It’s a fleeting spring day. We will have snow several more times, probably at least one more cold spell, and the weather will hem and haw its muddy way through the next couple of slushy months until we are dried out and blooming again.

 

But for today, we had sun. We ran errands in forty degrees and felt free without hats and mittens. Vin took most of the kids shopping while I took two of the girls to a local ice cream joint because Iree had earned a special treat. For just over $6, we ate mint chocolate chip and fireweed honey and chatted with tourists.

They asked if I recommended the ice cream, what fireweed jam tastes like, and what the heck a lingonberry is. They asked if I lived here. They asked if I was born here. They did not (amazingly enough) ask if I personally knew any political figures from here (wow!) which is probably the saving grace that kept me from pointing out the bumper sticker on the nearby rack that said, “Alaska is FULL. I hear the Yukon is lovely, though.”

Really, they were nice. Then they mentioned that they were sad to be leaving because it looked like it was almost spring here. “Actually,” I tried to tell her, “our spring is not really ‘spring.’ It’s muddy and messy and gross. It smells bad and looks terrible.”

She nodded with condescending expertise. “Oh, I know. It’s just like that at home, in Pennsylvania.”

Oh. Of course. Yes, I’m sure…it’s just like that. Pardon me.

Smile, wave bye-bye, and leave. Just like that, easy.

Everyone wants to be an expert. Everyone wants a little respect for knowing something. We’re all guilty. Usually it’s harmless.

Sometimes it’s not.

Our kids go swimming once a week, and next door is a place I’ve been curious about for a while. Our social worker mentioned it for our adoption and I thought I’d stop in just to check it out.

{have you ever done that, and left wishing that you had made an appointment to have all your teeth removed instead?}

I had Chamberlain and Reagan with me. We walked in and were greeted by the receptionist.

“Hi,” I said. Smile. “We finalized our adoption six months ago and I just wanted to look around here. Is that okay?”

“Are you having any problems?”

Um. Well. That’s a loaded question and I had no idea how to answer. So I fumbled with, “No…not really…well, just the normal stuff. Whatever normal is, anyway…” and I smiled again, hoping she understood.

She didn’t…but it was worse than not understanding. Instead, she knew all about us, and there was no correcting her.

“Six months home? Oh, you’re just fine. You’re still in the honeymoon. Let me show you the library we have here.”

“Actually, our honeymoon was over after three days with one of them, and we never had a honeymoon with the other,” I said.

She is looking at Chamberlain and doesn’t try very hard to hide the fact that she’s rolling her eyes at what I just said. “No, you’re still in it. Trust me. Just wait, it’ll get worse.”

Oh. Thank you so much.

Then she talked to me about books for adopting toddlers. And adopting from Russia. She never once asked how old the children were, where we adopted from, or how many other children we have. She obviously assumed that the children I had with me were both adopted and both toddlers, and since they were both white we had probably adopted from Russia.

Ohhhh. Of course.

I smiled. I really tried, at least…I think I was smiling. And I asked her, “Have you adopted?”

She straightened up a little. “Um, no. No, I haven’t…but I’ve done guardianship. Yep, I’ve been through it allll with attachment.”

Yes. Yes, of course you have. Except you haven’t, I thought, and left. Smile, wave bye-bye, and leave.

I felt like I’d been puked on by someone who was supposed to be there as a resource and instead was there only to inflate her own ego. It’s not the first time we’ve seen this in the adoption process...or the medical field…or anywhere.

We assume so much, and often know so little.

A while back, in an extremely rare situation, Vin was scheduled to work until the wee hours of the morning. I knew I was going to bed alone, locking up alone, turning off lights and tucking in kids by myself. I know that many married women do this often for a variety of reasons but I am not one of them. I made the best of it and thought I’d get some writing done, some primping done, and go to bed at a reasonable hour…say, 1 am. Maybe two.

Ha.

I’m obviously not responsible enough to put myself to bed at a reasonable hour. So after procrastinating for two hours, I stayed up until 3 am blogging, writing, and eating ridiculous amounts of ice cream. I felt safe, really. I can imagine few things more terrifying for an intruder than to be met with an Alaskan woman wearing an avocado mask, on a sugar high, with a .44 in one hand and her knitting needles in the other.

We had a situation over the last year that kept us on our toes, tightly sealed, and on the alert for months. We were on the lookout and on our knees for someone who had demanded more grace than most of us had left.

There are people that are presumptuous and intrusive and insincere, lacking boundaries and wanting camaraderie. Instead they are met with grace. People who willfully put themselves in a corrupt situation that hurts others, seeking acceptance and even hoping for approval. What they are getting is grace.

Maybe they don’t even know the difference.

My heart knows the difference, though. And my heart feels better when I am giving grace instead of giving in…or getting even.

 

“Oh, Mrs. Clennam, Mrs. Clennam,” said Little Dorrit, “angry feelings and unforgiving deeds are no comfort and no guide to you and me. My life has been passed in this poor prison, and my teaching has been very defective; but, let me implore you to remember later and better days. Be guided only by the healer of the sick, the raiser of the dead, the friend of all who were afflicted and forlorn, the patient Master who shed tears of compassion for our infirmities. We cannot but be right if we put all the rest away, and do everything in remembrance of Him. There is no vengeance and no infliction of suffering in his life, I am sure. There can be no confusion in following him, and seeking for no other footsteps, I am certain!”

– Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit

I’m learning that grace looks different in different circumstances. For example, in some cases we can smile and nod…and that’s grace.

In other cases, we can forgive…and also decide ahead of time that if a certain situation occurs, we will make every effort to aim judiciously and…and…only shoot the intruder in the leg, instead of a more vital area.

And that’s grace, too.