Sad

Some of you may remember when, two years ago, I brought home a ball of fluff named Henry. This happy, always smiling Golden Retriever became my loyal companion, and at times, he felt like my only friend. He was by my side during so many tough times, always full of unconditional love and a calmness that made me feel so secure. He also changed the lives of so many kids – at first terrified of dogs, as most people are in their culture, they came to love him and trust him. So many times I would find the kids at school playing with him, brushing him, or even just sitting and talking to him. He was always patient and kind, and willing to put up with numerous hugs and other well-meaning tortures. He was the head of what we called our “animal therapy team” – Beasley and Moosie, the other two dogs we added to our family, along with my abnormally friendly and child-loving cat, Pickles. These four trot faithfully behind me to school every morning, spreading out and looking for any kid who might need a friend (or who might have food). Each night when my kids went to bed, the dogs would sit patiently for the bedtime story and prayers, then Henry would check over each kid when they were tucked in, nosing them and making them scream with laughter. Then he would come out and collapse beside me with a sigh…and the two of us would give each other a look that seemed to say, “These kids…what are we going to do with them?”

One night, Beasley disappeared. She was outside with Henry when I went to bed, laying on the front porch as usual, keeping watch on the house. The next morning, she was gone. We searched the mountains behind our property for hours, but found nothing. We assumed she had either been stolen, or was dead – she would never run away.

A few days later, I went for my afternoon run, taking Henry and Moosie along as usual. The two of them ran happily in and out of the tall grass, full of energy as usual. When I got back, the kids helped me give Henry a good bath, with twenty little hands scrubbing wildly, making mohawks and spikes in his soapy fur. After a good towel dry and a bounce on the trampoline (his favorite) he went running off, probably in search of something smelly to roll in. That night when I went to bed he wasn’t on the porch…I was a bit worried, but just figured he was off wandering or chasing a monkey.

The next morning I opened the front door and saw him lying on the grass. I knew right away he was dead – something about the way he was just laying there, and he didn’t move when I called him. I ran outside and knelt down beside him, tears filling my eyes. “Henry?” I said in a small voice. I ran my hand over his side – it was cold and he felt stiff, but his fur was still soft and clean from his bath the night before. I buried my head in his side, sobbing, as the kids stood around us, unsure of what to do. He had been poisoned – something that is fairly common in South Africa, as people tend to hate dogs and either do it just out of spite, or because they are planning a break in and want the dogs out of the way. It was then that we realized this had likely also been Beasley’s fate – but the people dumped Henry’s body in the front yard so we wouldn’t go looking. It was a really hard time for me…I felt like I had lost my best friend. We buried Henry down at the school, with a cross made from sticks and his old collars on his grave, along with other gifts put there by the kids – flowers, drawings, even a slice of bread and butter one day. Dogs are such an example of patience and unconditional love…he will be missed so much.

Rat Funeral

My kids might not look so much like me, but they're sure starting to act like me.

Lately we've really been on an animal saving craze. Really, I've been on an animal saving craze since I can remember, starting with me adopting the "poor, abandoned" cat of our perfectly capable neighbor when I was 5. I would even rescue stuffed animals, sure they were just crying when I turned my back, because they so wanted a home. I can remember eye-dropper feeding baby mice, putting bunnies against hot water bottles, and making splints for birds' wings. My grandpa, knowing my penchant for animal rehabilitation, would bring me any animals he found - bats, birds, even a snake that got loose in our house. I can remember when my pet rat ToeToeWhoopieToe died, we had a proper funeral and burial with a headstone written in sharpies. For years afterwards, when I was feeling sorry for myself or when I needed a good cry, I would go sit by that grave mustering up some tears and trying to feel sad about the rat whose cage I always forgot to clean. It's like sometimes, you just need something to cry over.

We recently took in two sickly puppies from the animal shelter, and the kids have really been learning how to love them and care for them properly, and learning about how animals need to be rescued. Just a few days after we brought them home, Khutso came to me holding a plastic bag. Pleased with himself, he held it out for me to take a look. Knowing Khutso, it could have been anything.

It was a rat. A mostly dead rat, with his leg twisted all backwards, a glazed over look in his eyes, breathing about 500 breaths a minute as our two faces stare down at him laying at the bottom of the bag.

"Maria beated him with a broom to make him dead!" Khutso told me, referring to one of the workers who is obviously not a rat fan. "But he did not dead, and then I take him when she is gone! Let's make him better and make him like a pet!"

I was pretty sure the situation was grim and I told him so, but went ahead and put the rat in a box with some grass anyway. I told him to get some more grass and things to make the rat feel "more at home." Ever enthusiastic, Khutso soon had the poor thing covered in a pile of brush that could start a decent fire. I uncovered the terrified rat and petted him, pretty sure he was having the worst last few moments ever, as all the kids peered down at him, oohing and aahing. They then decided to strike up a rousing rendition of "Run to the River", complete with terrible but vigorous guitar strumming and djembe playing. Strike that. THESE would be the worst last few moments ever.

It must have been the djembe playing that sent Mr. Rat over the edge, because when I checked him again he seemed even deader than before. No more frantic breathing. I called Khutso away from his djembe and nodded to the rat sadly and seriously, searching for a pulse and declaring time of death. Khutso gave him one final pet with his index finger, trying to look as mournful as possible before scurrying away to find an appropriate casket.

He came back proudly with a plastic goggles case, and I agreed that the see-through look was very dramatic and the casket size appropriate. He placed the casket back into the grass box, and recruited Lerato to help serve as pallbrearer and grave digger. Lebo agreed to sing at the funeral, and I said I would officiate.


They took turns diging a hole that was about two inches deep, and I stepped in to dig it to a decent depth, imagining the smell/sight of Henry running proudly around with rat remains in his mouth a week later. Lebo mournfully sang "O Morena Jesu" as we dug and buried, and each one threw a leaf onto the goggles case before we packed down the dirt. I said a prayer for the rat and declared it likely the nicest rat funeral ever held in South Africa. Then I taught them taps, declining to play it on the trumpet lest the neighbors think we are crazier than they already do. (yes, we do have a trumpet in our house, that the last guy left...and NO, I am not telling the kids it is there.)

There was then much enthusiasm about the grave decorations - I made a headstone that said "RIP RAT", and they found some flowers (probably from the neighbors' garden) and other random adornments that continued to grow over the next few days, like a broken scissors handle and some old boards.Yep, I think I'm having an affect on them...and let's just hope it is in more ways than this!

Scared Stupid

So one of those pretty funny things happened the other day. Like I wrote before, kids here don't talk about their emotions much, and it is hard for them to say how they feel. So whenever I can, I buy them books that talk about things like that. You know the type - "Mad Isn't Bad" or "How I Feel Today" or "Johnny's Hamster Died". So when I found this one on sale the other day, I was pretty excited about it - it seemed perfect for my kids:

So I started reading it to them the other night before bed, thinking it was a great opportunity for them to talk about being scared at night. They usually have to sleep with a light on - recently I figured out that by covering the bedroom walls with glow-in-the-dark stars, they would sleep in the dark so they could see the stars. Anyhow, we turn to the first page, and the kids go totally bezerk:


"WHY IS HIS HEART JUMPING OUT?!? WHAT IS THIS DOING?!? WILL HIS HEART GO BACK IN?!?" they all scream, covering their eyes, taking another peek, and covering their eyes again, shrieking and hiding under the blankets.
I am quickly trying to explain that it just feels like his heart is going to jump out of his chest, because it feels that way sometimes when you get scared.

"IS MY HEART GOING TO JUMP OUT TOO? ? AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!”By this time they were really in a panic over it, and it took me a few minutes to get them calmed down and ready to keep reading, as I was sure that finishing to book would help calm them down - after all, it WAS a book about being scared. So I assured them that it wasn't supposed to be a scary book, and we turned to the next page:


"AAAAAAHHHHH! WHAT IS THAT?! WHO IS THAT MAN?!?"

I am really hating this book by now, and trying to show them that really it turns out to be a pile of clothes and a doll later, but they will have none of it - they are totally freaked, and think I've brought out this terrifying horror book just to give them nightmares. So I flip quickly to the next page, which isn't much better...
"Okay okay! The book is going away!" I say, throwing the stupid book over the pile of shivering children huddled around me and wondering if the author ever test-read this book for children who were actually scared of things.

Forget my attempt at helping with the emotional development of my children. We're reading "Farley Farts." At least they'll be able to sleep...probably.

Holding it in

Kids growing up in rural South Africa are taught not to cry, generally.

When you fall down, no one rushes to your side, hugging you and carrying you into the house for a band-aid. When your mother dies, no one asks how you are doing, or gives you special treatment, or puts you into therapy. When you are abused, everyone looks the other way - after all, it's just the way it is. When everyone in your family has died or is dying, lying skeleton-like on their beds, everyone whispers that they are cursed, or have the flu, or "certain illnesses". You are taught to not think about it, to push it away, and to go on. Crying will get you nowhere, except maybe told to stop crying, what is wrong with you?

I am now raising several children who were at one time, essentially raising themselves. It is interesting to see them when they first come to our family - they often show very little emotion, even if they are just consistently happy all the time. Khutso was one of these. Since his father died when he was just a baby, his mother had to go away to work as a domestic servant for a rich Afrikaaner family, only visiting her children in their mud house every month or two. He was left his 13 year old sister, who pretty much just let him go on his own way.

When Khutso first came to Pfunanane, he was cheerful all the time. Even when he had an injury that was obviously painful, he would look confused for a few seconds, and then go on. The same with when kids were mean to him, or something would go wrong - that puzzled look, as if he was trying to figure out that feeling, and then he'd brush it off. It occurred to me that children cry much of the time because of the response they get from it - comfort, love, attention. He'd never gotten this for crying, so he'd never really learned to cry. At first I really liked this about him - "wow, this kid's tough, and he's always happy!!" but then I came to realize that it wasn't so good, and that there was a lot of pain he was keeping inside, because he didn't know what else to do with it.
After almost a year at Pfunanane, Khutso has finally learned to cry. It started with a few tears in his eyes when his finger got slammed in the car door. Now he'll really let it out if he needs to. Today was the first time I saw him cry because of emotions, or expressing what he was feeling. We saw a cousin of his on the side of the road, and gave her a ride to where she was going. I noticed he was quiet on the ride home, which was strange because he is never quiet. (never) When we got home I noticed tears were rolling down his face - he hid his face, embarrassed, and almost confused about why he was crying. I sat with him, and after he stopped crying we planted a tree together. (I've found that sometimes kids talk better when they are busy doing something, and no one is staring at them or expecting anything of them). He told me that he had pain (ee a baba) inside, because he missed his family and he doesn't have a father (though he now stays with his mother most nights, as she lives on our property). I told him it sometimes it is good to cry when you feel that pain inside, because that pain inside will get worse if it doesn't come out of your face. I told him that sometimes I really miss my family, and I cry too.

He looked at me then, wide eyed.

"and you are big," he said seriously.

"yes," I told him, "I am very big."

Addy is another one of my kids who internalizes everything. Her mother died of AIDS a year and a half ago, and her father works in Johannesburg, 5 hours away, and only comes back a few times a year. After her mother's death Addy and her brothers and sisters were scattered among different relatives - Addy stayed with me during the school week, and with her mother's sister on weekends, which she really liked. Then, just a year after her mother's death, her beloved aunt also died. She was shipped off again, this time to her father's relatives, where she was abused and neglected. I called her father several times and told him that something was wrong there, and that she wasn't happy - he insisted that she would get used to it, and that she should continue going there on weekends so they could get child-care grant money fron the government.

Addy is a brilliant child, and is often quiet. You can sometimes just see her thinking, processing things in her head. She is one of those kids who doesn't say much, but you can see something in her dark eyes that tells you something isn't right - it's like a reflection of pain that you can only see when she thinks no one is looking. Things run deep with her, but sometimes it as though things are buried so deep, she doesn't know how to get to them or get them out.

When she came back home to us after her aunt died and she was moved yet again (around Christmas time), you could see that pain in her eyes, but for the most part, she just became a bit quieter, and less silly and talkative. She didn't mention anything that was going on with her family, and I didn't push it - just told her I loved her like my own daughter and would always be here for her. Then one night a few days in I put her to bed - she'd been cheerful enough when we read a story and prayed...but just about a minute after I said goodnight and turned off the lights, I heard her start crying hysterically. The other kids got really alarmed, as she's never done that before - I told them to go to bed and pray for her, and I would sort it out, but I knew what the problem was. I sat on her bed and held her as she cried so hard she could hardly breathe, gasping and wailing - it was actually so heartbreaking that I couldn't stop the tears from filling my eyes too. There is something so different in a child crying from deep grief and emotional pain than a child crying for attention, or even because of injury. She couldn't even talk, she just cried, for almost an hour. She slept in my room that night, and every time she woke up, it would start again.

Addy has never been an attention-seeker or very dramatic at all - it was just that she had been carrying so much pain around since the loss of her mother, then moving, then losing her aunt to the same illness, then moving again and facing abuse. I don't believe she had ever actually cried during any of this, instead just quietly facing whatever was next, and being as brave as she could for her little brother Mack, who she protects fiercely. The pain and loss this seven year old was carrying was probably more than I've faced in my entire life. And it was as if she knew she was finally somewhere safe, finally somewhere she would be listened to - and all that pain just exploded as if it was the first time she had felt it, as if it all happened yesterday. Her grief was so real that I could tell it was the first time she had allowed herself to feel it.

She is finally learning to talk about her pain, and to tell me about what she is going through. Though I don't have legal custody, I have spent a lot of time talking to her father about what she wants, and have gotten her to tell him also - I think soon she will be living with me all the time, and not having to return to this place that is causing her more pain, but rather stay at the place that has always been consistent, and that she has known since she was small. When we ask her about this, she just smiles quietly and nods her head once, one big nod, face to the sky and then tucking her chin back into her chest.

All kids are different. Some are afraid to attach or get close to anyone - others cling to me, holding my hand as if it's a lifeline. Some become quiet and introverted in their pain, some cover it up and act as if nothing is wrong, others act out in disobedience and anger. But all of them need to let it out in some way, to express what is inside, to "let the hurt come out of their face", to tell their secrets to someone they trust. This trust isn't easily won, and it usually takes time, patience, and a lot of time just being around the kid. Often they will pipe up at the strangest times - when we are mopping the floor, cooking dinner, going for a walk, riding in the car...and I always just act as if it's the most natural thing in the world that they are telling me about how their father used to beat them until blood came out of their head, that they would eat grasshoppers because there was no food in the house, that when they found their mother dead she felt stiff, that they know their parents died of AIDS and they know they have it too. I try to show them that I care, that I wish these things hadn't happened to them, and that I will always listen to them no matter what they want to tell me. And especially, that I will always be here for them and love them like my own children. Because in my heart, they are.





(all photos by Lauren Stonestreet, Elle Effect Photography)

Flying with Jesus...

So Nyiko painted this picture last night...pretty much his best one yet, I think. It is him flying with Jesus.

I made a pretty big deal over it, especially since it was a theological far cry from him asking if Jesus was our cat Pickles (asked yesterday - claimed Brian said so) or if Jesus is in his pants (asked a few weeks ago, when I told him Jesus was everywhere). Last night when he asked me if Jesus could fly, I told him sure, Jesus can do whatever he wants to do. He thought about that for a minute, then got right to work on it.

Then he drew Jesus' house:
He told me the angels really like it at Jesus' house, and that they like to fly over there and hang out.

I guess it's these moments that make up for the many times that the kids are a pain in the neck...