I got to speak at George Fox University a couple of weeks ago. I sat down with Sara Baldwin, the dean of Spiritual Life. She asked me some interesting questions for the artist starting out.
Um, I have no control over what frame YouTube grabs for the image. I look startled, but I promise: this video contains no discussion of ghosts or socialism taking over America.
Crafts. Remember crafts? The lost art of relaxation. I used to have time to do crafts. I wish I had more time to do them now; maybe later. Or maybe it’s one of those “I’ll rest when I’m dead” items.
One thing I liked to do was make tea cozies. I started off knitting cozies with wool and then felting them. Then I thought, I could buy old sweaters, felt them, and use the felted sweaters as raw fabric. I got kinda good at them and fancied selling them on Etsy. Until I saw some of the crazy-good work by others on etsy. And anyway it was too labor intensive. I should be so diligent at writing screenplays, which sell for a lot more money than a cozy.
I do knit, and I do still enjoy making cozies to give to friends. Here are two favorites.This one was made from a boiled wool jacket I found at the Goodwill. I made it for a friend who’s a classic beauty and has lots of red in her kitchen. I used the lapel for the opening on one side.
This is a Christmas Tree Cozy. I made a couple and gave one to my sister-in-law. She’s German, a classical pianist. Just listening to her laugh with glee over receiving it was worth the time spent.
Two days ago I took Pinky, our young cat, in for her second flu shot. She’s eight months old now and nearly full grown, so I can’t really call her a kitten.
As I got up to go to the register, I heard the clerk speaking to someone about when they could “pick up the ashes.” My heart sank. When I got to the desk I saw the customer: a tall youngish man with his wife. They had a tiger-colored cat in a crate. The husband was trying to be upbeat and keep it together, for the cat’s sake and for his wife. She was pregnant and emotional. I heard the clerk say, “We can put you in a room in the back to say goodbye.” The wife stood there alone and crying while the husband dealt with the clerk. I started to cry myself, and couldn’t help but go to her and touch her lightly on the arm. ”I went through this not long ago. It’s the worst thing in the world.”
She nodded, pursed her lips in an attempt to smile through the tears, and looked away. I immediately regretted stepping in to her space. But I also I wanted to tell her to read “The Last Battle,”By C.S. Lewis. It was one of the only things that gave me any small comfort when Honey died. Not that I could have been comforted. It took months to stop crying at the drop of a hat. But if this grieving mother to be had any inkling of the afterlife, any shred of belief, she might take comfort in knowing this is not all. This is not the end. These creatures have more chance at Paradise than we do. After all, they never sinned to bring this whole thing down.
I got into my car with Pinky and wept openly. How awful death is. What a robbery. Whether it’s a pet or a friend or relative, or someone you don’t know. It’s a rip off of the highest order.
My brother in law posted this youtube video that’s been going around: A teenage kid who’s got a heart condition. The boy did one of those postcard stories, sharing how he had cheated death many times. And most recently jus a few days before he posted it. He shares what he saw. How he didn’t want to come back.
Spoiler Alert: Watch this before you read on.
If you keep up with the news, you know that this young man died this past Christmas Day, just two weeks after he made this video. He died on Christmas. When I found this out, I cried again. And though his video is inspiring and full of hope — as to what lies beyond — I couldn’t help feeling angry and hurt, that his family was ripped off. RIPPED. OFF. Why does God allow it, why do the wicked prosper, why do the godly suffer?
There is a some comfort to his family that he made this video. That they know he is very much alive, and it’s only us who are left in the valley of tears. I do believe in what’s next. You can call it Heaven or The Afterlife. I tend to side with N.T. Wright, that there’s more to Eternity than the thing we’ve come to call Heaven … people floating around singing and feeling generally awesome. I tend to think that eternity will be played out here, in a renewed world, a renewed universe. Maybe by then Jupiter will be a plane ride away, and we will be busy inhabiting all the worlds and multiverses that scientists have only just begin to imagine.
But in the meantime there are tears.
And I still cry when I think of Honey.
Pinky is very much like her. They have the same body type, the shape of their heads are similar. They both have soft fur. And they’re both very affectionate. Pinky rushes to the door when we come home. When I wake up she comes running to greet me. The kinds of things Honey did when she was young and spry. And well, there is this, too:
Which is what Honey did.
We saw “War Horse” last night. All I can say is, if you love animals you will have to bring hankies. On several occasions I had to tell myself, “It’s only a movie. It’s only a movie.” It wasn’t the impact of war on humans, but on the animals. Poor innocent animals. I’m sure it’s the season for emotions, but I can’t help thinking that if God does not have a place for all these innocents, then heaven/the afterlife will not be fair or good or full of grace. And the whole point of it, is that it will be a place where there is justice and goodness and grace. And the innocents will be there. Not just innocent animals but people of all kinds who sought to do right and honor God. And before you balk at that, remember if heaven is a place where there is no more sin or decay or corruption or pride, then you and I have NO GROUNDS to be there unless God is good, merciful, and gracious.
My cousin posted a video of her parents’ 45th wedding anniversary back in 1991. Our family is in the video: there are snippets of me with no wrinkles and bad hair. My sister is so young and of course beautiful. We are both wearing outfits with obscenely large shoulder pads. There’s one snippet of my father sitting on a couch, doing what he did so often: subjecting someone to some arcane bit of history; nodding, gesticulating with his arms as if his hand movements would make the bit of the story come alive in the listener’s mind. Classic Dad.
David Sedaris wrote a lot about his mother. She never allowed anyone to take her picture. So after she died, he and his sisters had no photo album to reminisce over. No photos, no old family movies. But at their mother’s funeral, some cousins brought them a clip from a long-forgotten vacation. They’d actually captured, on an old Super-8 camera, the image of Sedaris’ mom, walking into a bar. They transferred it to video and gave it them. The clip was probably no more than eight seconds long. David and his sisters sat in front of the TV, playing that little video clip over and over and over.
I have no doubt that my father is off somewhere, regaling someone with a story. I have often prayed to God that he introduce Dad to my mentor Roy, who died a few years ago. They both got in at the last minute. I’m sure they have a lot of stories to share. Dad loved a good joke, and Roy made a handsome living writing jokes for Johnny Carson. I’m sure they are laughing where they are.
And here, for now, there are tears.
I’ve taken an embarrassingly long time to get this up on its feet. Finally, the full-length version of my solo show, “in workshop” (aka testing it out) of ANGRY CONVERSATIONS WITH GOD, in New York in November. If your’e in the area, please come.
Runs in LA and other environs to come, based on interest.
Whales migrate south to the Sea of Cortez (Mexico) in winter, and there are whale conservancies that monitor their behavior. Some time back I heard a person on NPR talk of having real encounters with whales there: they’d come up alongside the boat and play! It made me want to go there some day.
This past Valentine’s Day a member of the ___ conservancy came upon a young whale caught in a net, and dying. They spent an hour trying to get her free. Here’s what happened.
Sorry for the Samson Silence! I had to write a syllabus for Pepperdine, and was at an amazing arts conference this past week, working on my solo show script. I finally know the ending and the order of scenes in the show. It had been hanging over my head for a year.
But I’ve been leaving you hanging on the Samson story. More on Samson is coming this week. I promise. Sorry to keep you all waiting!
I traveled to Ethiopia in May. But this story begins three years ago.
Have a seat. This will take a while.
I arrived at the Ethiopian orphanage just as a swarm of teenage boys were trying to get out, cramming into a ramshackle van heading for a funeral. One of their own had died that morning.
I panicked. Where was Samson? I’d flown half way around the world to meet him. What if was a funeral for Samson – my Samson?
I am not Mom material. I never longed to be a mother: no baby hunger, no ticking clock. Growing up I even hated babysitting, unless the kids had reached junior high. By then they would have discovered sarcasm; I could sit them front of the TV and mock The Love Boat and commercials that claimed a product could change your life.
As an adult I spent all my energy pursuing an acting career – ironically booking loads of TV shows and commercials. (Only sarcastic roles, though. I never held a product and gave the Don Draper Sincerity pitch). By the time I met my husband, I was 43 and he was 50. We were too old to have children. Well I can’t vouch for Larry’s sperm, but my eggs had expired. “But you could adopt!” friends said. Heck no, we were too exhausted to weather a teenage rebellion. So childlessness came as a relief.
I’ve started to notice things. While Larry and I live the DINK (Double-Income, No Kids) Life, my friends with children look old. Parenting has aged them. But it’s also given them a maturity and depth that our childless freedom never will. Shockingly, I’ve started to enjoy kids. (Well, the kids in my family and circle of friends, anyway. I still dream of dressing up like a Security Guard and ejecting the tantrum kids out of Target.) I’ve loved watching my nieces and nephews blossom, each with his/her unique personality. Matthew’s a scholar, Emily’s a poet, Jonathan’s an athlete, and Lizzy’s threatening to be a comedienne. They’re so much fun to be around, even before they mastered sarcasm. I’ve watched my sister and her husband shepherd, shape and love them, passing along all the terror and promise of the future. All the good, bad and ugly of it. They’ve got a family. I’ve got a bunch of YouTube clips.
Once my sister came to visit me by herself. “Great!” I thought. “Nancy and I can have some sister-sister time.” But she got homesick for her children. And you know what? I like Nancy better with her kids. She’s not less of herself; she’s more of herself. Larry and I are very close to a couple with children already out of the house. They are like soul mates to us. Last year we invited them to spend our anniversary with us. The wife invited her son and his girlfriend along to share their hotel room. “They’ll do their own thing,” she promised. But it was always a group of six. But what can you do? Their children have shaped who they are, and we love them. That’s what Family is. And we don’t have one.
In 2007 Larry and I began sharing a house with a couple that lived part-time in LA and part-time in Portland. Lori and Ted were in the process of adopting a child from Ethiopia. Adoption is an expensive and nerve-wracking process. You file reams of paperwork, get assessed, and pray you’re approved as a parent. If you are, you wait for the adoption agency to match you with a child. (They choose the child for you. You can request gender and age; but that’s more than when you ‘grow yer own.’). Then the day comes when you get the photo of the little person who will change your life forever. That is, if the foreign court agrees. So you wait for the court date. You wait for the judge to say “yes.” And then you wait to get your Embassy date scheduled, so the US can process the passport and citizenship of your child-elect. You wait for the call from the agency to come get her/him. You wait. And you wait.
Through the ulcerative process of waiting, Lori began to blog about their journey. She discovered a network of American adoptive parents online who had formed their own big family. Lori got caught up in their stories, and I got caught up in hers.
One day I came into the kitchen to find Lori crying over a blog. I had to read it. The blogger (I’ll call him “Matt”) and his wife had gone to Addis Ababa to bring home their child. It was their second Ethiopian adoption, so they knew how the week would go. You have the tearful meeting with your child, but then you’ve got to meet with caseworkers, social workers, and prep for your Embassy appointment. You get some free time to shop, sightsee and learn about your child’s culture. The agency takes you to the center where they have been caring for your child all this time. You may even meet a caregiver who gave your baby its name. You bring toys and books and candy for the children still waiting. You give away lots of hugs and kisses. An orphan can always use another kiss or a hug.
The adoption agency also takes you to government orphanages that care for the children from infants to high schoolers. Orphans remain there until they graduate, flunk out of school, or turn 20, when the government ejects them into the world. And it’s a hardscrabble third world into which they’re ejected. Not that they didn’t know that already. A third-world orphanage makes Little Orphan Annie’s digs look like Versailles. Children over six are almost never adopted; once they’re 16 the government won’t allow it. Not that the cutoff matters – most adopters want their child to be as young as possible. There’s the understandable fear that an older child will have more trauma and baggage to work through: a mother to forget, a home to lose, a culture to erase. Some experts say older children might have an easier time adjusting. But unless you’re the one who’s pinning $20,000 and a lifetime of hope on a little stranger, you can’t judge that choice.So the adoption agency takes the new parents to visit the de facto orphanages. As those children will probably never be dopted, they can really use the treats and attention and hugs.
Which is what Matt was blogging about that day. Matt and his wife spent the afternoon at Kechene, a facility for co-ed children and older girls. Older girls run the risk of falling (or being forced) into prostitution, so the government spends a few extra birr on the facility and teaching the older girls marketable skills. While there, a young boy latched onto Matt. Matt remembered the boy from the previous year, when they’d come for their first child. The boy spoke no English, but Matt spent the afternoon playing catch and going where the boy led him. The boy rarely let go of Matt’s hand. A hand to hold goes a long way for an orphan.
At the end of the day it was time to leave. The boy motioned for Matt to bend down, presumably to give him a hug.
“Choose me, ” the boy whispered.
Maybe they were only English words he knew. Maybe he’d whispered them to every American who came through. Maybe he didn’t know that the child had already been chosen. Maybe he didn’t care. He just wanted to be chosen.
Matt posted a photo of the boy and one of his sisters, in hopes someone might want to adopt them. His face was so sweet and hopeful. And his face spoke.
Choose me.
I could not forget that face. I logged onto the adoption agency’s website to find out more. Samson was about 9 and had three older siblings: 19, 15 and 11. His oldest brother was beyond adoptable age, but Samson and his sisters were eligible. The agency would not split up a family group, so Samson’s only hope was for some kind (and wealthy) family to adopt him and his sisters together.
His chances were nil.
I never wanted a child. I never wanted to adopt. But I wanted to adopt Samson. And I could not. No way could we afford the cost of adopting one child, let alone three. I prayed anyway: “God, just give me one TV series, one commercial campaign. The generic lab tech with one line a week on CSI: Milwaukee. I’ll become the spokesperson for Tampax. Is anything too hard for you?”
On March 4, 2008, Ted and Lori finally got the word. “Yes.” Abenezer was theirs. They had about a week to pack and head to Addis. They crammed suitcases and duffels with diapers, formula, toys, and gifts; items they bought, items others donated. Some for Abe, some for children waiting for a “yes,” some for the children who’d wait forever. I asked Lori if I could send something for Samson. She was happy to deliver it.
I wandered through World Market, listening to my iPod, looking for a gift. Neko Case came on, singing “Wayfaring Stranger.”
I am a poor wayfaring stranger
a travelin’ through this world below
But there’s no sickness toil or danger
In that bright land to which I go.
I’m going there to see my mother.
She said she’d meet me when I come
I’m just a-going over Jordan
I’m just a-going over home.
The song broke me open, that longing for family and home, not just in the afterlife but here and now. Is anything too hard for you?
I found a blank journal and wrote a note to Samson in it, hoping someone could translate for him. I told him that he needed to write down his prayers, and write down his story. That his life was important to God and to me. And when he became a man he could read back over that story and see how God was faithful. I prayed those words would not turn out a lie.
Lori visited Kechene and met Samson. She gave him the journal and a worker translated my note for him.
As they drove away, Lori saw Samson kiss the book.
Ted and Lori brought Abe home. When they were in Los Angeles I got to see Abe every day. I guess every child is extraordinary to his parents, but Abe extraordinary to me. He was buoyant and happy and curious. The very first word he learned was “kiy,” for my cat. I adored Abe. I thought of Samson.
In 2009 Ted and Lori moved to Portland full-time. Larry and I moved to Pasadena. It was good to have a house to ourselves. It was hard knowing I wouldn’t see Abe regularly. Or be prompted to think of Samson regularly.
My book released in the spring. That fall I went on a book tour, and Larry came along. One night we stayed with friends of my manager’s. The older couple had met a Sudanese refugee living in Phoenix. They recounted the story of the woman’s escape from Sudan, lost a child along the way, found him alive through a fluke, and was now working to bring them all to America. The couple was helping her do it.
I raced up to our room. Larry followed. “I can’t do this!” I cried. “We have to help Samson and his family. If this book sells a Blue Like Jazz buttload, we are going to Africa to get them!”
Larry gulped. “Okay.”
The buttload of sales never came. The next summer I shot a movie I hoped might open a career door. It did not. I’ve been on the brink of success my entire adult life, but it’s never gone over the edge. This time I needed that success for a reason. “COME ON, GOD! Don’t cut off Samson’s nose to spite my face!”
Lori regularly posted Abe’s pictures on facebook. She kept me current on the Ethiopian adoptive community, and I became friends with some of them. Lori knew my obsession with Samson, so her friends found, too. One couple actually moved to Ethiopia to work with the adoption agency. Whenever someone went to Addis to collect their child, I skulked through their facebook photos, looking for Samson. Where was he now, how old was he? How was he doing? Was he writing in his journal? Did he remember me? Did God remember him?
Lori emailed to tell me a woman had gone to get her child, and Samson appeared in one of her photos. I took a screen shot and searched his face. His smile seemed a bit tentative. Had he lost hope? Had stopped whispering those two words?
Last spring Lori called with some good news and some bad news. Good news: a family who’d adopted from Ethiopia was starting a sponsorship program similar to Compassion International, exclusively for orphans. Children’s Hope Chest was setting up shop at Samson’s orphanage, and his profile came up as available. I could become Samson’s sponsor!
“Don’t let anyone else sponsor him!” I screamed. “I’ll call them right now!”
Then I remembered: “What was the bad news?”
“Samson got moved to the older-boy orphanage.” She hesitated. H
“What?!”
“Oh, Susan,” she sighed. “He’s at Kolfe. It’s a heartbreaking place.”
Ethiopia is economically depressed. Any orphanage funds get focused on older girls. Imagine what little is left for the older boys. Imagine how easily a boy can lose hope. Imagine how my words in his journal began to ring false.
“But this new sponsorship program. That will help things?”
“That’s the hope,” Lori replied.
I got on the phone, called Hope Chest, and set myself up as Samson’s sponsor.
And I began to write him.
