You're Invited To My Clink Party

Thank you so much for coming! Here, let me take your coat. Feel free to warm up by the fire. Help yourself to some coffee and hot cocoa in the kitchen. Do grab a plate of yummy cake and cookies on your way by. 

Now that your body is warm and your belly is happy, let's get this party started!

Let's raise our mugs of deliciousness, and toast to the interwebs!

Clink*

Hey! Speaking of interwebs and clinks, I'm starting a trend. Instead of wasting valuable time and energy saying "Click the link", I'm coining the phrase "Clink". So, welcome to my very first Clink Party! I'm so glad you came. Refill anyone?

This Clink Party is held in honor of National Orphan Awareness Month, which just so happens to be going on right now. Last November, I wrote several posts on this topic, and instead of reinventing the wheel, I'm linking my posts below (along with a few other posts dedicated to adoption).

So...

Clink.

Our Journey to Sophia (Part One and Part Two)
Two Year Ruminations
Good Arms Are Still Wrong Arms

Grab a warmer from the coffee pot.

Perspective Shift
The Day My Heart Broke

Those ones are tough. Stop for now. The links aren't going anywhere. Digest. Pray. Weep. Seek.

Loving Whales and Orphans
A World Without Orphans: A Picture of Hope

We are the hope. May it spur us to action beyond ourselves.

Obstacles
What Can You Do?

And for a little silliness: Oh The Things People Say and Oh The Things I Want To Say**

I'm so glad you stayed! Before I walk you to the door, will you please accept a small party favor?

Blessings,

Cynthia




*Although...I have a feeling that filled mugs make more of a clank sound when used for a toast. 
**Alright, fine! I've said some of them. Most of them. 

Hogwash

Recently on the wonderfully convoluted and dramatic world of Facebook, this quote was pasted onto a photograph:

"The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty."
(Mother Teresa)

The photograph held a sweet lil' pink face, smudged with mud. Doleful eyes stared sadly from behind the bars of a dirty cell. It was just a glimpse into this neglected life.

Oh. Did I mention it was a picture of a pig? As in oink, oink, "th-th-that's all folks" pig.

I know. It was a little mean of me to string you along like that. When I first saw Mother Teresa's words applied to humane treatment of hogs, I felt more than mild annoyance. It cheapens the words of a great woman who (to the best of my knowledge) never lobbied for animal rights. She was a little preoccupied with loving people. Silly nun.

This brought to a rolling boil a topic that has been quietly simmering in the back of my mind. If I drive to the ritzier areas of town, I can literally feel my blood pressure rise. Pet resorts. Pet summer camps. Pet dermatologists. Really? What, will the other mutts make fun of teenage canine acne? Pet bakeries, spas and posh kennels that cost more than my entire home furnishings. And don't get me started on pet strollers.

Disclaimer: When watching a movie, I tend to flinch more when animals get hurt than when their human counterparts get an arrow through the heart.*

There is a disturbing trend in our society to lavish extravagant care on our four-legged creatures (unless it's a canary. then I certainly hope it's only two-legged). Now hear this: I'm all for humane treatment of animals and being kind to our pets. While I don't personally feel that our dogs are part of the family, I can handle people referring to their "furry kids". What I have absolutely zero tolerance for is the over-the-top concern Americans have for animals while humans are languishing in worse conditions than those of the pig I described earlier. The two aren't incompatible. You can save the whales and advocate for orphans. We needn't feel guilty when we buy a bag of dog food, but we had better hope the images of gaunt faces in Africa spur us into action. Perhaps there are still people in the U.S. who are unaware of the living condition of orphans in other corners of the world. I painted a sad little picture of a pig. Now it's time to paint an even sadder picture. Imagine walking onto the grounds of an orphanage. As you walk through the front doors, a faint (and unpleasant) odor wafts through the stale air. The first floor holds babies in cribs. There are soiled sheets, and bottles propped in mouths. Aha. That must be the source of the smell. Only the newbie bothers to cry. The rest of the children have already learned that their tears result in zilch. Climb the dingy stairs to the second floor. Then it hits you. The stench is overwhelming. Choking back bile, you press on and the sight before you nearly makes your knees buckle. Same scene as the first story, but now you are looking into the expressionless faces of toddlers, grade-schoolers and teenagers. They are laying in their own filth, bottles propped against rotting teeth, muscles permanently contracted, their weight flunked out of the percentile charts. These children protest being taken from their cribs, because they hardly know human touch.

Their care is worse than we would find acceptable for our dogs. Light years worse. It is a contradiction to say these are their living conditions; these are truly their dying conditions. This is (at least closer) to what Mother Teresa was talking about.

By the way, the above quote is nestled in a larger quote. Here it is in it's entirety:

There is more hunger in the world for love and appreciation in this world than for bread. We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty. We must start in our own homes to remedy this kind of poverty.

So, take your pooch for a walk (or snuggle your ferret *shudder*) while you seek God's direction for His precious and valued children.

Needing Perspective,
Cynthia

P.S. I will not apologize for thinking of ferrets as hairy snakes with legs.

*The Professor insisted I have a disclaimer. That's why he balances me so well. But seriously. Who else gasps when a horse goes down?

Two Years Down, And A Lifetime To Go!

A legion of butterflies fought for space in my stomach. It is a van ride of which I have tried to commit every turn, every jostle to memory. My eyes took in the long-awaited sign; one we had seen in other meetcha videos and pictures. We pulled up to a tall, metal gate set in a concrete wall. The wall, like many others had broken bottles embedded along the top-poor man's razor wire. The driver honked the horn and a face appeared at the gate. The gatekeeper/guard permitted our entry. 

And we were there. 

All the paperwork, all the months of prayer, all the packing and fundraising was about to take on human form. We could see little faces crowding around a gate toward the back of the property, and little brown noses pressed against a large window set in a nondescript building. It was impossible to tell if Sophia was among the runny noses smearing the glass. Part of me hoped to catch a glimpse of her and part of me didn't want to spoil the moment of meeting her on the steps of the transition home. We were the first family in the line-up. Several families had arrived in the days prior to our arrival and they stood off to the side, preparing to share in the wonder of our moment and identifying with the scope of emotions we were encountering. I felt an unbidden pressure to respond with just the right amount of warmth and love, lest the nannies think I was unfit to become her mama. We were told they were changing her diaper and would bring her out in a minute. I heard her protesting this upset in her day. At the time I swore Ethiopian minutes must be longer than sixty seconds. Just when I felt my nerves would burst, her nanny brought her through the doors and my heart skipped a beat (or three). Pictures had done her little justice. Her solemn expression as they handed her to Timothy held none of the exuberance we see now. Timothy held her for a handful of moments as I gingerly touched her brittle hair. She didn't cry. She seemed resigned to the hand-off. My sweet husband asked if I wanted to hold her. Do I want to hold her? Ummmm...YES! I held it together until she was tucked in my arms. Then I bawled like a baby (much like I'm doing as I type these words). She fit. She was mine and she was precious. 

The most animation from her was when she was facing
away from us, looking into the only home she knew.

Sophia, that was two years ago. We held you, rocked you to sleep, fed you and tried desperately to eek a smile out of you in the short time we were with you on our court trip. We knew you could crawl and walk, but you refused to do anything except dully hold a toy and stare past us. Now not a day goes by that you aren't full of infectious giggles and smiles. You are inquisitive and engage the world around you in a way that is fresh, unique and ALL YOU! You have rocked our world and we are changed forever. Thank you for teaching us to love in another dimension. You opened our eyes to the beautiful tragedy that is adoption. You reached a part of our hearts that was barren before your touch. I love you, my sweet daughter, and I would do it all over again.



To Ethiopia And Back,
Mama

The Day My Heart Broke

We were standing outside an orphanage, waiting for the drivers to unload our donations. I stood by like a helpless American while they hefted huge boxes down from the tops of their vans. A nearby window was open and there's nothing like a group of ferengis* to draw a crowd. In mere moments, the window was crowded to capacity with little arms straining to reach us. Their noses were drippy, their clothes were dingy and their eyes held unreserved, unwavering hope. They all said the same haunting word over and over.

Ah-by-ay, ah-by-ay, ah-by-ay...

Daddy? Daddy? Daddy? 

Are you my daddy?

As hard as it was to leave Sophia behind, it was bitterly more heartbreaking to leave these children. Sophia had a family. She was desired, loved and cherished. I was coming back for her. No one was coming for these children. Despite this horrible truth, their hope remained undimmed during our entire visit at their orphanage.

I firmly believe there are people reading these words, knowing God is telling you it's time. Your family is missing someone around the dinner table. Your movie nights need another child snuggled next to you on the couch. There's one more stocking to add to the mantel.

And somewhere there is a child waiting for you to be their ah-by-ay and eh-my-ay.**


Irreparably Broken For The Better,
Cynthia


P.S. I want to address ways other than adoption to help the orphan, but first will you please, please, please with a cherry on top spend earnest time in prayer, seeking God's heart for your family and keeping an open mind?


*Amharic for "non-black foreigner".
**It's probably obvious, but Amharic for "daddy" and "mama".