I feel as though I've been plumbing the depths of human depravity. Working with extra-high-risk foster kids exposes me to horrors I could not have imagined. To hear an 11-year-old girl say with no inflection that she hates her father because he raped her makes me so angry I have no idea how to express it here. To see the consequences of neglect, abuse, and abandonment actually breaks my heart.
Then on Monday, one of the lovely girls in my small group and neighbor warns me that a convicted rapist has moved within two blocks of both of our houses. She gets to walk past his apartment on her way to small group. I drive past it every day, twice or three times most days. So then, just for giggles, I check out this website for myself (http://www.familywatchdog.us/Search.asp), and discover that every morning on my walk to work, I pass by the homes of, not one, not even ten, but 22 individuals who have been convicted of sex crimes. Ugh. My feelings about this are mixed. I have become more aware of the people I pass on the street. I try to calm myself with the fact that I only walk through this neighborhood during the happily lit morning hours and that there are usually police driving by. I feel extra-protective of the foster kids I hang out with. And perhaps irrationally, I feel a great deal of pity for these men who have a depth of hurt and horror and violence and disease in their own minds that can never be escaped.
On a happier note, it has been snowing gloriously since yesterday, which always makes me smile. I get to play in it tomorrow afternoon with one of my girls, and she gets to feel normal and childlike and whole for a couple hours.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Oh Thanksgiving.
I love my family.
Most holidays are spent with my dad's side of the family who all live in our immediate vicinity. My poor mother's family is scattered across the country, from Orange County to the mountains of North Carolina. So, we troop over to my cousins' house for a dinner my aunt painstakingly prepares by herself. She will not accept help. Ever. My mom and I are both fair cooks. I make a darn good pie. She will flat-out refuse assistance and buy a pie from the store instead. We are more bewildered than offended. If she really wants to cook a feast single-handedly that's fine. We are moderately impressed with her skill, though more mystified by her stubborn independence.
This year, we were met at the door of my doctor uncle's fancy-pants house with the German Shepherd growling as if he were longing to tear our faces off. My uncle then firmly and wearily exclaimed, "Shut up, you stupid dog. Nobody likes you. Why are you even here?" He was not consulted before the purchase of the beast. After a couple minutes he greeted us - my mom, brother, aunt, and I. They try to offer us all booze - My mom doesn't drink, my brother is a mere 18, and I usually prefer to have all my wits about me on such occasions. The cousins turn out to be newly pregnant, so that actually gives us a topic of conversation! Yay! Unfortunately, this did not last long, as my darling cousin soon launched into a detailed lecture about the railroad (he is an engineer), closely followed by gun rights, closely followed by highly offensive subjects that made me cringe and that will not be repeated here. Needless to say, my conversation skills were challenged.
Saying grace has been an awkward moment since my grandfather died a year and-a-half ago. He was the spiritual and moral leader of our family, and a man I loved and respected immensely. His prayers before meals were always heartfelt, simple, and lovely. Since his death, his eldest son has been praying. Half of my family is Catholic, the other half Protestant. So, half the family crosses themselves, my uncle prays, "Heavenly Father, thank you for this chance to get together for this holiday. Thank you for providing the food. Thank you for the hands that prepared it. Amen. Shut up, you stupid dog!" And the room echoes with uncertain Amens.
Then we eat, and it is good. My little cousin talks about his girlfriend, my aunt giggles with me across the table, my new cousin-in-law asks sweet questions and generally holds her own with my opinionated family, and it is good. The same cousin who believes "every red-blooded American male should own a gun and use it" also visits a former coworker who is ill and bedridden and slowly losing his wife to cancer to boot. The same uncle who despises the dog sets a marvelous example in treating other people well. My aunt who refuses our cooking engages me in conversation in which she shows that she has been paying attention to the details in my life. And I am thoroughly chastised for my quick judgments.
Most holidays are spent with my dad's side of the family who all live in our immediate vicinity. My poor mother's family is scattered across the country, from Orange County to the mountains of North Carolina. So, we troop over to my cousins' house for a dinner my aunt painstakingly prepares by herself. She will not accept help. Ever. My mom and I are both fair cooks. I make a darn good pie. She will flat-out refuse assistance and buy a pie from the store instead. We are more bewildered than offended. If she really wants to cook a feast single-handedly that's fine. We are moderately impressed with her skill, though more mystified by her stubborn independence.
This year, we were met at the door of my doctor uncle's fancy-pants house with the German Shepherd growling as if he were longing to tear our faces off. My uncle then firmly and wearily exclaimed, "Shut up, you stupid dog. Nobody likes you. Why are you even here?" He was not consulted before the purchase of the beast. After a couple minutes he greeted us - my mom, brother, aunt, and I. They try to offer us all booze - My mom doesn't drink, my brother is a mere 18, and I usually prefer to have all my wits about me on such occasions. The cousins turn out to be newly pregnant, so that actually gives us a topic of conversation! Yay! Unfortunately, this did not last long, as my darling cousin soon launched into a detailed lecture about the railroad (he is an engineer), closely followed by gun rights, closely followed by highly offensive subjects that made me cringe and that will not be repeated here. Needless to say, my conversation skills were challenged.
Saying grace has been an awkward moment since my grandfather died a year and-a-half ago. He was the spiritual and moral leader of our family, and a man I loved and respected immensely. His prayers before meals were always heartfelt, simple, and lovely. Since his death, his eldest son has been praying. Half of my family is Catholic, the other half Protestant. So, half the family crosses themselves, my uncle prays, "Heavenly Father, thank you for this chance to get together for this holiday. Thank you for providing the food. Thank you for the hands that prepared it. Amen. Shut up, you stupid dog!" And the room echoes with uncertain Amens.
Then we eat, and it is good. My little cousin talks about his girlfriend, my aunt giggles with me across the table, my new cousin-in-law asks sweet questions and generally holds her own with my opinionated family, and it is good. The same cousin who believes "every red-blooded American male should own a gun and use it" also visits a former coworker who is ill and bedridden and slowly losing his wife to cancer to boot. The same uncle who despises the dog sets a marvelous example in treating other people well. My aunt who refuses our cooking engages me in conversation in which she shows that she has been paying attention to the details in my life. And I am thoroughly chastised for my quick judgments.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Yay! A post of my very own!
This is ridiculous. I have been sitting at my darling Jenevieve's kitchen table for approximately 10 minutes waiting for Divine Blogging Inspiration for the All-Important first post, but am supremely distracted by Matt's rendition of "Blessed be the Name of the Lord" in the irreverent style of a sea-chantey and Jeni whispering sweet nothings to her new goldfish. And coming soon: a Recounting of the Family Thanksgiving Dinner.
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