintains is with an organization called the Family Research Council, an outfit classified as an anti-gay hate group by the Southern Law Poverty Center. According to its own records, the FRC recently lobbied members of the United States Congress against supporting a resolution that denounced Uganda’s notorious “Kill the Gays” bill that calls for anyone convicted of committing a homosexual act to be put to death. Leviticus 20:13 does state, “If a man lies with a man as one lies with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They must be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.”

So, it would appear that Chick-Fil-A supports the biblical principle that homosexuals must be executed, right? No, you say? That’s not what Mr. Cathy said, you insist. Surely you do not mean to imply that Mr. Cathy or other devout Christians can pick and choose which verses of the bible to accept or reject. The Lord clearly said in Leviticus 20:22, “Keep all my decrees and laws and follow them.” So, if the bible calls for homosexuals and adulterers to be put to death, then it must be done. The scripture also calls for anyone who curses their mother or father to be put to death, too. (How would any of us survive our teenaged years if this law was followed to the letter?) Or what about in Deuteronomy 22:28-29 when God commands that when a virgin is raped, her attacker must pay her father a fine and then they must marry and never get divorced?

If we are to cite the bible as a reason to keep same-sex couples from being married, then we must follow every word of the scripture. If we reject even one passage because we feel it is antiquated or unjust, then the authority of the rest of the book is called into question. Not comfortable with making rape victims marry their attackers? Not convinced that cursing your father warrants being executed? Me neither. Plenty of bible passages mention examples of marriage that would be considered “non-traditional” in today’s world. King David had eight wives and ten concubines, for example. That doesn’t fit very well with many Christians’ biblical definition of marriage as being between one man and one woman. Since the bible can contradict itself, and because most of us in the modern age don’t accept all the severe punishments it calls for, we must therefore reject the bible as a basis for defining marriage.

How then, can we define marriage? I define it as a lawful union between two people who love one another and who have pledged the rest of their lives to each other. As an ordained minister, I have had the privilege of performing wedding ceremonies for several couples recently. Unfortunately, in Missouri and most states, same-sex marriage is illegal and I am not able to solemnize the marriages of my gay friends. I compare this injustice to pre-civil rights laws that prevented mixed-race marriages. I wonder if those who came out to support Chick-Fil-A last week would have done so if the company openly advocated against the rights of blacks to marry whites. I submit to you that being gay or straight is as much of a choice as being black or white. I have several gay and lesbian friends and I know for a fact that they did not choose to be homosexual. I have seen with my own eyes how dedicated these couples are to one another. It breaks my heart that in this relatively enlightened age, some people dedicate themselves to ensuring that my gay friends can never be married to the people they love.

A friend said I was being intolerant by boycotting a business for exercising their free speech rights. I am boycotting Chick-Fil-A for their financial support of organizations that advocate outlawing homosexuality and same-sex marriage. To me, their effort to marginalize a segment of the population is the definition of intolerance. For that reason, in the battle between love and fried chicken, I choose love. 

Happy Gotcha Day

Exactly one year ago, a little Chinese girl was led into a room full of strange, pale faces all staring directly at her. She had never seen westerners before, much less spoken with any. For that matter, she had not met or spoken with many Chinese either. Virtually everyone on Earth was a stranger to little Tian Tian because in all her seven years of life she could only remember leaving her orphanage twice.

 Considering all this, she would have been forgiven for acting frightened or apprehensive that day. No one would have blamed her for being upset or reticent. In fact, it was expected. It was a day unlike any day she had ever experienced. Every day for seven years, Tian Tian woke up, ate her meager rations, sat around with almost nothing to do, bathed, and went to bed. Because she was born different (cerebral palsy) from the other children, she was not allowed to attend class and receive even a rudimentary education, despite the fact that she had no mental disabilities whatsoever. As she grew older and demanded less attention from her caretakers, Tian Tian was left to look after herself for most of the day. Inmates in American prisons are offered more educational and enrichment services than the innocent little Chinese girl received.

 In seven years, no one bothered to teach Tian Tian to hold her head up. No one showed her how to use chopsticks to feed herself. No one taught her how to blow her nose or brush her teeth. No one taught her how to use crayons or to write. No one taught her how to read. Despite living in a city that hosted the world’s biggest ice sculpture festival because the region is blanketed in a deep winter freeze for half the year, Tian Tian had never seen snow because no one had ever bothered to hold her up to the window of her room so she could see out and enjoy the natural beauty of the world.

 Tian Tian had every right to feel overwhelmed when she walked into the room that day to be introduced for the first time to her new family. But she wasn’t. When the silly looking white man approached her and said in garbled Mandarin “Wo shi baba. Wo ai ni,” (I am your daddy. I love you.), she smiled and whispered, “Wo ai ni, Baba.” (I love you, Daddy.) And then she gave me a hug. She repeated this process with her new mama, brothers, and grandmother, too. And then she held my hand and just smiled. We posed for a few pictures and signed a few forms and then my new daughter let me hold her in my arms for the very first time. Only it didn’t feel like the first time at all. It felt so natural and so right that it seemed that I’d been holding her for years. And perhaps I was, if only in my heart—and in hers, too.

 In one year, Tiana has made a remarkable transformation. Her short, brittle hair is now long and lustrous. Her legs that were so atrophied from inactivity that she could barely walk twelve months ago are now so strong that her favorite activities include dancing, playing basketball, and chasing her brothers on the playground at Ashland City Park. She has learned how to read and write. She exhibits wonderful table manners (when she feels like it) that include holding her head up, using a fork (or chopsticks), and chewing with her mouth closed. And she has seen and played in snow, something she still swears to this day does not exist in China. For one full year, I have been amazed and humbled (and frustrated) by this little girl on a daily basis. She is absolutely everything I could hope for in a daughter—and then some. Those who have had the privilege of getting to know Tiana over the past 365 days will agree that there is something very special about this child. To know her is to love her. To be loved by her is the greatest gift anyone can be given.

 Happy Gotcha Day, Tiana. Wo ai ni.