Adoption, Europe, and School- Oh My!

Just dropped off our home study packet- all 79 pages!

Glancing back through blog posts, it appears that I took the summer off. Rest assured, I've had plenty of posts floating around in my mind concerning adoption, parenting, the meaning of life, etc. Alas, I've been too busy living life to take time to record or reflect upon it.

To say that our family has a lot going on at the current time might be a bit of an understatement. I'll begin with a recap of our adoption progress. Since I last wrote, we have turned in the 79 pages of home study materials necessary to prove that we are physically, financially, and emotionally capable of adding to our brood. Matt and I both had to write the equivalent of a very short book detailing our upbringing (there was literally a section for each part of our lives- elementary, high school, college, etc), our parenting philosophy, how we are going to address the inevitable racism that will rear its ugly head in our transracial family, how we will address loss and separation issues, etc. We even had to write about our sex life. No lie. It was emotionally exhausting, and I was soooooo happy to hand it all over to our agency.

In the past several months we have had a couples interview and individual interviews with our social worker. She has visited our home, hung out with the kids, and met the dogs. We've shown her the gun safe, the locked medicine closet, and the room that will one day house our sweet new addition. Our kids love her, and she has been incredibly easy to visit with and work alongside. The truth is that these social workers want these kids to find homes. She did not run her fingers over the baseboard checking for dust. As we all know, dust happens while families are making memories. Her job is to ensure that this child will come home to a safe, loving environment. She masterfully worked in questions about discipline while speaking with our children. It was an easy conversation, and she helped address some of our kids' questions and concerns, as well. Grant's number one concern is that his younger brother or sister will not be able to speak the same language. He seemed calmed by our social worker's assurance that children pick up a second language very quickly. Grant will also get a crash course in language immersion in just a few short months.

Yep. We have some OTHER big news.

The entire Bowler family is (temporarily) pulling up roots to live in Paderno del Grappa, Italy, about an hour west of Venice at the base of the Dolomite Mountains (part of the Alps). Matt is going on sabbatical from Oklahoma State University in January, and will be teaching at CIMBA, the Consortium of Universities for International Studies. He will teach leadership and management courses there, as well as work on research for OSU. We will remain in Europe for the entire spring semester. Anna will study dance at Scuola di Danza Elena e Lucia Pegorari. I will be homeschooling/unschooling (a term I've recently learned more about that seems to align better with our schooling plans). Grant's first question was, "Will we go on any field trips?" I burst out laughing and responded, "Buddy, it's going to be one huge field trip!"

We will visit the glass blowers in Venice and learn the science behind their art. We will lie on our backs and gaze at Michelangelo's brushstrokes in the Sistine Chapel. We will visit Auschwitz and learn about those dark days in history, while also learning about atrocities still happening around the world. We will climb the winding stairs to Anne Frank's attic in Amsterdam. We will visit what remains of the Berlin wall. We will study the famous flying buttresses of Notre Dame, and learn about the gypsy outcasts who beg at the base of the Eiffel Tower. We will visit the Mamertine Prison in Rome, where Paul wrote 2 Timothy. Grant loves Claude Monet, so we will visit Monet's gardens in Giverny. We will swim in the Mediterranean. We will visit one of the parfumeries in Paris, and learn about the staggering salaries paid to those with a discerning sense of smell. We will keep journals and convert money. The list goes on and on... We will learn so much more than we ever imagined. All of us.

I visited Europe for the first time at the age of 21. Though I studied French for years and years, it was Italy that captured my heart. The towering cypresses of Tuscany, the free-flowing wine, the lingering meals. Something about this laidback lifestyle where family took precedence over hurried living greatly appealed to me. I threw my coins in the Trevi Fountain in Rome, and made the customary wish to return to the city. I am thrilled beyond words over this opportunity for our entire family. The professors and students are encouraged to travel, and are thus given several four day weekends and a ten day spring break. We will sometimes be travelling alongside students. I am excited by the prospect of being a "mom-away-from-home" for these American students. We will be living on campus in housing alongside other professors' families. We will be given a car, but are only a 15 minute walk from the next larger village and its celebrated Sunday markets. We will primarily bike and walk within our own village and neighboring villages.

But what about our adoption? Our social worker is actually super excited about our trip. The waiting involved in international adoption is the hardest part. Even if we received a referral today, it would still probably be a year before we could bring our little sweetie home. We are nearing a point where our home study is almost complete and we will gather any additional items to mail our dossier to our prospective country. We are still leaning heavily toward Haiti, although China is still an option. The wait time for China is the shortest, but there is something about Haiti that pulls at our hearts, despite the hints of racism we have already encountered. Please keep us in your prayers during this crazy, but exciting time. We are eagerly anticipating the ways in which God will use this trip to prepare our hearts for our little one and leave a lasting impression on our children. 

Great Day for a Race (That Time I Ran the Boston Marathon)

“Great day for a race!” The phrase I heard repeatedly on April 15, 2013. The air was crisp and cold, little to no wind. I have never raced in more perfect race conditions. The excitement was palpable as we boarded the school buses from Boston Common headed to the legendary Hopkinton, home of the Boston Marathon starting line. It was time to run 26.2 miles and then head for the party at Fenway Park. This was going to be one of those amazing once-in-a-lifetime experiences that Matt and I would reminisce about as we sat on our back porch and rocked in our old age, gray hair blowing in the wind. Hours later, that dream would be shattered. There would be no celebrating on the night of April 15.

Scoping out the Boston Marathon Finish Line the day before the race

 

I wasn’t supposed to run the Boston Marathon. I was supposed to be there cheering on my husband who had worked so hard to qualify for the most famous foot race in the world. He had labored through the hours of training, grinding out the miles in the face of pain and discomfort. This was to be his big celebration. Just a little over a week before the race, I received news that one of Matt’s friends was injured. She would not be running Boston, and did I want to take her race bib and run in her place? “And why didn’t we think of this before?” several commented. “You could have been training,” they lamented. Later, those words would haunt me. What if I had been faster?

Banditing. Participating in a race as an unregistered participant.  As the Boston Globe reported just days ago, “Yet the Boston Marathon has long handled bandits with a light touch, turning a frowned-upon tradition into a back-of-the-pack tradition.” A true bandit does not have a race bib, and often jumps into the race for only a small portion of it. The Globe continues, “For two decades, Boston College students have run as bandits, raising money and awareness for a special education school on campus.” Technically, I was running as a registered participant, just not myself. Before last year’s race, it was estimated that there were about 4,000 bandits in every Boston Marathon. Did I have what it takes to run as a pseudo-bandit?

I knew that I could definitely keep up with the charity runners, but that those who qualified would be much too fast for these legs. I debated the pros and cons. I have always been a rule follower in general, a “good” girl. That has changed a bit as I’ve aged… as I’ve come to see that most rules are made by imperfect man, not God, and that the two do not always jive. I debated some more. Every single one of my runner friends who had ever run Boston told me, “YOU. MUST. DO. THIS. If it were any other race…NO. But Boston? Not yes, but h*** yes. You’ve run a marathon before. You are mentally prepared for what happens during those last miles. The crowd will carry you the rest of the way.” I went ahead and ran the half marathon I was scheduled to run the week before Boston. Still concerned about how legs that had only carried me 13.1 miles of training would carry me to the finish line, I mapped out all of the train stations along the marathon route. If my legs failed me or cramped or any number of other variables, I knew that I could meet Matt at the finish line. My initial goal was to make it to at least Wellesley, the halfway point. The rest I would take one mile at a time.

Everything changed the night before the race. I’m not really a “do something halfway” kind of gal.  And to be entirely honest, I wanted to cross that finish line and feel that medal around my neck.  I wanted to see it all. Experience it all. From Hopkinton to Ashland to Framingham to Natick to Wellesley to Newton to Brookline to Boston. I wanted to breathe deeply in the New England air and soak in the picturesque towns along the way. Sitting in a hotel room in Boston I decided. I wasn’t going to just start the Boston Marathon. I was going to finish it.

Only a select few knew that I, too, would be running the Boston Marathon on April 15, 2013. My parents and my running buddies from home knew of my plan. My children’s teachers knew, and were tracking both of us with their respective first and third grade classes on the day of the race. My intention was to take a photo with Matt at the finish line to announce that I had, miraculously, run Boston.

Which brings us back to that cold, crisp morning in Hopkinton. The skies were pure blue and the sun sparkled with promise. As our bare legs prickled with goose bumps, we shivered in our trash bags and made our way to the Oklahoma House. We were told that if we made it to the Oklahoma House, we would be met with food, drinks, warmth, and restrooms until the race started. There was little eating, but many trips to the restroom. This is a runner thing. Stopping to go to the restroom during a race is a big fat “no no.” Precious time is lost “doing business.”

Stretching and Waiting at The Oklahoma House

 

As we set off for the start line, Matt proceeded to his corral. Due to his crazy fast running, he had an earlier start time. While in Boston, we became friends with another couple while on a city tour. They, too, were there for the race. The wife was running, but the husband was like me… a spectator. That is… until we came up with another bib number for him. Injuries abound in the world of running and thus, another Boston Marathon runner/bandit  was born. I stayed with our new friends, and pushed back to a farther corral so that I could start with them.

The gun went off, and the race was on. Man, were these people fast! I mean, I bet they could run a BQ (Boston Qualifying time). Oh yeah, because they all HAD run a BQ to earn their entry. I tried to keep up for awhile and moved to the side to let faster runners pass. Remarkably, I felt… GOOD. Lungs breathing, heart pounding, legs moving. Everything in working order. Several miles in I met up with a man who wanted to talk. He was from the Boston area, had run the race before, but wasn’t really trained up for the race this year. I looked down at my watch. We were running a 6:30 mile. This was going to be over really soon for me if I didn’t slow down. I told him that I wasn’t really trained up myself, so I was going to have to slow down. “No problem. I’m waiting on my friends, anyway,” he casually threw out there as we continued at our 6:30 pace. I slowed waaaaaay down to make my point. “Well, it was nice meeting you!  Good luck!”

“Absolutely,” he called back, “Great day for a race!”

Great Day for a Race

The miles rolled on. Past the classic New England salt box homes with their picket-fenced yards. Along the train tracks in Framingham where the crowd was a little more exuberant in their cheers. “You f***ing got this!” they cheered. Meanwhile, I was receiving computer-generated text updates every time Matt crossed another timing mat. For me, they served as confirmation that he was holding up physically and not in a medic tent (Have I mentioned that he pushes himself pretty hard during races, even Boston?). It was the first time that I had ever run a race with my phone. It was in that raucous little town of Framingham that I made the stop I vowed never to make. A port-a-potty.  Maybe it was the nerves and excitement of the day. Maybe it was the rich pasta we enjoyed the night before in the North End. Whatever the case, for the first time ever  in a race… my body screamed “STOP. NOW!” I took a nice, long break in the port-a-potty before moving on. My body thanked me, and I ran on.

As I approached Wellesley, I could hear the cheers. The infamous Wellesley girls were out in full force, offering kisses and encouragement to the runners. I took a video on my phone as I ran through Wellesley in an attempt to capture the crazy, fun atmosphere. It was one of those moments when I really, truly felt alive. Every sense was activated. The sights, the sounds, the salt on my lips (a souvenir from this sweaty endeavor). I was halfway, and I knew I could do this.
 

I ran past the little Cape Cod houses and slapped high fives with the hundreds of children offering them along the route. I even accepted a Fig Newton from one child (and I actually ate it!). Throwing caution to the wind, I reveled in the experience. And every mile or so it would hit me again: I AM RUNNING IN THE BOSTON MARATHON. It was surreal. I in no way deserved to be there. I took photos with my phone. So many photos, in fact, that I finally quit putting it back in my arm band. There was no need to listen to music. The race itself was entertainment. There were no mind-numbing miles of nothingness stretching ahead of me. There were people cheering EVERY. SINGLE. MILE.  Smiling and cheering and offering nourishment (both physical and emotional), they lined the streets.  As I made my way through the Newton Hills they cheered. As I made my way up the very last of those hills, aptly named Heartbreak Hill, their words buoyed me. When I spotted the boys of Boston College, I knew it. I was almost in Boston. I was going to finish this race! My legs were screaming, but my spirit soared. I looked down at my watch. Even with potty stops and photo ops, I wasn’t just going to finish this race. I was going to finish it FASTER than my last marathon!

Not a great photo, but I was running...and loving it!

And then the murmurings began. We had become a tight knit bunch, those of us staying together to pound out those last few miles. First one, then another. Something had happened. Rumors of the race being stopped or diverted. Still, we ran on. Heartbreakingly close, we were picturing Boylston Street. We had all visited the finish line in the days before the race. We figured some kid had pulled a prank. Never in our wildest nightmares could we have envisioned what was waiting for us on Boylston Street.

Mile 23, Brookline

Then a text from Matt. He had already finished the race and was in bad shape. He had been to the medic tent for treatment due to low sodium levels. He then tried to elbow his way to the finish line to see me finish, but was turned away by a police officer who told him it was too crowded. “You’ll never be able to get down there,” he was told. I am so thankful that he still felt awful because the Matt I know would have fought like crazy to see me finish. He had turned around and was going to try to get a massage when he heard the blasts. The first text I sent Matt in the photos below was when I received text notification that he had finished...

 

My final text would never go through.

I ran right up to the barricades on Massachusetts Avenue. I was at the front of the pack of thousands who would be stopped at this point. This could not be happening. My watch read 26.02. A marathon is 26.2 miles long. Having no clue what had actually happened at the finish line, a wave of immeasurable sadness washed over me. The runner in me wanted to tell the officers, “But if you let me run just a little farther and finish this thing, then I promise I’ll stop. You don’t understand. I’m about to set a personal record.”  I’m told that many runners had the same feeling, knowing something terrible had happened, but in the delirium of having already run twenty-some miles, felt the overwhelming desire to push beyond the barriers and finish. I was so close, but thankfully too far away.

The helicopters swarmed like bees entering the hive. It was deafening. To this day, the sound of a helicopter causes the hair on my neck to rise. I stood behind the barricades as runner after runner came in behind me and received the crushing news. And then the crumbling began. The crumbling of the runners, that is. That full-body, sinking into the ground, total-loss-of-muscle-control-and-not-just-because-you-ran-a-marathon melt. You see, for every one of us who was quickly approaching the finish line, someone was waiting at the finish line for us. Let that sink in a moment. Almost everyone had someone at the finish line. I knew I needed out of there. Immediately. I needed to be with my husband, the father of my children. I needed to hold him and have him hold me.

Race stopped. One look back, and then I began my trek across the river.

The next hour and a half are a blur. After my carefree texting and photo-taking throughout the race, my phone had very little battery left. I tried to conserve it as much as possible, and responded to just a few of the many texts to let everyone know we were okay. Matt posted three little words on Facebook which immediately received a record number of likes, “We r ok.” Grant’s teacher was one of the first to text me, and I immediately responded. Matt and I were able to talk on the phone briefly. He had more information since he was by the finish line. He told me, “Stay away from trash cans. They said there might be more.” We made a plan to meet. Several of us proceeded to move barricades so that we could get off of the race course and begin the process of finding loved ones. I had no intention of remaining a sitting duck with thousands of other runners. When I asked a military officer how to get to a particular building to meet Matt, he said, “Ma’am. You can’t go there. That’s the finish line. There’s a new meeting spot that way.” He pointed toward the Massachusetts Avenue bridge that leads into Cambridge and MIT. It would not be until several days later that we would learn that this was the escape route taken by the bombers, as well. It would be the exact location where MIT police officer Sean Collier was killed by the Tsarnaev brothers three days later.

I began the slow trek across the Charles River. A kind soul had emerged from the rowhouses and handed out trash bags to help fend off the chill of the afternoon seabreeze. The wind kicked up as I walked, and I could not stop shivering. Caked in sweat and salt, my swollen feet carried me across the wide expanse of bridge. Matt and I had agreed to meet by the building with the yellow wallboard and the crane on top. As I determinedly made my way alongside the buildings of MIT, that beacon of hope stood before me… the building with the yellow wallboard and crane. When I couldn’t find Matt, I was on the edge of tears. Another kind soul offered her phone. When I spoke to Matt again, we realized that we were standing at two different buildings on two different sides of the river. I wanted to cry. I began the trek back across the bridge, and met Matt halfway across. It was my turn to melt. I melted. He cried. We begged cab drivers to take us back to our hotel, but none would do it. They claimed that all of the roads were blocked. Finally, we found an angel of a cabbie who agreed to find a way. We didn’t care if we had to drive through another state to get there. Please just get us to our hotel. And then to a plane. And home to our babies.

While in the cab, Matt gave a phone interview to a friend working for a local TV station in Tulsa. His voice trembled and cracked. My first glimpses of the horrors of the finish line occurred when we returned to the hotel. I stared in shock and disbelief. We had just been there. I had shopped in Marathon Sports and was hoping to return there after the race. Gone. All of it. Blood. Tears. Smoke. Screams. Three dead. 260 injured. Forget the medal, I wanted to go home.

Our dinner that night would be in the restaurant several feet from our hotel, not Fenway Park. The entire city was on lockdown. We headed to the airport in the morning under the dark cloud of uncertainty, murderers still on the loose, the city paralyzed with terror. To make a long story short, our plane did not take off that day. Our flight was cancelled, and we were forced to return to the heart of Boston for one more night. We made our way to an eerily empty North End for dinner and to Mike’s for a pastry that we brought back to the room. Boston Common, which had been littered with thousands of runners and the school buses they would board for Hopkinton the day before, was now a sea of news vehicles for as far as the eye could see. The National Guard stood at every subway station entrance and on every street corner.

Boston Common April 15 (top photo) and April 16 (bottom photo)

 

Subway Station, April 16

It was as I sat in our hotel room, staring across the street at the armored vehicles and armed guards surrounding Tufts Medical Center, where several of the victims were fighting for their lives, that I began to see it.  Many would question, “Where was God that day?” When I stopped to really let it sink in, I realized… He was everywhere. Don’t get me wrong. Was it God’s will that Martin Richard, Lingzi Lu, and Krystle Campbell die that day? Absolutely not. Was it His will that 270 would sustain life-threatening and life-changing injuries? No way. Evil is not from God. Will I have some serious questions for Him when we meet in Heaven? You bet. But He. Was. There. He showed up in the first responders and civilians who saved countless lives through their quick-thinking and actions. He was there in the kindness of strangers who brought trash bags to warm us and water to sustain us. And He was there in my personal story, one of thousands that day. I’m so thankful…

·        that I was given a last-minute opportunity to run the race instead of standing at the finish line

·        that I didn’t have more time to train and thus run faster

·        that I decided the night before the marathon to run ALL of the race, not just part of it

·        that we decided not to bring the kids because of state testing even though I REALLY wanted them to see their daddy run the Boston Marathon (I never thought I would say it, but thank GOD for state testing.)

·        that Matt was so sick from low sodium levels, even after receiving IV fluids, that he couldn’t make it to the finish line to see me finish…and that the police officer told him he couldn’t get there

Feeling much worse than the photo portrays. He sent this so I wouldn't worry.

·        that I pushed back to a farther corral and thus started the race later

·         that I stopped for a prolonged emergency potty stop (first and only time in a race)

·        that I carried my phone (first time in a race)

·        that I savored every moment of the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to run the Boston Marathon by slapping high-fives and taking both mental and physical photos for 26 miles

He was there. I’ve seen Him in the stories of courage and resilience over the past year. I saw Him in the faces of the Boston PD and the National Guard and the strangers on the street. I've seen Him in the way our country rallied together to support those affected by the bombs. Would I ever run Boston again? Absolutely (as a legitimate, registered charity runner). The good guys win, and not just in the movies. Today is Easter Sunday, and the 2014 Boston Marathon will begin in less than 24 hours. Jesus conquered death. The stone is rolled away. He is risen...and He was there. He's always been there. He'll be there tomorrow...

 

I'll be praying for all of those running tomorrow. Tonight they will lay out their race gear. They will pin their bib numbers to tanks, stash shoes in socks, charge their Garmins (watches). To those runners I say, "Run hard, run fast, and soak in every. single. mile. I've looked at the forecast. It's gonna be a great day to race!"

Never so happy to be HOME

Postscript, Monday, April 21, 2014:

For the first time since 1983, an American, Meb Keflizighi, has won the men's race in the 118th Boston Marathon! Congratulations to all of those who ran. There were personal records and course records broken on this day in Boston. Today, over 36,000 runners ran for Boston. They ran for Martin and all of the other victims. They ran for those who could not. They ran, as my husband always reminds me, BIA... Because I'm Able.

Meb was so kind to stop for a photo with Matt at the 2013 Boston Marathon Expo

 

 

Adding Another Cherry to the Bowl(ers)

So...this is happening. We have some big news that several of you already know. After much prayer and the beginnings of a lot of paperwork, we are finally ready to make it public. The Bowler family is adding at least one more cherry to the bowl(ers). We are officially in the trenches of the adoption process. Our initial application has been approved, and we are moving into the home study portion of the process. For many of you, this is no surprise.  You have heard me talk about the possibility of adoption in the past. Upon sharing what I believed to be Earth-shattering news with you, several of you said, "Great! I wondered when you guys were going to do that!" So although it is very BIG news, it is not entirely surprising news. I will attempt to answer a few of the questions I have encountered most often through sharing our news.

1. Why now? Why not.

Adoption has been on our hearts for some time.  The first time I mentioned adoption to Matt, I distinctly remember that Grant was still a baby.  While he would nap, I would browse the internet to learn about international and local adoption. At the time, we were overwhelmed with a three year-old and a colicky baby. It wasn't the right time, but God was planting a seed. Over the years, God continued to show us His heart for orphans. I lost sleep over the fact that there are over 140 million orphans in the world. We could easily have had another biological child, but I knew when Grant was born that he would be the last to grow in my belly. I knew that if we were to have more children, it would be through adoption. Our next child would grow in our hearts.

Fast forward six or seven years, and here we are. Several weeks ago at church, a family was featured who had adopted a beautiful little boy from Sierra Leone. They showed a photo of him with his bright white smile surrounded by his smooth, dark skin. He showed his palms to the photographer. On them were written Psalm 68:6, "God sets the lonely in families." I lost it. The tears flowed freely, and we knew it was time.

2. From where will this little one arrive? Excellent question.

Over the past weeks Matt and I have spoken to several adoption agencies. We have quizzed every adoptive parent friend. My brain is an encyclopedia of information about the political and social climates of various countries around the world. Ethiopian adoptions are moving much slower than before...South Korea is moving faster. Ukraine is still allowing adoption applications, but the relationship with the U.S. is tenuous at best. Russian adoptions are completely halted because Putin doesn't want Americans adopting Russian children. The wait for a relatively healthy child from Honduras that is of an age that maintains the birth order in our home is about four years. Only children ages ten and up are available for adoption from Colombia. Oklahoma DHS is an option, but there are an entirely different set of challenges should we choose that route. Currently, Haiti appears to be a good "fit" for our family, but EVERYTHING CAN CHANGE WITH A MOMENT'S NOTICE. At our current ages, income level, and number of years married, we qualify for every single program. Overwhelming? Yes. For those who know us, I know what you are thinking...

3. What about our beloved Guatemala?  Without hesitation, we would adopt from Guatemala if that were an option. 

Matt made his first mission trip to Guatemala shortly after the 36 year Civil War ended there in 1996. He lived and worked in Guatemala with HELPS International in 1999 as a field manager for medical and construction mission teams. He even received a certificate from President Arzu thanking him for his service to the country. We made our first trip there as a couple four months after we were married in 2000. We shared the "land of eternal spring" with our children for the first time in 2012. We love the country, the people, the culture, BUT...

Unfortunately, in January of 2008 the "Ortega Law" went into effect. Guatemala passed the law at the insistence of the U.S. State Department to comply with the United Nations' Hague Convention on Intercountry Adoption. After the passage of the law, all intercountry adoptions were shut down, including those that were already in progress. This was done as a result of unethical adoption practices such as the alleged kidnapping and selling of babies (and even the murder of their mothers). Without a doubt, this HAD to be stopped. Six years and a lot of shady government "work" later, the country is still closed to intercountry adoption.  I recently read an article in the Wall Street Journal that chronicles the orphan epidemic that is now occurring there. As I told Matt, it makes me sick to my stomach to read about the children piling up in the orphanages.

Though we can not currently adopt from Guatemala, we will continue to support those organizations with "feet on the ground" there. We continue to write to and support our Compassion children and their families.  My favorite source of jewelry and accessories these days is Noonday Collection. Noonday pays artisans around the world (including Guatemala, where my favorite bag was crafted) a living wage, allowing them to support their families. In San Felipe, Guatemala, The God's Child Project and Casa Jackson provide incentives for parents to send their children to school. They also provide parent education. They teach parents how to nourish their babies and use their land to provide for their families. We experienced the joy of serving at both The God's Child Project and Casa Jackson on our most recent trip to Guatemala. We strongly believe that a huge part of orphan care is the practice of orphan prevention. These organizations are in the business of enabling families to care for themselves and their children.

Caring for the malnourished babies and children at Casa Jackson

4. Don't you have to choose a country? Not yet.

After speaking with many adoption agencies, we chose Dillon International.  They are based out of Tulsa, which is quite appealing to us.  They also provide a valuable support system when Baby Bowler comes home.  They regularly hold heritage events during which children adopted from the same country come together to celebrate their heritage.  They also provide support groups for the adopted child as they grow older. The MOST attractive aspect of Dillon is that they recently started a program entitled "Open Options." This program allows families to go through the initial application and home study without choosing a country.  The goal of Open Options is to help more children find families who are farther along in the adoption process. We were approved for all of the programs served by Dillon (China, Colombia, Haiti, Hong Kong, India, Korea, and Okahoma DHS). Not being committed to a country allows us to be open to whatever (and whomever) God might have waiting for us.

5. Boy? Girl? Age? The answer is yes.

Clear as mud, right? We are open to a boy or a girl and yes (gasp!)...even siblings. We would like to bring our Baby Bowler home as young as possible, but these days in the world of international adoptions, the "babies" brought home are usually toddlers or older. We have requested a kiddo between the ages of zero and five. In the end, we are trusting that God will show us which little sweetie belongs in our family. Should Oklahoma DHS bring us our little one, he or she might be younger.


5. Now what? We begin the home study process.

We have filled out the initial paperwork, including the "Checklist of Special Care Conditions," a list of 145 conditions, syndromes, potential family history issues, etc. It includes everything from birthmarks and asthma to missing limbs and cancer. You are instructed to check YES, NO, or MAYBE regarding whether or not you would be willing to adopt a child with each condition. It is a horrible little checklist because it feels that with every "NO" box we check, we are rejecting a child. How can I say no to hip dysplasia when our Anna was born with this condition? What about heart defects? An echogenic intracardiac focus was detected on Anna when I was 20 weeks pregnant. An EIF is a calcium deposit often associated with various chromosomal disorders, including Down syndrome. It was quite visible on the ultrasound, and scary until it miraculously resolved itself four weeks, a lot of prayer, and a handful or perinatologist visits later. When I voiced my concern about the checklist, I was cautioned by agencies to not be too hard on ourselves. They told me, "Remember, your NO will be someone else's YES." My friend Emily wrote a beautiful piece about this checklist on her blog. Check it out here.

Baby Anna in her harness to correct hip dysplasia

Who could say "no" to this cuteness?

The home study will be a lengthy process. LOTS of paperwork, home visits, etc. Every aspect of our lives will be examined under a microscope. We have prepared our kiddos for a long ride. We know that there will be tears shed along the way...and frustrations...and setbacks...and a whole lot of waiting. However, we know that God would not put adoption in our hearts if He didn't intend to walk with us every step of the way. After all, He is the creator of adoption. It is He who first adopted us into His family as His children through Jesus Christ, giving us the full rights and privileges of a son or daughter.

Please join us in prayer as we work to bring the newest member of the Bowler family home!

"See what great love the Father has lavished on us that we should be called children of God!"

1 John 3:1 

"The Biggest Loser," Raising Girls Who Love Their Bodies, and RemovingThe Plank From My Own Eye

I gasped. Like much of the rest of the world. As Rachel gracefully made her way out onto the stage in her Biggest Loser weigh-in clothes, I did it. I judged. She looked so thin. She hadn't looked this thin the last time we saw her!?!? Is she okay? Did she go too far?

She stepped on the scale. The scale read 105 pounds. The results were in. She was THE biggest loser. My daughter was already asleep that night, but I had DVRed the show for her.  Anna and I are couch-side cheerleaders, celebrating the contestants' journey to better health. She was anxious to see the results, but on a school night...she would have to wait until tomorrow.

As I sat on that couch, I contemplated.  What was I going to tell my daughter? I knew there would be talk of Rachel's extremely thin appearance. I suddenly found myself looking up Rachel's height.  Was she really that thin? Television can play tricks on your eyes. I discovered that Rachel is five feet five inches tall. Whoa. That's only an inch taller than me...not as tall as she appeared on television.

Suddenly I felt that enormous plank in my eye. You know the one? The one in Matthew 7:3-5 that reads,

"Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, 'Let me take the speck out of your eye,' when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye."

Um, yeah. So there was this one time before I was married and had kids when I was able to work out a lot and I ate really, really, really healthy. Yeah....ummmmm...I flirted with that 100 pound mark then.

I did the calculations. Sure enough, I was technically "underweight" according to my BMI (Body Mass Index). Much has been made of the fact that Rachel falls below that magical healthy weight line as figured by calculating her BMI.  What hasn't been widely reported is that she is only six pounds from being at a "healthy" weight according to BMI standards. Six pounds. Many of us can gain six pounds in the week between Christmas and New Year's Day.

So why has so much been made of Rachel? Are we jealous? Have we lost touch with the reality of what a healthy weight looks like? I think there are several factors at play.  Nothing is ever as simple as it first appears. First, she is only twenty-four years old. Second, she is an athlete. A former competitive swimmer. And "The Biggest Loser"? It's still a competition. A competition where the winner goes home with $250,000 and priceless insight into how to live a healthy lifestyle.  Insight into what personally triggers him or her to seek food instead of support. I've read that "The Biggest Loser" producers are making some changes since witnessing Rachel's dramatic transformation after leaving the ranch. I'm fairly certain that Rachel's competitive side, the one she had put on the back burner, came roaring to life when she realized "I CAN DO THIS!" For the contestants, weight loss is their full time job. They are exercising hours and hours a day. Much more than they will work out to eventually maintain their weight loss. As any athlete knows, those days and weeks leading up to a competition are important. I run marathons and half marathons.  It is a FACT that I watch what I put into my body and am more dedicated to my workouts in the weeks leading up to a race. In the final days before a race, I pay close attention to whether the calories I put into my body are life-sustaining or empty. Think of a five pound weight. Do you want to carry that with you for 13.1 or 26.2 miles? I think not. I am not the fastest runner. I won't be the first to cross the finish line. I am watching my diet not because I want to lose weight, but because I WANT TO RUN MY BEST RACE. My guess is that Rachel was simply running her best race, and now that the race is over, she can settle into a weight that is healthy and maintainable for her.

Now for the big question. What does this mean for our girls? How do we raise girls who love their perfectly imperfect bodies? How do I explain the hoopla surrounding Rachel to my ten year-old daughter?

First of all, we have to look at ourselves. As parents, we are our children's first role models and heroes. Are we constantly complaining about our weight?  Are we never "small enough" or the "right" weight? Or are we celebrating the beauty of a body that has birthed one, two, three, or more children? Do we make a point to model healthy eating and exercise habits? Men, do you make your wife feel beautiful inside and out through your words and affection? Or do you berate your wife or criticize her body? Your daughters are watching. Here are a few tips to get you headed in the right direction.

1. SPEAK ONLY POSITIVELY ABOUT YOUR OWN BODY
This one can be the toughest. When my daughter was born, I made a promise to myself that I would never complain about my body or my weight in front of her. This has resulted in me rarely complaining about my body or weight...ever. It has been a win-win situation for everyone. Those negative thoughts creep in on a rare occasion, but it has generally been one of the best decisions I ever made. Initially, I was doing it for her, but it turns out that it was just as much for me.

When we are constantly trying to lose weight or going on the latest fad diet, we send a confusing message to our girls. If they see that we are never happy with the way we are right now, it sends the message that we (and they) will never be good enough. This can be difficult, especially if you grew up in a house where Mom or Dad was always trying to lose weight. My mother taught nutrition and family health classes at a local university for years. She also worked as a leader for Weight Watchers (which, if you are looking for support in your quest for a healthy weight and lifestyle, is one of the best programs out there). I was raised surrounded by a wealth of valuable information regarding nutrition and health. However, the problem with focusing on only losing weight is that it places the emphasis on a number, not a lifestyle. I don't want my daughter to believe that her worth is based on a number. Psalm 139:14 reads,

"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful. I know that full well."

Great news! All of us are made in the image of Christ. He is not in the business of making junk. He makes beautiful things. His works are wonderful. Several years ago I participated in the Vicki Courtney Bible study entitled "Five Conversations You Must Have with Your Daughter." I highly recommend it, and am actually rereading the book now that my daughter is a little older. One of the most interesting facts I learned through the discussion involved a study of girls' journals.  It turns out, before mirrors became de rigeur, girls wrote about internal beauty and desired to be known for their character. With the advent of mirrors, suddenly their writing turned to external appearances. Hmmmm... reminds me of what the Lord says to Samuel in the latter half of 1 Samuel 16:7,

"The Lord does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart." 

After learning about the "mirror effect," I wrote Psalm 139:14 on a crown and glued it to my daughter's full length mirror.  A visual reminder of how Christ sees her. Although she is no longer interested in princesses, the mirror and its message remain.

 

2.GET MOVING
Go for a walk. Go for a hike. Go for a run. Go to the gym. Just go. Active parents beget active children. Be active together, but also let her see you make time for your own fitness activities. Let her see you make goals and then work to attain them. Allow your daughter to try out different sports. Encourage her to follow her passions. Let her see that God has blessed her with a strong body. Use it. My daughter is a dancer. She also happens to take after her daddy and be a fast little runner. She tried out soccer, but she just didn't love it. So we quit. On the other hand, she begs to take more dance classes. Help her find her God-given gifts. Use those six little words that have been in the news so much since Bruce E. Brown and Rob Miller of Proactive Coaching LLC revealed the results of three decades worth of research.  When those college athletes were asked what they most loved to hear from their parents after a game, it was unequivocally, "I love to watch you play." Or dance. Or run. Or whatever lights your daughter's heart on fire.

3. SPEAK ONLY POSITIVELY ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE'S BODIES
Maybe he's a little overweight. Maybe she's a little skinny. Poor Rachel. She was "too big"...and now she's "too skinny." We sure can be a judgmental bunch, we couch potato kings and queens of the remote. In our house, we don't make fun of people. Period. I sometimes go back to the old saying, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." Not everything needs to be said out loud, and everyone has a story and past hurts. I try to remember this when I find my thoughts careening off a dead-end road. If it is not uplifting, it doesn't need to be said, even if that person is on a television screen. How would it feel to be judged as harshly as we sometimes judge others? And what kind of example does this set for our children? If they see their parents constantly judging others, they will not only follow that example, but will expect to be judged themselves.

One sentence said by my father many years ago still echoes in my mind. I was in junior high, and had just finished cheering at a basketball game.  I was starving when we arrived home. I remember walking into the family room and talking to him as I ate.  He looked up from his navy blue leather chair with a somewhat disgusted look on his face and said, "If you keep eating like that, you're going to get fat." It was a verbal slap in the face. I kept thinking, "But I'm so hungry?!?!" I definitely paid more attention to my eating after that, at times bordering on the disordered (although I'm not sure you can "border" on an eating disorder).  I love my dad dearly, and years later asked him if he remembered saying those words. He didn't. In fact, he completely denied it. I can tell you, however, that a thirteen or fourteen year-old girl doesn't forget. Your words can either raise up or tear down. The first man to love our daughters is their daddy. Fathers, if you are blessed with the love of a little girl, guard that precious heart. Celebrate her inner beauty even more than her outward appearance.

"Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised." ~ Proverbs 31:30 

4. POINT OUT THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE
I'm not talking about the people who are beautiful on the outside, but about those who possess a beautiful character worthy of celebration. They are everywhere. When you start looking, you will find them. The kind soul who holds open the door when your arms are weary from carting groceries and kids.  The one who gives up her Saturdays to volunteer at the homeless shelter. The one who walks your crying baby up and down the halls of church so that you can actually sit through one. entire. service. The one who speaks life and truth into your daughter...she is beautiful.

So what did I tell my daughter the next morning?  I kept it very simple.  My daughter is naturally very thin.  She takes after her daddy with her long, lean muscles. I would never want my daughter to think that being thin is a "bad" thing. My husband, while training for a half Ironman triathlon, was told on multiple occasions to "eat a cheeseburger" in jest. He had a rigorous training schedule and was pure muscle. What most of those people didn't know was that he ate constantly to keep his body fueled. They also didn't know that only a few years before, he had been overweight and told that if he couldn't get his blood pressure down through diet and exercise, he would have to go on medication. All of this was running through my head as I gazed into her innocently questioning eyes.

I told her that Rachel had won, and that she appeared very thin. I told her that some people were saying that she was too thin, but that we know that God makes people in all shapes and sizes. If Rachel was eating healthy and exercising, this might be right where God wanted her. And on that note, she danced away, happy for Rachel.

Please feel free to share this post with anyone you might know who needs a reminder of just how truly beautiful God made her.

I'm attaching one of my favorite songs regarding girls and beauty.  It is called "A More Beautiful You" by Jonny Diaz. More than anything, I want our girls to see that as daughters of Christ, there could never be "A More Beautiful You."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ks3R2BwyO0

The Beauty of Repetition

There we sat, my little buddy and I snuggled up in our little cabin by the lake, anxiously awaiting the dawning of a new year. We started this tradition last year, a sort of anti-New Year’s celebration.  Not that we were against the New Year, but rather that we started celebrating it in a much different way. The children voted to spend New Year’s Eve 2012 at our recently purchased lake house with only our little family. We welcomed 2013 with the lake lapping at the shore. Their Daddy set off a few fireworks in the brisk winter sky. It was… peaceful…joyful. So we did it again this year. We loaded up kids and dogs and party horns and hats and headed to the icy wonderland of the lake.
 



Our Icy Wonderland

My little guy and I were snuggled up, waiting for the ball to drop, when the local news interrupted our festivities. It was kind of a downer, really. I mean, who wants to hear about the year’s high homicide rate when there is a crystal-encrusted sphere ready to drop from the sky? I thought about turning it off for a bit, but Grant wanted to listen to an upcoming story.  I can count on one hand the number of times our kids have watched the local news, precisely because of the aforementioned propensity of our local news to cover such happy topics as homicides and abuse. Fun stuff. Or not. Great conversation starters, too. The story that caught Grant’s attention, however, was one about the “bridge people” of Tulsa.  The bridge people are those men and women who “live” under the bridges.

He was glued to the television. God had a plan when he placed us at the cabin on a cold New Year’s Eve watching the late night news. The news reporter interviewed a woman living under the bridges, a grandma. The grandma spoke about how cold it gets at night. About her former life and how mental illness always seemed to lead her back to the streets.  The news station announced that they were going to be collecting blankets that would be distributed to those who needed them. Grant was quiet after the story concluded.  In his old age (seven) he has become my quiet thinker. He announced that he was tired and just wanted to go to bed.  We witnessed the ringing in of 2014 in Sydney and Paris, and that was good enough for him.

Blankie

As I lay next to him in his little twin bed, he began to talk. “Mom, I bet it’s hard for those people when it gets so cold at night." His voice became serious as he scratched and rubbed the silky side (or what's left of it) of Blankie, his constant bedtime companion since he was a baby.  "I mean, when you live outside, a blanket is EVERYTHING.” He gazed at me with brown eyes big as saucers and blinked his long lashes as he emphasized, “EVERYTHING! We have lots of blankets at home.  We should give some to those people when we get home.” He went on, “I bet we could give them some other stuff, too.”

“That’s a great idea, buddy, “I responded. “Like what?”

“Well, I bet they could use a backpack for their stuff. Maybe some food.”

I was speechless.  It was my turn to look at him with eyes big as saucers. He didn’t want to give them his old Skylanders that he never plays with anymore or some bubblegum he didn’t like.  He wanted to give them something that they could actually use. He wasn’t thinking about himself, but about what he could do for others. He was seven, and he was finally starting to GET IT!

It was a thankyoujesusgloryhallelujah moment for this mama.  You see, you have to know my kids to understand why this was such a celebration-worthy occasion. Our daughter, Anna, was born an old soul… a giver from the start. She has plans to adopt twelve children, eight dogs, and half a dozen other living creatures. She heard about a family who lost their Christmas presents in a fire and immediately asked me if we could help. She had her friends bring gifts to her tenth birthday party that could be donated to a dog shelter. On a family trip to Guatemala, my then-eight-year-old begged me to keep taking pictures "so that I can show my friends how blessed we are.”

Then there is Grant. My snuggly, dimpled baby boy. He developed a textbook case of colic at around four weeks old.  I used to say that's why God gave him those adorable dimples. The colic lasted until…eh…let’s just say a really long time.  That entire first year is a blur. Grant is fiery and loving at the same time. He is intense. Passionate. In his early years, it seemed that the saying “Hell hath no fury like Grant scorned” might be appropriate. Generous was not a word I would have used to describe Grant. It was brutal. And exhausting. I blamed my husband, because everyone said our boy was ornery just like his daddy was “back in the day.” The honest truth? He’s also a lot like me. Do you remember that part in "Father of the Bride" where Steve Martin (George) is talking to his future son-in-law (Bryan), played by George Newbern, about the long line of passionate people? That's us.

 

George: You know, Bryan, Annie's a very passionate person. And passionate people tend to overreact at times. Annie comes from a long line of major overreactors. Me. I can definitely lose it. My mother. A nut. My grandfather. Stories about him were legendary. The good news, however, is that this overreacting... tends to get proportionately less by generation. So, your kids could be normal.

George: [voice-over] As if that wasn't enough, I went on.

George: But on the upside, with this passion... comes great spirit and individuality... which is probably one of the reasons you love Annie.

Bryan: That's what I love most about her.

 

Matt would often ask me, “What are we going to do with him? Should we do something different?” I was the one with the degree in early childhood education and a master’s degree in curriculum and instruction. I took countless hours of human learning. I knew more than most humans would ever need to know about how the brain of a child “works,” yet somehow it wasn’t working. Until it did.

The only tidbit of knowledge I could share with my husband about raising a strong-willed child that wasn’t already in our arsenal was REPETITION. Repetition, repetition, repetition. Be consistent. Logical consequences again and again and again. My professors had drilled it into my head, but in the daily grind I was starting to doubt the wisdom of their advice. Our boy is hard-headed. Driven. Determined. Positive characteristics when steered in the right direction. He might have been frustrating and defiant, but guess what? He was listening. 

He is now seven, and has become more adept at handling anger when it does arise (which is MUCH less often). He is kind and caring, and impresses us daily in the ways he is growing and maturing. We still have days when I want to scream and stomp and pull my hair out (I only follow through with those actions about half of the time. I, too, am a work in progress.), but I am genuinely proud of the way our young man is growing in his ability to channel his emotions. We don't just want him to experience everything we want for him. More than anything, we want everything that God wants for and from him. .

Mission Accomplished!

In those early years and today, when we prayed with him at night, I thanked Jesus for the precious gift of my son.  Together, we thanked God for our nice, warm house, and food on our table.  We asked God to be with those who did not have food or a bed.  We prayed for God to show us ways we could help. We prayed for Rudy and Estephany, the children we sponsor through Compassion International. Per Grant's request, we prayed for all of the endangered animals. We prayed for those we knew were hurting, and counted our blessings. EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT. It occurred to me today that we have prayed those prayers with our children THOUSANDS of times now in their short lives. Ten years of praying with Anna. Seven years of praying with Grant. Ironically, while we were using repetition to shape his behavior, we were unknowingly using it to shape his conscience. Repetition. It’s a beautiful thing.

We have also cried out to God in desperation in our private parenting prayers. He listened. He is always listening. He answers, though it is on His timetable, not ours. He never falls asleep on the job, and He is working for us 24/7. For any parents who are struggling today, please take comfort in knowing that your babies are also listening. You are not alone. Take joy in the small victories along the way. My children are seven and ten. Many of our greatest parenting challenges are yet to come. Today, however, I’m taking joy in this small triumph. This gift. Time to gather up some blankets…

"Fix these words of mine in your hearts and minds; tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads. Teach them to your children, talking about them when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up." Deuteronomy 11:19