Down Syndrome: Nothing Down About It!

For me this child is a grace; she is my joy. She helps me to look beyond all the failures and honors, and always to look higher. God has given her to us and we must take responsibility for her, wherever she is and whatever she will become. Without Anne, I could have never perhaps done what I did. She gave me the heart and the inspiration. --Charles De Gaulle, the WW2 French general and president whose youngest child had Down syndrome)

Sara teaching me how to braid a napkin first before I could braid the bread. She has her own bread business--the best bread you could ever imagine.

 As a child, I lived across the street from Joey, a young man with Down syndrome. Since I was quite young, I noticed he went on a different school bus than I did, but he was thoughtful and laughed a lot. He always tried to help everyone in the neighborhood, like bringing in groceries or moving furniture. Often, he would seem to appear when we needed help in the yard or someone just needed a smile. I could not always understand his words, but I remember I wanted to. My child brain was saying, "Who is this person who is so kind and free of the concerns of everyone else around him?" More than anything, he was happy and constantly smiling.  He was everyone's friend. We all loved Joey.

Later, when I was in high school, I volunteered at a school for children with special needs because I wanted to know others like Joey. The headteacher told me I was too lenient and not rigid enough with the students--that I let them get away with too much. She said, "They have you wrapped around their finger." But I did not give up on my childhood intrigue with people with Down syndrome. They have magically kept appearing in my life. Perhaps, it is because I was the one who needed to learn about what love means, as Charles De Gaulle did. I know having a child with autism has made my family's life better. We always say, "There is a special window for us that we can see through when we meet people." 

Since I have lived in eight countries now (and China twice), I have met and been friends with many Down syndrome people from other cultures, but the one I have known the best is a young 29-year-old woman named Sara who has a bakery business and serves food at a school cafeteria. She is resolutely independent and wickedly funny. Last summer, I asked her to be a leader at a Girls' Ranch I direct when we had our first Down syndrome camper. She elevated the camp to a higher level of fun, humor, and love. I can honestly say that all of the other typical campers embraced and loved her.  Several said, "I have always been separated from the special needs kids. They always were in another classroom. Now I will reach out more when I see them because I know I can be friends with them."

I met Sara when she was about three months old when I met her dear mom so I have known her all her life. My kids grew up with Sara. For many years, my husband who is a perinatologist has had a photo of Sara in his office when he counsels patients who will have a child with Down syndrome.  She is the poster child of how wonderful life can be to have a child with Down syndrome--how a family can be enriched and learn to love in new and unimaginable ways. Sara is the eighth of ten children in a family that knows how to give with many layers of love. 

In the last eight years, I have taught art to special needs students in both the Middle East and China.  The students, ranging from about age three to 33 have shown me what giving with all your heart means--whether it is their smile or bequeathing an art volume of all their drawings to me.  The act of giving of one's self is purely intuitive; they just know how to give joy without asking for anything in return. It is preposterous to think that they are all the same if you know one Down syndrome person. Some are quieter, others more outgoing. but they all know how to give and love--without any strings attached. 

One of the reasons Charles De Gaulle's story inspires me is that at the time Anne was born in 1928 in France, there were few people who kept these children at home. Until the early 19th century, many of them only lived until they were about ten years old.  Later, however, many people still did not bring them on family outings or outside the home with them.  De Gaulle challenged the norm of the time and refused to give up his daughter to a care facility or hospital. Instead, he even took her to Lebanon and other countries to live before he was a WW2 general. Somehow he realized that the bond they shared was enabling him to be a better person than he would have otherwise been. When she died at age 20 after the war, he put her framed photo in the back of the car. In 1970, it was this photo that saved his life when someone tried to assassinate him. The frame blocked the bullet! He always said she was his angel. 

De Gaulle on the beach with little Anne in the early 1930's 

I am heartened the world is (but we have a long way to go) bringing these children and adults to the forefront--to not only understand what we can give them, but what they can teach us. Of course, our pace of life will slow down when we interact, teach, and work together. We will need to speak slowly, be patient, and repeat a direction or two. But it is oh, so worth it. I wish everyone could have Joey live on their street or grow up with Sara or Mary. Living in this world is more joyous and fulfilling when we have all kinds of friends who are different than us. 

These two grew up together--Sara and one of my sons. He took her to two proms. When his younger brother brought her, she asked him, "I wish Jonathan were here. He is more handsome than you." 😆

   

                                    We had a painting class together and this is her picture. She loves to create.

Sara being a leader at camp

I really liked the theme of camp, We Are One.

        Mary, our Down syndrome camper, and her sister, Elizabeth, singing Baby of Mine from Dumbo

Mary coloring with one of the campers

 

When I left China, this student gave me all his drawings. And he would not let me refuse his generous gift. 

                  

Always hugging...

Painting peace in pandemic times...

There is a healing power and enfolding when we create. We see again as a child, in the splendor of all colors, light, and textures. We again believe, if we ever forgot, that anything is possible. 

--Maryan Myres Shumway

This is one of my favorite pictures my son who has autism has painted. I guess you could say art has rescued us from some shadows: autism manifestations that can be draining, a lingering world-wide pandemic, and not seeing the stunning beauty of this world. If we allow ourselves, even submit to the creative process in all of us, art can bring astonishing peace.

"Painting came to my rescue in a most trying time."--Winston Churchill

Winston Churchill started painting when he was 40 years old--after the colossal deaths of Gallipoli during WWI. At the time, he was First Lord of the Admiralty and was immediately demoted after the Turkey campaign. The needless deaths, in many ways, haunted him for the rest of his life. Spotting his depression, his sister-in-law encouraged him to pick up a paintbrush. She even squeezed blue paint on a palette--emphatically charging him to start painting--now! When he was approaching 90 years old, he was never too far away from his easel--except when he was prime minister of England during WWII. His beloved paints always traveled with him. When he felt a "black dog" (depression) coming, he would head straight for his art studio. Or, he would wander somewhere to paint en plein aire (outside). Painting repeatedly saved his mental/emotional equilibrium all of his life--giving him peace when the world around him was seemingly falling apart. 

One of my favorite artist's houses I have visited is Monet's Giverny near Rouen, France. In 1915 when Monet was 75 years old, with failing eyes, he took up painting his famous water lilies murals. The waterlilies murals changed his personality and paved a peaceful path for the rest of his life. Before the war, he was known as proud, steely, and prone to a volatile temper. However, the war brought him familial setbacks. Instead of becoming embittered, he was more patient and submissive. His stepson was wounded and his own son had been drafted into the French army where one and a half million French men died. Fifty kilometers away from his home, the war stretched on. Sometimes he could hear the blasts and artillery as he gustily painted. While Monet dreamt and thought about peace in his country, he decided to paint his water lily pond and weeping willow trees catching the luminous light. With renewed vigor, he painted fourteen feet of murals. Later, after the war, he dedicated his beloved murals to remember peace for the Orangerie Museum. Instead of fearfully hiding away in his house during WW1, he painted like all of France was depending on him for an armistice. 

Beyond these stories of how painting changed Churchill and Monet, an unlikely place in the Pinkas Synagogue in Prague surprised me with the transformative power of art. I will never forget the paintings in those rooms that were filled with empty dreams and visions for ill-fated Jewish children during the Holocaust. Their art was created within the wretched conditions of a concentration camp. The profound need was met by a well-known artist, Friedel Dider Brandeis, who started an art class at the Terezin Concentration Camp. She gave hope to those scared, sad, and lonely children in the most desperate and bleak times imaginable. Out of 15,000 children, only 132 would survive after going to Auschwitz. Some of the children who later survived remembered that painting and drawing in the Terezin concentration camp were some of the fondest memories of their lives. Brandeis, their teacher, helped them to draw their memories, aspirations, and nightmares. She was a candle in a very dark tunnel. Here is a blog that I wrote about it: Children's Art: Candlelight in a Concentration Camp

I can honestly say art has rescued my son with autism. He is neverendingly fascinated with art--mixing colors, dabbing the paint on the canvas, and how a fond memory can magically become a painting. Art has given us peace so we wanted to give the gift to others. For the past three years, he and I have taught children, teenagers, and adults with special needs art in both the Middle East and China. It never fails to astonish me how a piece of paper and some paints can bring smiles and laughter to children who sometimes do not even speak. Conversely, I have taught typical teenage boys and girls who have not held a paintbrush since kindergarten. Initially, they are fearful, tentative, and edge away from others who look like they have more experience. But the colors on the canvas gradually draws them in. They too want to swirl and splash the paint again. There are smiles and a faint remembrance of the fun they had as children with a paintbrush. Another blog on Lessons from having an accidentally art-filled life

In a silent studio or a noisy classroom, peace enfolds when creativity begins. As a painting begins to have dimensions, the image gives clarity to what we are trying to understand inside of ourselves. The feelings we want to convey like a lost dream take shape. We begin to connect with something deep inside of us that has not withered but just been buried. Our souls become more luminous and alive, and we smile, knowing we have sparked beauty we did not know we had in us until now. 

           Lessons for life from painting peace in pandemic times...

 1) Perspective

Step back regularly to view the whole picture. If you just work sitting next to the painting, your view becomes myopic, blurry. The creator of a painting or the creator of a life needs to periodically view the entire composition. How are the background, foreground, and middle ground arranging themselves in the painting? Step back and do not focus on the details. When looking at a painting or a life in the entirety, perspective becomes key. 

2) Constantly look for the source of light. 

When you are painting, watch where the source of light is coming from. Shade and layer everything in that path of light so the light is distinguishable from the rest of the picture. As in life, look for your source of light. Those who know their source of light in life know how to spread light. 

3) Be prepared for a lot of layering when you paint

Layers add texture, richness, and depth that bring a multi-dimensional vision to a painting. You can almost put yourself in the scene. It feels that real. As in life and in our relationships, every layer of experience matters. Adding the darker and then the lighter colors add contrast, beauty. The most important relationships of my life have layers of history, with myriads of colors, that give me profound joy. Art is hundreds, sometimes thousands of strokes that eventually make a masterpiece.

4) Watch for the happy accidents

Of course, we always need a plan, image, destination of where we are going with our painting and in life too. However, notice that if it occasionally does not turn out as we wish, we can see the happy accidents. There is room for a stream we had not observed before or the sunset is more brilliant than we originally planned. Just as in life, we can watch for intersections, experiences, relationships that we had not expected. A twist in the plot can bring unexpected joy. The clincher? We have to be willing to note the change in design adds more texture, interest, and beauty. That means not be afraid to be a game-changer.

5) Art is an awakened voice that shows what you love and are connected to

Watch for the individual voice that beckons you to emerge from your vaulted cave. Gradually, you will know and understand what that voice is telling you to paint and become--if you have the audacity to do it. Conversely, notice the unique voice of others. Everyone has a beautiful story to tell. Look for the voice you see in others' creations and lives. 

6) Sometimes you need to come back and finish the painting

Lately, I have been coming back to paintings we started a few years ago. I thought I was finished with them. It has been wonderfully fascinating to return to a canvas refreshed with new ideas of how to make it better. With the passage of time, I notice the source of light more in the picture or it needs more contrast in color. I have added a few things to make the composition different. Just as in life, we often come back to a place or a relationship recharged to do better. Our eyes see differently and we want to try and do it better.

7) You cannot see the light without the dark. 

Like life, art is bland unless you have contrast, color, definition,  texture. The simple notion of working with light and darkness invigorates a painting--allowing us to view tension and balance. Think of a sunrise or sunset. Without the collision of darkness and light, the beauty would not be so sublime. Thus, with our lives: we need to know and understand how to mix the dark and light together in our lives. Both are inevitably part of life--and paintings.  

Here is a painting we started three and a half years ago, but we finished, I think, this week. Before, there was no stream. I added a bluebird, more grass. The barn and mountains have far more texture than before. 

This painting means a lot to me. A group of us went to Grand Teton National Park with our dear friend who would pass away from cancer five months later. You could say it was the last day we saw her with vibrant energy. She saw a bluebird as we walked, and commented that a bluebird sighting was good luck and brought blessings. Tresa was always looking for the beauty around her. I wanted to capture that day. 

Constantly stepping back and looking at the composition and how it is fitting together. Gradually, it will come to be the photo that is below. Again, the photo below is a special memory of when we did an Art in the Dark night at an art barn. The sun was about to set, and all the wonder of that night and what it came to be are in this photo. The painting is the first one in the blog. 

Photo of sunset that we have painted. 

The texture starting to gather in the storm here. 

                 I absolutely love all the texture and layering in this picture. Each layer adds depth, interest, and color.  

                                            Elias's rendition of the shepherds this Christmas

   My own painting of the shepherd fields. I titled it, "I can finally hear the angels singing." When I painted this picture, I could feel the angels pushing away the darkness and coming into light. As I painted, I heard and felt the story I have heard hundreds of times more in my heart and head. 

 

             

Looking for the light source in this picture at twilight when the sun is beginning to set. 

This is is the first picture we ever used a palette knife. There are so many layers and contrasts in this painting. 

                                   We kept looking for the source of light constantly in this picture. 

If you want to watch our YouTube about art and autism. It is called My Journey of Colors.  

Learning Another Language: The Thrill of Gathering Words...

For twenty years I studied Italian as if I were swimming along the edge of a lake. Always next to my dominant language, English. Always hugging that shore. It was good exercise. Beneficial for the muscles, for the brain, but not very exciting. If you study a foreign language that way, you won't drown. The other language is always there to support you, to save you. But you can't float without the possibility of drowning or sinking. To know a new language, to immerse yourself, you have to leave the shore. Without a life vest. Without depending on solid ground.      --Jhumpa Lahiri from her book In Other Words (a wonderful book about learning how to learn a language that you love).

This is an older woman from Yunan, China, near Tibet, who was willing to talk to me--another older woman. 😀   She told me she had never been able to go to school, but she knew how to farm. Her favorite thing to do now was to let everyone else work since she was old. She liked to watch her grandkids while everyone else worked in the fields.

Since I live in China (for the second time), I have accepted a fact: I must surrender myself to not being as eloquent as I want to be when I speak Chinese. However, sometimes I surprise myself, and a Chinese person will generously compliment me. There is a temporary boost of confidence (The moments are lasting longer now), but I inevitably know I will soon be humbled again. It is a daily rhythm. I guess I thrive on the tension of living in elation and struggle--or between the two.

I thrill in finding the right phrase, the best word, and being understood in another language than my own. My scribbled collection of words in various notebooks of Chinese, Spanish, Arabic, French, Cambodian, Vietnamese, Thai, Tagalog, Hmong, Italian, German, Swedish, Hebrew, Swahili, Hindi, and Icelandic have given me layers of great joy. Each language represents a chapter in my life, a place where I have lived or have a tie. I am by no means fluent in most of them. They are all on various levels. Chinese is currently the one I am most proficient in, but I am not afraid to pull up my old notebooks and experiment with the old cherished words from my language basket. 

Sometimes my memory evades me of a chosen word. The moment will lapse, but I determine to grab it up next time--for another befitting occasion. Words have given me the power to get out of scrapes (like how to deal with some new rules at the gym or a misunderstanding at a traffic light), make new friends, explain the swirling emotions of life, and buy basil and cumin at the Chinese market. Words soften hearts and can turn fear and skepticism into understanding--even laughter.  Every day I try to work at it.

Once and a while there is the trepidation of crashing on this language journey (and I have many times). For about a week I was interchanging transportation and communication with each other, smugly thinking I had grabbed the right word. I had a few confused looks, and finally, someone corrected me. Just this week I was trying to say 'complain', and I was using the word 'persecute'--way too strong. Luckily, I was corrected by a kind Chinese man. Learning a language means you have to be willing to take the corrections and submit to being a child again.

Sometimes the whole language process just makes me want to be silent, and not give away any more words for a while. Yet, often, very often, I have the joy of seeing the most beautiful views--jabbering for hours and connecting soul-to-soul--all while speaking this language that has intrigued me since I was in college. I marvel that the other person is interested in the words I give away to them. They nod in agreement or even laugh. There is a surge of aliveness that lights up my brain and soul. I walk away, resolute to taste the same euphoria again the next time.

Charlemagne said, "You get a second soul when you learn a second language." A Czech saying boasts that for every language you learn, you have lived another life. Duolingo, the famous app to learn languages, states that just one person who begins to speak another language is like a small candle--a spark that is ignited somewhere in the world. With that one lone person, conversations can transform and explore new shores--even breaking down entrenched walls. People soften when they see another person vulnerable enough to try and utter and sputter their language. There is a connection that just does not happen with Google Translate or a translator. But it takes patience on both parties; both have to be willing to watch the flower bloom.

Sometimes even if we just learn a handful of words in another language, windows open that otherwise would remain latched shut. I have been surprised with just a little effort to learn a few words and phrases--that it can mean so much to people. Friendships and connections expand; relationships are enriched. Truly, the world is a better place when we try to twist our tongue in another direction--to grasp the unfamiliar and unknown. Besides, it shows we care enough to learn someone else's world. We become a new person because we talk to people we would never have ventured to cross the aisle to speak to. 

If I think about the person who triggered my love for language, it would be my father. He was not a recluse scholar of linguistics. Yet, his love of people, geography, maps, history, and languages merged together. People from other cultures intrigued him. He longed to understand their beliefs, hobbies, family history, what neighborhood they grew up in. Dad could speak some Icelandic, and understand more--after growing up listening to his parents. Since he grew up in San Diego, he studied Spanish, and at intermittent times for the rest of his life. He resolutely, with no self-consciousness joked and spoke to his Hispanic friends--and any others who cared to converse with him. Was he fluent? No. But he occasionally gave talks to large audiences in Spanish and hired employees who he practiced his intermediate Spanish on. Making a mistake was not important to him. His aim was only to communicate the best he could--to share stories.  

When I was learning Spanish in middle and high school, he would practice my r's with me and then exclaim, "Isn't that fun? I like how that word just rolls off my tongue." I would think to myself, "Yeah, that was fun."And it made me want to go and see if I could speak more with someone who really spoke Spanish. Whether he knew it or not, my father was giving me not only permission, but encouragement to get outside of not only my own language boundaries but cultural and geographical as well. He made it seem fun to learn a language. From him, I learned that even if I stumble and make some blunders, it is ok. I am grateful that my dad taught me how to be curious about language, but also to try and connect language with people. 

Find a teacher, mentor, or tutor who you are not afraid to see you struggle or even fail. The best teachers (and friends) know how how to encourage and put you back on the ladder again if you fall off (and we all undoubtedly will). Indeed, making mistakes is part of the journey when we try new things--a new sport, musical instrument, or anything else. To feel comfortable around that teacher or friend when we struggle is critical as we gather our words.  

Contrary to what some people may think, learning another language does not have to be the luggage you pack and carry around from childhood. Some of my great heroes are some American friends who started learning Spanish in their early 60's, and now approaching their 80's, just spent a year doing service in Columbia. It is powerful and compelling to find passions much later in your life--to connect with people and communities you would never have known. There is always the humble possibility of sounding like a child, but also an undeniable exhilaration that you are on an incredible journey--a trip you would not have wanted to miss. And sometimes the travel won't even require a suitcase. It is just pulling out a new word from your word basket...

   Some stories on why I keep on collecting words...

I love this picture of my dad because it totally captures his personality, and how he could get to know someone--even if he did not speak their language. I think I taught him a few Arabic words, and I know these men do not know much English. But it never mattered to him. When Dad came to visit us in Doha, he was always "talking" to someone--a fisherman, guard, cashier, my neighbors. One day we wondered where he was and he had just gone to the mosque next to our compound with a new friend. His secret? He was endlessly fascinated with people. 

When we were in Stockholm, my cousin taught my son with autism some Swedish. He loves nothing better than to converse with others with their language. I have learned not to doubt his efforts, memory, and even proficiency. With a few words in his own basket, he climbed on the train in Stockholm and proceeded to converse with the 83-year-old woman across from him. She cheerfully replied to his comments and then realized that his ability had abruptly stopped. I remember her smiling, and then beginning a most fascinating conversation, in English, about being a child in WW2 in Sweden. Twenty minutes later, none of us wanted to get off the train because we wanted to hear more of her stories. Without my son and his willingness to try with his small little basket of Swedish words, we would have missed out on a most memorable moment.

 One of my fondest recent memories of a language immersion experience; For two days, Vicki and I scootered around Yangshou, Chou--laughing and talking while we saw the beautiful rice fields and mountains near Guilin. These were hours I was glad I could speak and laugh in Mandarin with a most delightful person, who then graciously invited us to her home. She is married to the fourth son and lives on a street where they all live their families next door to each other. I was grateful she gave me a glimpse into their village life. But the best part was our conversations winding around the rice fields on the scooter. She has a terrific sense of humor, and mostly we just laughed.

 My mom just attracts children so this is her with some of my Arabic language experts who would teach (and sometimes laugh 😀) at my rudimentary Arabic. I never became conversant, but I could say some things when I needed to--especially to our art students who my son and I taught. 

                                               Some of my favorite Arabic tutors in Doha--my neighbors. 

    A funny moment in Lijang, China, in Yunan province, where all the ladies in the market wanted to sell me some carrots. I knew I could not bring them all home so I picked the one that looked the oldest and brought her carrots.

These two lovely ladies are mother and daughter, the mum being the mayor of LeTronquay, France in Normandy. It is the village that my father-in-law helped to liberate in WW2 after he landed on D-Day. Her daughter then came to stay with us twice in Doha. Because of some friends in France, I swim around the "language lake" in French. Some day I need to take off the life vest. 

 This is a Cambodian family I met when I worked in refugee camps in Thailand. I later reunited with them in the United States. They are one of the reasons I decided to learn some Cambodian. I can't remember much because I have not spoken for a long time. But I still remember the thrill and joy when I saw the Cambodian refugees see that I was trying to speak with them. 

Meet Meek Chi, a Cambodian refugee who walked through the minefields from Cambodia to Thailand. In this picture, she is 82, and I was 22. We were dear friends, and how she could make everyone laugh, I don't know--especially in a refugee camp. But she did. I have never seen a more dedicated, diligent student. She was always on the front row with sometimes about 800 people, looking up to learn like I was a famous professor. We taught the refugees at this time in large airy sheds. Meek Chi was usually one of the first to arrive to show me her numbers and words that she was learning to write for the first time in her life. Because of her, I tried to learn some Cambodian. I wanted to penetrate her world, to understand the funny sounds that came from her toothless grin. Later, I taught in a refugee camp in the Philippines, where she also came. Since we worked in the refugee camp, she sometimes would knock on my door to proudly show me her "schoolwork." I tried to find her in Brooklyn when I moved to New York City a few years later, but I never did. Someday I hope to meet her again where we can laugh and talk together again. 

I met Ashok in Doha who I called my Indian son. He invited us to his sister's wedding. Because of him, I learned a little Hindi and went to India.

This is Sam who was our sailing teacher from Cardiff, England when we lived in Doha, Qatar. In our lapses of time when the Qatar wind refused to blow and the sun just wanted to shine as we tried to sail, he would entertain us with British and American euphemisms. We would roll with laughter at the differences, and then he would mimic the different accents of England. He told me one day he was not good at school and the teachers did not understand his dyslexia. Yet, he could keep us all chuckling for hours about the differences in how we speak English across the pond.

Meet Paulo from Florance, Italy. A few years ago we were in Florence for a few days. He was our taxi driver the first night we were there. I don't speak Italian, but with my old Spanish, we were able to understand one another. It was a mishmash conversation of Italian, Spanish, and English. I will never forget our laughs and stories. In a most surprising way, the third night he took us home again. We could not believe the coincidence that we would flag him down again--with all the taxis in Florence. Words allowed us to have laughter and friendship. Italy was even better because we met Paulo. 

So back to the quote by Jhumpa Lahiri about the lake at the beginning--where we sometimes only want to swim around with our life vest on. Some people, like me, want to have many baskets of words with lots of languages. Others just choose one. But sooner or later, it is good to leave the shore of familiarity and certainty. Here in China, I am having a fun time leaving the shore and swimming to the middle of the lake. 

Teaching Children and Weeding Out the Prejudice...

"Prejudices, it is well known, are most difficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil has never been loosened or fertilized by education: they grow there, firm as weeds among stones." --Charlotte Bronte in Jane Eyre

"I know you despise me; allow me to say, it is because you do not understand me." --Elizabeth Gaskell in the book, North and South

Recently my son in medical school, tired of his continuous studying, went out on the streets of Kansas City, MO, USA, seeking more education of his soul. On his walk along the Mississippi River, he happened to come near a few clusters of young black people. Lately, he has been caught in a state of deep interior work--trying to see how he can be more understanding of black Americans--especially young black men. He told me the national and local news is conflicting and clashing, and he wanted to go out on his own and talk to people on the street. He later told me: 

"In the last two hours, I talked with eight people who became friends. I mean I asked them real questions. They were all black. I asked them how I as a white man can be better and a more positive force for change. I came upon three young black brothers, all of them the same age as me and my brothers. Their stories became real and hit closer to home. One of them was reading a book, and when I started asking them questions, he started crying and said, "No one has ever asked these questions of me before."

He met another young woman who was his sister's age. Again, he felt a kinship as she spoke of her uncle being killed by a policeman in 2006 in Kansas City. He later said:

"The past two hours have been one of the most heart-touching experiences of my life. It opened my eyes to some things I have never thought about before. I am grateful for the love felt in these conversations. Tender tears were shed on both sides with lots of hugs and elbow taps."

Some of the things he learned were:

1) All of them said their relatives pled with them to be careful when they received their driver's license. They told them to obey all the laws--to not get stopped--to be extra cautious. Also, to not keep hands in your pockets--especially if you get stopped by the police. Keep your hands free. My son said, "No one ever had that conversation with me. It was not in my paradigm."

2)  It's all about respect and understanding. 

3). Don't make generalizations about culture and race.  Every person has a story. Listen to everyone's perspective. 

4)  He said what he learned the most was to ask, listen, and start conversations. The continuing reactions he received was gratitude that he was interested and wanted to hear their outlook. He was surprised at how quickly a friendship starts by being vulnerable to someone else's story. 

                                                             Meet Ruby

This was one of our favorite books when my children were young. Robert Coles is a child psychiatrist and oral historian with children. He interviewed Ruby in the 1960s in New Orleans. Children have so much to say. Indeed, they are watching and listening... As they observe us trying to become better people, they will learn that hate, prejudice, and racism will not be a part of their world. Instead, they will shun it, and build bridges.

  

As we tell children stories, we can hopefully tell stories in our own lives or in our family members' lives where people shunned racism and prejudice. We would always tell our kids about their Grandpa Shumway who refused to enter restaurants in the 1940s and 50s that would not accept blacks into restaurants. With his black friend by his side, he adamantly told them that the signs outside their restaurant were divisive and wrong. I think our personal and family stories help our children to know they can voice their opinions and stand up for what they believe is right. 

I wrote this little story taken by an idea of T. Allen Witcher. The point is to keep talking, making analogies, giving some context of history, and perhaps more than anything, be like my son and go out and talk across the table with people who are different than yourself. And just like him, it may be one of the best few hours of your life. 

Once upon a time inside a beautiful castle wall, there was the most evergreen of grass. When the sun finally set in the evening, the people of the village loved to sit on the soft grass that felt like a pillow to them. The king did not mind if the people came to picnic and play on his inviting lawn. He watched them with pleasure as the children romped and ran on his meadow.

But one day, he noticed that in his vast verdant lawn, there was ugly, brown crabgrass starting to pop up between the green blades of grass. You see, this king cared very much about his lawn, and if it was trimmed and green for his people. At the moment, he thought, "Oh, it is just a little patch of crabgrass mixed in the soft grass. No harm will come to my rolling lawns." But the next time the king gazed, the patches were bigger. He postponed the weeding of the crabgrass until soon his smooth and cushiony lawn was no more. 

The king longed to see the perfectly manicured lawns he used to have. He asked some of his advisors, and they told him, "Your majesty, the crabgrass was always there. Sometimes the seeds lie dormant for many years before they quickly come and overcome the beautiful grass.  the wisest advisor then looked the king in the eyes, "Your majesty, hatred is just like crabgrass. It can come almost like a huge wave if you don't constantly be on guard for its growth. Watch for small seeds that blow in the wind and pluck them immediately out or the beauty you wanted will be no more. And, wise king, you must never look the other way. If you want beautiful grass where the village people will come again, you must never stop toiling and laboring to stop the crabgrass. Pluck, pull, and keep on digging until you know you got all the seeds out. And then start again... 

It is important to occasionally contemplate--even examine and scrutinize ourselves; to think about any seeds that we need to pull out or plant. With my eyes, what am I seeing or not seeing? Does any prejudice lie dormant in me? It is a time for not just hearing, but listening with compassion and forgiving. It is a time not only to voice our opinion but to be silent long enough to hear others' voices that may not hold our same opinions or backgrounds. It is a time to reach out and be fascinated with different people--not fearful. It is time to understand that we all are part of this struggle. 

                     

World Children's Day

There can be no keener revelation of a nation's soul than the way it treats its children. --Nelson Mandela

I said to the audience that perhaps the world’s troubles could be solved if we could turn over the leadership of nations to the children for a few days. Through love, they would find solutions to the misunderstandings, mistrust, and misconduct of adults in the world. 
                                                       --M. Russell Ballard

Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love.           --Mother Teresa

I love this picture of my husband, a perinatologist, who has delivered over 20,000 babies. His professional life has been defined by helping to safely bring children to their families.

Sometimes it is astonishing to think that all of us adults once were children. We too were small and dependent on "the big people" to take care of our needs--to affirm who we were becoming. November 20 is World Children's Day--a day to remember that ALL children have the right to be heard--no matter how faint the voice and where it comes from. Each and every child deserves health, safety, and education. In my daily life and travel, I am most touched by the children I see, some so very helpless. There are those who have an over abundance to eat or use what they are given. Others have a life of abuse and neglect--never being allowed to reach their God-given potential. William Carlos Williams, the doctor and poet said, "Catch an eyeful, catch an earful, and don't drop what you've caught." Every day we hear and see such stories, but what do we do with them? What are we teaching the children we know in our earshot?

For many years, I have enjoyed reading Dr. Robert Coles' work, a Harvard child psychiatrist who spent decades of his life all over the world interviewing children in places of upheaval and struggle. Often times he would have them sketch their stories into artwork. His definition of stories broadens the usual definition:

"Storytelling, in the form of both personal narratives and the established literary tradition, gives us a fuller understanding of ourselves and the experience of others. "The whole point of stories is not 'solutions' or 'resolutions' but a broadening and even heightening of our struggles. They remind us of what is important in life, admonish us, point us in new directions, engage us in self-reflection, and sometimes inspire us to lead lives of moral integrity. The beauty of a story is in its openness--the way you or I can take it in, and use it for ourselves."

So what do we do with the stories we hear and see? For Coles, and for myself too (the reason I have liked his books for so many years) is that "there is a distinct connection between stories and voluntary service. Narratives are a means of glimpsing and comprehending the world, while service is a means of putting to use what has been learned." I have relearned this many times in my life. Once I saw or heard some stories, I could not reconcile or connect the inconsistencies in life until I entered others' worlds. Talking about theories or distancing myself from the story never worked for me. It was only in the doing, the teaching, or as Coles articulates, "Service is not a hierarchy but a reciprocity in which the distinctions between teacher and pupil, giver and receiver, helper and helped constantly dissolve."

I just returned from being in favelas in Brazil and seeing many miles of townships in South Africa. Poverty is not immune to me. I have seen it all my life--looking out, but never inside my circumstances. I have lived and worked in refugee camps, but I was not ever the one without the home. I have seen stories I cannot solve or fix--that have given me painful sorrow. Yet, I know that reaching into someone else's story connects us. Boundaries disappear and we can be one together.  I have known that bond. As Cole observes, "There is no teacher and pupil or giver and receiver or helper and helped." Both need one another.

I know with everyone trying to do "small things" it all adds up. But as in everything in life, we have to plan some balance into the equation. Another favorite writer, Neal Maxwell, had a quote on his desk by Anne Morrow Lindberg to remind him he could not do everything, "My life cannot implement in action the demands of all the people to whom my heart responds." Two of some of my favorite quotes to remember when trying to connect the stories I see and the call to action. They are diametrically opposed, but each beg reflection in the world of reaching out to others.

Now go light the world.

#Loveachild #GiveHopeToChildren #LightTheWorld

Young boys at a Buddhist orphanage in Vietnam

One of my most joyful moments--dancing with children from Jordan.

In an Indian village with some schoolboys. They had never seen a foreigner and followed me around for about four days. 

Karolina, my Icelandic cousin, with her super athletic triplets--climbing a mountain at about midnight in June.

Being with some Indian kids on a field trip in Hyderabad

At a village school in India

Chinese kids learning English. 

Children at a Brazilian favela school

Qatari children in Doha learning the traditional sword dance

Children in Rio de Janiero, Brail practicing for a Primary program

Love Ivy's face as she and Elias work on a Halloween project together. 

Hanna, an artist we met in Monteque, South Africa, with Elias. She told me that in her troubled childhood, there was one place she felt safe: an art class with a very special teacher. Although she lived with some fear and anxiety in her home, art was where she flourished. And now she brings that same joy to children in a little mountain town in South Africa. I was inspired to meet her in her studio with colorful children's art all around her.

Children all dressed up for National Day in Qatar

In front of a slave museum in Cape Town, a reminder of children and slavery

Holding a brand new baby from the Philippines, just two days old. 

Elias learning how to play chess (You would be surprised how good he is now) from his master teacher.

A French boy on the street in Montague, France

Elias in the compound learning to play cricket with his Indian friends

Children in Lake Cuomo, Italy getting ready for a soccer match

Children in Budapest skating at a Christmas market

Children in Magdala, Spain last Christmas talking to the Three Wisemen

A young boy in Morocco using leaves as toys.

Elias, with Dick, a man who has taken an interest in helping my son, and hundreds of other youth. He has made a great difference to so many--one of my heroes.

My mom watching her granddaughter's artwork.

My mom dancing with one of her 54 grandkids.

At a wedding this summer with a new joy

A German family in our home, along with Aaron on the violin, participating in a musical soiree. I love the mother's joyful face as she encourages her children.

Michelle, making her own valentine.

My mom, who has taught me more than anybody else, about loving children. She is listening to Daniel from Ukraine read.

A picture taken a few years back, with three of "our triplets" who we have adopted as family. See if you can pick them out. One has glasses. 

Mariam al Rashdie, another hero, who began and directs the Ontario School for Disabilities here in Doha.

Love this picture of a teacher and Mathi. 

Love Miriam's face as she learns to bring color to the paper

Love these faces, our neighbors, along with Elias, who bring joy to my life every day.

As I like to say, these teachers and kids are my people--helping to bring joy to children with disabilities in Doha

My daughter, Sarah, in rural Ethiopia last spring, helping to bring education initiatives to children. Her joy was over brimming when she returned.