"Turn the car around!"

A few months back, I wrote with great sadness about the death of a woman named Albina Callaway. My sorrow lay partly in the fact that her passing was so sudden and that she left behind a young daughter and partly in the fact that it took me three months to get the news.

Albina was my friend. We knew each other from my mid-day trips to Denney's with my children and mother. She waitressed there and was always such a joy to be around. Read the previous 'blog for the details.

Anyway, my sadness pushed me into something that has become much bigger than just me. I know now that it was really always bigger than just me, but in the beginning I felt like a one-woman crusader.

This is a true story about what happens when we give up ourselves. It's also a story about what can happen when we ask God to give us a job without clearly knowing what reward, if any, will be obtained. It is Emmanuel or "God with us" in the most tangible way. It is a solid refutation of the world's tendency to disbelieve in the existence or power of God.

Before I tell you the story, I have to share the lyrics of a song by one of my favorite Christian singers, Chris Sligh. The song is, "Only You Can Save" and it played through my head over and over in the weeks leading up to what I'm about to relate.

I saw a man today, his whole world across his back

A living monument opposed to my success

I tried to look into his eyes as his shuffled past my car

Sweat beading on his skin, his clothes and hair a mess

As the light turned green and I pulled away, he slowly disappeared

Just a memory of another chance I failed to show your love here


I wanna love because You love
I wanna give because You gave

I wanna reach my hand out to the lost

because I know Your hand can save

Only You can save

Only You can save


Sometimes I have to wonder if I really want to know

The struggle and the pain that others feel

Do I want to hear the stories I see echoed in their eyes

Or is this love I say that I'm reflecting even real

As the light turns on inside my head and I slowly disappear

I steel myself cuz what you call for me is to show your love here…

I wanna love because You love

I wanna give because You gave

I wanna reach my hand out to the lost

because I know Your hand can save

Only You can save

Only You can save

(Save) Let me be Your hands

(Only You can save) Let me be your eyes

(Only you can save) Help me understand

(Only you can save)

That I'm Your hands and feet hidden behind this frail human disguise


I wanna love because You love

I wanna give because You gave

I wanna reach my hand out to the lost

because I know Your hand will save.


In the song, Sligh prays for God to use him in some meaningful way so that he can actually demonstrate the love and purpose of Christ rather than just talk about it.

On Christmas Eve 2010, I did the same thing and the avalanche of blessing that has poured from that one short prayer threatens to overwhelm me.

I found out about Albina's death the Tuesday before Christmas. At that point, I couldn't shake the feeling that I needed to do something, something for her or for her family. I didn't know what that "something" would be, but like a pesty fly at a picnic the thought just wouldn't leave me.

That same day, Tuesday, I wrote a letter to her husband expressing my sympathy and regret at only then having learned the news of her death three months before. I went online and found what I hoped was still a good address for him, drove to his house, and after finding him not home left the letter with a neighbor who promised to deliver it for me. I included my phone number and email, in case Albina's husband wanted to talk. My work was done, right?

Friday, the day before Christmas, found me sitting at my kitchen table with my children making last minute crafts to give as gifts. As they finished up, the overwhelming compulsion to pray came over me and, once the kids were gone, I sat there alone and silent, wondering what on earth I should pray. I didn't need anything, so what WAS this about? Why was I being provoked into prayer?

That's when the still small voice of the Old Testament spoke and all I heard was, "Ask to be connected."

Connected? Who was I disconnected from? It was Christmas Eve, I'd sent all my cards to family and friends, my children were happily getting ready for the next day, my husband, mother and in-laws were all up and running. Where was the disconnect?????

Then I realized that the other nagging feeling, the one that made me wonder and worry a little about Albina's family WAS the disconnect. I needed to make contact with her husband! I needed to know for myself that he and his little girl were okay!

This was my prayer: "Dear Father, let me make contact with James so I can know he and his daughter are okay. If I can help them, help me to do this. This is all I ask of you and I pray to see the way clear to make this happen. Amen."

That was it. I didn't know it then, but I had just opened wide a door that has yet to be shut, and the blessings that have flooded through it read like the wish list of a child at Christmas. I believe this is no accident. God sent his son to us on Christmas Eve as the greatest gift mankind would ever have, and it was on Christmas Eve that I prayed to receive the gift of usefulness.

Later that day, on our way home from a friend's open house, I stopped by the grocery store to buy ingredients for a Christmas Day green bean casserole. As I headed back to the house, I was disgusted with myself when I realized I'd bought absolutely everything else for the casserole I needed except the green beans! I dropped off my mother and my girls and told them I'd run up to Walmart to get the beans and that I'd be back soon. We were scheduled to go with friends that night to a Christmas Eve service at their church, so I needed to get back to get ready.

As I headed out of my neighborhood, a voice that was nearly audible in the car said to me, "Turn the car around." I tried to brush it off, not really thinking it could be anything but a niggling, lingering worry about a situation I'd already addressed. I needed to get those green beans!

"Turn the car around!" It came again, and this time I found myself turning the corner and driving away from the store and towards Albina's house. This is nuts, I thought. I've got this to do and that to do and on and on and on -- and all the while my car was headed in a different direction.

As I neared Albina's house, I saw there was a car in the driveway. Her husband must be home, I thought, and what in the world am I going to say? Did he get my letter? Did I offend him? Is he going to blow me off the minute I introduce myself? All these questions and more ran through my head as I shut off the engine, got out, and headed up to the front door.

And then what happened? Her husband answered the door, and when I told him who I was he said, "I was just working on an email to send to you. I got your letter and I just now had time to reply."

We stood on his front porch and talked, and talked, and talked. The sun went down, it began to drizzle, and I began to wonder how I was going to explain all this to my family. Surely by now they were missing me, and thinking the line at Walmart couldn't possibly be that long.

At one point in the conversation, I asked Albina's husband if there was anything I could do for him and he said that although he hated to ask for help what he really needed was some dog food for his two dogs. I asked him what sort of food he had for himself and his little girl and he said quietly, "Not much." Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was now nearly 7 p.m. and I'd been gone a good two hours. I needed to get home. Tonight was Christmas Eve and there were toys to assemble, foods to prepare, and our friends would be meeting us at their church in just a couple of hours.

I offered to run up to a nearby grocery store to get some food and the husband accepted. On the way to the store, I called my husband and told him where I was and what was happening. "Call Rene and Dennis and let them know we won't make it," I said. "There's no way I can get home in time now."

I shopped for groceries like the mother of four children that I am -- peanut butter, wheat bread, bag of apples, bananas, milk, orange juice. I worried that the little girl might not have enough nutritious food to stay healthy and, knowing the family had no health insurance, it seemed paramount to make sure the food I bought was quality stuff.

As I checked out, I glanced at my watch. It was still early enough that if I got the groceries delivered in time I could still make it home to get ready to meet our friends for church and a gift exchange afterwards. I'd call my husband from the car and he could let our friends know we'd be there after all. What could be better? The evening in a nice, tidy package, right? A little good deed and then on to the fun, right? Right?

Then I heard thunder, and I saw the rain, lots and lots of torrential rain. How in the world was I going to load and unload all these groceries without getting absolutely soaked, I asked myself.

As I stood outside the store watching the downpour, it became clear that I was expected to finish the job God had given me. Running to my car, I began loading in the bags as fast as I could while all the while the cold rain seeped through my shawl and into my clothes down to the skin. "You have a chance to help someone else who's hurting far more than you're suffering a temporary soaking," the voice said to me. "Get over it. Your clothes will wash and you will dry out."

I got back to Albina's house and her little girl helped me bring the bags into the house. It was my first real look at the child and she was beautiful. We got everything put away and her dad asked if I'd like to sit for a bit and talk. It was Christmas Eve after all, and it was obvious he was struggling. I glanced at my watch and a sinking feeling crept over me. There was no way now I'd ever make it home in time for the activities we'd planned.

Something was afoot and now my curiosity was piqued. The story of that evening was not over yet, and I needed to stay to get to the end.

Albina's husband and I visited for nearly two more hours, during which time he told me all about his life with Albina and showed me pictures of her as a young woman back in Russia. I watched his daughter string beads as she kept an eye on a children's television program, and at one point she came over to her father to give him a hug. They were okay, and that's exactly what I needed to see. At that point, seeing this was enough.

It turned out to be only the beginning, though.

Visits and conversations in the months ahead revealed many needs.
God revealed Himself in the meeting of those needs.

*The father needed legal help and the funds to prepare a will and guardianship papers in the event he could no longer care for his daughter. A friend of mine from college who happens to be a family attorney took up the case quickly and prepared the documents at a discount. My mother and I had the money between us to pay that bill.

* The little girl needs a mouthful of dental work totaling about $2500. Through a network of strangers on a community online bulletin board where I posted the family's plight and asked for any dental referrals, a dentist has been found who will do all the work for free.

* On that same bulletin board, I posted the need for furniture for the little girl as well as a mattress set so she can have a proper bed. Total strangers have sent me enough money to buy the mattress set.

*Two other families have agreed to donate gently used bedroom furniture. Another woman in my homeschool group has bedding to fit the bed, and yet another lady has offered her husband's help to deliver the furniture to Albina's family.

* Another woman and her business partner are working with their church friends to pray for Albina's family and they are researching options for helping the husband and child move to a better home.

* A man and his father, a Navy veteran, have offered to meet with Albina's husband, who is also a Navy vet, to talk with him about how they can help him register with the Veterans Admin so he can receive his own much needed medical and dental care.

All this out of one prayer.

See what I mean when I say it was always bigger than just me. So many willing and concerned offers of help, so much generosity pouring out of every corner of my community, so many open expressions of Christ-like love and the offer of prayer -- when I think back through the chain of events how could I possibly chalk any of it up to coincidence?

In Matthew 7:7, Jesus tells his followers this:

7“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. 8“For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened. 9“Or what man is there among you who, when his son asks for a loaf, will give him a stone? 10“Or if he asks for a fish, he will not give him a snake, will he? 11“If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give what is good to those who ask Him! 12“In everything, therefore, treat people the same way you want them to treat you, for this is the Law and the Prophets."

God was always available to help. He was just waiting for someone to ask the question.

Emmanuel. God with us.

If anyone reading this still doubts the power of God to move in a person's life in ways far beyond what the human mind can imagine, email me. Let's talk.

I tell you, He is as real as anything you can touch, taste, smell or feel. In some ways, even more so.

Emmanuel. God with us.

Thank you, Father.

Wasn't public school supposed to save them?

Some critics of homeschooling like to argue that parents who teach their own children should somehow be regulated, in part to make sure they are not using homeschooling as an excuse to abuse their children away from the public eye.

That argument would be solid if it wasn't so absurd. Read on, and you'll see what I mean.

A Florida couple is in the news following allegations of child abuse of twin 10-year-olds adopted in 2009. The children first lived with the Jorge and Carmen Barahona as foster children. Nubia Barahona was found dead in her father's truck on Valentine's Day. Her brother Victor was in the front seat still alive but severely burned over much of his body by a caustic substance.

According to police reports, Nubia and Victor were routinely tied up and kept in a bathroom. Both were beaten from time to time, and food was withheld.

Both children attended public school where teachers at various times reported the girl was hoarding food or had admitted her mother beat her or that both children appeared unkempt.

Those reports fell on deaf ears. They could not be substantiated enough to warrant removing the kids from their home.

According to the 2/28/11 edition of the Miami-Herald, Christine Lopez-Acevedo, a former attorney for the Guardian ad-litem Program, recited mostly by memory from official child welfare records: Nubia telling a teacher she was going to be beaten with footwear; Nubia locking herself in a bathroom and crying hysterically at the thought of her mother being called to the school; Nubia promising to behave better if a principal promised never again to call her mother.

The records were readily available in 2009 when a Miami judge approved the adoption of Nubia and her twin brother Victor by foster parents Jorge and Carmen Barahona.

The story continues further down:

At the second meeting of a panel charged with determining how numerous efforts to save Nubia fell so tragically short, speakers said the girl demonstrated a distinct fear of her then-foster mother as far back as kindergarten.

At a 2007 court hearing recounted by Lopez-Acevedo, Nubia’s Royal Palm Elementary kindergarten teacher described the day Nubia wet her pants at school. Thinking it no big deal, the teacher told Nubia she would call Carmen Barahona to have her bring a change of clothes.

“Mama is going to hit me with a chancleta [a type of sandal] on the bottom of my feet,’’ the teacher testified. Nubia then locked herself in a bathroom and cried hysterically, said Lopez-Acevedo, who wept herself when relating the episode.

The principal at another school, Blue Lakes Elementary, also testified that Nubia was fearful of Carmen – so fearful that she once promised she would never fall asleep in class again if the school would refrain from calling home to complain about her. The principal said a colleague from the twins’ previous school suggested “something was not right’’ with the twins, and that school workers should keep an eye on them, Lopez-Acevedo said.

They did. All told, three times between 2006 and 2010, Blue Lakes Elementary employees called the state’s child-abuse hotline with concerns that Nubia had been brought to school dirty, foul-smelling and unkempt. And that Nubia hoarded food and complained constantly that she was hungry.

Yet none of this information was provided to Vanessa Archer, the psychologist charged with evaluating the Barahonas’ fitness to adopt the twins, who had been in their care as foster children. The result: what foster care administrators have called a “glowing’’ evaluation of the couple, which smoothed the way for the Barahonas to adopt.

“There was alarming information from the school,’’ said Roberto Martinez, a former U.S. attorney for Southern Florida who is part of the three-member panel determining what went wrong.

SCHOOL OFFICIALS DID THEIR JOB BUT THEIR CONCERNS NEVER MADE IT TO THE PROPER AUTHORITIES.

Now do you see why the abuse argument of the anti-homeschooling crowd is at best laughable and at worst a full and complete dismissal of logic?

People who want to abuse children are going to do it, no matter how tightly or loosely they are regulated. The Barahonas were regularly visited by child welfare workers, they were reported numerous times by school officials, and they STILL got to adopt Nubia and Victor. They STILL managed to carry out systemic and horrific abuse.

Going to public school did not save Nubia or Victor Barahona.

The next time some windbag pushes for regulation of homeschoolers on the grounds that parents who teach their own children are more likely to be secretly abusive, the story of Nubia and Victor Barahona ought to be placed front and center as refutation.

This is the second 'blog post I've written on this subject in the past year or so. The other story involved Chandler Grafner of Colorado who also attended public school and who was also reported by his teachers after they witnessed suspicious behaviors and remarks consistent with a child who was being abused. As in the Barahona case, help came too late and Chandler Grafner died from starvation. He was just seven years old.

Beauty for ashes

Regret is universally regarded as one of the worst things with which to live. It fairly screams failure, missed opportunities, wasted time, unrequited love, lack of courage -- all the things that leave a person feeling somehow slightly incomplete.

Interestingly, if regret is acknowledged and examined it can also transform us in ways we didn't think possible.

That's right. Regret can lead to redemption. The catch is that we have to be willing to own the misstep, the lost opportunity, the failure to act, and to figure out what we might do differently next time.

If we're blessed enough to get a second chance, we have an awesome chance to bless someone else and that, in turn, takes away some of regret's sting.

I was talking with my children's piano teacher today. She's worked with my kids for two years now and her policy has always been that students come to her house for their lessons.

In our case, she comes to us. We pay her a little extra for her gasoline, but friends who know me and know about this arrangement have been miffed when they've requested a similar setup and have been told no.

On this day, I felt obligated to tell her that while it used to be imperative that she come to us because when we started I had two very little, very energetic boys who would've been hard to corral in her nice, neat home for an hour while their older sisters took a lesson, now everyone was older and likely more manageable. My oldest son, in fact, has recently been added to her student roster, so now it's just his little brother who needs tending. I told her I knew her arrangement with us was unorthodox in that it deviated from her usual practice and that I was willing to pack everyone up to come to her if need be. (She's an awesome teacher, and while it would be a chore to get everyone up and dressed and going, I'd do it.)

That's when she told me why she really made the exception for us and, no, it didn't have anything to do with hosting rowdy little boys in her nice, neat house.

It's a classic story of regret.

"Several years ago," she said, "I had a mother call me whose son wanted to take lessons. He was eight years old and she told me he had Asperger's Syndrome (high-functioning autism) but that he really wanted to learn the piano. So, like I did for other students, I had them come to my house. After a few lessons he had to quit. He suffered from a lot of fear and anxiety about leaving his house and he kept saying he needed to be home."

She said the day I contacted her about lessons for my girls and told her upfront that my oldest has Asperger's Syndrome a light bulb went on in her mind. "I suddenly remembered that boy and thought about how he might be playing the piano with me today if only I'd agreed to come to his house," she explained. "That's why, not knowing how Asperger's affects different kids differently, I made an exception and came to you. I hated to think of another child missing a chance to learn the piano."

Her regret over one lost student compelled her to bless another, and our family has benefited tremendously.

I could write a book about the regrets in my own life that I've taken and turned into something useful and positive. One of them has to do with friends lost and found.

Years ago when I was working for the daily college newspaper I got to know a guy who covered sports and used to do his work at night. His name was Brian and he sat at the computer next to mine. While I edited copy, he wrote his stories for the next day's edition. He smoked -- a habit that annoyed me to the point of finally telling him to either put out the cigarette or be willing to eat it. He graciously complied. Sometimes he made snarky jokes about the people in the stories I was editing, or he'd read over my shoulder and comment about how I should rewrite this or rearrange that. He was friendly enough, though, so while he could be like the pesty fly at the picnic, he also ended up being a dear friend.

Time passed. I graduated, went on with my life, eventually got married, and had my first child. I kept up with Brian through another mutual friend of ours, so I knew that he, too, had married and was now a father.

When my oldest daughter was a toddler, Brian and I met our mutual friend one night for pizza and a reunion. It was fun to reminisce about the silly things we'd said, done, and worn many years before when we were in college and a bit full of ourselves. We shared pictures of our children and promised to stay in better touch.

I never saw Brian again. He shot and killed himself about two years later. A troubled marriage and eventual divorce proved to be too much.

When I heart the news, I was stunned and then I felt myself going under wave after wave of regret. Suicide is particularly devilish because it always leaves people with more questions than it answers. What if I'd really done my due diligence and stayed in touch? Would my friend have confided in me? Could I have somehow prevented this terrible, tragic outcome? Did I say everything I wanted to that night at the pizza place? Should there have been something more?

I struggled for a long time to make sense of Brian's death, but now after so many years I accept that I never really will. Every time September rolls around, I wonder how his two sons are doing and I think about our mutual friend who was, for all purposes, Brian's best friend and who was also caught off guard by the abrupt and permanent departure.

What could I learn from this, I kept asking. Something useful had to come out of something so awful, and I knew if I looked hard enough I'd find it.

Eventually I did. It came in the form of an opportunity to reconnect with a dear friend from my childhood whose adult years have been plagued by chronic illness and a retreat into near seclusion. After much thought and conversation with his family, I summoned the courage to call and reestablish a tie that has been broken for far too long.

He's never said so, but I hear tell from others in his family that our renewed friendship has been a blessing in his life. I know it's been a blessing to mine.

Regret can eat you alive by teasing you with things from the past you cannot change.

Why not gain the upper hand instead and use those same things to change the future?

A letter came from far away . . .

Awhile back, my family decided to participate in a project called Any Soldier that connects civilians directly with U.S. military personnel stationed overseas. The idea is to make sure that soldiers who may not get much (or any) mail from home get mail from those who appreciate their sacrifices.

Some of the soldiers have special requests. Others just like to get cards or letters.

Out of more than 1,000 soldiers who are signed up to be liaisons between their units and civilian supporters, we picked a name at random and read what the soldier and his men wanted most.

Coffee. Lots of coffee.
Snacks.
A dartboard set.

The girls and I went to the sporting goods store and picked out a dartboard set. We all went to Walmart and bought lots of snacks and my mom bought lots of coffee, creamer, sugar packets, and tea.

We packed five boxes in all and sent them off with the hope they'd arrive in Afghanistan intact. My girls both made several cards to include with the food and coffee, the idea being that there would be a card for every soldier in the chosen unit.

Today, my younger daughter got a letter in the mail postmarked Afghanistan. She said it was more exciting than getting a letter from someone famous, like the president.

(I'd explained to the kids that folks in the middle of a war might not have time to write back, so to get a letter at all is huge.)

The soldier who wrote to her is from North Carolina and he has a son her age. The tone of the letter is like that of any father to a child. It's poignant in its simplicity, paternal, kind, and not a little bit wistful.

He tells my daughter about the things his little boy likes to do and says if his son and my daughter could meet they'd probably get along real well.

He drew a smiley face near his signature.

As my daughter read the letter aloud to her own father, I couldn't help but note the irony -- a child of eight reading to her father about a child of eight whose father is far away in such a dangerous and unforgiving place. Both fathers are obviously proud of their children, but only one of them is able to show it in person.

Christians are taught how we were bought for a terrible price when Christ went to the cross. As Americans, we are also bought every time one of our men or women in uniform goes to the mat in the name of our country.

I want my children to understand -- and I do well to be reminded myself -- that behind every single one of those soldiers there's a story, a family, and a sacrifice either temporary or tragically permanent.

Somewhere in North Carolina tonight, a young boy who loves to read and play video games is going to bed without his dad to tuck him in.

The small, quiet sacrifices are often the greatest, and we are humbled by the price Major S. Williams' family has paid.

Moments to make a mother proud

I've got good kids.

No, really. I mean, they are really GOOD kids.

Sure, they squabble, they don't always cooperate or do as they're asked. But in spite of those unpleasant episodes, deep down they are really good kids. My older two are unfailingly helpful and often polite without being asked or reminded. My younger two are usually dependable when it comes to hauling groceries, helping their dad dig up the yard for planting, or vacuuming the floors (they love to operate the vacuum cleaner).

But sometimes, my kids really go above and beyond the call of duty and they leave me and my expectations for their ages and stages in the dust.

This week, it was my oldest son's turn to shine.

Our family was hit full force by some sort of nasty illness. As we worked to recover, some of us got better quicker than others. My 6-year-old was the first to rally.

As I lay on the couch trying to summon the energy to do anything -- after being up all night before with my youngest child and my dear dependent husband -- I watched my son happily playing nearby.

"Hey," I said. "I'm sure glad you're feeling better. Do you think you could help me out?"

He came over to me, put his little hand on my cheek and said, "Sure, Mom. What do you need?"

I asked him if he thought he could make me a peanut butter sandwich and peel me a clementine. My appetite was finally returning, but my body was just too tired to act on it.

"I can do that!" he exclaimed. "Stay there and I'll be right back."

A few minutes later, my little boy emerged from the kitchen with the sandwich and fruit in hand. "I put everything on a paper towel so you wouldn't have to wash a plate," he said. "I think I did a good job with the sandwich."

If I'd had any money on me, I'd have given him a tip.

Later, I heard him going up the stairs to ask his sisters, who were both still droopy in bed, if they needed anything. No one asked him to do this. Next, I heard him come back down, go into the kitchen, and then run water in the sink.

When I asked him what he was doing, he said his dad wanted some more iced tea. He was rinsing out Dad's glass before putting in the ice and tea. "His glass looked dirty so I am cleaning it out first," he said matter-of-factly.

Whose kid is this? Where did this little man, this little responsible, capable, self-directed, compassionate little man come from? How did I get so lucky?

This is the same child who my longtime 'blog readers may remember acted so rotten that he got his 5th birthday party cancelled. The same child who carved his name irreverently in my expensively painted and refurbished staircase. The same child whose peeing contest with a friend resulted in the replacement of a $200 mattress. The same child who, every time he was fussed at between the years of four and five told me he wished he could have a different mother. The same child who is single-handedly responsible for 80% of my gray hair.

He told me things would get better when he turned six. That was last November and amazingly enough, his prophesy has been spot on.

Amidst the temporary misery of illness and the subsequent swift recovery of us all, I remain struck by the vision of my son lovingly caring for his mother, his dad, and his siblings. If this is a hint of things to come, then all the grief, gray hair, and damaged furniture has been worth it.