A Forsaken Tune

No one sends their child on a mission's trip without checking out the mission's project. 

 

 

No one sends their child to a foreign country unless they know where they are going and what they are doing and who they are going with.

 

 

 

We did.

 

It was completely and totally out of character for us. 

 

 

 

We sent Ben across the world with a group of people we did not know.  At. All.  We found out about the trip through someone on the internet.  Someone we had never met in person and only spoken on the phone to once.  And that person wasn't even going. 

 

 

Blind.  Crazy.  Faith.

 

It was not our style.

 

Yet for some crazy, odd reason - we were at peace.  We were at peace sending our 18 year old son across the globe with strangers. 

 

 

That isn't to say that we didn't wonder at times if we didn't need our heads examined. 

 

We probably did.

 

But we sent him anyway.

 

Trusting that God would protect him. 

 

Believing that his experience would be life changing.

 

Praying that he would find on his team someone he would be able to relate to.

 

 

Why do I share this when there is a Symphony to be played?

 

Because woven into the Creator's melody is a story that weaves our son's trip with one family's song.

 

About two years ago they heard a tiny note from a crib.

 

 

It was so tiny that it could barely be heard.

 

But God in His mercy gave them ears to hear.

 

We were part of that story all the way back then.  We heard her little bleating note and gave her voice on this blog.  Her picture forever stamped on our hearts.  The tiny little desperate babe in the crib.  She broke our hearts in two. 

 

They answered.  They not only answered but they spent time listening. Listening for another tiny note.  Just a note.  They heard that second little bleating note too.  They answered.

 

Two tiny little notes bleating from their cribs.  The rejoicing in our home was great.

 

 

 

Lovingly.  Tenderly.  They brought their tiny notes home.

 

But not before hearing the notes from two others.

 

These notes were older.  Not so tiny.  But lonely.  Lonely notes that needed to be part of a chorus to ever really be heard.

 

 

Those older notes called to them as they brought their tiny notes home.  They called to them and the family listened. 

 

Even when Cancer rose up, threatening to steal one of their tiny little notes. 

 

Even when the battle for his life meant days, weeks, months, years in the hospital.

 

 

 

They refused to close their ears. 

 

The lonely notes needed to come home.

 

They raised the ransom.

 

 

They went back and brought those notes home too.

 

But it doesn't end there.

 

There was still another forsaken tune waiting.

His tune heard not once but twice.  When the family went for the tiny ones they heard his tune.  Then again when they went for the lonely notes they heard it again.

 

It was sad.

 

 

It was desperate.

 

This tune was the tune of a child who would soon be homeless.  Out on his own.  Aged out.

 

Forsaken  by the world.

 

Younger than their oldest son.

 

Yet graduated.  Moved out.  Alone.

 

Desperately wanting a family. 

 

Wishing in the deepest part of his being that they would hear his forsaken tune.

 

 

 

They heard.

 

They could not leave him behind.

 

This child who is now living out in the world.

 

 

The ransom is great for him.

 

They are willing to pay the price.

 

Even though it is a great price.

 

I owe them a great debt.

 

My son crossed the ocean alone.

 

He came back with a friend for life.

 

Evan.  Their oldest son.

 

 

 

He came back encouraged deeply in his faith by this father who has already crossed the ocean multiple times and plans on going again...

 

 

 

...to rescue a child singing a forsaken tune.

 

The friendships Ben made with father and son are lifetime friendships. 

 

Two years ago they answered our pleas and rescued a tiny little note from a crib. 

 

This year they again were a huge answer to our prayers for protection and friendship for our son.

 

The songs of both of our families woven together. 

 

We owe them a debt.

 

 

 

 They need to raise the ransom to bring their son home.

 

 The forsaken tune of a lonely boy in a world where 15 year olds are expected to act like men is not going unheard.

 

 

They heard his sad song.

 

But they are also listening... listening... wondering if God isn't allowing them to hear another also...

 

Another tune.  Maybe a note. 

 

They are listening.  We are praying beside them in joyful anticipation of whose song might be added to their chorus.

 

I have no doubt that what they hear will be right and true.

 

---------------------------

 

God in His mercy is raising His baton.

 

 

Our Symphony begins tomorrow.

 

 

A Sad Melody

Two years ago a pretty little melody was heard from across the ocean.

 

 

It was just a quiet song, sung by the tiniest of babes, but it was heard by two people who dropped everything to answer her call.

 

 

 

 

 

Her song was precious and true.

 

 Once they heard her singing it - they just had to bring her home...

 

 

...  so that they could hear her little voice all through their days.

 

 

Her little songs filled them with such delight that they began to listen for another little melody to sing along with her.

 

Their hearts were set on going back to the same place.

 

They believed that the melody they were looking for was going to be packaged just like the first.  Tiny.  Sweet.  Another precious little song. 

 

They began to listen.  Pray.  Wonder.

 

But instead of a song, they heard the sad sounds of doors being shut.  Locks turned.  Guards stepping in place.

 

The songs in that place were silenced.

 

They cried in the silence.  Prayed.  Wondered.

 

Then another song.  From a totally different place. 

 

Another melody.

 

This one nothing like the first.

 

This song was tragic and pleading.  A sad melody.  It was a song from one whose voice was older, strained and tired.

 

One who lived in a place of fear and sorrow.  One who would forever be rejected in her world.

 

They heard.

 

This man and this woman,  They heard the song.

 

It was a different score.  It was nothing like what they expected.

 

But they heard and the sad melody rang true into their hearts.

 

 

 

They were coming.  Coming. 

 

The road has been hard.  Much harder than they anticipated.

 

Death.  Sickness. 

 

They have spent much time in the last months bathed in tears and grief.

 

But through it all, their faith has carried them. 

 

Clinging to the ONLY ONE who can give them comfort in their distress.

 

But I will sing of your strength,

    in the morning I will sing of your love;

for you are my fortress,

    my refuge in times of trouble.

 You are my strength, I sing praise to you;

    you, God, are my fortress,

    my God on whom I can rely.


They have fixed their eyes on the God of Comfort and have set their course to free one who is trapped in her sad melody.

It wasn't the melody they expected.  It is most definitely the melody that God intended.

-----------------------

 

 

We wait.  With hushed anticipation.  We wait for the Conductor to begin. 

 

Not yet though.

 

Not all have arrived.

 

So we wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A New Song

Two years ago this precious precious little guy was carried out of a world of cribs and into a family who loved him beyond words.
 

Though his body was frail and his needs were great - what he gave to his family far exceeded the work he required.  He brought music into their lives.  A song of joy and laughter that rang deep into their hearts.

 

 

 

 

Last year - on November 28, 2012 - Henry Dobrovits went to be with Jesus.
 

He left behind a Mama and a Papa and brothers and sisters who have struggled to figure out how to get on with their lives without his music. 
 

I was friends with Carla before Henry died but after his death God knit our hearts even closer together.  She joined a tiny group I was in whose sole purpose is to surround each other with love, support and prayers. 
 

Back in the winter, Carla shared with me that she and Paul had prayed and decided together that they needed to wait a year before they would consider adopting another child.  Henry's song could never be replaced but they felt that eventually they would be open to a new melody.
 

A year seemed reasonable.  Rational. 
 

Prudent.
 

But the Conductor of their Symphony changed the score.
 

At the end of March, only 4 months after Henry died, three children became available for adoption.
 

Their pictures appeared on the Reece's Rainbow website.
 

Two sisters and a brother.
 

A new song.  A brilliant bit of harmony.
 

Paul and Carla knew.  Without question. 
 

Those children needed to carry their name.
 

 

 

Susan.  Edmund.  Lucy.
 

A New Song
 

I waited patiently for the Lord;
    He turned to me and heard my cry.
 He lifted me out of the slimy pit,
    out of the mud and mire;
He set my feet on a rock
    and gave me a firm place to stand.
He put a new song in my mouth,
    a hymn of praise to our God.
Many will see and fear the Lord
    and put their trust in him.
 

Three little melodies who are going to be part of our symphony.


I can't wait for the music to start.

A New Score

Sometimes, just when the concert is about to start...

 

When the orchestra is warming up and each section is getting fine-tuned...

 

When the music is being arranged carefully on each stand and the last warm-up notes are being sounded..

 

Sometimes,  just when the musicians are getting ready to play that first note.. Just when there is a huge intake of breath by the woodwind and brass section, just when the string section has lifted their bows to pull their first note, just when the percussion section gets ready to provide the first beat...

 

Waiting... waiting for the Conductor to lift His baton to begin..

 

 

Sometimes... sometimes... the Conductor steps back... takes the musical score in front of him and changes it...

 

A new score.  A new symphony. 

 

 

 

Sometimes.

 

Back in July the Lord began tapping.  Three families close to my heart were soon crossing the ocean.  All three adopting for the 2nd time or more.  Two families I have come to love deeply and one family I owed a great debt.

 

Rob and I talked.  We prayed.  We considered.  How could we help?  What could we do?  Helping to raise the ransom is so so very hard.  

 

In August God started showing the way... doors began to open.  Matching grants were offered.  The three families began to pray.  We prayed.  But despite the open doors, we felt in our spirits that the timing wasn't right.  August was too rushed.  'Wait' was whispered in our hearts.  The donors willing to pray and wait with us. So we set the grants aside.  Waited.  Wondered.  How would we know?  The need was great.  How would we know when the time was right? 

 

September started and I began to wonder more intensely.  What were we going to do?    In typical ME fashion I began to try to envision putting the grants out there but again... Wait.   September 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6...  Then the real worry... How in the world could we match the grants if we waited too long.  I lay in bed and wondered.  Waited.  Prayed.  Worried.  Yes worried.

 

September 7th.  An e-mail.  A dear friend who read my Blogpost about four little boys stuck in sheds every single day of their lives.    An offer. 

 

Suddenly the musical score we wanted to play had been removed and a new one was in its place. 

This one grander.  God-designed.  Majestic.  Crowd-stopping.  Thunderous. 

 

But it meant re-tuning everything.  Changing out instruments.  Adding to the band.  How?   How?

 

Only God.  The Conductor, Creator,  Writer of this Symphony.  Only God.

 

Only God.

 

This Symphony so much grander.  So much harder.  So much more challenging. But the outcome. 

The outcome will bring down the house.

 

Stay tuned. 

 

If you want to add to our concert e-mail me - covenantb@yahoo.com

 

 

Who Are They?

Why?

 

Why is this child there?

In Aaron's institute??  For severely physically and mentally disabled boys?

Seriously??

 

Pearson




 

 Go read his description: Moderate mental delays. 

He's in a Level 4 mental institute with moderate mental delays?

I just can't wrap my brain around that!

Please please read what Kat Marr wrote about him.  They met him.  They watched him.  Please read and SEE this child. 

He was shy, as the nurse walked him to the front of the grounds. 

He looked at us as we played with our drug withdrawing son....tossing the ball back and forth, back and forth.  His head was bowed...he looked to the ground just glancing up.  Those sweet eyes. 

"What is his name?" We asked.

"His nickname is Maxim." the nurse smile, trying to communicate.

"Hi Maxim" we said as he glanced up and back at the ground.

He was unprepared for this attention.

We held out a ball to him, an extra we had bought just the day before.  He delicately took it, afraid yet with a glimmer of hope.  We tried to show him how to throw it, but as with Ben...he didn't know how to play.  It took time with Ben, we had but a few moments with Maxim. 

Shy, reserved, alone....real...

Oh please someone SEE Pearson....

 

And Grady....

 

Do you know that the Hartmans met him?  A little over two years ago?  He had just arrived at the institute.  He talked to them.  He sang for them.  He quoted a poem. 

 

Melanie has prayed for 2 years for him to be listed and NOW he is, but our hearts fear that it is too late for him.  He's older.  He's been there for so long.  His diagnosis reads severe now.  Just like Aaron's.

 He too is wearing the same sweater Aaron wore.  He is shorn with the same razors.  Marked with the same haunting words that cause people to flee - severe mental delay.

This was Grady two years ago.  Newly arrived.  




Then last year. 

 

Now this year.

 

 

Growing. Changing.  Desperate. Desperate.  He sang to the Hartmans.  He quoted a poem. 

 

Oh dear Grady.

 

I know he would blossom in a family!

 

 

And Porter.

 

Poor sweet Porter.

 

Where is his family?  Who will take a chance and rescue him?

 

 

 

He too has to suffer the labels.  The stigma.  The shaved head. 

 

He has lost so much.  Someone go snatch that babe up and carry him through the gates.  Please!

 

And Dagmar.  What a sweet sweet soul behind those eyes. 

 

 

Moderately delayed. 

 

Look and see.  The black and white plaid shirt he is wearing under that sweater.  Aaron wore that shirt. 

 

He has Cerebral Palsy.  That's it.  He's going to rot in those sheds.  His mind will waste away. 

 

All of their minds.

 

Wasting.

 

I can't bear to look at these boys.  I can't stand to see them knowing what they are doing every single day of their lives.  Staring at each other.  Staring at the walls.  Rocking.  Banging.  Lonely.  Desperately lonely.

 

As I write this, my little son is sitting in the family room pouring through the newest Lego Magazine.  He is dreaming big dreams as he drools over every single picture.  He calls out to me the prices of the ones he wants.  He shows me his favorites.  I stop writing so I can see. He has to look at the calendar to see when Christmas is coming.  It is too long.  Too long.

 

My little son sits and reads his homework to me.  He writes his spelling words.  He says his Bible verse.  He gets to learn.  He gets to learn.

 

My little son looks at the computer.  Sees the boys on the screen.  Who are they?  Do I know them?  What are they doing?  I kiss his cheeks and tell him they live where he used to live.  Across the ocean.  They need Mamas and Papas.  He stares at the screen.  He drops his head against me for a minute and stares at the screen.  Then he walks back into the family room. 

 

 

Why?  Why are they there? 

 

Pearson, Grady, Porter, Dagmar

 

All four of them have over 5,000 each in their grant accounts. 

 

One fifth of what it would take to bring them home.  We had one fifth of that when we committed to Aaron.  A little over $1,000.00.  But God provided.  He provided.

 

God provided.

 

Please don't let labels chase you away.

 

Severe. Moderate. Mild.

 

They mean nothing.

 

Once you really SEE these kids.  See them with God's eyes and God's heart - the labels mean nothing. 

 

In a few months Heath's family and Samuel's family will be marching through those gates to carry out their sons. 

 

I cannot wait.  I will be watching and praying and crying. 

 

The day Heath is carried out of those gates... I will be here in Virginia shouting Victory to the heavens!

 

 

The day Samuel goes I will be weeping in Rob's arms. 

 

 

But I cannot and will not rest as long as there is hope for four other boys to make it out of those sheds.   If we don't shout for them... who will?  If we don't share about them... who will?  If we don't give to their grant accounts so that the financial burden is lifted... who will?

 

 

They are Lost Boys without us. 

 

Is there room at your table?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Ace of Spades

When I was in school I rarely got picked for anything.

 

 I was too small and skinny for anyone to take me seriously when it came to sports.  I was more interested in reading a book hidden under my desk to EVER be taken seriously academically.  I was way too happy climbing trees and riding bikes and wearing  grubby clothes to be picked for beauty contests (EWWWW).  I had a sister with a voice like an angel, a brother who was Mr. Popularity himself and... well....  you get the picture.  I didn't bring much to the table that made anyone ever want to take notice!

 

So imagine my surprise when I was informed this week that my little blog has been chosen as the blog of the month on Reece's Rainbow.

 

Cool. 

I think.

 

Does that mean I have to come up with something wise and amazing every day?

Yikes....

Maybe being chosen isn't all its cracked up to be.  Climbing trees and wearing grubby clothes is much more my style.

 

Tis okay...

 

I figure as long as I keep this little guy front and center than I can't go too wrong...

 

 

He's my Ace of Spades!!

 

 

I Wish They Could See....

 

Three years ago we sat in an office across the ocean to accept a referral for a little boy with arthrogryposis.   When his file was opened we were informed that he was both severely physically disabled AND severely mentally disabled.  Because of this he been placed in a Level 4 mental institute for severely mentally and physically disabled boys.

 

I can't put into words how we felt as our facilitator translated.  No amount of mental preparation can steel your hearts for the hopelessness those words convey.  Even though we KNEW he was physically and possibly mentally disabled -  we still felt punched in the gut. It isn't something you can easily brush away and it most definitely isn't something that you will ever forget.

 

When we arrived in Aaron's village and met with the director we were again told under no uncertain terms that he was both severely physically and severely mentally disabled. 

 

He belonged in a Level 4 mental institute based on everyone's diagnosis.

 

When they first brought him into the room, we wondered ourselves if they weren't correct in their assessment.  He wanted nothing to do with us and sat stiff and terrified on the lap of the caretaker.  He refused to make eye contact and had a blank indifferent look on his face.  Only when he saw out the window the boys from his groupa heading for the eating shed did he come alive.  He started pointing that he wanted out.  We followed him out and entered into his world.  We were surrounded by boys with every type of physical and mental disability.  Many of them the same size or bigger than Elijah.  It was scary.  We were uncomfortable.  We felt vulnerable.  We wondered if we hadn't made a massively huge mistake.

 

After snack we followed him back behind the buildings along with his groupa.  It was awkward.  Three Americans trying to make some kind of connection with this child we had crossed the ocean to find while being stared at by the caretakers and all the boys. 

 

 

When Rob picked him up it was obvious that he had never ever been held. 

 

 

We gave him cars to play with but he couldn't take them into his hands.  We had to tuck them under his arms. 

 

 

 It was awkward.

 

Again we wondered.

 

Had we made a huge mistake?

 

And then...

 

 

And then...

 

And then he laughed.

 

And for us.. from that point onward... none of the diagnoses mattered.

 

We no longer cared.

 

His laughter.  His joy. 

 

In that world.

 

Priceless.

 

He was our son no matter what. 

 

Mentally disabled. 

 

Physically disabled. 

 

He was our son.

 

We no longer cared about the labels.

 

We brought him home. 

 

He had a working vocabulary in his own language of maybe about 20 words but he rarely used even those 20 words.

 

Most of his communication was in the form of pointing, gestures and looks.

 

He was a pro at getting us to do what he wanted just by moving his eyes.

 

From day one, learning the English language was hard.  He understood everything we said, but talking, using words, was a huge mountain for him to climb.  Every word he gained was difficult.  He resisted using his voice.  He preferred being non-verbal.  We had to press and push him to use  words.  Over and over again we pushed him to use words.

 

He could parrot words but retaining words was a constant uphill battle. 

 

We tried getting him to learn the names of the colors.  After several months of practice and practice and practice he retained red and yellow and that was all.  Over and over and over again for months and into two years we did the colors.  He couldn't remember the color names to save his life. 

 

We tried teaching him to count.  Every.single.day.  We counted. And counted.  And counted.  Finally, after counting for a solid year.... he was finally counting to 10... most of the time.... with help.  He understood the process of counting but remembering the number words.... it was agonizing for him.

 

We worked on increasing his vocabulary.  Slowly.  Painstakingly it increased.  Every new word a victory.  But even so, a year after being home he still was unable to barely string more than two words together.  And when he did talk, most of his conversations centered around the weather, cars, trucks and trains.   It was all he wanted to talk about.  Cars. Trucks.  Trains.  The Weather.

 

Nice. Safe.  Aaron subjects.

 

 Two years home and he still struggled to express himself.   Pointing and gestures were still his favorite form of communication.  He still focused on his favorite subjects but he was finally finally starting to branch out. 

 

 

 But despite his struggle with language, despite his struggle to retain words, despite his struggle to express himself, despite all of this - he began to figure out how to READ the language.

 

It came as a surprise.

 

He couldn't NAME the letters but that didn't stop him from learning their sounds.  He couldn't tell you what the words meant but that didn't stop him from sounding them out.  Aaron understood phonics.  It made sense to him.  He RETAINED the rules.  Once he learned a new phonics rule - he remembered it.  He grasped the concept of sounding out a word.  The mechanics of phonics was understood by his little mechanically gifted mind.  

 

Last year - two years home - after spending five years stuck in two rooms in a babyhouse with little to no mental stimulation - after spending a solid year at a mental institute - last year - Aaron began to read. 

 

And he began to read well.  Remarkably well for a child with his story.  He doesn't always GET what he reads but he reads! 

 

HE READS!!

 

Aaron reads.

 

 

 

 

He is thriving in school.  He is in First grade this year and YES he is behind but we are seeing him slowly but surely catching up with his age.  He knew NOTHING when we came out of those gates.  He literally knew nothing.  He was like a newborn baby experiencing the world for the first time.  He has had to pass through all the stages a newborn baby passes through in terms of learning and growing.  

He's been home for three years and he has gone from knowing nothing to being right on the level of the other first graders in his class.  That is HUGE.  

What he accomplished last year in Kindergarten shocked the socks off everyone who worked with him.   He started last year in First grade and was completely lost so he was moved back to Kindergarten.  And in Kindergarten he thrived.  He was much older than the children but emotionally on their level.  They loved him and he loved them.  He soaked up every lesson given to him.  He came home and bubbled over with enthusiasm with all the things he learned in his school.  He loved all 'his peoples'.   He went with joy each morning and came home utterly exhausted each afternoon.  It was like all of his light bulbs turned on at once and everything we had been trying for two years to teach him began to finally make sense in his mind. 

The gains he made last year were so significant that he won an ACADEMIC scholarship from the school.

The criteria for the scholarship included work ethic, Christian testimony and citizenship.

Every teacher in Aaron's school voted for him.

They voted for him.

Aaron has effectively stolen the hearts of every teacher and administrator at that school. 

Somedays I wish I could cross the ocean and show them what my severely mentally and physically disabled child can do.

 

Somedays I really want to show them how badly they messed up.

I want them to see him working in his classroom.  I want them to see his diligence.  I want them to see how carefully he does every single one of his papers.  Despite his disabilities, without any props, he does all of his papers just like the other children.  I want them to see him soaking up knowledge. I want them to see how the other children relate to him - love him.  I want them to see the impact he has had on every person who knows him in that school. 

I want to show them the article in the newspaper where he won the scholarship.

He was judged mentally disabled based on his physical disability.

He was written off and deemed unfit for society.

He was not taught anything.  Anything. 

He was destined to spend his entire life sitting on a bench inside a shed.

 

 

 

I want them to see him. 

 

I wish they could see him.  I wish with all my heart that I could show them just how amazing and smart and full of life and love our little boy has become. 

 

 

I think he would most definitely shock their socks right off their feet!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Me and My Littlest

 

 

 

 

An Aaron update coming soon....