I love the story of how Alec got his name. His full name is Alec David Levi Brayko. This sounds like a name of distinction. It's the name of someone who had great expectations upon his shoulders. That really wasn't the intent at all.
Alec's first name was written in stone long long before when I was about nine years old. It was at that time I read The Black Stallion. In it, the very likable young boy who tames a wild horse and wins repeatedly on the racecourse is named Alec. I'd never heard the name before and loved the sound and look of it. It was so exotic. Not quite Alex. Better because it was unique. And I loved that boy in the story. I decided then that if I ever had a boy I would name him Alec.
Fast forward to marriage and adoption of a baby boy and the birthmom's offer to name her son whatever we chose. I didn't even open a baby book. I just said to Brent, "I've always loved the name Alec." He said," Me too!" And that was that.
As that was so easy, we began musing about middle names. That, too, was almost laughably easy. Brent's deceased father's name was David. My father had always gone by David or Dave. Alec David seemed to roll off the tongue!
Soon after I received an email from Cindy. "Have you decided on a middle name yet?" "Actually, yes." I replied, wincing that there could be a problem ahead. "Oh. I was hoping we could collaborate on the middle name. I have some ideas." I thought quickly. How do we solve this so everyone is happy? "Well," I replied. "Why don't we give him two middle names?"
Cindy liked that and in short order sent a small list with names and meanings. Among them was "Levi: joined in Harmony." We loved it immediately! It was a name of Christian origin and the meaning fit our situation completely.
Alec David Levi. It has a lovely ring to it, don't you think?
Monday, May 9, 2016
Miracle #1
"December."
This was the word I had heard several Decembers before while driving in my Corolla in Green Bay, WI, praying. The voice of God. He had responded to my urgent plea to start a family with two messages. "Everything will be okay" and "December". I held hope in my heart year after year. What did it mean? We would conceive in December? Bear a child in December? Finally and IUI would work in December? We would get word on an adoption in December? Complete an adoption in December? Several years had passed already and none of those had come to pass. Each year as December neared my heart beat a little faster, anticipating how God's word would manifest itself to be true.
Now it was January again. Another year until the next December and still no child. Another 12 months to wait. I envied Mother Mary.
It was the first week in January 2004 when I got a call from a birthmom. It wasn't the first call I'd received during our domestic search, but it was our last. And this one was duly unexpected for we had removed our profile from both our agency and Adoption.com in the previous months in pursuit of a new direction - international adoption. "Is this Brenda?" "Yes." "My name is Cindy. I'm 8 months pregnant and looking for a family for my baby. Can we talk?"
Cindy and I talked and talked and connected quite well. Pretty soon we were making plans to meet half-way between her community and ours. I was elated and reserved. Then I remembered the promise. "Where did you find us?" "On Adoption.com." "Really? When was that?" "Oh, last month. I set your information aside until now." "You mean you found us in December?" "Yes, I guess so."
This was our miracle! Not only had Cindy found us in December, she had found us AFTER we had pulled our profile from adoption.com in November.
Perhaps it sounds silly, but I put a lot of faith in that message from God. And His Word sustained us through the exciting and potentially unsettling weeks and months ahead.
The first miracle was Alec. No, I know, everyone says that about their first born child. But in the case of Alec, he really was a miracle.
This was the word I had heard several Decembers before while driving in my Corolla in Green Bay, WI, praying. The voice of God. He had responded to my urgent plea to start a family with two messages. "Everything will be okay" and "December". I held hope in my heart year after year. What did it mean? We would conceive in December? Bear a child in December? Finally and IUI would work in December? We would get word on an adoption in December? Complete an adoption in December? Several years had passed already and none of those had come to pass. Each year as December neared my heart beat a little faster, anticipating how God's word would manifest itself to be true.
Now it was January again. Another year until the next December and still no child. Another 12 months to wait. I envied Mother Mary.
It was the first week in January 2004 when I got a call from a birthmom. It wasn't the first call I'd received during our domestic search, but it was our last. And this one was duly unexpected for we had removed our profile from both our agency and Adoption.com in the previous months in pursuit of a new direction - international adoption. "Is this Brenda?" "Yes." "My name is Cindy. I'm 8 months pregnant and looking for a family for my baby. Can we talk?"
Cindy and I talked and talked and connected quite well. Pretty soon we were making plans to meet half-way between her community and ours. I was elated and reserved. Then I remembered the promise. "Where did you find us?" "On Adoption.com." "Really? When was that?" "Oh, last month. I set your information aside until now." "You mean you found us in December?" "Yes, I guess so."
This was our miracle! Not only had Cindy found us in December, she had found us AFTER we had pulled our profile from adoption.com in November.
Perhaps it sounds silly, but I put a lot of faith in that message from God. And His Word sustained us through the exciting and potentially unsettling weeks and months ahead.
The first miracle was Alec. No, I know, everyone says that about their first born child. But in the case of Alec, he really was a miracle.
Friday, May 6, 2016
Mud Bath: An Anna Tale
Anna decided that her passion project for school would be to create an auquaponics system similar to one her science class had made the previous year, when she was in sixth grade at a different school. Over the course of several weeks we collected all the needed components like a plastic bin, gold fish, clay beads, net pots, styrofoam slab and plants. The day came for her assemble it all. I happened to step out when she decided to move forward with the potting the plants phase. This happened to involve removing the plants from soil pots to replant them in the clay beads. Sounds easy enough and logical enough, but to a thirteen year old brain. . . Not so much. Her logic told her to loosen the roots from the soil by soaking them in water. . . In the bathtub!
I arrived home to a tornadic disaster in her bathroom which involved a gazillion little styrofoam beads and potting soil over everything. But the best moment was when I pulled back the shower curtain ("Mom, we have a little problem.") The bathtub was full of black water deep enough for a luxurious mud bath. That was the point where she handed me the drain stopper with, "For some reason it's not draining."
(Deep breath. Count to ten.)
"What are you thinking, Mom? Say something."
"These are going to be the most expensive green peppers I have ever eaten. Okay, let's get a pail and you can start bailing over the balcony."
And that's what she did.
Two hours, sixty trips to the balcony,and a gallon of liquid plumber later the bathroom was good as new.
Repotting 101: don't soak roots in the bathtub to remove soil.
Sugar Cookies: An Alec Tale
When Alec was in fifth grade, he and I made sugar cookies. He enjoys baking sometimes and was thrilled when there were enough cookies to share with his classmates. "Mom, can I take cookies to school for my classmates?"
Me: Sure. Just check with your teacher.
Him: I know! I could pack little cookie snacks for our class walk-about in two days.
Me: Perfect!
My son proceeded to package ziplock bags of three cookies each and each labeled with the student group names for the walk-about. He did this all on his own without any help from me. He put all the bags into his backpack for the next day. I was so proud of him.
Upon returning from school the next day I inquired about how his classmates enjoyed the cookies. With just a hint of a downcast face he said, "I never gave them to them." "Why?" "Because they all got crushed in my backpack." And with that, he took out the Ziplocks. Oh! Such a sad, sad sight, all those crumbs. But he didn't seem too phased, he shrugged, sat down on the couch and logged onto his computer to play a game.
Me: Sure. Just check with your teacher.
Him: I know! I could pack little cookie snacks for our class walk-about in two days.
Me: Perfect!
My son proceeded to package ziplock bags of three cookies each and each labeled with the student group names for the walk-about. He did this all on his own without any help from me. He put all the bags into his backpack for the next day. I was so proud of him.
Upon returning from school the next day I inquired about how his classmates enjoyed the cookies. With just a hint of a downcast face he said, "I never gave them to them." "Why?" "Because they all got crushed in my backpack." And with that, he took out the Ziplocks. Oh! Such a sad, sad sight, all those crumbs. But he didn't seem too phased, he shrugged, sat down on the couch and logged onto his computer to play a game.
The time he sang with the band: An Alec Tale
At two, Alec was talking. At three he knew his alphabet and how to spell his name. At four he knew how to read.
The time he sang with the band he was three and had just learned how to sing his ABC's. Brent and I frequently sang with our church spirit band. On this particular Sunday, the kids were hanging out while we practiced before church.
Before we knew it, Alec had a live microphone in his hands and started singing - in pitch mind you - the ABC's. The next I know our accompanist Kent picked up the note and tempo and started accompanying Alec. Then Dave our drummer joined in. Man, did Alec beam from ear to ear! He was singing with his own band!
Well, that ruined him for weeks. How does a three-year-old become a diva? He refused to sing anything in the mic again unless the mic were live and the band played along.
The time he sang with the band he was three and had just learned how to sing his ABC's. Brent and I frequently sang with our church spirit band. On this particular Sunday, the kids were hanging out while we practiced before church.
Before we knew it, Alec had a live microphone in his hands and started singing - in pitch mind you - the ABC's. The next I know our accompanist Kent picked up the note and tempo and started accompanying Alec. Then Dave our drummer joined in. Man, did Alec beam from ear to ear! He was singing with his own band!
Well, that ruined him for weeks. How does a three-year-old become a diva? He refused to sing anything in the mic again unless the mic were live and the band played along.
The time she peed on the floor: An Anna Tale
She's always been a stubborn cuss. At almost four years old, she also did not like the change of seasonal clothing. These two factors led to the infamous "peeing on the floor" incident.
Anna did not want to get dressed. A new season had begun and she didn't like the feel of different clothes. So, she refused to get dressed. She also refused to let me dress her. This meant that I had a whining, angry, four-year old on my hands who would not budge. Neither would I budge. We had to get going and didn't have time for this nonsense.
That's when it happened. Right there in the middle of her ultra-pink-everything room, buck naked, she peed on her carpeted floor. This was no accident. No siree. This was quite intentional - her silent protest against clothes and mom-power. This was her rage-against-the-machine.
Anna one. Mom zero.
Anna did not want to get dressed. A new season had begun and she didn't like the feel of different clothes. So, she refused to get dressed. She also refused to let me dress her. This meant that I had a whining, angry, four-year old on my hands who would not budge. Neither would I budge. We had to get going and didn't have time for this nonsense.
That's when it happened. Right there in the middle of her ultra-pink-everything room, buck naked, she peed on her carpeted floor. This was no accident. No siree. This was quite intentional - her silent protest against clothes and mom-power. This was her rage-against-the-machine.
Anna one. Mom zero.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
The Time I was a PK.
PK's know other PK's. We are a select subset of the population. We are preacher's kids.
For much of one's life it doesn't matter, but it sure does matter when you are ages 12 - 18. These are prime formative years. These are the years identity expectations are placed upon your shoulders. These are the years being a PK can really suck.
So you move to a new town of 1600 people in Podunk, Iowa and you're a PK. What does this mean? It means that the expectations of this Christian community are placed on your (and your sister's) shoulders. You've not made friends yet. Who will become your friends? Why, the church youth group kids, of course! What will you do with your time? Why attend youth group events, of course? What will you do on Sundays? Why attend church, of course, and pray that you aren't the last one out of the church door - AGAIN. Who will teach your confirmation class about sex? Why, your father, of course. What will the students at school assume about you? That you are perfectly behaved. And how WILL you behave? Perfectly. Of course.
This is not always the case for PKs. Everyone has heard of the tales of the "bad seeds" who are preachers kids, something straight out of Footloose. But for me, being bad was not in my nature; being good was. I WANTED to do well in school. I WANTED to participate in youth group and even lead it. I WANTED to make moral choices for myself.
Even so, such desires and expectations are tall orders in these growing up years. In some ways they steer your identity in a way that might not have developed without them.
Do I have regrets? Not too many. I regret being the only one NOT invited to the high school senior drinking party. I regret not taking more risks typical of that age. I regret stifling my voice at times for the sake of my father's reputation or because of expectations I believed he had of me. But I don't regret the life I lead now, which essentially grew from that identity and those very same expectations.
Where I attended college, being a PK was actually cool. Practically 50% of my classmates were PK's, or as we called ourselves then - T.O.'s (Theological Offspring). Two of my college boyfriends were T.O.'s. Two of my three freshmen roommates were T.O.'s. In a way, this new environment was freeing for all of us; we understood one another. We came to understand that we were, in fact, normal. We were freed to become who we really were and wanted to be.
Nowadays no one asks or cares if I am a PK, but if we somehow discover another PK during some winding, philosophical chat, a spark of true recognition results. We suddenly KNOW each other on a new and deeper level, one that can be simply summed up with a nod and a "Yup."
For much of one's life it doesn't matter, but it sure does matter when you are ages 12 - 18. These are prime formative years. These are the years identity expectations are placed upon your shoulders. These are the years being a PK can really suck.
So you move to a new town of 1600 people in Podunk, Iowa and you're a PK. What does this mean? It means that the expectations of this Christian community are placed on your (and your sister's) shoulders. You've not made friends yet. Who will become your friends? Why, the church youth group kids, of course! What will you do with your time? Why attend youth group events, of course? What will you do on Sundays? Why attend church, of course, and pray that you aren't the last one out of the church door - AGAIN. Who will teach your confirmation class about sex? Why, your father, of course. What will the students at school assume about you? That you are perfectly behaved. And how WILL you behave? Perfectly. Of course.
This is not always the case for PKs. Everyone has heard of the tales of the "bad seeds" who are preachers kids, something straight out of Footloose. But for me, being bad was not in my nature; being good was. I WANTED to do well in school. I WANTED to participate in youth group and even lead it. I WANTED to make moral choices for myself.
Even so, such desires and expectations are tall orders in these growing up years. In some ways they steer your identity in a way that might not have developed without them.
Do I have regrets? Not too many. I regret being the only one NOT invited to the high school senior drinking party. I regret not taking more risks typical of that age. I regret stifling my voice at times for the sake of my father's reputation or because of expectations I believed he had of me. But I don't regret the life I lead now, which essentially grew from that identity and those very same expectations.
Where I attended college, being a PK was actually cool. Practically 50% of my classmates were PK's, or as we called ourselves then - T.O.'s (Theological Offspring). Two of my college boyfriends were T.O.'s. Two of my three freshmen roommates were T.O.'s. In a way, this new environment was freeing for all of us; we understood one another. We came to understand that we were, in fact, normal. We were freed to become who we really were and wanted to be.
Nowadays no one asks or cares if I am a PK, but if we somehow discover another PK during some winding, philosophical chat, a spark of true recognition results. We suddenly KNOW each other on a new and deeper level, one that can be simply summed up with a nod and a "Yup."
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