Facebook: Red Table Talk; Transracial Adoptee

Red Table Talk, Raised by White Parents; A Black Transracial Adoptee

Great job Red Table Talk! Thank you so very much.

As a transracial adoptee, Angela is responding in the way she was raised. Sadly her family did not embrace people of her culture. I call this culture genocide or an ethnic crime.

I am not against transracial adoption. Noah is a transracial adoptee. But when white people raise their black and brown children in white culture or teach them only the adoptive family’s ethnic heritage or culture (German, Italian, etc) but not the ethnicity of their adoptee, that is a huge disservice to their child. It says your culture is not as important as ours in this family. I always wonder how white adoptive parents can love a black child but not the Black community. How do they go 18+ years of embracing new friends, family, and neighbors who all happen to be white but claim they are color blind? How does that happen? That is not natural or unbiased living.

I love that Jada and Willow and Gammy gave a transracial adoptee and a birth parent a seat at the table. Willow shared some deep talk for such a young woman, I love that Gammy was outspoken and passionate in this table talk. She has experience as a black woman and a black mother. She is right. Angela didn’t have a say on being adopted or how she was raised. Her insecurities stem from her lack of Black culture and understanding her place in the Black community. And let us not forget she is an adoptee which comes with inherit emotional consequences. But also, like Gammy said, Angela can change that. It would be similar to a white person who was raised with racism. Once they become an adult, they have the choice to educate themselves and decide which path they want to take. I hope that Angela steps out of her comfort zone and begins to embrace her roots. In today’s America, there really is no excuse that ANY family should live in a bubble no matter your color or culture. But especially transracial adoptive parents.

I am grateful to Ms. Debra and Angela’s parents taking a seat at the table and allowing those tough questions to be asked.

Lastly, I truly appreciate Angela’s honesty, sharing her story and her vulnerability so that others can learn. By taking a seat at this table and inviting us into her journey, her space, she educated so many on the many layers of adoption. We know that not one person speaks for everyone. But Angela has been given a platform. She does her best to give all sides light and exposure. She is bringing those pieces that have been dark and hidden for so long to the surface and it feels wonderful to be seen and heard with compassion. Thank you, Angela.

 

Texas Adult Adoptee’s propose HB2725

To all my Texas peep,

We would like to ask for your support, either by calling your representative, or emailing them. You do not need to be a birth parent, adoptee, or an adoptive parent to support HB2725 (which gives adult adoptees the option to access their original birth certificate). But if HB2725 aligns with your beliefs, please reach out.

This is what I wrote to my Representative:

I am a constituent of yours and I want to thank you for your support of the adoptee HB2725. It has been a long fight for those who have been working on this year after year with great passion and some heartache.

Adoptees just want fair and equal rights like all other Americans.

I am a birth mother. I had the great honor of giving birth to two sons. One I parented. And one was adopted out. I was lucky to have an open adoption relationship.

My sons are now 19 and 20 years old and I am very proud of the men they are becoming. However, they both do not have equal access rights to their original birth certificate. I see my sons as equals, as adults, as Americans, but it is discouraging that the state does not see them both as equals because of MY decision. It feels like one of my sons is being punished because of MY choice. No one ever promised me anonymity when I signed relinquishment papers nor should they.

Growing up adopted comes with its unique life experiences. And it impacts each adoptee in many different ways. HB2725 has the power to restore dignity, bring awareness and knowledge, and mend broken pieces. Most importantly, it allows adult adoptees to own what is rightfully theirs by birth.

Thank you so much for your support and consideration,

Karen
Constituent

Volunteer and Service

Jaren and I have done a lot of service over the years.

I would say my passion for volunteering began when my employer asked me to help organize the United Way Campaign for the employees.  It was a week long event where we shared video’s, personal stories, and the many ways to give and serve.  I had benefited personally from United Way charities like the Good Will store that our mother shopped at from time to time for us kids, as a single mother of three.

I began to get more involved in service when I worked with WaMu. They were a very service oriented company and gave their employees 12 hours per quarter to volunteer during work hours.  It was a wonderful gift. It allowed me to do more, as a single mother. Its harder when you’re a single parent.  Time is so precious. Leave in the morning, drop off your child at school, head to work, put in at least an eight hour work day, plus lunch and then pick up your child and head home to cook dinner, homework, sports, spend time together, get them their bath and ready for bed and do it all over again the next day.

I loved volunteering and serving.  I always walked away feeling good.  So I began to look for service that I could do with my son.  I didn’t want for him to be home with a sitter while I was out volunteering.

We served in many different ways, from awareness/charity walks, to serving Thanksgiving dinners at a homeless shelter, to working with special needs kids and many other various events.  It really was so much fun serving side by side with my son.

However, I did do a few things without my son, like in 2006, Jaren’s school invited me to join their Campus Involvement Committee.  It was a one school year commitment.  I enjoyed that and learned a lot about how the schools work.  I also got to provide input.  It was a great group of professionals to work with.

From 2005-2007 I was invited to join the Community Involvement Team at WaMu and was the Secretary for one of those years.

And lastly, one of the employees of UnityDallas asked me to join their committee to help organize their family event, called Where’s the Beach, which I did in 2008 and in 2010.  I was the volunteer coordinator.  It was about a six month commitment for the planning of the event.

When I resigned from the bank in 2012, I volunteered at UnityDallas, my church, for about nine months, working one to two days in the office, answering phones and handling minor office duties.  It was a lot of fun.

Then, when Jaren got to high school, he began to go even further serving with our YOU youth program at church.  He already had the experience.  And he enjoyed serving.  Even when the folks at the church needed a hand, they knew they could ask him.  When they had Open Mic night for the YOUers, who took turns performing along with adults on a small stage, it was Jaren who worked the sound booth, taking a short break here and there to eat or perform his song.  And when he graduated, he was able to get his service recognition, thanks to his sponsors and UnityDallas.  I will tell you, that meant more to me than any academic or athletic award.

Giving service, whether we are thanked or not, whether we get an award or not, whether someone parades us on stage or not is really irrelevant.  In the end, when I walk before God and he ask me and my son, what we did for his people, we will be able to reply, “We did this and we did it humbly with a grateful heart.”

Traumatic Events

I believe we all have had some type of traumatic event in our life, an occurrence that made a lasting impression.  Some of us have had many of these.

We often forget those bad moments or traumatic events that occurred.  It happens often with accidents of some sort.  I’ve heard several people say, “The last thing I remember is…,” (which was the moment the crash was about to happen) and then the next thing they remember is being in the hospital.  This is our brain’s way of protecting us.  Or maybe it’s our soul or our guardian angel or it may be Jesus and God himself that are shielding us of the memory and the pain.

I can tell you that I have forgotten many of those traumatic moments over the years.  That is until I experienced the trauma of relinquishment.  Over time, the good memories of my childhood would be replaced with traumatic events that altered my emotional state.

Other than those scary moments when you get separated from a parent in a large department store, which can be pretty traumatic for a young child, I’ve had some other unique experiences.

My earliest memory is when I was around three years.  I saw George, a live-in boyfriend, who was sometimes an abusive man to my mother, much like my own biological father, get very angry at my mother and shove her up against the wall, banging her head  repeatedly while she cried.  I felt helpless.

Another time, around the same age, George walked in my mother’s bedroom and saw me laying on top of my mother’s bed, grinding on my dolls foot.  He scolded me and disciplined me.  I wonder how I learned this.  I must have seen this or experienced something like this.  Children mimic what they see.  This moment has impacted my sexual life.

1967 karen in Florida

When I was five, a lady in the neighborhood babysat me.  My mother was working and my older siblings were at school.  We were in her backyard as she sat on a lawn chair and watched me frolicking in the yard.  I saw some dogs, about five of them.  I ran over to the fence, hopped onto the fence to get a better look and then called them over.  The dogs looked at me and one of them lunged up towards me.  My babysitter got to me just in the nick of time with the raging dog just inches away from my face.  It seemed there were some stray rogue dogs roaming around our neighborhood.  After that experience, I’ve always been a little apprehensive around dogs.

When I was around six, I went for a drive with my mother and her date.  My older siblings were away for the weekend with their paternal family.  My mother’s date drove to a playground that was located at one of the local lakes.  They pulled to the edge and asked me to ask a lady that was there with her kids if she would watch me for a moment while my mother went to park the car.  The lady agreed.  I ran back to the car to let my mom know.  I played for a while.  At that age, I didn’t have any concept of time, but what I do remember is the lady saying to me, “You’re mother is coming back isn’t she?”  What a thing to say to a small child.  When my mother and boyfriend did return, they parked in the same place they dropped me off.  My mother got out of the car, fetched me and we left.  I remember saying to her that I thought they were parking the car so we could go to the park.  I’ve always wondered why they left me there.  Where did they go and what did they do?  Anything could have happened to me.  This memory created an abandonment feeling inside me.

Another time, my mother’s boyfriend took me to our family doctor.  I got on the table and the doctor examined my vagina.  I recall the Dr. looking over and asking if it was okay for him to examine me first.  I’ve always wondered why my mother’s boyfriend, a man who later became our father however who did not attend school events or activities or other doctor’s visits, except when my parents took me to Philly to have my hearing tested, took me to the doctors.  I’ve asked about this but it seems they don’t remember or they give vague responses.  I would think this would be something they would remember as it was such a rare occasion for my step father to take any of us to the doctors.  What happened?  Being on the table in the doctor’s office with my lower half naked and exposed, without my mother or siblings there, being among two men that I didn’t feel that close or secure with made a lasting impression on me.  But I think it’s the not knowing why that has created more anxiety.

I would continue to experience a few other moments throughout my childhood of the scary, drunk, angry, yelling step father, gritting his teeth, threatening and pushing our mother, with my younger brothers screaming for him to get away from her, that left our mom and us kids so scared that she yelled for us to go get our grandparents (my step dads parents).  They always seemed to be able to calm the situation.  We just never knew what the night would be like when dad came home from drinking with his buddies.  We didn’t know what personality would be walking through the doors and if one thing said could turn the switch and make a calm night turn chaotic.  It was not an easy life to experience and one that left me feeling fearful many times.

I was visiting with a friend recently and we were talking about my second pregnancy and my relinquishment.  I was telling her how Noah’s mom has asked me over the years if I ever had doubts or changed my mind about adopting out Noah.  I would always reassure Noah’s mom and tell her that I didn’t.  Maybe that was my way to cope with the truth.  My dear long-time friend said, “Don’t you remember?  You had changed your mind.  You had decided you weren’t going to give up Noah, until your mom came to Texas.”  I shared my deepest and darkest secrets with my dear friend and relied heavily on her for support.  She remembered for me what I could not remember or recall for myself.  I had forgotten all about it.  I didn’t even really discuss it much in the book.  I wanted to put on the reassuring face, the please everyone else face, the make everyone else happy face.  And that left no room for Karen and her feelings, her wants, her needs, and certainly not her pains.

When I think back and look at my actions, it is very clear to me now.  When I went to the hospital, I never called the agency.  My doctor must have informed the agency because they called me and asked me if I had the baby.  A few days later, I took my baby home and planned on parenting him with Jaren but the events that would occur over the next few hours would be tremendously difficult for me to bear.  I am angry at a lot of people but mostly I am angry with myself for allowing others to coerce and manipulate me during my vulnerable moment into doing something that I wasn’t prepared to do.  At times, this traumatic event and the pain that I feel as result of my choice are almost too much to bear that I sometimes fear that death itself will be the only healer of my heart and soul.

How Common is PTSD

The Final Bow

Tonight was the Final Bow performance for my son’s high school choir.  This is the highlight of the year.  It is where the seniors get solo’s and get to show off their seasoned talent.  This is our sports event, our playoffs, our final round.  Harmony is the name of the game here and on our team, everyone can participate.  And just like sports, we have some that are naturally more talented than others, some that have worked really hard to gain access to their talent and others who have the attitude of commitment and continue to rise to the challenge, knowing that they may never be as good as some of their teammates but still they show up, they sing, and they support their team.

Did you know that one of the top fears that people have is getting up and speaking (or singing) in front of people?  Some list put this fear as the number one fear.  But most will have this fear listed in the top five.  That is major.  It takes guts to get up and speak or sing in front of people.  Allowing ourselves to be vulnerable and subject to praise or criticism, it could go either way, is a very courageous act to do.  Add the fact that these kids are teenagers, which places another layer of apprehension.

I talk from experience.  I too was a choir student.  I joined my concert choir freshman year and perfected my choir voice for four years.  I was at ease while standing on stage with my comrades as we sang our choir songs; but singing alone gave me great stage fright.  During my senior year I sang a duet with a friend to help ease my fears.  We sang Snow Bird.  Even with her by my side, I still got nervous.  It started off good but by mid song my throat slowly closed up which made it almost impossible to release a solid note.

And like me, I saw tonight those students who reminded me of myself, singing duets to help ease their fears.  Some who were nervous but faced their fear and sang a solo on stage as their fellow choir members cheered them on from the crowd.  Some who are learning to trust themselves and their talent so they held back a little.  Then, there were the others, like my son, who appear confident, the ones who command the stage with a gracefulness, some bold and dazzling like they were born on the stage, some humble and secure with a pureness that flows effortlessly.  And then there are the special needs students who add the special touch to this high school choir.

I’ve seen many special needs kids on stage over the years, some with Down syndrome, some in wheelchairs, and some with physical or learning disabilities-even some with hearing impediments.  I love that our high school is not only diverse in ethnicity and culture but also in abilities.  I especially love how our district and the choir teacher, Ms. Wright embraces all these differences.  And as much as I love watching my son on stage, I never tire of seeing these kids perform.

This year, there was one choir student that stood out among them all.  And the rest of the choir kids didn’t seem to mind sharing the spotlight.  They all love to see him shine.  His name is Zuri.

I remember Zuri from middle school.  He went to a different middle school then my son but once a year the middle school choirs would join with the high school choir kids for a combined concert.  It was a treat to see the high school students performing.  What a difference a few more years makes.  Seeing how the students had matured into their own style and expressing their unique talents gave us parents a sneak peak of what our kids might be doing in their near future.  What parent doesn’t want to see their child performing?  On a stage, on a field, academically, athletically, or creatively, we hope that our child will find his niche and show off his or her unique skill and talent.  I am sure Zuri’s mom felt the same.

I met Zuri’s mom and his younger brother by chance at our local CiCi’s Buffet one evening.  I recognized Zuri from the concert and had this urge to tell her how Zuri stood out to me from that concert.  Not because he is special needs but because he allows his spirit to shine.  His bright smile, his infectious presence and his child-like ways makes one feel as if they are staring into the face of God.  He appears to have no stage freight, nor is he fearful to sing, in fact, he seems to not fear anything.

Tonight I was overcome with emotion as I watched Zuri sing Say Something on stage among his choir classmates, including my son Jaren.  Zuri is front and center.  He claps his hands and has memorized the song.  I know this because I am pretty good at reading lips and I could see his lips were moving to match the words.  I can’t help but think how blessed his family is and how special his mother is.  She looks at him with possibilities and supports his achievements and she has done an amazing job.  She makes parenting look easy.

Zuri smiles and brings this song to life with his hand gestures; I think some of it was sign language.

At the end of the evening, Ms. Wright begins to call each senior’s name.  She skips over Zuri’s name purposefully.  She leaves him for last.  As she calls his name, the choir cheers.  Zuri steps down from the choir stands, walks over to Ms. Wright and they hug.  Then as Zuri walks back, he pauses mid-stage and turns to look out into the audience.  We stand applauding.  Zuri raises both arms, cheering, and beaming from ear to ear.  As he steps back onto the bleachers and returns to his spot, he is overcome with emotions.  His head drops and he begins to cry.  His comrades all gather close to him.

Tears of joy begin to flow.

I can’t help but think how proud his mother must be.

Toxic Families

I recently stumbled upon an article about Toxic Families.

Looking back, I see an uncanny similarity to my childhood.  It’s funny how time can ease those bad memories, the fears, and the pain.  The wounds are still present but we forget what the discomfort felt like.  Then, when we look at the scar, we unwilling recall every detail of the past.  People will tell you, don’t look at the scar, don’t speak of the scar, forget the scar.  Some think if the scar is invisible, the circumstance is imaginary.  Nothing can be farther from the truth.

I was the youngest of three in the family with a single parent household, until my mother began dating our step father when I was a young five year old.

I was soon assessed and unequally measured up against my siblings and I didn’t fare well.  I cried too much and acted like a baby.  I sucked my thumb, wet my bed, talked too much and was too loud.  I was lazy in school, did not pay attention, did not listen nor did I perform well in school.  I was too sensitive, and too emotional.

I realize now that I was a neglected child.  I had all the classic signs that something was wrong but none of the adults would acknowledge or validate my very real and natural reactions to my circumstances.  If I were in the foster care or an adoptee, I would have been classified as a special needs child.

My needs and my disabilities were ignored, despite the absence of my father and the only child in our family who did not have a biological father to actively spend quality time with me (which I had between the ages of birth and four years old but then abruptly stopped).  Watching my two older siblings leave for the weekend with their paternal grandparents or father after us three kids were inseparable for most the time and then being told that I couldn’t go because this was “their grandparents or father” left me feeling forsaken.  Their grandparents, the Whitaker’s, did try to include me.  They started sending me $25.00 during Christmas time, the same amount as my siblings.  I would be reminded by our mother how generous it was of them to include me and how grateful I should be.  On rare occasions I eventually got to tag along with my siblings but not until I got much older.  I remember a time or two being reminded by my sister that they were “her” grandparents, not mine.  She didn’t have to tell me.  I mean they were nice to me but I was very aware that I was not their grandchild.  I felt like a guest when visiting, not family.  Even my brother and sister acted different when we were visiting with the Whitakers.  (Back then, none of us kids knew that their father is actually listed as my father on my birth certificate.)

What little scraps I got, I accepted it.  After all, I didn’t have my father or paternal grandparents picking me up or doting over me.  My paternal family didn’t have much to do with me, except for my sister Chick.  There were no letters, Christmas or birthday cards or presents, no phone calls or visits with my paternal family except on a very rare occasion.  I recall my mother taking me to a family reunion on my father’s side when I was a freshman in high school.  That was the first time we had seen each other since I was a baby.  Hardly anyone recognized me.  And I surely didn’t remember most of them.  I got to invite a friend of mine who’s Italian.  She fit right in with my Italian relatives and many thought she was family instead of me.  My paternal family didn’t know me.  My cousins, in-laws, aunts and uncles did not know me.  They knew my sister Chick, my half-sister from my dad, but they didn’t know me.  I had to keep explaining that I was Mario’s daughter.  My father, at the time, was in prison for murder.  But again, none of that mattered to my parents or family.  They didn’t feel the need to take me to a counselor or psychologist to help me cope.  My emotional or physical challenges, which began when I was a baby, were all in my head.  I was blamed for everything.

I was called,

A baby

A Bed-wetter

Squirt (Nickname), a pun on being a bed-wetter

A Crybaby

A Whiner

A Hypochondriac

An Airhead

I was accused of being too sensitive, overreacting and weak.

These labels would stick with me throughout my childhood and adulthood.

To borrow a quote from Oprah, my family didn’t see me, hear me and what I said didn’t really matter.

I will never forgot the first time I went to the state of Texas, DARS office to see if I qualified for disability assistance for my hearing impairment.  And I did.  That was first time I received validation.  It felt strange, really.  I kept waiting for someone to accuse me of faking it, since my family never acknowledged my hearing impairment or tried to provide any accommodations.  They treated me as if I was equal to my siblings (and classmates) when in fact I was not.  They all had normal hearing, I did not.

When DARS recently sent me to a new audiologist for a hearing test to reassess my hearing and to see if I qualified for new hearing aids, the doctor, who is also hearing impaired asked me when I was diagnosed.  I told him when I was in the second grade.  So his next question was assuming that I got hearing aids at the same time.  I explained to him that I did not.  He said his parents, who were both teachers discovered his hearing loss which was approximately about the same as mine as a child.  He said his speech and learning progress didn’t match up to his older sister so his parents knew something was wrong.  I told him that was funny because it was actually the teachers that discovered my hearing loss and noticed I was not speaking or learning at the same rate as my classmates.  But for whatever reason, even after I was diagnosed with permanent hearing loss (mild right ear and moderate left ear), my parents chose not to pursue hearing aids or any other type of assistance to help me with my hearing impairment.  Despite the repeated comments on my report cards that stated, “She does not listen, does not pay attention.  She day dreams a lot,” they still didn’t get it nor did they go to school to defend me or explain my situation.  The comments from my parents on the back of my report card are proof of that.  Now, I realize my parents were not rocket scientist or college educated at the time, but my goodness, the proof was very apparent and yet they ignored my diagnoses and even blamed me as the reason for my grades and behavior in school.  Not only did they ignore the diagnoses but they never took me to an audiologist for the remainder of my school years to have my hearing re-tested.  Think about that.  Can you imagine your child being diagnosed with a vision problem and not buying him glasses nor getting annual exams to see if his vision got worse.  More often than not, once you’ve been diagnosed with a vision or hearing impairment, over time, your ability level will decrease.  My mother said, “The school tested you every year.”  But sadly, it’s not the school’s responsibility to monitor our children’s health issues; it’s our parents.

In addition, schools do not always catch a child’s ability to see or hear or monitor their progress.  My co-worker told me a story about her nephew (her brother’s step son) who is in the third grade.  She said after the school suggested their son have an eye exam, his parents learned that their son has a serious visual impairment.  She said his glasses were so thick.  She commented at how he used to squint all the time (for years) and no one ever thought anything of it.  She said the first time she saw him with his glasses on; he was smiling, talking and seemed so much more confident, a big change from his previous behavior.  Imagine that.  Just obtaining glasses and being able to see better made him more confident.  His parents felt really bad for not noticing earlier and she said they kept apologizing to him over and over again and treated him extra special.  As parents, we are not perfect.  We miss things.  But when we learn that our child has special needs and there is a valid reason why our child may not be performing the way we expect (age appropriately) and we have an opportunity to help them perform better but choose to ignore it, that’s neglect.

So instead of my family validating my impairment or emotional needs, they scapegoated me.  I became an easy target and easy prey.  I was weak.  If something happened to me, they responded, “Well you should have known better,” or “you should have done this,” or “you should have learned.”  Then as I got older, the comments would continue as such, (actual comments copied from emails or facebook), “You are reading too much into this,”  “I think you’re over analyzing situations.”  “Don’t make problems where none exist.”  “Feeling sorry for yourself.”  “Don’t make a big deal about it.”  “By all means, do whatever you can to help others and yourself. Just remember, others need positives to move forward….not negatives or rehashing. It might work in a therapy session, but not here! No audience!”, and lastly,  “LOST CAUSE….LOST SOUL!!!”

I have to admit, the last one hurt real bad.  I don’t think I could ever say that to one of my children.

And if that wasn’t enough, my family would recruit other members of the family and some friends to chime in and bash Karen and then forward me their email.

This was from my uncle after reading My Storybook Father, “A lot had it worse than she did growing up.  I can recall Colleen’s pouts,” and “Surviving the Sisters of St. Joseph who must of been trained by the Nazis.  Also boo hoo…..my cousins and my two best friends moving away before I even got into high school.”

Some people will never see you or hear you or validate you.  And some will.

I had another uncle share this, “I have a better understanding of what she went through in life. My life was a walk in the park compared to what came her way. With God beside her she has done an amazing job.”

Melancholy Christmas

Last week, our church had a family friendly Christmas service mid-week.  There was a short Christmas play, Jesus There’s an App For That, performed by the kids, which included my sixteen year old son, Jaren.  And, we had a Christmas sing-a-long throughout the service.  When the congregation began to sing Silent Night, tears unexpectedly filled my eyes.  My soul wanted to weep and I strongly held back a cry that my spirit wanted to release.  I was remembering a time from my childhood.  It’s the one time of the year that was almost always good and pure.

Each Christmas Eve we gathered over to my grandparents’ house.  This was a tradition that had been going on for many years, which started with my mother, her siblings and cousins at my great grandparents’ home.  Because they were chicken farmers, they had to get up early in the am to collect the eggs from the hens.  So they gathered with their families, celebrated the spirit of Christmas with good food, delicious, traditional German sweets and schnapps, opening their Christmas gifts on the Eve of Christmas.  Long after they retired from the chicken farming, this very special Christmas Eve tradition continued for the next several generations, with four and five generations all gathering in one very small country home.  As children, we always wondered how Santa made it to our grandparents home so early.  Santa didn’t drop by our home until sometime in the middle of the night.  Our grandmother secretly disclosed that she had a special arrangement with Santa Claus.

One of the most treasured memories of the evening was singing Christmas carols.  The last song was always the same.  Silent Night.  After singing all the holly jolly and jingle bells songs, this one always settled us kids and somehow magically transformed us from “Santa’s gifts” to “Jesus’s birth”.  We lit the German tapers on the tree, turned the lights out and sang Silent Night.  Then we would sit silently as the elders would sing it once more in German.  As we gathered to go home, the children would gaze up to the evening sky and try to get a glimpse of Santa on his sleigh.  Surely we saw him a time or two over the years.  Then we would stop off at the Catholic Church for their midnight service; kneeling, praying and paying tribute by honoring Mary and her precious baby boy, Jesus while giving thanks to God and all His glory.

Of all the times in my youth, this one night is what I miss most about my childhood.  If I could relive one moment or one day, I would surely choose this night just so I could experience the magic and our family tradition and listen to my grandparents sing Silent Night in their native language one more time.

Most people equate this time of the year with goodness, happy, treasured, and cherished moments.  But sometimes the holidays can bring somberness and sorrow as well.  It seems this year, many of my loved ones are experiencing this holiday in a way they have not experienced it before.  And I cannot remember another year where so many of my extended family and friends have experienced such great losses.

Parents have lost sons; siblings have lost brothers, wives have lost husbands, and children have lost parents.

My son’s godfather lost the love of his life, Jose earlier this year.  Jose was someone who loved life and he especially loved Christmas.  But Jose’s health had been failing him over the past several years.  My son’s godfather had cared dearly for his partner of nineteen years as he witnessed his partner’s health decline.  This year, our dear Robert will spend Christmas for the first time without his loving partner, Jose.

For my son’s grandmother, she lost her soul-mate; her husband earlier this year.  For the first time in forty plus years, she will not have her husband by her side Christmas morning.

For my dear friend, Sissy while her husband is still with us, he is suffering with severe Alzheimer’s; she has lost the man that she fell in love with more than thirty years ago.  His loved ones have all become unrecognizable to him.  Seeing him deteriorate every day is a struggle for us all.  This may very well be the last holiday that he will spend in his home among family and friends on Christmas Eve.

For me, this time of the year is filled with mixed emotions.  While I’ve enjoyed being able to see Christmas through Jaren’s childlike eyes through the years, this is also the time of the year when my second son, Noah was born and I said goodbye to my infant boy.  While I have a wonderful relationship with Noah and his family, it seems every year I unconsciously still re-live that moment and loss to some extent.  I feel guilty sometimes because I think about the mothers who will never be able to see their children again or share another Christmas holiday because their children are gone forever.  And I think of the birthmothers who never get see their child, and the ones who wonder if their child is alive and well.

But the most heart wrenching of all was yesterday as I heard my coworker fall to her knees and cry out with disbelief that her husband of many, many years had just died unexpectedly.  One of our very own, my cube neighbor, just got the hardest news only three days before Christmas.  Her cries echoed throughout the third floor among hundreds of workers and there wasn’t anything anyone could do.  With every cry she released, another person felt her pain until just about every eye in our office had tears.  I realized today more than ever before how one does not have to directly experience hurt to feel pain.  Pain can be seen. Pain can be heard.  Her cries lingered on in my mind long after she left the building to be with her loved ones.  Her life changed in one moment.  This year and every year hereafter, she will take this experience with her for the remainder of her years here on earth.

I love Christmas.  I love the lights, the songs, and the jolly atmosphere.  I love giving more than receiving.  And I love the true Christmas story.  But I also know the truth; not everyone experiences the Christmas holiday the same.

So as you jingle through your holiday, and ho, ho, ho through this Christmas, please be kind to those who have experienced a great loss and help those in need find their way back to the spirit of Christmas.  You might not need to say anything.  All you may need to do is look compassionately into their eyes and give them a warm, comforting hug.

May God richly bless each and every one of you and may you have a very Merry Christmas!

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.    Luke 2:14