My 12 step program (Warning: It’s a Long, Personal One)

You know, after I wrote the title, I don’t know what all 12 steps are.  But I know the first one, and that’s all that matters really.

I need help.  I need prayers, the best kind of spiritual help. 

Before I begin explaining why, I’m going to forewarn you that I’m going to lay it out plainly. And my sarcastic nature is not saying that things will be said lightly—it’s just my way of writing.  (Pre-publishing edit:  actually, it turns out the sarcasm was at a minimum, but I did write metaphorically for what may be the first time ever). It’s not going to be easy to write all this, but sometimes knowing specifics on what to pray helps the pray-ers.

I’ve had acquaintances and friends comment and praise me on what I’m doing:  “leaving it all behind” to come to India and give my year (or more?) and love to orphans with disabilities.  I’ve had people compare me to Katie Davis from Kisses from Katie, and while I’m honored that you even say my name in the same sentence as her, I internally laugh and roll my eyes.  You see, I am not anywhere near her caliber in faith.  

You see, coming wasn’t a challenge.  Yeah, maybe making a salary back home would be nice, but India is the place I feel most at home.  I love my new country, my new culture, my new people. Yes, coming meant leaving things and people in America, but when you feel led to go and be somewhere, you just do it. My “gut” (i.e. Holy Spirit) made it pretty clear this was what I was to do.

 And, as for Katie Davis, my faith is weak and nowhere in comparison to hers.  I’m not idolizing her and saying she’s perfect, but I’m saying my relationship with God is severely lacking, and has been off and on for way too long. 

Which is where you—my people back home, my friends in Korea and other countries, my friends here in India—come in.  

“My name is Marla Rose, I am spiritually weak, I have been for awhile, and I need help.”

I need prayers, and I need it to be known where I’ve been, so that I am accountable, but also so that you can see how God has worked to bring me to this point.  So, here’s my story:

I was in an on-again/off-again, unofficial-but-emotionally-official relationship for over two years.  And yes, I’m aware that most of you did not know that.  Which was on purpose.  Because 1) the guy was Indian, and fairly traditionally Indian at that. Traditionally, Indians don’t really date (publicly), so it had to be “on the DL” primarily for his family’s sake.  And 2) Because he is Hindu, and, well, let’s just say I knew better; I knew my friends mostly didn’t approve, I knew my family didn’t approve, I knew God (rightfully) wanted more of me for Him, etc. But I loved this man and desperately wanted to spend the rest of our lives together—all-inclusive of culturally confused trilingual children, so pursued the relationship anyways.  

He will read this post, and it hurts me in that I know it will not be a “happy walk down memory lane” for him.  But he knows that my faith and belief in God’s will is why we are not together.  It’s not a new conversation topic between us, which is why I have decided to write about it here.

You know that Jonah feeling, where your gut tells you one thing, but you—for whatever reason—decide to sail the other direction? Bingo. That was me for two years.  God would keep sending waves in the forms of conversations with friends, loving words of wisdom, irate discussions with my family, and scriptural convictions that would toss me overboard, giving me opportunities to swim back towards Him.  Sometimes, I’d immediately turn a cold shoulder and climb up the ladder back into the boat to continue my planned journey.  Other times, I’d repent and swim back towards the shore.  I’d hang out on that shore sometimes only for a day, sometimes for weeks, sometimes for months.  My time with the Lord in these times would be wonderful, and peace-invoking, tear-filled, and good.  But then I’d listen to my heart, which loved one more than the One, and I’d return to the sea and my little sailboat, which I believed (or moreso, hoped and wanted to believe) could withstand anything.

When you’re on that sailboat, it’s pretty hard to keep your relationship with God strong.  If you stay on that sailboat long enough, you learn which waves are most likely to rock your boat, and you learn how to navigate through them. . . . unfortunately. You learn how to brace yourself so that the waves which once made you turn green and require a set of floaties no longer affect your balance at all.

God finally got tired of sending those waves that I’d ignore, and so He sent me a doozy of a wave, and a whale:  He sent me to India.  If you are reading this and you don’t believe in Christ, you probably won’t understand this as you are thinking:   Marla has always had a heart for orphans, and she’s been in love with India. So why wouldn’t she have come right now?  Well, I can list a hundred reasons why “now” is completely impractical. Consequently, I really believe that I would not be here, at this particular time, had that relationship not needed to be cut out of my life.  My ladka and I mutually and tearfully and sorrowfully made the decision to truly end things this spring once I decided I was come to India NOW, and God blessed us with a 12.5 hour time difference to make that a tad bit easier.

The first month I was gone, I read Kisses from Katie, and it was quite good. But guess what part really hit me? Not the discussion of deaths of loved ones or the poverty she encountered.  Not the description of Mommyhood to a thousand kids at age 19.  No, but I do admit to bawling through 90% of the chapter where she discusses ending her relationship to be overseas with her children, to follow God’s will. Different circumstances, different ways on how it came about, but still—it struck close to home.

So in short, I am 4 months beyond that ugly month of crying myself to sleep, and I feel as though my 

heart has healed—so much.  And more quickly than I’d ever had expected.  Praise God for that.  And he is doing well, too, which I am even more grateful for.  I am grateful for those of you who were aware of our story, who did pray all along (even if it was praying that the waves would capsize our boat), and who continue to pray and love us both unconditionally. 

But I'm asking for some additional prayers right now.  I am not the type to express such personal needs to more than a close few, much less on a blog for any and all to see, but I know I am in need right now, so here I am:   It’s now been over five months of being off that sailboat, but I still haven’t quite made it to shore.  I want to make it to shore.  I want the desire for daily communication and closeness to my Lord, but I just don’t have it right now. Some days I am almost near enough that my feet graze the sandy ocean bottoms, but then something within me decides to tread water instead of take the steps toward land. I know what to do, but allow myself to get stuck there.  I want to want it. I want to need it. 

I know my blog has been filled with requests lately: requests for a toy drive, request for wheelchair funds, etc.  But today, tomorrow, this week, will you please pray that I will be filled with a desire like no other to spend time with my Lord? That I will abide in Him and His beauty and His glory and His grace?  That I will get to know Him personally, more and more with each day? That I will turn my focus from serving his little ones to serving and glorifying and worshiping Him?

Thanks.

 

Big News!

I have a big announcement: 

I'm getting married!  Haha, no.  But everyone else on my facebook wall is. I digress:

I’m pregnant!  Haha, no.  NO. NO.  Nononononono!  (And hopefully never, but that’s another post.)  Lol, but I AM going to be a mom!!!

A whole bunch of circumstances have come recently about, and I am going to move from my penthouse to Grace Home with my 8 girls to officially be a foster mama!  I am so excited about it, and it’s been really cool to see and learn how God has obviously orchestrated the whole thing. As He tends to do. :)

For those of you who are slightly concerned about introverted me who needs some of her personal space, I will still have my own room two floors above them, but I’m mainly going to use that as my closet/stuff space and a “Momma-needs-a-break-or-somebody’s-gonna-get-hurt-reeeal-baad” room.  (I hope you read that in Russell Peters’ Indian accent.) 

But I want to spend as much “living” time with my kiddos as possible—I want to be there nightly for bedtime cuddles, and to help direct the craziness when they get home from school.  I want to be the consistent person that they’ve never had—consistency to help them continue to come out of their shells, help them grow spiritually and progress academically. Consistency to build a lasting trust, to let them know they are loved unconditionally.  And yes, consistency to tackle those challenging things like potty-training that don’t get much follow up from busy ayahs. 

And, since they all go to school, I can do my motherly duties in the evenings and hold dance parties each night while still being an OT during the day.  Cool stuff :)

THANKFULLY, you have all already made this job much easier on me!  Mom has sent me pictures of the items you all have donated for my kids’ Christmas, I’ve received some CRAZY Paypal donations, and Mom is depositing the checks for me. I get a ridiculous smile each time I get an update about any of it.  AND not only is Paula’s wheelchair paid for (Woohoo!!!!) but those 8 kids are going to have an ABUNDANCE of toys!  We are going to have puzzles and games to play, art projects to complete, books to read, and much, much more!  My girls are really good at entertaining themselves with nothing, but now they’re going to be able to grow and learn SO MUCH by having toys and educational items to interact with. 

What’s more:  you have helped bless many more of the kids who don’t have foster moms. Some of us volunteers are going to go on a shopping spree at the local toy store next week, and we are EXCITED!  While my girls don’t have so many toys right now, their apartment seems fuller and busier as they have their school uniforms, bags, books, etc. to take up some space.  But other kids don’t go to school, and their apartments are quite bare.  (As in, completely bare.)  Well, NO MORE!

So, would you please continue to help us make these other apartments a bit less bare?  I think the suitcases that will be heading this way are filling up quickly, so financial donations may be a little more….erm, manageable…at this point, in order to be here for Christmas.  But if some toys don’t make it for Christmas but come a couple months later, the kids won’t care at all—so do what you are able and feel led to do!

**Oh, and my goal was to get 3 wheelchairs paid for.  We've got one down, so let's tackle Jessie's chair next!  Jessie (pictured above) came to SCH only a month or so ago, is absolutely beautiful, and LOVES hugs.  Her chair will cost $1337, and we have a little less than half of that so far.  Thanks!!! :) 

The Real Me.

Today’s post will depict me in the most beautiful of ways.  It will describe exactly why Indian men stare at me and why my future husband (if he exists) will fall in love with me.  Furthermore, I should warn you: the things I am going to write may compel you to also have a romanticized view of me.  Okay, there!  I have warned you that your view of me may be changed in the most wonderful of ways.

Not.

No, actually this is a realistic post that I’m sure will make you chuckle, as well as cringe; may make you nod in understanding/agreement if you’ve ever been overseas non-resort-style; and will definitely make my mother say her famous line that she used when we were little, “Aunt Judy would never say that!”  (Aunt Judy, whether she knows it or not, is my mom’s definition of someone with ladylike, well-mannered, and gracious behaviors.)

So, should I post this? Maybe not.  But it is honesty in its purest form, and I want to be truthful with whoever reads this blog.  Here goes: 

I am disgusting.

I have fully accepted life in rural-ish India, and therefore, India has made me disgusting.  And, now, purely for your enjoyment  (and also so you know what life is really like for this Missouri girl working at an orphanage in rural-ish south India) my list of disgusting-ness:

1.)  Lice.  Not only do I have lice, but I’m at the point (as are most volunteers here) where I don’t even care.  I lice comb maybe once a week, and just don’t worry about the things that are [probably] crawling around in my hair, likely laying little white eggs.  Oh the joys.  See, I told you, you now have a romanticized version of my brownish curly locks.  Hah.  But don’t worry—if you live/visit India and I come to see you, I will ensure they are gone so that I don’t pass along my nastiness to you.

2.)  I’ve gone Indian.  What? You ask. I’ve gone Indian.  In the most “personal” way, shall we say? That’s right, folks: no TP.  Actually, I am a cheapo (which also meets a different definition of the term “gone Indian”), so I brought the two rolls I had in my apartment in Springfield, simply because I had already paid for them, so why not bring them?  It’s not that I can’t purchase it here in Ongole, it’s just that if 1.2 billion people and counting can use water in a bucket, so can I. 

3.)  Laundry.  So, I’m not exactly sure how clean my handwashed clothes are.  Somehow, when my energy is high when I first start my “load” (o.k. pile might be a more accurate word, as I can only fill my 2 gallon bucket with a few shirts at a time), those clothes get scrubbed a LOT more than those that get halfheartedly dipped in at the very end.  Then, thanks to the wind, at least a few items fall on the dusty rooftop when they’re out on the line to dry.  But that dust mostly wipes off, so it still counts as clean, right? 

4.)  I am “in touch” with my inner self.  So, when in Rome, one eats pasta and pizza and takes selfies at the Colosseum.  When in India, one suddenly gains a new perception and lightning-fast recognition of bodily functions.  At the first sign of whatever sensation, your instincts will tell you exactly what is going to happen:  is this spider bite really going to be bad, or is it just another spider bite?  Will you need to be near a restroom for the next few hours, or can you risk taking a bumpy auto ride to the office? Does this skin thing/abscess/whatever need a second opinion, or do you trust your gut and the search results on WebMD?

5.)  Other forms of hygiene.  Right now, I’m not really being an OT—I’m more of a “whatever-is-needed-because-we-are-super-short-staffed.”  So, I’m a nurse, a secretary, and an (sort of) ayah.  I wake up in the morning, brush my teeth with the Indian non-purified water, and go straight downstairs to do some G-tube feedings, of which some form of pureed vegetables/rice usually gets on my clothes. I then administer medications for kids in three apartments.  Some kiddos particularly adore watching me use my fingers, palm, wrist, and occasionally elbow to wipe up the 10 milliliters of pink seizure-preventing syrups and saliva that run out of both sides of their mouths while I try to catch it with the medicine cup.  And when I say they adore it, I mean it.  They giggle, and sometimes laugh hysterically, as though it’s a great joke.  I usually end up finding on my forearm some dried remnants that somehow didn’t get washed off a couple hours later.  Then, I walk through the dusty roads in my flip flops, probably stepping on 3 or 5 dirt-and-grass-covered water buffalo patties. . . .  which is better than when I walk home in those same flip flops at night—in pitch black darkness—when I step on 3 or 5 freshly wet water buffalo patties. 

6.)  To top it all off, yesterday I hit a new high of disgustingness hygiene-wise: as I was helping be an ayah, one of our new kiddos, Caroline, had an upset stomach.  She came from the government orphanage to SCH only two weeks ago, and is still the how-fast-can-I-shovel-this-food-in-my-mouth stage. Hence, the belly ache.  She had a wee bit of vomiting, which managed to land on me all three times.  Rather than doing the normal thing and changing clothes, I wiped/washed as much of it off my shirt as I could, and proceeded to hold her all night long, comforting her every 15 minutes or so when she’d wake up and cry again.  Judge me all you want, but it was that or possibly having to add an extra shirt or five to my handwashing laundry pile!

7.)  Nutrition—or lack of.  So, I’ve always been a breakfast eater. And I love North Indian breakfast.  Mmmm, aloo or spinach parathas with raita!  And I love some south Indian breakfasts—dosa, bonda, occasionally idli, etc.  But ootma covered in sugar and other such breakfasts make me want to gag, even when I’m “starving” after doing all the meds and such.  So, I often skip breakfast.  Or, I go to the closest neighborhood shop and buy some biscuits.  You are most likely asking, “Biscuits for breakfast? How is that bad?”  Well, friends, in British English-speaking India, biscuits=cookies, not Grand’s fluffy buttermilk biscuits.  So, yes, I had Oreos for breakfast the other day.  I mean, it’s not my fault I live on the edge of town away from the fruit stands and that the bakeries don’t open til 10! (Okay, it is my fault for never thinking of going to the fruit stands the day before and for not wanting to get dressed in non-medicine-covered, but knee-covering clothing to go to the fruit stands, when I could instead do some computer work on my cot in my T-shirt and shorts.  Try not to judge me, lol.) Also, working 12 hour days usually requires some form of caffeine or naps.  Most of the time, caffeine/sugar rules, and so a Coke or Maaza is added to my oh-so-nutritional diet. Needless to say, I should probably get out my running shoes and start using them again. 

8.)  My new perspective on ants.  Ants aren’t really that bad.  As long as they’re not in your sealed plastic bags of food, and as long as they are not the angry little biting ants that feel like fire, so what if they cohabitate with you? Yeah, they may occasionally eat through some of your clothing—but not if you provide an alternative food source (i.e. trash bag with crumbs inside).  Plus, they will carry away every single spider or enormous grasshopper you kill.  It’s like a personal cleaning service. (Side note, I am not the only volunteer here who uses said cleaning service).

Haha, so, that’s a quick summary of everything my mother would probably rather me not post.  I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you can continue to view me in a semi-normal light. Or don’t—whatever. 

Next time, I promise I’ll do my best to write something that is actually meaningful; but tonight, I’m running on about two hours sleep from last night with Caroline, and so have left you with this little highly spiritual post. Good night from India, folks!

Abandonment & Mommies

Last Christmas, I started a tradition--one I'll keep up with until it gets old or my ideas are worse than old bologna.  I was poor, and needed to make a present for my nephews and niece.  So I wrote and illustrated a book about the (future) time they came to visit Aunt Marla in India.  I've already written their Christmas books for this year, which they'll receive via YouTube, as I realized I do not like illustrating.  And then, tonight, I started to write a story for my girls--a story of how their Father has been and will be with them, from the moment they were born, through all their growing up.

I kept getting distracted though, as my friend gave me the pictures she took of us.  I don't know what it was, but something about looking repeatedly at those beautiful girls of mine, in their beautiful dresses, all dolled up, smiling beautifully in gorgeous pictures--something in them--and in their story--hit me.

Without exaggerating, I can say I looked at the album at least fifteen times, smiling every single time.  I mean, can you look at Jackie here, and not smile?

But in the midst of the smiling, reality hit.  And tears came.  Tears came because in order for these beautiful girls to be here, in my life, in these beautiful photos, someone abandoned them.  Tears came because in a biographical storybook, that chapter just can't be left out.  It's a part of them and their history.

I have read a lot of books on adoption--specifically, I am probably one of the most well-prepared 22-year olds in regards to intercultural/racial adoption issues in America. Yet I still didn't expect this to hurt so badly.  It pains because someone--for whatever reason--abandoned this beautiful, almost-five year old Jackie when she was a tiny infant. It hurts knowing that Naomi lost her family at age six, and that she likely has beautiful, vivid memories of what once was but is no more.  I understand sometimes the mothers/parents must feel as if they have no choice, and I understand that I don't understand a lot of the circumstances my girls' biological mothers have gone through, but it still hurts.  It hurts me because I know it has caused pain for my girls--whether it is pain they have already experienced, or pain that is coming another day.

Maybe part of why it hurts is because I am here for awhile, but I can't be a "forever Mummy," not to all eight anyways. 

This next part may be a bit stupid.  I normally don't get into the philosophical, "let's ask a question that has no answer in this lifetime" type of thing, much less on a blog where people can give their own input if they choose.  And I am in no way/shape/form saying that what is discussed below is either true or biblical, but here I go:

If you've ever read the book about the boy who went to heaven when he was on the operation table at age 6, his story goes that he knew it was heaven because he saw Jesus, his grandfather, and his sister.  When he told his parents about his sister, they asked why his living sister was there, and he said "no, my other sister." Apparently, they'd never told him, but his mom had had a miscarriage once upon a time.  (This is the sweetened, condensed version.)

Do you think orphans who have passed away before meeting their earthly Forever families meet them in heaven? I'd like to think so.  I'd like to think that the kids who "age out" of adoption meet their forever families in heaven--meet who they were supposed to be paired with, or even someone who had never touched adoption paperwork.  I'd like to think that all the childless, but child-desiring couples around world get to rejoice in the next lifetime when they find the fifteen children deemed to be theirs.

I know it doesn't matter, and I know my children have a Father regardless. He is enough of a Forever Family.  But still, just a thought. 

Back to reality: thank you for giving so much already to my girls' Christmas.  So many Christmas gifts have come in, and I'm excited! I've updated and added to the Walmart Registry (Marla Davison, December 25) based off what has come so far.  Unashamedly, I'll openly say I get giggly and might even have squealed once when I look at the pictures of what people have given, and get messages from people about what they can do.  So thank you!  And please, continue to spread the word, if you will.