Rather than Rebar

It was 1996 and we had one child. We wanted more children and the Lord was leading us to adopt a sibling group of three from foster care in Texas. My Hero worked at that time at Weld Wheel Industries in Kansas City and many of his coworkers were excited to hear of our adoption journey.

He walked into the purchasing office one day and the woman there asked him how the adoption was going. He told her about the three kids and she said, "That is so exciting! You are going to be like those people in Reader's Digest!"

He jokingly replied, "You mean the guy who gets a piece of rebar through his brain and has to walk through rough terrain for 10 miles to get help?"

She laughed and said, "No! The people who adopt 10 kids!"

A co-worker had overheard part of the conversation and asked, "Who's adopting 10 kids?"

"Mark is!" she answered.

The guy shook his head and said, "I'd rather have the rebar."

We adopted the three. In 2001, we adopted two more. This week we finalized the adoption on our youngest three children. That makes nine. We have decided that in order to avoid becoming "those people" in Reader's Digest, we are stopping at 9.

Then there was a goat in my bed

One afternoon, in the fall of my senior year of high school, I trudged in after a long day of chemistry and trigonometry. I flung my backpack on the couch and headed for my bedroom to mope like all 17-year-old girls do. In spite of years of experiences, I was stunned when I opened my bedroom door and was met with a “baaaa-aaaa.” 

There was a goat on my bed. It wasn’t a very big goat, but it was a goat looking at me with my nightshirt dangling from his mouth.

I closed the bedroom door and stood for a minute. Shaking my head, I walked back through the living room and picked up my backpack. As I grasped the front doorknob, I turned to my mother who had just walked into the room and said, “Should I try this again, or is there something you want to tell me?”

“Oh. You mean the goat?” she replied as if this were a perfectly sane conversation.

“So, there really is a goat on my bed? He’s eating my pajamas. … You put a goat in my bedroom to eat my pajamas?” I blinked.

“Well, it’s like this… “ she started and I knew it was going to be good. “I was vacuuming and there was a knock at the door. When I opened the door, the goat was standing there and he walked right in. So, I put him in your bedroom.” And she smiled and began dusting the coffee table.

When I regained my ability to speak, I asked, “What do I do with the goat, Mom?”

“Whatever you like, but he seemed pretty intent on staying.”

"I'm not sleeping with the goat, Mom."

In the following days, we tried to figure out who owned the goat. The neighbors had a small farm outside of town, so when we couldn't figure it out, they took the goat to their farm.

I think about these stories and I wonder why I am half as normal as I am.