Hedge Trimming

One of Aaron's favorite games...  He could do this for hours!!

Trimming the hedges...

     Tomorrow we should officially become Aaron’s parents. Our facilitator Luda is supposed to pick up the court decree that makes him our son on her way to our village tomorrow. We still cannot take custody of him until we have traveled to his home village and obtained a new birth certificate for him, one that lists us as his parents and gives his new name. We are hoping to accomplish that on Tuesday and apply for his passport on Wednesday. We don’t know yet when we’ll break him out for good, because it depends on the details of the paper chase. Since nothing else has been easy, we won’t be surprised if we have more delays with this bureaucratic mess. But we’re hoping we won’t.



      We are bone-weary of being here. We know that our boys at home reached their limit a long time ago. When all is said and done we will have spent 6 weeks in this village, and close to 8 weeks in this country. We are done. We want to come home. The next week or so will be a whirlwind as we run from place to place to get the documents required to bring Aaron out of the country. We expect over 25 hours of car rides over roads that look like they’ve taken artillery fire. We may be popping a good bit of Tylenol. At least we have a good driver in our friend Slava. He still plays “dodge the pothole,” which makes for a sick feeling in the back seat, but at least he doesn’t drive at break-neck speed.

      We covet prayers for this last leg of our journey. We may have to leave Aaron for several days as we chase papers. We have come so far with him, and it concerns us to leave him for any length of time. Even though he laughs a lot, there is still a frailty about him that has kept both of us by his side these last two weeks when we could have gone home. It pains us both to leave him, even for a day.

     We also ask for prayers for something that could affect hundreds of other families who are trying to adopt children from this country. On Tuesday, this country’s Parliament is scheduled to consider a bill that would ban international adoptions. This is not the first time this bill has come up. It failed the last time, but it was not without support. If it passes, adoptions end. Depending on its terms, adoptions already well on their way to completion may end. I can’t even bear think what that would mean for the many children who are stuck behind the walls of institutions across this land. Please pray that this bill will again be defeated.

     Thank you for your continued comments and support for us. We are so grateful each time we open our computer and find messages from home. God has been good to us. He has been faithful in our weakness, has carried us in our distress, has encouraged us in our sadness and has lifted us up when we felt we couldn’t go another step. In just a week, or a little bit more, we will be home. Praise God. He is Good.

Clothing Advisory

  A bunch of nonsense from Rob and Julia...

Guess who accompanied us for a while to the internat this morning???

   What do you do for three hours a day every day for weeks and weeks on end with one little six year old boy?  You take an empty Pringles can and bring it with you to the internat.  Then you take the bag of little dogs that you brought from home (compliments of a yard sale) and you let one six year old boy discover the joy of putting his dogs into the can. 

Dressing Your Child in Eastern Europe: A Temperature Guide

95° and above: underwear or shorts and light cap

90°-94°: shorts or long pants, shirt and light cap

80°-89°: long underwear (tights), long pants, undershirt, long sleeved flannel shirt and light cap

70°-79°: tights, long wool pants, undershirt, long sleeved flannel shirt, sweater and winter hat

60°-69°: tights, long wool pants, undershirt, long sleeved flannel shirt, sweater, jacket and winter hat

50°-59°: tights, long wool pants, snow pants, undershirt, long sleeved flannel shirt, sweater, winter coat, winter hat and gloves

Below 50°: What in the world are you doing outside?

This policy will be strictly enforced by stern internat staff. NO EXCEPTIONS! And no kidding.

************

THE TRASH PROBLEM...

 

The pictures do not do justice to the trash issue in this village.  Because we are the only foreigners to walk these streets, we take pictures with great caution.  No such thing as point and shoot.  Rather we are forced to aim the camera from waist level, pretending we are not pushing the button. 

The Lost Boys

 

In less than a week we will be walking Aaron out of his mental institute forever. That will be a moment of sweet victory. God has moved mountains to free this one little boy and create a future for him. We cannot wait to lead him out of that gate and into his new life. Watching Aaron absorb the wonder of the world outside is an experience neither of us want to miss, which is one reason we’ve both stayed for all of this time. But all of that joy is mixed with sorrow when we remember the boys he’s leaving behind, the ones we’ve dubbed “The Lost Boys.”


Every morning while we visit Aaron, we see the Lost Boys moving around the internat grounds in their groups on their way to and from snack time. A few are in wheelchairs, the older boys pushing the younger ones. The rest all hold hands in pairs so that no one gets lost. The caretakers always keep gentle hold on three or four. Together, they make a strange and awkward procession. At first it was a bit frightening because there are so many of them, and most of them make some strange noise or awkward movement. Now we’re used to them, and we look for the ones we recognize every day: The one who smiles with uncontainable glee every time we look at him. The one who dances with reckless joy whenever the radio plays. The serious one who sometimes says “Mama.” The legless older boy in the wheelchair who never makes a sound, but always grins when we wave. The troublemaker who tore the bed off of Aaron’s dump truck on our first trip. Each of them has his own likes and dislikes, his own personality. Most of them will never know any other life than the one they have now.


It is a harsh life. Some of the older boys have jobs setting tables, carrying laundry or emptying trash bins. These make the most of their bit of freedom. The rest have little to do but sit on benches or on the ground, rocking back and forth hour after hour, day after day. Some wander around within their group’s play area. Those who are able sometimes kick a ball or push a wheelchair around. They have no other toys, nor do they receive any teaching, therapy or stimulation. It is a great honor for us to be allowed to bring Aaron out of such a place.


We have counted over 60 boys marching by for their snacks. Inside the buildings in the back are even more boys, the bedridden ones who seldom see the light of day. We have had only glimpses of one or two of these, but what we have seen we will never forget-- a child with a deathly white face, so stiff that his waist never bent as two nurses carried him to an ambulance, one at his shoulders, the other at his feet.


The internat staff makes the best of its limited resources. For the outdoor boys, there are usually one or two caretakers in charge of 20-25 mentally disabled boys ages 5 to 18. They care for the boys, but they can do little more than keep the peace in such large groups of needy kids. They are overworked and overwhelmed just maintaining cleanliness and order. We admire them for the care they show for the Lost Boys.


The Lost Boys arrive at this internat when they are five years old, transferred from the baby houses where they have lived since their parents gave them up. Frightened and friendless, they are torn from the only world they have ever known. They have failed the tests that would have entitled them to receive an education. Their mental or physical disabilities mean that they are unqualified to live outside the internat. With no stimulation, there is little chance that they will improve. Unless they die first, they will remain at the internat until they turn 18. Then they will be transferred for the last time, to an adult mental institute where they will live out the rest of their lives. This is their sad reality. Aaron is the first child ever to leave this internat. When he walks out of its gates, he will break its sad cycle for the first time.


Part of our hearts will break when we, too, leave the Lost Boys behind. Only two or three of them have any hope for a family as things now stand. They are available for adoption, but time is running out for them, and unless someone claims them soon they’ll be as lost as the older boys already are. How they would blossom if they got the chance! As unreachable as most of the Lost Boys seem, there isn’t one of them who wouldn’t improve with some stimulation. But these younger ones need someone right now, before they’re lost in the system forever. We pray that God and His church will send someone for them soon.
 

Soup Tales and Russian Women

Hurrah!  When the temperature reached about 85 degrees, they took Aaron's sweater off!  He is still wearing an undershirt and the long john tights but we are making progress.

Guess who loves Thomas the Tank Engine?

 

On Tuesday our dear Miss Valla walked into our room dressed up in her finest to let us know that she was going out for the day. She wanted us to know that there was soup and kasha in the fridge for us, even though she wouldn’t be there to serve us. Eat. Eat. Yes? We hugged her and wished her a fine day, and then looked at each other with smiles on our faces. No soup for lunch today! Oh joy! We had a feast of grilled cheese sandwiches, noodles, yogurt and fruit. We were happy, and our tummies were happy. Not that we wouldn’t have traded up for a quarter pounder if we had the chance!

When we returned from our afternoon visit with Aaron, dear Miss Valla met us at the door, horrified. She had checked up on us, and knew that we hadn’t eaten the soup. How could Julia not feed Robert his soup? He will starve. He will be sick. He will wither, become emaciated. Valla fussed in every language she could manage. She mimed swatting Julia on the backside. Meekly, we went into the kitchen and sat down. She rattled her pots, fired up her burners, set the table with gusto. She filled our bowls, served herself a bowl and sat down in a huff. Lesson learned. We ate soup and kasha. It was good.


Side note: Some people have heard that these folks put mayonnaise on nearly everything they eat. What Miss Valla uses is something called “Smetana.” To us it’s more like sour cream than mayonnaise. She expects us to use it in every bowl of soup, in borshch, and even on pastries. Whatever it is, it’s fairly mild. It makes soup and borshch creamier, and it moistens the pastries, which tend to be a bit flat and dry. We actually like it, but we don’t think we’ll add it to our home menu.

 (Rob writing) On the evening before court, Julia and I dined out at our second favorite local café, which we have dubbed “Pork, Pork or Pork.” This café’s fare has been going steadily downhill since we arrived, and we only go out now about twice a week. When it was time to go, Julia left me to pay the check and gather our bags of toys so that she could run next door to the supermarket for bottled water.


On this particular evening, one of the café’s side rooms was occupied with a child’s birthday party. The party favors included the usual balloons and toys, but there was also an item we found a bit unusual: vodka. The kids at the party were drinking juice, but the women were drinking some more adult beverages.


When I went to the bar to pay the bill, there were several women gathered there: two adult women, a girl in her late teens and one pre-teen girl. My language skills got me no farther than “check, please.” I think the older women must have seen the inside of my wallet, which of necessity holds a lot more cash than it ever would at home, because suddenly I became a person of great interest. All of the women were speaking their native language to me full speed, as if I might understand them better if they repeated themselves often enough. I made my apologies and went to gather my bags. One of the women followed me. No, she gestured, don’t take your bags, don’t go. She took my arm in hers and led me back to the bar. One of the girls conjured up some high school English: “Do you like beautiful *native* women?” she asked. Only half understanding her question, and not wanting to be rude, I answered in the affirmative: “Da.”


Most of you probably know that Eastern Europe has a thriving industry centered around arranging marriages between American men and Eastern European women. America has men who are lonely, and Eastern Europe has poor women who are willing to forego real love in exchange for a shot at the opportunities America offers. The industry provides matchmaking services, flower and card delivery, translation, transportation, apartments to use while couples are getting to know one another, and so on. This is so common that when many folks over here see an American, they immediately assume that he’s looking for a date.


So I suppose that’s what these women thought. I knew just enough native language to dig myself in a bit deeper. I tried tapping my ring finger, which doesn’t bear a ring because of my work. Apparently I tapped the wrong hand; these folks wear their wedding rings on their right. “Vremya?” one of them asked. “Da, da,” I replied, thinking that she had said the word for “wife.” Wrong again, professor. “Zhyena” is wife, “Zhyenschina” woman. “Vremya” means “time.” She thought I wanted to set up a time! Luckily, the woman who had my arm had let go of me. I went for my bags and hit the bricks to find Julia. I was waiting outside the supermarket when the pre-teen girl from the café closed in. What time, what time, she wanted to know. I was still struggling to explain things to her when Julia appeared. The girl went back to report to her friends, and I dragged Julia around the nearest corner at a jog to get out of sight. We beat feet back to Miss Valla’s. Julia was a bit confused at why we were running at such a pace. When she discovered what had transpired in her absence, she decided that I could not be trusted by myself anymore.






Side note: We even met a man who was pursuing an Eastern European bride on the plane trip over here. We didn’t get to talk to him much, but we did learn that he was on his second trip in pursuit of the same woman. Just like international adoptions, international marriages follow a certain protocol, so they may require more than one trip. He was a little embarrassed to admit the purpose of his journey. I felt sorry for him, but then I reflected that without the grace of God, I could have ended up as lonely as he was. At least he’s doing something about it instead of sitting at home planning a shooting rampage. And who can say what good may come from his journey?

Homesick

This 10-day waiting period feels like a year. We are counting everything: how many more internat visits until we can leave, how many more miles we have to walk, how many more bowls of soup we have to eat and how many more times we have to squat in the bathtub to take a shower. The temperature has gone up again and we are shedding clothes, but the caretakers continue to send Aaron out dressed for a January snowstorm. In 80+ degree weather with strong sun, he wears an undershirt, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, a wool sweater, tights that cover him from his waist to his toes, long pants and shoes. He loves to kick his ball around, but he gets hot so fast that he doesn’t last long at it.


We would find the wait so much more enjoyable if Ben and Elijah were with us. As each day passes, our longing to go home and be with them increases. They have about reached their limit. There is little we can do except pray that after we get through our 10-day wait next Monday, we can move swiftly through the birth certificate, passport, medical and visa paperwork so we can return quickly.

Please don’t stop making comments on the blog or on Facebook. Those comments make us feel like we are not quite so alone in our village. It is so rare to receive a kind word from the natives here that we soak up whatever kind words we can get from back home.

Aaron has fallen on his face three times on our watch during the last few visits. He’s getting a little better at it-- he is able to thrust his chest out to catch himself, but he usually hits the ground with at least his chin. His poor little arms are no help at all in slowing his fall. Once he managed to fall on his backside, which is terrific. It is gut-wrenching to see him falling face first onto hard, uneven concrete, but it’s just not possible to stop him if we’re going to let him have fun. When we get home, we’re definitely going to find him a light helmet with a padded chinstrap.

The nurses cover his wounds with green medication, which makes odd make-up for his pictures. When this is combined with his non-stop runny nose, it makes for a bit of a mess, although you wouldn’t know it by his laughter. His new favorite activity is to have Rob carry him at a jog, brushing his little bald head all along the hedge. He can’t get enough of it.

He Speaks

Many of you have asked us if Aaron is talking. The short answer is a definite “yes.” When we first met him, he communicated mainly with silent pointing and facial expressions, and we even wondered how many native words he knew; but now, we’re getting the full force of his well-rounded native vocabulary, along with a library of little boy sounds and loud noises. He is going to rival Ben and Elijah for the “most talkative” prize in our house. Most of what he says is lost on us, but that no longer seems to bother him. He directs our daily playtimes with word and gesture, and we meekly obey. Since we rarely understand him, he often repeats his instructions at double volume. I’m sorry I forgot my earplugs. His life of disappointment has made him so patient that he doesn’t get frustrated with us when we don’t understand him.


At first we were not sure if the noises Aaron began making were real words. Most of the boys at his internat have little to no language skills, and we were so ignorant of the sounds of the native language that we couldn’t really distinguish his words from the guttural groanings of the other boys. As the weeks have gone by, we have learned a bit more, and Aaron has begun to use a great number of native words with us. We even understand a few of them, but very few indeed. I just wish we had a couple of hours with both him and a translator, but it’s no use-- he clams up whenever other adults are around. We’re just pleased to know that he has developed some language ability, which is pretty impressive when you consider his surroundings. For a child who has been locked away for six years, with only a few caretakers to speak with, he’s done very well. We are taking a great deal of pleasure in hearing his voice.

We’ve even started him on English. It’s like having a toddler again. He started with “truck,” which is of course the most important thing in the universe. He also knows “uh-oh,” which he uses every time the axles fall off of his cheap little truck. He’s hopping down steps two-footed now, so he’s learned to say “hop” with his little native accent. When we go through his picture book, he can identify plenty of objects when we say their English names, even if he can’t say the words himself. He’ll have some frustrating times when we get home, but he’s going to get along just fine.

In Celebration of Canine Diversity

SOME OF AARON'S FAVORITE THINGS...

HIS PAPA

 

CANDY

HIS TRUCK

LIFE!

(Rob writing) We’ve had our share of trouble with dogs in this little village. At the internat where Aaron lives, locally known as the “invalid internat,” there is an “invalid” German Shepherd-type dog who limps around pitifully on three legs. After watching his slow progress, one would think there was nothing to fear from such an animal. One would be mistaken.

On the weekends, the internat staff is minimal, so this dog seems to think he’s captain of the guard. Last weekend, Old Three-Legs and his cadre barked at me and started to advance threateningly as I came in. I confidently shook my fist at them and told them off, as I had seen members of the staff do. The little dogs backed down in fright, but the battle-wise Old Three-Legs showed me every tooth in his head and started to close the distance. I was stunned at how fast he moved. I am ashamed to admit that I showed my true color, yellow, and ran for the building. We had to get the nurse to rescue us.

This town has a large, vigorous and mostly unrestrained canine population. These dogs are not shy about any of their daily activities. They walk into cafes and beg under the tables. They root through the trash piles on market days. They sleep in the sunshine on the sidewalks or even in the road. They are not even shy about, aah, ensuring the continuity of their species, even going about it with an air of boredom.

I am happy to say that they pursue this last without any taint of prejudice, racism or discrimination. They make no effort whatsoever to preserve breeds or bloodlines. I suppose, in a sense, they’re good Communist dogs-- each has the same station in life. Large or small, dark or light, all are welcome. This line of conduct has led to a certain sameness in their appearance. They are drawing from what one might politely call a limited gene pool. I believe the vulgar term is “inbred,” if that helps you to understand. Almost every one of them could be a front running contender in the annual Ugly Dog Contest. In celebrating canine diversity, they seem to have all but destroyed it.

I am confident to the point of certainty that if any member of PETA had to endure what we have endured from these dogs for these last weeks-- the snarling threats, the incessant, ubiquitous barking all through the night, the sudden coronary-inducing barking from concealed positions behind fences-- then he or she would immediately purchase a firearm and actively pursue a violent eradication program.

Regarding the birds:

Before we came here, I read a book about the famine here in the 1930s. The author spoke proudly of the many nightingales that lived here back then, so I was looking forward to hearing some. Alas, no. Around town here, I have seen only a few primary species.

The first is barn swallows. They’re fun to watch because they’re such excellent flyers, like little stunt pilots. But they line the soffits of many buildings with their nests of mud and straw, and under each such nest is a sizable pile of droppings. Dirty birds. This town is full of them.

The second is a sort of cross between a pigeon, a dove, and a rat. In honor of this country’s complex consonants, I have dubbed them “pdvrats.” These birds make the ugliest sound ever to issue from an avian throat, a sort of croak like a crow’s.
Then of course there are crows; all the world has crows. And there are smaller birds of a type that like to travel in flocks; I can’t identify them. But there seems to be very little variety of color, and certainly no nightingale song.

Aaron, Soup and Answers

What's a good post without seeing this smiling face first.... He's showing off his Transformer!

     I’m just plain hungry for real food. I hate to complain. We have the kindest woman in this country who has lovingly given up her bedroom for us to stay with her for weeks on end. She has been wonderful beyond words. She loves cooking for us. Loves it with a passion. Our original agreement was that she would provide a bedroom for us and we would take care of our own meals. She changed the contract over a week ago as she has now adopted us into her family. Each day, when we return from our morning visit, she is happily stirring food in the pot. She is exceedingly proud of her cooking skills and I will honestly say that it beats mine by a mile. But before we can ever partake of anything of substance, we have to have a bowl of soup. A bowl that is filled to the brim unless you can stop her soon enough. I like soup but soup on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday for weeks on end is beyond what my poor stomach can handle. Most of the time the soup is Borscht but sometimes it is made of other ingredients. It is good, but to make it she uses water from the faucet. Need I say more? She doesn’t heat her soup past boiling. It is running through me and I am at a point where the very thought of another bowl of soup makes me want to hide under the bed. She is cooking us other food but that bowl of soup that is required eating fills us up to the point where we can’t enjoy the noodles or chicken or whatever else she has lovingly prepared. It is not kosher to skip the soup part of the meal so we are stuck. I am now counting down the days when I will not have to eat my daily bowl of soup anymore!!


     Now that I got that out of my system.... Here's Aaron's newest trick - HOPPING DOWN A STEP.  He has just discovered that he can do this and so now we hop off everything.  All three of us.  What fun!  We are bouncing Tiggers!

SUCH CONCENTRATION - He was following the lines and for a child who has never had pen in hand, he did amazingly well. 

Here are answers to some of the questions we’re getting:

Aaron’s name:

 We have officially named our little guy Aaron Vanya Nalle. Andrea Roberts of Reece’s Rainbow named him “Aaron” when she listed him on her site, and we liked the name from the start. It’s an Old Testament Hebrew name, just like those of our other two boys, Ben and Elijah.


His middle name, “Vanya,” is what everyone calls him here. Vanya is the familiar form of his given name “Ivan,” so it’s kind of a pet name. We considered making his official middle name Ivan, and we also considered John, the Anglicized version of Ivan. Julia had a grandfather named John, and both of our other boys have middle names that honor grandparents. In the end, we thought that keeping the name he knows best might ease his transition a little. He now has an English name, Aaron, and a native name, Vanya. When we talk to him we use a mixture of Aaron, Vanya and the even more familiar forms of Vanya which are Van and Vanyuscka. He is now responding to whatever name we use.

 BUSTING OUT:


    When do we get to take this little guy past those gate??  (Note his backward britches?  No, I did not dress him!)

     

The court decree becomes official on Monday, September 20. Until then, it’s the 2-a-days (twice a day visits as allowed by the internat). When the court decree takes effect, we travel to Aaron’s birthplace to pick up his corrected birth certificate. Only then do we receive custody from the internat. Until then, he’s their responsibility. So no, we do not get any new privileges with him from now until then-- no taking him outside the internat for walks, nothing like that.

After the birth certificate comes the passport, which can take from almost no time to as much as 10 days or so, depending on which form they use and whether or not we pay a fee to expedite. We don’t know the details on that yet. There are several other bureaucratic whatnots, but we will just follow our facilitator Luda around and sign where she says sign, pay when she says pay.

 Overall we looking at between 2-3 weeks left in this process.

 At this point we are both staying. If it becomes too long then one of us will return home. We are making this choice in the best interest of Aaron. The month between our first trip and our second was difficult for him and we feel strongly that he should not suffer through another separation. He is at a point with us where he is happy, talkative and peaceful. Though we are struggling with how long our boys are home alone without us (and they are definitely struggling), we feel it is in Aaron's best interest for us to stay here with him.

In which Perry takes a break

(Rob writing)

No, we didn't get into trouble. But after a couple of wise friends reminded us that the court decree isn't final until Monday September 20, we decided that in their exuberance, Perry and Julia were being overly indiscreet. Perry and Julia's story has been carefully preserved, and will return when matters are more fully settled.

If you were enjoying this series, then you may finally understand why some of us were so upset when they cancelled Star Trek. No, I'm not old enough to remember, but the astonishing stupidity of that decision still burns me.

Presenting the Newest Nalle

We interrupt our courtroom drama to give you the star of the show....

Aaron Vanya Nalle

We celebrated in style this morning.

We bought Aaron a treat from the market and low and behold.... when he bit into it.... it was a

HOT DOG...

THIS PARTY EVEN HAD A BALLOON..

BUBBLING OVER WITH JOY!!

LIFE IS SURELY GOOD!

BALD IS BEAUTIFUL....

A GREAT WAY TO END A GREAT DAY!

PRAISE GOD FROM WHOM ALL BLESSINGS FLOW

Praise Him all creatures here below

Praise Him above, ye heavenly hosts

Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost!

Praise God for answered prayer. And if you want proof that your prayers were effective, then listen to what the judge said to us in her office after a grueling 5-hour court session:

“If God led you to adopt this child, then God led me to decide in your favor.”

We would not have believed that such a thing could come out of her mouth, especially not after the way she grilled us both. But when she took off her court robes, we could see the cross hanging around her neck underneath.
By decree of the court, Aaron Vanya Nalle will be our son effective September 20, 2010. Praise the Lord!
We have much to write but will reserve it for a later blog as we are beyond exhausted at this point. We have this to share: This morning, just before we left for court, after hours of pacing, praying, practicing and reminding each other of Scriptures of hope, we checked our e-mail one last time. Here is what a dear Reece’s Rainbow friend wrote to us for our time in court:

“If you could turn around in your seat and look behind you, you'll see hundreds of bowed heads, all of ours praying for you.”

We read those words and cried. What a beautiful picture. Based on our blog counter numbers over the last 24 hours before court, we knew that it was more like thousands of bowed heads before the throne. So when we walked into the courtroom this morning, we whispered to each other, “look for the bowed heads.”

Dear friends, we really believe that this judge would not have granted this adoption without your bowed heads. We are fairly sure that she was inclined against us at the beginning of the day. During the noon break, our facilitator Luda was preparing us for either a “no” or another delay. She was actually hoping for the “no” because she planned on appealing to a higher court, and that would have been quicker than returning to this judge again and again. Luda was pretty confident that the higher court would pass us without trouble, but it would have meant another long wait. All we could do was whisper prayers. And God heard.

We will fill you in with more details from the court circus over the coming days. For now, the most important thing is this little fellow.

WE ARE PROUD TO ANNOUNCE THE ARRIVAL OF OUR NEWEST FAMILY MEMBER, AARON VANYA NALLE

The Prayers of the Saints....

 

     Nine months ago we decided to pursue the adoption of a little boy by the name of Aaron who was listed on Reece’s Rainbow. It’s been a long journey filled with roadblocks and barriers that have tested our faith and resolve time and again. Each time we have encountered a crisis, we have cried out to the Lord in our weakness and need, and God in His mercy has lifted us up. In so many different and amazing ways we have seen Him move, work and orchestrate this process for His glory and for a purpose that is far beyond anything we ever imagined.

      Tomorrow we go to court. We need much grace. Over the last two weeks there have been many meetings and discussions concerning our court case. We have not taken part in any of these meetings, and we don’t know many details. Our facilitators have hired a lawyer and other advocates in hopes that on Thursday afternoon, we will be able to walk out of court with one more son. For a few brief days we believed that Aaron would not have to appear in court, and we quietly rejoiced at the news. Papers were already on record saying that he was too young and too disabled for the judge to require him to appear. We did not post this news, because deep in our hearts we were afraid to push the issue with this particular judge. Yesterday we learned that our team has decided to take Aaron to court anyway, and for that very reason. Although their decision validated our feelings on the matter, we still think it’s unfair to him, especially since we have been told that he will not be allowed to sit with us in court.



     Our court tomorrow will begin around 10:00 am. That is 3:00 am Eastern time. There are concerns on every level as we go into court tomorrow. On a public blog all we can say is, “Please pray.” Please pray that God’s peace will reign in our hearts throughout the process and that we will have the wisdom to speak with clarity and boldness about why we desire for Aaron to become our son. Pray for the judge, the prosecutor and the jury that their hearts will be open and receptive to our words. Pray for dear Aaron that he will not be afraid as the judge questions him. Pray for our facilitator, Luda, that she will be wise in her words with us and with the judge. Pray for the lawyer who will be representing Aaron in the courtroom, who is arriving today. Pray for the other advocates who will be present, the caretakers, the social worker and the SDA representative. Pray that God’s peace will reign over that courtroom.



      We are clinging with all of our might to the promise that God will not abandon us in our time of need. No matter what happens tomorrow, God is Good. He is Loving, He is Holy and He will ultimately receive all Glory and Honor and Praise!

PSALM 146: 5-10

Blessed is he whose help is the God of Jacob,

whose hope is in the LORD his God,

The Maker of heaven and earth,

the sea, and everything in them—

the LORD, who remains faithful forever.

He upholds the cause of the oppressed

and gives food to the hungry.

The LORD sets prisoners free,

the LORD gives sight to the blind,

the LORD lifts up those who are bowed down,

the LORD loves the righteous.

The LORD watches over the alien

and sustains the fatherless and the widow,

but he frustrates the ways of the wicked.

The LORD reigns forever,

your God, O Zion, for all generations.

Praise the LORD.

The Language Blockade

(Julia writing) They buzzed his hair. As bald as a bowling ball, poor little guy. They are now dressing him in tights (similar to tight long johns with feet), wool pants, a t-shirt, flannel shirt and a sweater. And a bald head. Can this Mama just say that she can’t wait to take this child home? With the tights on he cannot do anything with his feet. We tried to protest the first day he came out wearing them, but to no avail. “He’s cold,” they said. Umm - NOT ~ Rob and I were both shedding jackets that day. We sit in a sunny spot. His cheeks were red, not from cold, but from heat. Nevertheless, the tights stayed. We kicked a blow-up ball until it was pierced on one of the never-ending thorn bushes. We rolled the truck endlessly until that too became boring. Finally, we figured out that if we push a pen into his sleeve and place it between his thumb and fingers, Aaron can write with his hands. Oh, the joy! The look on his face as he drew on the write-on, wipe-off board was priceless. He expanded his letter repertoire to include a wobbly E (for Elijah) and A (for Aaron). Of course just plain scribbling was the best activity of all. So perhaps the tights were a blessing in disguise. But not the egg-bald head.

Our court is in two days. There has been much behind the scenes activity on our behalf and for that we are very grateful. Please continue to pray fervently for the judge and the process. Our translator/facilitator returns tomorrow, so we will try to post specific requests then. Our desire is to give the most updated information, as things seem to change quickly here.

(Rob writing) Traveling to Eastern Europe is not like a holiday jaunt to France or Germany, where nearly everyone knows a bit of English. The “language barrier” metaphor does not suffice to describe what we encountered when we arrived here. Our language problem was far more than a mere barrier, like some hastily strung barbed wire fence manned by a few sleepy sentries. It was more like a blockade, a heavily fortified stone wall with armed guards and spotlights.

We arrived here with precisely two barbs in our language quiver, “da” and “nyet.” Formidable as those may seem, they didn’t really carry us very far at all. We couldn’t call a cab because we couldn’t read our own address, or pronounce the name of our destination, or discuss when the cab was needed (even the word “now” has about seven syllables here). We couldn’t manage well at the stores because we couldn’t read the labels or understand the totals when the cashiers read them out (thank goodness for digital calculators!). We walked everywhere we went, laughing at our own stupidity, hoping for indulgent and helpful smiles from the locals. More often we received blank or even hostile stares. I decided that I had better get on with the language study I had so far neglected.

For this task I had only eclectic equipment: a child’s picture book with 1000 illustrated words (no English), a phrase book for adoptive parents (only transliterations, no Cyrillic alphabet) and a one-way dictionary. Our hostess has a two-way dictionary, but even so, I CAN’T LOOK UP NATIVE WORDS. I’ve learned the sounds the Cyrillic letters make, but I don’t know their names or their order in the alphabet, and none of my books tell me these things. I can sound out the words in signs and newspapers if they’re not too hard, but I can discover their meaning only by accident. Sometimes they sound like their English equivalents, but far too rarely.

Here’s an example of the way I learned one word, “bolshoi.” I first saw the word beside a picture of an elephant in our illustrated children’s book, so I assumed it meant “elephant.” It took me a while to connect this word with the well-known Russian “Bolshoi Ballet,” because the pronunciation is a bit different from what I’m used to hearing in English. When I finally made that connection, I thought the description “elephant ballet” was highly uncomplimentary to those elegant young women who dance on their tiptoes. I was looking for a better understanding of this word, and I found it when I looked at the 2-liter size of orange juice we brought home: it, too, was “bolshoi.” The light came on, and I knew at last that “bolshoi” meant “big.” But then I thought, ‘what an unimaginative name for a national treasure: “The Big Ballet.”’ Finally, I considered synonyms, and arrived at my present understanding: it must be “The Grand Ballet.” “Bolshoi” must mean both “big” and “grand.” I am ashamed to admit that this process took several days to complete. If it takes me that long to learn a word like “big,” I must literally be years away from becoming conversant.

Disabled

     Aaron is disabled. It is the sole reason he was abandoned at birth. His weak arms and crooked feet turned the world against him. He is disabled. It is the reason he was pushed aside at his baby house orphanage-- placed with the other 'damaged' children. It is the reason he does not qualify for educational services. He is disabled. It is the reason they dressed him in pretty clothes and took his transfer picture when he was 5 years old. It is the sole reason he is now in an institute for older boys. He is disabled.


     He has a funny walk and his arms swing helplessly in front of him. It was the first thing we saw when they brought him into the director's office-- his disability. We can't ignore it. Sadly, it defines him. They asked us several times if we understood that he was disabled. We did understand. We saw it with our own eyes. Yes, he is disabled. Yes, he will spend the rest of his life dealing with people staring at him, seeing his disability. Therapy and surgery may grant him greater use of his arms and hands, and he may be able to gain a more natural gait, but he will always stand out to strangers.

     It hurts. It hurts to know that wherever he goes people will stare. It hurts to know that for the rest of his life he will be defined by his disability because most people won't get to know the person behind his disability. When we first saw Aaron, we saw his disability. But the first time he smiled, and then laughed, his disability melted in our eyes. His laugh shocked us. We couldn't help but laugh back. We wanted more. We wanted to hear him laugh again. All three of us in that first week. Aaron has a contagious laugh. A contagious smile. A surprising mirth in a world that seems so despairing. He doesn’t laugh because he is unaware. Some of the boys here laugh with little understanding of the world around them. Aaron has a clear mind. He is mentally normal. He has learned to laugh in spite of his world. His strength and character shine through in his laughter. After only a few visits in July, Elijah said to us with such eloquence: "I don't see Aaron's arthro anymore." We didn’t either. We just saw Aaron. That’s all we see now.



     As we move toward the day when Aaron leaves the institute, our hearts want to surround him and protect him from the stares of the world. We want to defend him against the whispers. We want to shout out how special he is. We want people to understand what this child has overcome. He is the toughest little guy we have ever encountered. We cannot wait to hear the words of the judge pronouncing him our son. We are proud of him, and jealous for him. Yes, he is disabled. But he is so very much more.

Simple Pleasures

American food. We found a can of Pringles potato chips in the market. $4 for the can, but we bought it. The taste of home.



A green L.L. Bean backpack. It comes with a cool lunch box that is just right for a little boy’s car collection. Zippers and compartments and hiding holes everywhere. Hours spent investigating, organizing, closing and unclosing that green backpack.


Cell phones. The nightly call from the boys. Hearing their voices, connecting with home. The pleasure of those 10 minutes dies when we say goodbye.


Movies. Cozy in our bed each night watching movies on the computer. Documentaries, thrillers, drama and silly. They put us to sleep.

Aaron’s laughter. It is addicting. Once you hear it, you keep coming back for more. It begins with a giggle and evolves into a full fledged full body laugh. At his happiest, he bounces and jumps for joy. Oh the pleasure of hearing that laugh. Play ’little piggy’ with his toes and he can barely breathe for laughing. Roll his dump truck down the sidewalk and he bubbles over. Simple pleasures for a love-starved little boy. We’d cross an ocean again and again to hear him laugh.

Grapes.   Soup.  A croissant from the market with sweet fillings inside.  Homemade brew (we turned that simple pleasure down).  All gifts from our precious landlady.

 Comments. Opening up our internet and seeing loving comments and e-mails from friends and family. It brings joy to our hearts and reminds us that we are not alone.


Breakfast. The one meal we can make easily. Fresh eggs. Fresh bread. Good cheese, milk and juice. Definitely pleasurable.


Faith. Belief in a Loving God who has not and will not abandon us on this journey. Rejoicing in His daily provision for our every need.


Togetherness. Best friends of 18 years together on this journey. Enjoying each other's company, laughing together, crying together. Holding hands while walking to the institute. Longing for our boys at home, loving on our boy here. Waiting and hopeful for the words of a judge to declare that he is our son.

 Simple pleasures. We have much to be grateful for on this beautiful Sunday morning.


Philippians 4:8 - “Finally brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable - if anything is excellent or praiseworthy - think about such things.”

Through Aaron's Eyes

THE FOLLOWING ARE PHOTOGRAPHS TAKEN BY THE KING HIMSELF!!

TAKEN BEFORE WE STOPPED BRINGING THE CAMERA WITH US....

ENJOY!!

CAN ANYONE TELL WE ARE A BIT BORED HERE???

Cold Weather Woes

I packed wrong. IF I ever come back to this country in August, I will be sure to pack several pairs of long pants, long sleeved shirts, warm shoes, a jacket, hat and gloves. That is what all the locals are wearing. They are dressing Aaron in a long sleeve flannel shirt, a heavy sweater and wool pants. Definitely a bit of overkill but at least he is warmer than me! When we left in July the temperatures here were averaging close to 100 degrees each day. In the last 2 weeks the temperatures have vacillated between the 90’s and the 60’s. In the last week - mainly the 60’s. I packed wrong. I brought shorts, t-shirts, sandals and nothing warm except for very thin jackets for me. We each have one pair of long pants. How many days in a row can one wear that one long pair of pants without starting to smell?

We do not like to spend money, especially on clothes. I live for yard sales. It is my favorite weekly pastime. We rarely buy clothes new. But desperate times call for desperate measures, so on Tuesday, we went to the open air market to find warm clothes. We spent an hour walking the rows. We came back to the apartment empty handed. We spent money only on warm clothes for Aaron for when we bust him out of the institute. We just didn’t want to spend the money for clothes for ourselves. But Wednesday found both of us shivering and miserable in the cold damp air so this morning (Friday) I left for the market to try again to find us some warm clothes.

My Mom would have been proud. I found the ‘thrift shop’. Off in the corner of the market was an out of the way stand with tables piled high with clothes. As soon as I saw the set-up I knew I had scored big. The one used clothes stand in the entire market. For 12 dollars I bought Rob a very nice jacket and some warm clothes for me. We felt like we had won the lottery! Of course this afternoon the temperature went back up and we didn’t need any of the clothes we bought. I’m not complaining.  We saw the forecast.



We are so missing our dear boys tonight. Friday night is movie night at our house. We always make popcorn and enjoy watching a movie together as a family. Precious moments. The 10 minutes on the phone each day are just not enough. They are struggling with our being gone this long.  This process is hard.  We long for the day when we are united together as a family of five.

The nicest person in all of this country....

(Rob writing) is our hostess, Valentina, whom we know as Miss Valla. Most people here won’t even meet our eyes, and a smile of greeting is simply out of the question for us ugly Americans overseas. Our reception was positively glacial until a few people began to get used to us. But Miss Valla is unfailingly cheerful, friendly, generous and kind. She’s given up her bedroom for us for weeks on end, she’s fed us when we were hungry, and she’s kept us company when we couldn’t find a friend.




Soon after we arrived here for our second visit, just after our near-disastrous court visit, she appeared in our room with a slip of paper that must have cost her a great deal of effort. On it were written three English words: “Invite dinner borscht.” Since then we’ve had soup, macaroni chicken, more soup, chicken and potatoes, vareniki (another national dish) and more soup all prepared by our gracious hostess. We never know when she’s going to appear, but whatever she feeds us is always good and welcome.



Mealtimes are also our informal language lessons. All three of us know a bit of German, so we laughingly use that. English is so foreign to Valla that she can’t interpret the sounds. They don’t even sound like language to her. Once when I was learning the names of the foods on the table, she asked me to say the English word for “khlyeb,” which is bread (does that give you an idea what a jaw-cracker this language is?). When I gave it to her, she tried it, then signed to indicate that her tongue wasn’t made to form that “br” sound! Her language doesn’t contain the br diphthong, nor the th, nor several others. Long “a” sounds are also missing.



The funniest sign language episode happened yesterday afternoon. We were sitting at the table when we saw a motor scooter through the window. I asked her if her word for it was “vespa” because I thought I saw that in the dictionary (the Italian company Vespa makes scooters sold around the world). In fact, her word for it was basically “motorcycle” with all of the sounds nativized. Then I asked her if she would like to have a motorcycle. She said no, she walks. Then she signed what would happen if she had a motorcycle: a crash, followed by her death, followed by her lying in the church with her arms crossed over her and the cantors singing funeral songs! You had to be there, but I laughed for ten minutes over that one.

One night her grandson and his family came over, and we all spent an hour or so together over hot “chai” (tea). He and his wife have two beautiful small children, a boy and a girl. The little 5-year-old boy likes Spiderman, and he recognized the theme song when I sang it for him. I’m sure he was puzzled to find that a grown man knew so much less of his language than he did. Valla’s grandson knows more English than I know of his language, so we communicated less pitifully than we might have. He has responsibility for the pension system at the technical school where he teaches, and he wants to grill me with questions about the U.S. pension system! I wonder if he knows how ridiculously unqualified I am to answer such questions. We have an appointment to exchange all of this information using Google Translate. The site requires good internet service, so we’ll see how it goes. The hour we spent with all of them was probably the most real grown-up fun I’ve had here.

Announcements and Such...

We interrupt our daily Aaron announcements for an Elijah announcement! Last night Elijah earned his First Class Rank Advancement for Boy Scouts and a whole mess of other merit badges. I am so sorry I missed standing up there to take part in his achievement. He loves all things having to do with the Boy Scouts. We are so proud of him. I’ve got a lot of sewing to do when I get back home!!



Note to self (Julia writing) - I am NOT in Mexico, Belize, Germany or America so using Creole, German, Spanish or English will NOT help anyone to understand me! I confess. I am lousy at this language thing. Rob is increasing his vocabulary by the hour, but I am getting so confused I hardly know what end is up. I know that English is not an option, and I have learned a few polite phrases in Aaron’s language, but find myself either mixing the phrasing up (saying thank you for hello which is quite embarrassing) or accidentally using another language that gets lodged in my head.  Fortunately the people here are very forgiving.  Some of them are even working on learning some polite English phrases.  Considering that we are the very first Americans ever to stay in this village - that is saying something!


     We have seven more days until court.  Please be in prayer for the hearts of all those who will be involved in the proceedings.  Especially pray for Aaron.  It is hard to imagine how scary it will be for him to have to attend court with us.   Our visits are going well.  He is obviously happy to see us each day and has gotten used to being carried by Rob and being showered with kisses by his annoying Mama.   We struggle to keep him occupied.  If he had his way he would sit up at the gate and watch the cars and trucks go by.  His other favorite pastime is to watch the men working on the grounds, especially when they are loading and unloading the trucks.  Both of these activities are fine with us but cause discomfort for the staff so we are forced to try to limit him.  We can't wait for the day when he can observe the happenings of the world without restraint!
  

Pork for Dinner

IN CASE YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE....

This was taken the day he fell.  Poor little guy!

(Rob writing): In our little village, there are exactly two restaurants, or “cafeterias,” as our translator calls them. Only one of them is within a reasonable walking distance, so on any evening we decide to go out to eat, we don’t have to argue over where we’re going. Back home, Dad and the kids want Mexican or McDonald’s, Mom wants Chinese (which she never, ever gets). Over here, we don’t have to worry about any of that.

Despite the tiny number of restaurants, they are both nearly always empty. We have seen other customers order drinks, but we have never yet seen another customer order food. And we think we know why, beyond the more obvious economic reasons: The menus are, shall we say, limited.



For meat, there are two choices, pork and pork. One is a pork shish kabob, a succulent, marinated kabob of choicest pork. The other is a fat-fried, breaded chop from the shallower end of the pork pool. It is thin, greasy and gristly. One step lower, and Alpo would be interested. The price, however, is half. When we order shish kabob, $20 feeds two. When we order chops, it’s only $10.



Next option, potatoes or pasta. I always order potatoes, and I always order them the same way, but each time they’re a bit different. One night “fried potatoes” means hash browns, the next night sliced, the next night French fries. They’re always good, though, so no complaints. They even come with a dab of ketchup, though nowhere near enough to keep our son Elijah happy.



Finally, there is a salad. Julia loves it, but I can’t eat it. It consists entirely of tomatoes, cucumbers and onions, with a bit of oil dashed over it all. I eat plenty of salad at home, but on my own terms. To me, salad has more to do with the dressing than all of the green stuff. If I must swallow a cucumber, a tomato or, heaven forbid, an onion, I must at least have some lettuce and dressing to dilute and mask the taste. I like to quote the Texas cattlemen on this subject: “Vegetables ain’t food, vegetables is what food eats.”



The lack of variety is pushing my wife to the breaking point. In this I have the advantage, because I could happily eat the same thing every night. Quantity is the issue for me, not quality. I feel a sense of smug justification as I remind her of what I tell her constantly at home: Good food doesn’t get old. I never get tired of my favorite foods. She, on the other hand, has started to fantasize about foods that are half a world beyond her reach. I’m going to have a job keeping her out of the nut house if she doesn’t get a grip on herself.