Last week a caseworker from our agency called to say that she had a pregnancy client who was looking at our profile and wanted to know more about our views on open adoption. She wanted to know what kind of relationship we desired to have with birth parents. The call caught me off guard. We were out of town, at my sister in-law's house preparing to celebrate her recently acquired Doctoral Degree and our niece's birthday, and Nate was at his interview in Omaha. I locked myself in the nearest, quietest room, and tried to explain to the caseworker what I thought we wanted despite being unsure of this ourselves.
Nate and I have always said that an open adoption relationship with birth parents would probably depend a lot on the birth parents--on their backgrounds, what they wanted, and how well our personalities meshed. I know nothing about the client looking at our profile. How do you begin to describe what kind of a relationship you want to have with someone you don't know anything about? I tried to be honest with the caseworker, saying that ideally, we'd like to have a close relationship with the birth parents because a kid can never have too many people to love him/her. I said we'd like to have contact via letters, emails, and even visits either at neutral locations or at our home. Ideally, we'd like birth parents to be a part of our family. Like another sister or brother to us. But, I added, much of this will depend on the personality and desires of the birth parents as well. I hate to agree to regular home visits if the birth parents engage in criminal activity. And let's be honest, there are some personalities that ours just don't gel with--so dinner once a week with someone like that might not be tolerable. I'm not sure if I answered the caseworker's question clearly or "correctly." My answer could've scared this birth parent off....and this could have been our one chance at a child. For a long time after that phone call, I couldn't concentrate on anything else. And even a little over a week later, it still keeps me up at night. It's comforting to know that someone is/was interested in us as I was beginning to think there was something terribly wrong with our profile letter....or us...for not receiving any phone calls.
So today, on Mothers Day, this client is weighing heavily on my heart and it gives me
a bit of a new perspective about the holiday. For the past four years it's been a day where I usually wallow in my own self-pity about not being a mom, but this year is different. This morning I can't help thinking about how difficult Mothers Day would be for birth parents--especially those still struggling to choose between parenting and adoption. I can't even imagine. If you're the praying type, while you're thanking God for your own mom, offer up a prayer for wisdom for birth mom's struggling to choose between parenting and adoption.
5/13/12
5/12/12
Upcoming changes
This week we began packing up our house here in Ogallala :( and we're busy planning our big move across the great state of Nebraska. As I mentioned in a post long ago, we'll be moving to the Omaha area this summer. I accepted a position teaching high school English at Gretna, and Nate accepted a position on Thursday teaching high school choir at Omaha Burke. Though we're excited about the move (especially since we both have jobs now!), it's been a difficult week. I guess I didn't realize how soon we'd have to move in order to be in the east before our last summer of classes start up on June 4th. I just don't feel like I've had enough time with friends and our students here in O-town. It will definitely be hard to say good-bye to many people here.
What's cool about this move is to watch God work it all out. I accepted my new position long before Nate even began applying for jobs in that area. After praying about the job offer, we knew it was a good position for me and we just felt God nudging us to take a step of faith. We knew He'd take care of us in whatever way He saw fit. That's not to say that it wasn't a tad stressful thinking about what we'd do if only one of us had a steady income! But it has been cool to watch God unfold things before us. We're still praying that the right buyer comes along for our house. It looks as if we'll be staying with some old, dear friends of ours from our college years. They're awesome people and brothers and sisters in Christ. And while it might be a fun experience for awhile, we certainly don't want to wear out our welcome...and we'd like to be in our own home at some point. But I'm not sure we can financially make that work if we still own a home here. Fortunately, we've had some traffic through our cute, little abode. If you're the praying type, throw up a few that we'd be blessed with patience as we wait for God to unfold His plans even more for us. I know there are many people praying for us now, so if you're one of them, thanks for your support.
For now, I'll leave you with a few of the homes I've had my eye on :) Here's one near Elkhorn, so it would be about an equal commute for both Nate and me. I LOVE the kitchen and living room area. This one is in Gretna....almost right across the street from my new school...not sure if I want to commit to that, but it's cute nonetheless!
What's cool about this move is to watch God work it all out. I accepted my new position long before Nate even began applying for jobs in that area. After praying about the job offer, we knew it was a good position for me and we just felt God nudging us to take a step of faith. We knew He'd take care of us in whatever way He saw fit. That's not to say that it wasn't a tad stressful thinking about what we'd do if only one of us had a steady income! But it has been cool to watch God unfold things before us. We're still praying that the right buyer comes along for our house. It looks as if we'll be staying with some old, dear friends of ours from our college years. They're awesome people and brothers and sisters in Christ. And while it might be a fun experience for awhile, we certainly don't want to wear out our welcome...and we'd like to be in our own home at some point. But I'm not sure we can financially make that work if we still own a home here. Fortunately, we've had some traffic through our cute, little abode. If you're the praying type, throw up a few that we'd be blessed with patience as we wait for God to unfold His plans even more for us. I know there are many people praying for us now, so if you're one of them, thanks for your support.
For now, I'll leave you with a few of the homes I've had my eye on :) Here's one near Elkhorn, so it would be about an equal commute for both Nate and me. I LOVE the kitchen and living room area. This one is in Gretna....almost right across the street from my new school...not sure if I want to commit to that, but it's cute nonetheless!
5/9/12
Becoming a writer
In high school I dreamed of becoming a writer. Emerson, Thoreau, and Kerouac hooked me; I wanted to be them. I bought journals from Barnes and Noble and stole away to local parks and coffee shops to write essays, articles, poems, songs, and just plain thoughts. During my junior and senior year of high school, I spent what little free time I had in between musical rehearsal, track practice, and my job at the bagel shop writing and reading. Sometime during my first year of college I declared my major as English, and from then on out I took every English class my schedule would allow. During my intro. to poetry writing course my sophomore year of college, my professor, Dr. Fort, encouraged me to submit a few poems to The Carillon, our English department's creative writing journal. For a few years I submitted pieces and had a few selected each year for the tiny little collection of student work. The first time I saw my name in print, I squealed with excitement and nearly cried. But sometime after my junior year of college, writing took a backseat. I was newly married and in the final stretch of my undergraduate degree where creative writing was traded for literary analysis and lesson plans.
Worn ragged and with gray speckled hair at the age of 22, I finished my first year of teaching and took the Nebraska Writing Project's Summer Institute. The first day of class, the professor, Dr. Brooke, explained the expectations including the daily writing we'd have to bring to our writing groups. Everyday. For four weeks. Out of necessity, I had stopped writing for nearly three years in order to be a wife and teacher. A small part of me was excited to write again, but a bigger part of me was terrified. Only one other student in the course was as young as me, and the rest had at least five years on me or more...way more. And most of them looked like creative, writing types: Radiohead t-shirts, Keen sandals, tattoos, and cycling helmets next to their backpacks. Not only were they more experienced teachers, but they looked way hipper than me. And I had to share my writing with some of these people. A week later we were split into permanent writing groups for the rest of the course. For two hours each day we shared our writing in small groups and then gave and received whatever feedback the writer requested. Once past the initial awkwardness, I loved it. My writing group became like a little family as we shared our passions, our families, our travels, our obsession with odd things like outhouses and pens, and eventually the most intimate portions of our lives: bad romances, innocence stolen, our fears, and death. In one of our writing group meetings, I shared a piece that I think dealt with a few ideas I had about teaching or something of the sort (I don't even remember what it was about anymore). My group was filled with fiery teachers who taught from the depths of their heart, so my voice trembled as I shared my ideas with the teachers who had grown to become my mentors. One of my group members immediately asked if I had shared my ideas with any other teachers. When I responded that I had not because I was afraid of what others would think, he responded with, "Who gives a shit. Your voice matters, and you've got to realize that." It was empowering. Throughout my first year of teaching I was filled with the impression that I, a first year teacher, knew nothing and did more harm to student learning than good. I started that course afraid to write and share my words, feeling like I had nothing to offer other teachers, and I left proclaiming I was a writer and teacher whose voice mattered.
That course has impacted my teaching and writing in a powerful way. I maintained a daily habit of writing, and took a stand in the teaching profession. Though I still struggle immensely with an inferiority complex, I've grown to know that my voice does matter. So when a call for submissions for a new book, What Teaching Means, came across my email last summer requesting essays on the book's topic, I was intrigued. It took some coaxing from a few people, but I eventually submitted an essay. This fall I received word that my essay was selected for publication if I agreed to work with one of the editors to make a few revisions. The revision process was difficult, and I often wondered if the editor would just give up on me and select a new essay in place of mine. But he didn't. A few weeks ago I received my copy of the book, and squealed again with excitement as I saw my name in print. I started reading through the book this weekend, and I'm humbled by the stories shared in it. The essays encourage me to teach better, to be patient with even the most frustrating students, to look for ways to learn from students, and remind me of why I love my job.
Worn ragged and with gray speckled hair at the age of 22, I finished my first year of teaching and took the Nebraska Writing Project's Summer Institute. The first day of class, the professor, Dr. Brooke, explained the expectations including the daily writing we'd have to bring to our writing groups. Everyday. For four weeks. Out of necessity, I had stopped writing for nearly three years in order to be a wife and teacher. A small part of me was excited to write again, but a bigger part of me was terrified. Only one other student in the course was as young as me, and the rest had at least five years on me or more...way more. And most of them looked like creative, writing types: Radiohead t-shirts, Keen sandals, tattoos, and cycling helmets next to their backpacks. Not only were they more experienced teachers, but they looked way hipper than me. And I had to share my writing with some of these people. A week later we were split into permanent writing groups for the rest of the course. For two hours each day we shared our writing in small groups and then gave and received whatever feedback the writer requested. Once past the initial awkwardness, I loved it. My writing group became like a little family as we shared our passions, our families, our travels, our obsession with odd things like outhouses and pens, and eventually the most intimate portions of our lives: bad romances, innocence stolen, our fears, and death. In one of our writing group meetings, I shared a piece that I think dealt with a few ideas I had about teaching or something of the sort (I don't even remember what it was about anymore). My group was filled with fiery teachers who taught from the depths of their heart, so my voice trembled as I shared my ideas with the teachers who had grown to become my mentors. One of my group members immediately asked if I had shared my ideas with any other teachers. When I responded that I had not because I was afraid of what others would think, he responded with, "Who gives a shit. Your voice matters, and you've got to realize that." It was empowering. Throughout my first year of teaching I was filled with the impression that I, a first year teacher, knew nothing and did more harm to student learning than good. I started that course afraid to write and share my words, feeling like I had nothing to offer other teachers, and I left proclaiming I was a writer and teacher whose voice mattered.
That course has impacted my teaching and writing in a powerful way. I maintained a daily habit of writing, and took a stand in the teaching profession. Though I still struggle immensely with an inferiority complex, I've grown to know that my voice does matter. So when a call for submissions for a new book, What Teaching Means, came across my email last summer requesting essays on the book's topic, I was intrigued. It took some coaxing from a few people, but I eventually submitted an essay. This fall I received word that my essay was selected for publication if I agreed to work with one of the editors to make a few revisions. The revision process was difficult, and I often wondered if the editor would just give up on me and select a new essay in place of mine. But he didn't. A few weeks ago I received my copy of the book, and squealed again with excitement as I saw my name in print. I started reading through the book this weekend, and I'm humbled by the stories shared in it. The essays encourage me to teach better, to be patient with even the most frustrating students, to look for ways to learn from students, and remind me of why I love my job.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)