I am a diffident person. I am the kind of person who will patiently let a confident novice instruct me about something I am expert in just to be polite. I will even ask a few questions for clarification. I never assume I know how to do anything, at least not as well as anyone else. In college I called my parents at the end of every semester apologizing for how poorly I had done that term, begging their forbearance and promising to do better the next term. And I was always shocked when my grade report arrived with nothing but A's. Roget suggests I might be called bashful, blenching, chary, constrained, dubious, flinching, rabbity or reserved. I am self-effacing, shrinking, shy, timorous, unassertive, unassuming.
I gave birth to seven children who bear at least some resemblance to me. They all learned to talk early, but learned to talk on the phone late. Some are still mastering the skill, and all are grateful for the faceless nature of facebook and texting, the shy person's friend. They are not all as retiring as I am, but none of them would ever be called bold or brash, cheeky, audacious or forward.
So I am a bit non-plussed by a daughter who told me which shoes she should wear to her first T-ball practice, when she had no idea what T-ball even was, a daughter whose favorite phrase when she hardly spoke any English was, "Mommy, no," often accompanied by a glare or a scowl. Now that she speaks the language almost perfectly her favorite phrase is, "I know." Almost any explanation I try to offer her is interrupted halfway through by, "I know," even though she doesn't. When her younger sister asks me a question about something she doesn't understand I have to be quick to get in the first word, or G will launch into her own, often incorrect, explanation. Had she been born into my family I am sure I would frequently be asking, "Where in the world did this child come from?"
But, of course, I know where she came from - Ethiopia. What I don't know is who she resembles, which strong-willed relative she takes after, or even what early experiences may have shaped her audacious personality. She is like a little bantam rooster in a house of retiring hens. She doesn't fit in very comfortably. Like most introverts, I value caution, self-effacement, thinking (long and hard) before you speak. Even as a child I secretly scoffed at classmates who waved their hands to be called on before the teacher had finished asking the question. As a parent I was always relieved that I never had one like that in my brood. I would rather never be recognized for what I do know rather than blurt out the wrong answer, and my genetic offspring either caught or were taught that same attitude.
Before we met our youngest daughters we had only pictures to study to try to imagine who they would be, what they were like. I knew this daughter was brave - she was always smiling broadly in the sad little orphanage pictures, and I knew she was fiercely protective of her little sister - she always had her arm around the sad little one's shoulders. But I did not know that part of what allowed her to survive her difficult childhood was a brash, dauntless, cheeky courage and the conviction that she could handle anything that came her way, that she already knew most everything she needed to know, that she didn't need any grownup to tell her what to do. So I find myself often piqued at her attitude, annoyed, rather than amazed by her confidence. Instead of praising her chutzpah, I find myself biting my tongue so I don't criticize her presumption. I recognize in myself the lack of grace and acceptance of her "otherness." I see how hard it is to affirm and value the qualities I don't naturally like. I am conscious of how easy it is to love people who are like me, and how hard it is to extend the same unconditional love to someone who is just so different from me. Of course, this is part of what God means to teach me through the experience of adoption. He has shown me how easy it has been to love the children born to me, whereas Christlike love embraces the unlovely (to me), rather than just those I feel comfortable with. He is showing me my pride, my judgmental attitudes, the shallowness of my "love" through this gutsy daughter who is nothing like me.
I gave birth to seven children who bear at least some resemblance to me. They all learned to talk early, but learned to talk on the phone late. Some are still mastering the skill, and all are grateful for the faceless nature of facebook and texting, the shy person's friend. They are not all as retiring as I am, but none of them would ever be called bold or brash, cheeky, audacious or forward.
So I am a bit non-plussed by a daughter who told me which shoes she should wear to her first T-ball practice, when she had no idea what T-ball even was, a daughter whose favorite phrase when she hardly spoke any English was, "Mommy, no," often accompanied by a glare or a scowl. Now that she speaks the language almost perfectly her favorite phrase is, "I know." Almost any explanation I try to offer her is interrupted halfway through by, "I know," even though she doesn't. When her younger sister asks me a question about something she doesn't understand I have to be quick to get in the first word, or G will launch into her own, often incorrect, explanation. Had she been born into my family I am sure I would frequently be asking, "Where in the world did this child come from?"
But, of course, I know where she came from - Ethiopia. What I don't know is who she resembles, which strong-willed relative she takes after, or even what early experiences may have shaped her audacious personality. She is like a little bantam rooster in a house of retiring hens. She doesn't fit in very comfortably. Like most introverts, I value caution, self-effacement, thinking (long and hard) before you speak. Even as a child I secretly scoffed at classmates who waved their hands to be called on before the teacher had finished asking the question. As a parent I was always relieved that I never had one like that in my brood. I would rather never be recognized for what I do know rather than blurt out the wrong answer, and my genetic offspring either caught or were taught that same attitude.
Before we met our youngest daughters we had only pictures to study to try to imagine who they would be, what they were like. I knew this daughter was brave - she was always smiling broadly in the sad little orphanage pictures, and I knew she was fiercely protective of her little sister - she always had her arm around the sad little one's shoulders. But I did not know that part of what allowed her to survive her difficult childhood was a brash, dauntless, cheeky courage and the conviction that she could handle anything that came her way, that she already knew most everything she needed to know, that she didn't need any grownup to tell her what to do. So I find myself often piqued at her attitude, annoyed, rather than amazed by her confidence. Instead of praising her chutzpah, I find myself biting my tongue so I don't criticize her presumption. I recognize in myself the lack of grace and acceptance of her "otherness." I see how hard it is to affirm and value the qualities I don't naturally like. I am conscious of how easy it is to love people who are like me, and how hard it is to extend the same unconditional love to someone who is just so different from me. Of course, this is part of what God means to teach me through the experience of adoption. He has shown me how easy it has been to love the children born to me, whereas Christlike love embraces the unlovely (to me), rather than just those I feel comfortable with. He is showing me my pride, my judgmental attitudes, the shallowness of my "love" through this gutsy daughter who is nothing like me.
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