A Big Sky

When I was twelve I read a book about Catherine The Great, one of Russia's most famous and important rulers.  Then I read another one.  Then I read another one.  Then I read about the last Romanovs, about Peter the Great, and about Elizabeth.  If you are wondering why on earth I am blogging about my Russian high school reading, you should probably  take a look at the last one or two blogs, just beware, it's a doozy....but this is my story. By the time I got to UW and took a class on Soviet History I had veered onto a path that would not only influence my reading list, but would change my life.

I fell in love with Russia. I bought books, collected dolls and learned the language.  Before I even reached college I decided that if I had two daughters, the second one would be named Katrina Joy (thank you Hurricane Katrina for spoiling that hope.)  And all throughout college everything I did was Russian.  If I had to take a class on Latin America, then my papers were on Soviet influence there during the Cold War.  If I took a class on art, then I only wrote about Russian art.  I dreamed of going to Russia, walking along the Neva during White Nights, when the sun never sets because St Petersburg is so far north that in the spring night is transformed into a glowing, iridescent duskiness.  I knew all the art in Moscow museums and St Petersburg palaces. I could tell you the capitols of former Soviet countries but would not be able to locate Indiana on a map.  A fact I am still proud of ;)   I could tell you the Romanov tsars in order, from Peter the Great on, hundreds of years of rulers but I have no idea who the 4th American president was, or the 12th, or the 30th. . .

I did not choose Russia.  Russia chose me.

In 2002 I had my first opportunity to go to Russia.  Our church was partnering with a church in Federal Way to provide a summer camp for children in an impoverished area, south of Moscow.  These children had nothing and we had the chance to go play games with them, see their eyes light up when we held out a box of crayons.  Although that trip chaotically became a life or death experience for me-that story is for another blog or feel free to buy me a latte and I will tell you the dangers of lighting a 30 foot bonfire with gasoline.  But I was in Russia.  Its vastness, its beauty, its determination, are indescribable.  That trip was more than ten years ago but I can picture every moment in my mind like it was yesterday. I can't tell you which moments were better, living in the countryside, with children clinging to my hands, their big eyes shining up at me.  Sitting around a small kitchen table with people who brought us into their warmth, their homes, their families.  Walking through dirt roads, behind cows, watching children play in watering holes, bartering at local markets, and listening to the girls sing rock songs while looking at family photo albums.  Or the city moments, seeing artwork that I had studied for years, walking through churches that had existed for centuries, millennium of money and power, art and history, a people with a depth and breadth who were building themselves up ages before Washington had a Valley and Jefferson had a Declaration.  This was history.  But the history of the city was not possible without the history of the country because her people were one and for Russia to turn on her own people is for her to carve out her own soul.  And I knew all that, I had studied it and was now living it, as Russia would, over and over again.  That is why the Russian sky is so big.  It has so very much to encompass.

My friends teased me about that sky.  I simply could not get over how big it was.  Yes, it's bigger than our sky because everything in Russia is bigger than anywhere else.  It's just big.  Taking the train through the Russian country side, all you see is sky.  It's the transition between city and country.  To know Russia you have to know both.  And as much as any American could, I did.  I came back and dove even further into the language, which tries to drown you, just for fun, and began pursuing a graduate degree in Russian studies with the goal of becoming a professor and sharing my love of Russia with students everywhere. I watched Russian movies, I bought Russian books, and sometimes I even ate Russian food! Not many people purchase huge expansive maps of the former Soviet Union and hang them in their house, but I did.  Every other book in my house is about Russia-art books, economy books, cookbooks, fairy tales, fiction, poetry, and dictionaries.  You need a lot of dictionaries to learn Russian!  I think back on those days, of sitting outside in my backyard with flashcards on verb conjugations and it seems like another lifetime.  It was.  But that love was still tucked inside of me, even as life veered me away and I left my books behind.

I went back to Russia.  A shorter trip, and this time without the hospital visit.  That trip is how Bard and I met.  He went to that church in Federal Way and just so happened to be going on the same trip.  Over sickeningly adorable phone conversations and email flirtations, we discovered we each had a love for Russia, for children, and coincidentally, for each other.  We met up in Moscow and had chocolate crepes, better than any I've had in France, but don't tell them that.  Some of you may remember that Russia was at our wedding.  From tiny gift matroshka dolls, to the crystal glasses we used in our toast, Russia was part of us and we wanted it to be part of our first day together.  And even though my life had not continued its focus on Russia, it continued to be a part of me.  Before we had our own biological children, Bard and I had already decided to adopt from Russia.  More than once I would go down to the basement and find a loose flashcard here or there and decide to visit my old friends, the conjugations.  I still read Russian books, finishing two fairly recently, a fascinating biography about Nureyev and a new one about Catherine the Great, probably my twentieth but not my last.  And when you enter our home, the first framed picture you will see is not of our children (although you will quickly see a LOT of those) but a print of Russia, a map from the muscovite era.

When Evelyn was born we received a lullabies of the world CD and one of the songs was Russian.  Actually, I didn't care for the song itself, it was not nearly as good as my Russian discotech CD, without which my house would never be clean, but I loved it because it was Russian and a few months ago it gave me the idea to purchase a CD entirely of Russian lullabies.  Songs that I could learn for my baby boy and play for him (experts debate the positive influence of reminding an international orphan of his "homeland" due to the negative association he may experience but I thought it was a romantic idea so I went with it!)   I asked for the CD for Christmas.

Some people choose a country to adopt from based on the age or gender of the child they can adopt.  Or the cost of the adoption, ease of travel, or perhaps they know someone else who has adopted from that country.  Sometimes people chose a particular country because of the need of the children within that country, or perhaps they visited that country and met a child they knew was theirs.There are any number of reasons that people can chose a country to adopt from and I am not saying that my pain is greater or lesser than theirs, it is simply my pain.

I did not choose Russia.  Russia chose me.  And I did not just lose a child, I lost a part of me.  I lost the little girl who wanted to name her daughter after Catherine the Great.  Now those books sit on my mantle, mocking me.  I lost the artists, whom I loved, read about, wrote about.  Now the art evokes pain.  I lost the joy of hearing the Russian language when I would walk into the Y, or sit in my Dr's office.  And I lost the beauty on my Christmas tree, taking down ornament after ornament that was a little piece of Russia in my home.  Russia betrayed me.  It took back my love and it took back my child.  It broke my heart.

Big Russian Sky.
Over everything and subject to nothing.  Encompassing the city and the country.  The wealth and the poverty.  At once calm, then a raging storm.  You are beautiful and you are terrible, and so, you are Russia.  But your soul is the people.  Please do not carve out your soul.

The Stockings Were Hung. . .

More than ten years ago I was in Russia, driving through a desolate orphanage in a rural and impoverished region, far from hope, opportunity, and a future.  The image in my head is as clear now as it was in that moment; somehow I would help those children.  At the time, the idea of adopting a Russian child was a far-fetched dream, as my own life was about to go off a cliff, seemingly removing my own hope, opportunity, and future.  But I’ve kept that dream, tucked away in the background and when Bard and I were dating we talked about having children.  He said he thought he wanted two.  I said I wanted three, two biological and one adopted.  He said, okay, domestic adoption.  I said, international. I said from Russia, he agreed.  The pattern for our relationship was set J

From then on it was just a waiting game.  I wondered what gender we would adopt-not knowing because it would be based on the gender of our first two children.  I felt strongly about adopting a little girl, as I knew that most girls who age out of the Russian orphanage system become prostitutes.  But we talked about a little boy as well, joking that his name would be Nicholas, a name that I loved and Bard did not care for at all!  After a year of marriage, we became pregnant with Evelyn.  The dream of having children became a reality, overnight.  While a biological child was growing inside me, a Russian child was growing in my mind and I dreamed of what our family would look like in the years to come.

Our first try at getting pregnant after Evelyn resulted in a miscarriage.  I experienced the loss of that child on every level-physical, spiritual, emotional, relational.  Although I had known intense pain and suffering before this experience I had always been able to see how my life was better because of it, how God had woven beauty through ashes and how even with the pain, there were no regrets.  This was different.  The grief of losing a child never leaves, it becomes part of you.  Even after becoming pregnant with Cecilia, I still missed my second child.  I would never think of Cici taking the place of that child, that is not a consoling thought, in fact, it is a little sickening.

Cici’s pregnancy was healthy and by the time we arrived at her gender ultrasound, I was excited, fairly sure that she was a boy, which would mean we were adopting a girl.  Yes, I was thinking about our adopted child then, and probably every day since then.  I experienced two ultrasounds on that day.  As I lay in bed that night, my little boy became real to me.  I remember the exact moment I realized I would have a boy, as Bard snored beside me!  What would his name be?  Nicholas, like we had joked?  Or would it be Pavel, like my favorite little student from my first Russia trip?  Would he have blond hair, like many Russian children, making him look just like our biological children?  Sometimes in my mind he had blond hair and sometimes it was curly brown hair, with big brown eyes.  I planned his room, a surfer them for Bard and wondered what our bonding would be like.  Bard and I lugged all our Russian books up from the basement and started relearning the language, teaching Evelyn simple phrases like school and bye bye.

We set a time frame, wanting the children to be spaced a few years apart and since we knew the adoption would take about a year, we decided to start the process around the time Cici would turn two years old.  This past fall we started researching agencies, finding some that actually adopted from the very area I had spent time in!  We talked to the girls and Evelyn was excited, all her family pictures now have the smiling face of her “baby brother from Russia.”  Our plan was to sign with an agency after the New Year, probably setting in place bringing the baby home some time next fall.  Due to Russian constraints on international adoption, the child we would adopt would likely be a year old.  All Russian orphans are on a national registry for 9 months-no American is allowed to see them until Russian families have had the chance to adopt them.  Once the children have been rejected by Russia, then they are available to families around the world, or condemned to a childhood of institutionalization (due to extreme Russian stigmas against orphans, there are virtually no foster care systems) until at 16 years old they age out and are welcomed into the open arms of the mafia where they become prostitutes, drug addicts, and often end up in prison or dead.  But I am getting ahead of myself.  All that to say, that if our plan was to bring home a child home next fall, the odds were that the child had already been born. 

Evelyn opens "Cheburashka" for her baby brother.

A few weeks ago, as I was pulling up in front of our house, Christmas plans running rampant through my mind, it suddenly hit me-this was my baby boy’s first Christmas and he would spend it in an orphanage, half way across the world, away from me.  I almost couldn’t bear it.  So, I did what I had done for Christmas while pregnant with my other children.  Hung an extra stocking and bought presents for the child I was waiting to bring into our family.  Five stockings, hung by our chimney with care.  Evelyn knew the stocking was her baby brother’s and told anyone who asked, or didn’t ask!  I bought two children’s adoption books, one of which was about a little Russian boy. And I researched Russian toys, purchasing a little stuffed animal that actually says Russian phrases. I dreamed of taking the little toy with us, when we first met our baby boy. On Christmas the girls “helped” to open their baby brother’s Christmas presents and on the day after Christmas the Russian Parliament voted to ban US adoptions of Russian orphans, effective immediately. 

The girls open baby brother's books.

Bard and I spent 2 days waiting to see if Putin would sign the bill into law.  But on the 2^nd day, with my little boy’s stuffed Cheburashka sitting on the dining room table, I began researching other options.   I looked at several other Slavic/former Soviet countries, many of which have a high Russian population, but due to a variety of reasons, there are not a lot good avenues available to us.  And besides, I can only put so much energy into that research because the rest of my energy is sapped from grief.  Grief from the loss of another child. Grief from the loss of a ten year dream.  Grief for the dozens of families who had already met their child only to have that child ripped away from them by petty political posturing.

You may be thinking, why should I be so upset?  After all, we haven’t even signed with an organization, let alone met our child!  I don’t believe in “ifs” or “Plan Bs” but as sure as the girls playing on the floor in front of me right now, somewhere in Russia is a little boy playing all by himself.  A little boy that was mine.  And while losing my second child was a terrible sorrow, I can comfort myself, somewhat, by believing that child is up in heaven, playing with angels.  But my little boy, playing across the world will continue to play all alone.  His future has been ripped from him as surely as he was ripped out of my waiting arms.  A miscarriage is a terrible thing, unnatural and painful.  But with a miscarriage, it is not purposeful.  Someone is not deciding to take your child from you, it just happens.  And although the terrible randomness of it is one of the hardest things to come to terms with, in a strange way, it helps with the grieving process.   My grief is mine.  Please do not thump scripture at me that I am not ready to hear yet, or tell me that some other child will be blessed to be in our family.  Although well meaning, that is not helpful.  Just grieve with me.  I am bleeding because someone aborted the child who was growing inside of my heart.

This is what the Lord says: "A voice is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more."

Jeremiah 31:15

Luippold Family 2012

Luippold Family 2012

Happy Holidays to you and yours! Our family has experienced an amazing year, full of family, friends, and adventures,.  We wanted to share our year with you, but mostly we are writing to let you in on a new and exciting part of our lives. . .more on that later!

One of the highlights of 2012 for us was Evelyn’s first dance recital. Several of Bard’s family members, including Evelyn’s great grandmother from California, traveled up to see her perform so we all had a wonderful visit over her recital weekend.  For Kristin it was emotional and moving to dance onstage with Evelyn after two decades of teaching ballet to hundreds of other little ballerinas-there were a few tears shed and a few million pictures taken!

Then, the summer was a whirlwind of Sports Camp-an event that our church puts on for kids in the neighborhood-a trip to the San Juan Islands for Kristin and Bard, a visit from Bard’s younger brother, a family camping trip, and a vacation to San Diego with Kristin’s parents and brother’s family.

The summer culminated in a trip to the East Coast, which was an emotional blend of sadness, joy and lifetime memories.  Our trip was last minute; Bard’s grandma passed away at the end of August, following Bard’s grandpa who had passed away in November of last year.  These two people were a treasure, part of a lost generation who exemplified grace, beauty, dignity, and life at its best.  Their loss will always be felt but their legacy will live on. Bard’s grandma was truly effervescent and to celebrate her life was one of the most meaningful experiences of our year. That emotion was directly followed by an incredible trip to New York.  A previously scheduled business trip allowed us to visit Bard’s grandparents in Albany and to be in Manhattan for several days as a family.  We entered the city on 9/11 and spent time at Ground Zero, which was a tremendously visceral experience for both of us.  You may know Bard’s story of being there during the terrorist attacks and the power of that memory, along with Kristin’s dream of visiting New York created such a palpable experience that I doubt we will encounter anything like that again.

That brings us to fall. Honestly it’s hard to believe that Cecilia will soon turn 2 years old! She is an absolute delight and we’ve filled our fall with fun family time enjoying our beautiful growing girls.  Which leads to next year.  2013 will likely bring the biggest change, challenge, and intensity that we’ve faced as family.  You see, we are beginning the process of adopting a baby boy from Russia!  Kristin visited a Russian orphanage years ago and felt God laying on her heart to one day embrace a child from that community. Since we have both been to Russia and in fact our very connection is based on that country, it only seems natural that Russia become a tangible part of our family.  Also, sadly, Russia is one of the worst places in the world for orphans.  The need is unfathomable; over 700,000 children are designated orphans in Russia, and less than 15,000 of them will be adopted each year. Russian orphans age out of the system at 16, after which the majority enter a life of drugs, crime and prostitution. 

Adoption will present many tough challenges.  But the very foundation of our faith is that we are adopted into God’s family, redeemed by His perfect love.  We hope to share that love with just one child.  And we hope to bless other orphans in Russia through this process as well.  Over the next few months we will use our blog and Facebook to post information about the adoption, and about how you can help other children in Russia through organizations working to support orphan care in Russia.

We have been so blessed this year, a time of vacations, little extras, and lots of love.  Next year will bring challenges that we cannot currently imagine. But ultimately we know it will once again be a year full of blessings and love.  And that’s all that matters.  Please join us in prayer, in spirit, in family, and God willing, by next year you will receive a Christmas letter from us introducing our precious son!