Kindergarten Bodyguard

            Cain trudged across the playground, kicking dirt as he went, refusing to make eye contact with me. He stopped about ten feet away, shoulders slumped, face dirty and scratched. It hardly looked unusual. I met him the rest of the way and wrapped my arms around him.

            “How was your day?”

            “I punched somebody.” Anxiety flooded my mind as the memories of the year before when Cain had been kicked out of pre-school came rushing back.

            “Why, Cain? Why?”

            Tears ran down his face. “I don’t know.”

            I paused and breathed deeply, taking time to think about my reaction. As soon as Gabe saw me he raced across the playground, jubilation bursting from his smile like an Orbit gum commercial.  “Mom, Cain beat up a kid today, and it was totally awesome!” Gabe jumped around, trying to act out the fight. “Mom, he punched him up the nose… like this,” as he balled up his fist and pretended to hit his own nose in slow motion. I watched the reenactment of a punch that carried enough force to throw a kid’s head back and lay him out flat.

            I turned my attention to Cain. “Cain, why would you do that?”

            “He was pickin’ on Gabe. I couldn’t let him talk to Gabe like that.”

            Gabe took over telling the story. “Mom, we were playing dodge ball, and Taylor got the ball and he was just holdin’ on to it, so I told him to throw it at somebody, and he told me I was puny and no one wanted to play with me, and he said he hated me.”

            Cain looked up at me trying to gauge what his fate would be. I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to hide my smile as I opened the car door. Gabe hopped in, tossing his book bag across the back seat, with all the energy in the world. Within two seconds he was buckled in and ready to get on with the afternoon fun. Cain was still making his way towards our car, dragging his book bag across the cement sidewalk. He slung his backpack in the floor of the car and then lifted one foot as slowly and deliberately as Neil Armstrong stepping on to the moon.

            Before I could even crank up the car, Gabe was already talking. “Mom, you would not have believed it, and Taylor is a first grader… he totally should have been able to beat Cain up, but he didn’t even have a chance, and he’s way bigger than Cain.”

            I adjusted my rearview mirror so that I could see my boys. Gabe’s voice faded away in my mind as I saw a slight grin begin to emerge across Cain’s face. “Cain, why don’t you tell me what happened.”

            The grin disappeared, and he hesitantly began talking, unsure of how much trouble he was in. His trepid response became more certain with each word. “I was just walkin’ ‘round the playground, and I heard him talking mean to Gabe, and I wasn’t going to let him say those things to my brother.  So I went up to him and called him a big booty head.” Gabe watched Cain intently, hanging on his every word, just waiting for him to get to the good part. Cain’s voice got louder, and his words came quicker. They both began shifting in their seats as they mimicked what happened next.  “First, he kicked me in the arm, and it hurt a little, but I didn’t cry. I just rolled to the left, and then I rolled to the right, and then I did a cartwheel, and I stood up, and he wasn’t ready to punch, but I was, and PA-POW! Right in his nose!”

            “Mom, you should’ve seen it… it was so awesome!”

            “Feel my muscle!” Cain roared. Gabe stared at his little brother like he could bend metal and rip phone books in half with his bare hands. Cain didn’t care about the consequences any longer. It was all worth it to gain the admiration of his older brother.

Cowboy Angel

3 years ago…

“Would you like mac and cheese? Corn nuggets?” Don’t ask me what a corn nugget is. We live in the South, where anything can be fried, and plethora of things can be turned into nuggets, just go through any line in a public school cafeteria. Corn and mac and cheese are Haze’s favorite foods. Not the real kind of mac and cheese, but the kind in the box with the powder. The corn, you don’t even have to heat it up. We discovered that early on as he held the can in one hand and the spoon in the other, shoveling in the corn, all the while making loud sounds of satisfaction, and I don’t mean smacking. It's like watching corn porn, if there were such a thing. 

            Granted, we are in hot foods section of Wal-Mart, but it has been another long day of work, and it isn’t getting any earlier. It isn’t what Haze wants at the moment, which means that it isn’t good enough. He refuses the offer and pouts the rest of the way through Wal-Mart, getting more and more out of control as we go. By the time we make it back to the front of the store, he pulls the usual, “Fine, I’ll have it.” In the combination of a battle of wills and in a methodic attempt at behavior modification, I decide that the offer is no longer on the table. He has pushed every button that I have, and he is not going to get his way or his corn nuggets. The bottom is about to fall out, but the middle of Wal-Mart isn’t the ideal place.

            I take his hand as he twists and jerks to get free, cursing and pounding on my arm. He is pulling with such force, that if either of us lets go we will look like a tree split down the middle by lightening. Eric strolls ahead like he is oblivious. “Eric, I need the keys. I’ll take him to the car. He can’t do this in here.” My face burns with pride as I wonder who was watching, judging. I’m supposed to be a teacher, not just any teacher, but one who is experienced dealing with kids from rough backgrounds, and here I can’t even control my own son.

            Eric begins debating with me how to handle the situation. I hold on for the ride as he continues to twist, turn and jerk at my arm. A man approaches us, a giant African American man wearing ornate cowboy boots, a cowboy buckle about the size of an ostrich egg, a vest and a Bluetooth headset. I am thrown off by the vest and the headset. I instinctively think that he works at Wal-Mart and he must think I’m trying to kidnap this child, who is clearly fighting me. I’m waiting, anticipating what his is going to say, and the only thing I can think is, “Who would kidnap this child?” But he isn’t a Wal-Mart employee. I don’t notice how old he is until he starts to get down on his knees. He is careful with his movements, almost like it pains him to bend. As he kneels on one knee, Haze quiets down and quits fighting. He moves in close to me as though he is unsure of this man.

            “You’re going to be okay, son. Jesus loves you, and he can help you. Put your foot right here.” He pats his leg. I look, and Haze’s shoe is untied. He looks up at me for permission, I guess. I nod my head. The man continues patting his leg and telling Haze to put his foot right there.

            “Please God, don’t let him kick this man in the face.”

He hesitantly lifts his foot and forcibly sets it on the man’s leg, as if to say, “Whatever, Old Man.” The man ties his shoe and continues speaking words of affirmation and encouragement. He gives Haze a hug and then struggles to his feet. Eric and I look up at him, broken, humbled, again by someone who is able to love our son when we struggle to.

“He’s under a lot of spiritual warfare, but he’s going to be okay. I hope that you are praying over him every night.” He goes on to encourage us, giving us scripture references to read when we get home. We finish our shopping without incident. On the way home the topic of the old man, whom I refer to as the “Cowboy Angel” comes up, as we are still amazed. Haze’s response is cold and unmoving. He rarely shows any emotion other than anger. When he cries I count every tear as a measurement of hope that he is still reachable. At some point in the conversation about how the man who doesn’t even know Haze loves him, he breaks, sobbing, searching, grasping, reaching desperately for his father. Eric holds him as he sobs. For a night my heart is light, and I know God hasn’t forgotten us.

Cowboy Angel

Arms flailing, feet stomping,

We are the spectacle of Wal-Mart.

Teeth gnashing, nostrils flaring,

My son is growling at me.

Patience thinning, exasperation growing,

Now my nostrils are flaring.

Eyebrows raised, sigh released,

I try to hold on as he twists and jerks.

A bold man approaches,

Bringing with him a message of hope.

Bending down on one knee,

He reaches out to Haze.

Haze jerks away defiantly,

Refusing to be loved.

Ignoring such foolish behavior,

The man takes Haze into his arms and hugs him.

I stand there amazed,

Praying my child doesn’t hit him.

Telling Haze he’s going to be okay,

The man ties Haze’s shoe.

This man, the giant African American with the matching cowboy boots and buckle, and the Bluetooth headset, struggles to get back to his feet.

His attention turns to us, the fortunate parents of this beautiful child, and he encourages us not to give up hope.

He reassures us that Haze, the same child who is still grimacing and grunting, is truly going to be all right.

I believe him, and my heart, the same heart that was just burning with pride a few minutes before as people stared at us, is now humbled and soft.

The stubborn child, angry and hurt,

Declares that he doesn’t care about the old man at Wal-Mart.

The words of the faithful man, loving and kind,

Must echo in Haze’s head.

His miserable mood, hostile and cross,

Begins to betray him as tears fill his eyes.

He sits at the old oak dinner table, unfinished and scratched,

Not unlike his heart.

The broken child, vulnerable and now soft,

Desperately reaches out to his father who holds him as he sobs.

Cloth Discovered

Sunday. That’s all I have to say. It was Sunday. We woke up to obstinate behavior and a defiant attitude. Thank goodness his Sunday school teachers never complain, although I’m sure they could, and if he were any other kid, I’m sure that they would let the parents know, but really, we just need a break.

            I found him after Sunday school storming across the courtyard, empty Styrofoam cup in hand.

            “Can I have coffee?” It’s the same argument we have every Sunday morning, even though we have never allowed him to have coffee. Every Sunday is like Groundhog Day with Bill Murray.  I tell him no, knowing that it could lead to a complete meltdown.

            This is the first day that an African American church is meeting in our fellowship hall, which is now their new church home. I go to the whitest white church ever, so we are all really excited to add a little diversity, even if it is in the fellowship hall. We picked up two of our sons’ friends on the way to church, both African American. They’ve been to church with us many times, and they want to try the new church.

            Our son, who is now mad about the coffee climbs to the top of a stack of extra chairs and has a seat, six feet off the ground in the back of the room. We ignore it. Church hasn’t started yet. He climbs down and moves to the front of the church, continually looking over his shoulder. eyebrows furrowed, teeth clenched, he gives one final look before disappearing into a corridor at the front of the church. Eric retrieves him and makes him sit with the family. He pouts, squirms, laughs as the pastor’s wife cheers her husband on while he preaches, claps obnoxiously when others are clapping, which is often, grabs communion out of the basket, which he knows he is not allowed to take. We have to repeatedly tell him to put it back, all the while he is saying he wants grape juice.  I want to tell him, “This is God’s blood,” but I can only imagine him throwing it back like a shot of whisky. Juice would run down his shirt and he’d start pretending to be a vampire. So I don’t.

            After church we go to Wendy’s. He is already angry that he cannot have caffeine. Eric and I are waiting on the food, and I see him pretending to punch his friends in the face. I go over and speak to him, and he continues. The consequence is that he doesn’t need any sugar or soda since he is having trouble with self control, so he’ll have to drink water. He storms away from the table and flings his body to the floor by the trash can, which he goes on to kick. We ignore him, and he eventually comes to the table, starts eating his friend’s food and grabs his friend’s Frosty.

            We drop his friends off and head home, informing our son that he will be doing some chores. For one, he has a basket of clothes to fold from days before when his brother folded his share, and he had such a terrible attitude that he was forced to go take a nap rather than fold clothes. I don’t even think we get to the folding part before he is sent to his room. Eric goes in to talk to him. Gabe wants to leave, and I have to weigh whether Gabe is getting out of chores or whether he really needs out. I tell him, "Let’s wait and see if he calms down."  I go to the bathroom, and I can hear him from his bedroom, “I hate you, mother fucker. I'm gonna kill you.” I quickly zip up my pants, and Gabe is waiting with his shoes on.

            “Ummm, he’s not calming down.” I look in his room and Eric is already taking a beating holding down his arms while he knees Eric in the back and spits in his face.  I ask him if he needs me to stay, if he needs help. He says he’s got it, so Gabe and I leave and go shopping at Wal-mart for back to school supplies. Normally my mom takes the boys to do this. She does it every year, just to help us out, but right now, I just need something constructive to do. I let Gabe buy some fish while I’m checking off the ridiculous 4^th grade list of supplies from Central Elementary. I’m not sure what is up with the 4^th grade teachers, but I am pretty sure that they must collect all of the supplies and sell them at the flea market on the weekend because there is no way that each child needs 96 pencils, 5 green plastic folders without brads, 4 yellow plastic folders without brads, a yellow, blue and green folder with brads, two inch binders, loose leaf paper, 2 composition notebooks, 4 dry erase markers, tissues, glue sticks, scissors, crayons, pencil bag, hand sanitizer, a flexible ruler… that’s not all. Really? I’m pretty sure that the 4^th grade school supply list was in Congress’s plan to boost the economy and bring us out of a recession. By the time we get back two hours have gone by, and Joey is still at it.

Suddenly it ends. He flings himself at Eric with such force that Eric flinches, expecting to get hit. He grabs hold of Eric and sobs, and it is over, for now.  Later Eric tells me a little bit about it. He doesn’t need to say much because the story is always the same, except for the cloth.

“He found the cloth.”

“Really? How?”

“Well, he flung his pillow around in circles in the air, launching it at me as hard as he could, and I guess it just came out. I saw him pick it up off his bed and unfold it.”

He goes on to tell the story, and I can imagine each detail. Joey unfolds the cloth and starts to rip it. “Wait, son. Wait. That’s special. You don’t want to rip that.”

He stops and asks, “Why the fuck not?” Eric tells him because it’s his, and he’s the only one who has one. He wants to know where it came from. Eric says it came from someone special, someone who loves him. He begins to rub it on his face. When Eric tells me this, I’m totally intrigued.

“Like what was his mood? Was he calm? Was he angry?”

“He just rubbed it on his face.”

“Like catnip, only it’s Godnip?” We laugh. I want to get that thing and rub it on my face. I could use a little Godnip to get through this day. “Then what?”

“I told him to fold it up and put it back in his pillow.”

“What did he say?”

“He said I couldn’t have it, and he shoved it back in his pillow.”

Today is a new day.  He comes to me this morning with the cloth in his hand. “Who gave this to me?”

“Someone who loves you.” He’s rubbing it on his face again and smelling it. I smile at the thought of Godnip.

“What is it?” I don’t really know what to say, and I’m not even sure why this is all a big secret, so I just shrug my shoulders. “Is it an air freshener for my pillow?” Ok, I really should wash my kids’ sheets more often. “It smells pretty good. Here, smell it.” I take it and hold it to my face and breathe deeply. It does smell good, which is exactly what I say to him.  I can tell that he is proud to have something Gabe doesn’t have. Even though he doesn’t know what it all means, he knows that it means that someone loves him. He takes it from me, folds it up, and puts it back in his pillowcase. 

The Anointed Cloth

 I have often hoped for a short lifespan. I feel bad saying that, but life so far has been frustrating, exhausting, disappointing and seemingly futile.  All I’ve had time for is work.  While teaching is extremely noble, worthy and fulfilling, being denied every maternal instinct that comes with giving birth and adoption has been almost more than I could bear for the last 10 years. I’ve missed out on so much, and not by choice.

I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about how he would kill us someday. Sometimes he tells us how he’ll do it. “Icepick through the head while you are sleeping,” is one in particular that caught my attention. Having an icemaker and a button on the freezer door for “cubed” or “crushed,” I don’t know how he even knows what an icepick is. I watch the evening news and pray to God that it won’t be a hammer to the back of the head… or the front. Living in the South, he has had lots of informal training from loved ones on how to properly use a handgun. I’m glad to know that he won’t accidentally shoot himself when he tries to kill us. Sometimes I think I should just show him where we keep the gun because that would be the easiest way to go. Otherwise he may resort to more “creative” tools.  A counselor once told us we should clean out our house, ridding it of all sharp objects… like knives, screwdrivers, scissors, pencils, paperclips, etc. But what about blunt objects like bats, toilet tank lids, lamps? Or what about pillows, stuffed animals, and things that he could use to smother us? We resorted to a door sensor that plugged into our room and dinged to wake us up in the middle of the night when he opened his door. Eric and I took turns getting up five times a night for weeks until his insomnia passed.

Our adoption story is not for the faint of heart. Sometimes I want to know why God put this child in our family. My only answer, my only hope is that someday he will know Christ, and that is why. Now of course, I forget all about that by the third time in one week that he has set something on the eye of the stove and turned it on high to let it burn. I yell. I cuss. I call the police. When I open his door and he is climbing out the window, I tell him that he doesn’t need to climb out the window because the front door is open, and if this isn’t where he wants to live, then we arrange that. The police come. He’s a jerk, even to the policeman who asks to speak to us in the garage and then recommends that we take him to Mental Health.

But now I’m starting to look at life differently. I’m starting to remember the God of hope and the God of unimaginable power.  I’m looking at a man in his mid 70’s who makes me want to live in the Spirit and grow old someday. We are gathered in a room with couples our age, their 500 children and this one older couple, Allan and Charlene. She sits on the floor in front of him while he twirls her gray ponytail between his fingers like they are teenagers. He must feel moved by the music because he closes his eyes, turning his head towards the ceiling and lifts his hands up in worship. Beside me, a two year old named Ziggy imitates the older man. He stretches, lifting his arms up and staring up at the ceiling. Then he looks to the older man to make sure he is doing it right. He looks up again and then closes his eyes, just like the older man. It’s the first time I ever wanted to live long enough to grow old.

Brent comes to me later and says that Allan would like to pray for us. “Great,” I say. “Who’s Allan?” I think what Brent meant was that he’d like Allan to pray for us. I go to Allan, and there are several of us gathered around. Allan asks what we need prayer for. “To love my son.” I go on to tell a little bit about him and what we’ve been growing through.

“That is a sin spirit.  It’s not his fault. He can’t help it.  I’ve seen that before. How old did you say he is?”

“He’ll be ten on Tuesday.”

“Yep, that’s about when it happens.” He goes on to tell us that we have authority over this thing. My job, as the wife, is to set the tone of the house.

“Does he go to school?”

“Yes, when he’s not suspended.”

“Then you cleanse the house when he is gone. You pray for peace in your home. Pray over him when he is sleeping.” He encourages Eric that he has the authority because he’s a Christian, a husband and a father. Whether he believes it or not he has authority over all evil spirits. He goes on to ask someone to get a cloth that he can anoint, one we can hide in our son’s pillow. We all look at each other. Who has a swatch of material? Brent pulls out a burp cloth. “No, that’s a diaper.”  Josh comes back with a 2” X 2” swatch of cloth. I have no idea where he got it. Allan asks if we all agree that this is what we are dealing with, and do we all believe that this is a Biblical way to deal with it? Do we believe that God has the power to make it go away? I find it curious that he never uses the word “demon.” He bases the practice of anointing a cloth on Acts 19. I would remember this reference and look it up later for myself, more for curiosity than anything else. Acts 19: 11-12 “God did extraordinary miracles through Paul, so that even handkerchiefs and aprons that had touched him were taken to the sick, and their illnesses were cured and the evil spirits left them.” He opens a small vial of olive oil and anoints the cloth. Then he folds it. We stand and gather in a circle and hold hands. Allan prays. I can feel decades of wisdom and experience and the gifts of prophecy and healing wrap around me like an electric blanket. He cries for our son. He weeps for God to save his soul. I wonder why I don’t have tears like that for him anymore.  We are done and he asks to pray with our son. He finds him and prays with him in the hallway. When they are done our son comes to find us to hug us and tell us that he loves us. He is calm and peaceful. That’s pretty much how he has been ever since. Allan tells us that they will leave him alone for a while, but they’ll be back, and we will have to continue to fight for his soul.

We have never used the words “demon, sin spirit, evil spirit,” or anything else of the sort with our son, even though I firmly believe that for a long period of time he saw demons in his room at night and was scared to sleep without all of the lights on and usually retreated to our other son’s room in the middle of the night. We always listen and believe what he says about that sort of thing, but we don’t say much in response, as not to put words in his mouth or ideas in his head.

It’s been a week now, a week of calm, a week of peace. Most people who have been around him notice the difference, even though they don’t know why. I have prayed over him every night since we’ve been home. I make sure he’s sleeping with direct contact with that pillow. I pray for peace. I pray that he will know God. Then I speak directly to the demons. I tell them that this child is mine. He is a child of the covenant and I will fight for his soul. I command them to leave him alone, to leave our home. I fear nothing, not the hammer, not the icepick nor anything else. I feel strong. I have faith. I have peace. I have hope.

We are riding back from Wal-mart and my son asks, “Do angels have wings?”

“I don’t know.”

“How many do you think there are?”

“I don’t know.”

“Thousands?”

“Millions, maybe.”

“Are they people who died?”

“No, the Bible says that they are different than humans. They were created to be angels from the start. They were never people.”

“I had a dream a couple of nights ago. There were lots of angels. There were demons too. You and I were there. Actually, the whole family was there, and we were all fighting with the angels against the demons.”

“Were we winning?”

“I don’t know. It was just beginning.”