With some of the friends that we made through the adoption process, there was also mentioned the idea of selecting a handfull of names and allowing the child (assuming they were old enough) to select their new name.

Never really convinced that was a great idea, once when I was visiting Haiti, I asked Wilton, “If you could change your name when you come home (although we love the name that your birth-mom and birth-dad gave you), what name would you choose?”

His answer . . .

“Umm . . . I think . . . Jackie Chan!?!”

When we met her (by photograph via email), her name was Meremen. 

As we got into the adoption process, we were told that her birth-given name was Roselene (pronounced: Rose-leen), and at that time we were told that her nickname was Meremen (pronounced: Mare-a-men).  The people at the orphanage told us that “Meremen” was what she had always been called, but no one (not even the Haitian nannies or Wilton her brother) could tell us where the name came from or what it meant.

The adoption community at large (as far as I can tell) has two, exactly-opposite ideas on names and the naming for children.  One view, I’ll call it the Biblical-based-idea, is the idea that the re-naming of an adoptive child is representative of the new life of the child.  Names (and new God-given-names) are certainly significant in the Bible.  Adam and his duty of the naming of “every beast of the field and every bird of the sky” (Genesis 2:19) is indicative of God’s giving Adam responsibility over each of them.  In the Old Testament, God renamed Abram to Abraham (at the time of His covenant) and Jacob was renamed Israel.  In the New Testament, Cephas was renamed Peter (renamed by Jesus at the time of his calling) and Saul was renamed Paul (upon his conversion).  In each event, the old name was from the old life . . . new life, new name.

Now, although I called it the Biblical-based-idea, I am not trying to imply that the Bible instructs us to rename our adoptive children, but there is certainly great Biblical significance in re-naming.

In this same thought process, there are certainly, non-Christians who believe that re-naming an adoptive child is a good thing.  It’s proof that things are new — a new family, a new home, maybe a new country, or a new language . . . certainly a new life.

There are also instances where children from other countries need to be renamed for cultural and social reasons.  For the staunch dissenters, here is an example: some of our friends adopted a boy from Haiti and his birth-name was Bloody.  Definitely a tough name if you pronounce it in English; although in Haitian-Kreyol it is pronounced “Blue-dee.” 

The other naming-philosophy (as if I speak for the adoption community at large, ha) is a family-history-based-idea.  With this idea, parents allow children (and even encourage children) to keep their birth-given names — out of a desire to help the child stay connected to their birth parents, to their culture and to their birth country. 

Jenny (my wife) and I wrestled with both options, and decided that for our children, keeping their birth-names was best.  We have great admiration for the childrens’ birth parents and can’t imagine being in their position.  Their mother gave them up for adoption not out of discontent or our of not wanting them, she did it because she loved them.  She gave them up for adoption because she knew it would help ensure their survival.  She did it not to “give them a shot at a better life” but simply, to give them life.  I know this because in January of 2004 I sat with her at a small table in Haiti and (through a 10 year old best-as-he-could-do translator) talked with her . . . assuring her that her children would be greatly loved and greatly cared-for and promising her that we would not let them ever forget her, her late husband, or the country where they were born.  More on this heart-pounding (I was terrified), unbelievable, priceless experience next time.

When the kids finally came home (and as their English progressed) we were able to find out a little more information about the name “Meremen.”  See if you can decipher the riddle . . .

Q – Was “Mermen” your name in Haiti?

A – Yes.

Q – Was “Meremen” always your name in Haiti?

A – Yes.

Q – Did you birth-mom and birth dad call you “Mermen”?   

A – Ummmm . . . I think, no. 

Q – So, the entire time you lived in Haiti, everyone called you Meremen? 

A – yes.

And so every few weeks, we would revisit this line of questioning again — to either Wilton or Meremen — and we would get the same answers.  And then a few weeks ago, we had a break-through.  “Haiti” was the name the children had given to the orphanage, the building.  Their world was so completely small, they didn’t know that they lived on an island or in a country, much less the name of the country.  And, actually, at one point in the adoption process, Roselene thought we lived at the bottom of the hill (whoever heard of an ocean or an airplane??).  If you take a look at the questions above and replace the word “orphanage” every time we said “Haiti”, it makes perfect sense.  So, after a few more questions, as best we can tell, “Meremen” was a name that Roselene was given when she got to the orphanage (at age 3) – she never asked for it, she never agreed to it and we are still in the dark as to where it really came from.  It’s not on any papers and it is most certainly not what she was called by her birth-parents. 

After a year of being home, friends and family (who are just now learning how to pronounce “Meremen”) will certainly take some time to get used to the not-really-new new-name.  But, if you happen to call her “Meremen,” she will politely say with a smile, “Um.  Excuse me?  Could you please call me Roselene?”

Meremen came home from summer school the other day with a band-aid on her finger — wrapped in white-medical tape.  The teacher said, “Meremen had to go to the clinic today . . . because at recess . . . well, she tried to catch a bee.”

I smiled and looked at Meremen who was trying to keep her lips sealed while fighting to hold back a grin.  ”Why in the world would you try to catch a bee, baby?” I asked.  “Well . . . ” she said, “it had landed on me once already and it didn’t bite me that time . . . and, he tried to do it again, and I didn’t want him to do that anymore.”

I think by the time school was over and she was at home the pain had worn off.  But, it’s always fun to fill a ziplock-bag with ice and carry it around for the afternoon — and that seemed to do the trick just fine.

Note to self:  No more catching bees. 

the first family photo:  I had been in Haiti for a few days wrapping-up all of the final INS and US Immigration steps needed to bring Wilton and Meremen home.  Which, as an aside, if you think that moving through the D.O.T. line is slow, try getting a Visa at the US Embassy in downtown Port-Au-Prince!!  Luckily, we had been forewarned by some friends and I was armed with coloring books, fruit snacks, granola bars and water . . . four hours in a small, hot, waiting room was a serious test of patience.  Meremen and I even wrote a song, “Ou bezwen patience, ou bezwen patience, ou bezwen patience.”  The monotony of “You need patience” was somewhat soothing.  On traveling-day, we had gotten up early that morning and traveled from Haiti to Miami (long-layover) and onto Atlanta.  After two years in the process, it was all-smiles to have everyone under the same roof.

the first time in a sprinkler:  While this may seem like an inconsequential “first”, what most of us would consider to be good-summer-time fun, would be seen as an inexplicable waste of water for any Haitian.  The kids had only been home for a day before they headed off to day-camp at church.  SPLASH-DAY was a huge hit.  Jenny said that not only was it for sure the first time they had ever played in that much water (sprinklers, water-guns and slip-n-slides), it was the first time they had ever been on grass barefoot before.

the first time to a restaurant:  (see previous post for loading up the car to go eat).  The kids (and mom and dad) love going out to eat . . . and when I say “going out to eat,”  I mean, “going out to eat Mexican-food!”

the first day of school:  Wilton and Meremen had both been attending a school in Haiti since coming to the orphanage, so they understood the general schedule and idea of going to a school.  Unfortunately, as we have discovered, the school in Haiti seemed to consist mainly of copying words off of the black-board, trying to behave in order to keep from getting whacked by the teacher, and trying not to have your stuff looted by the school staff (i.e. when we visited the orphanage, the teachers would tell them, I know your parents are visiting from America, you better bring me something — usually candies, snacks, etc . . . explains how the batman watch disappeared).

the first day of cold weather:  In the winter, Haiti cools down to the high 80’s.  Once when I was visiting the orphanage, Wilton and Meremen insisted that we move out of the shade and into the sun (they were shivering in the shade!).  Needless to say, the cold weather was new . . . as was the fact that it was going to last for a few months.  The new jackets, hats and bunny ear-muffs seemed to help in coping with the cold! 

I can't explain why we have put it off until now, but on Sunday at the 9:00 AM service, Wilton and Meremen will be baptized.  Amazingly, this Sunday marks the exact one-year anniversary of Wilton and Meremen coming home.  We would love to see you on Sunday morning and to have you there for the service. I almost can't believe that this Sunday will mark the one-year anniversary of Wilton and Meremen being home.  There are some things that make it feel they have been home forever (the way they relate to and play wonderfully with Harrison and Abbey — except for the visibly obvious, you would think that Harrison and Wilton were separated at birth) and there are some things that make it feel like it has only been a short-while (like Wilton still calling shorts "dee-otha pants"). ha haThe first year has been filled with lots of "firsts." Riding bikes, swimming at the pool, going to the beach, playing basketball, playing on a soccer team, eating dinner at restaurants (which by the way, I am afraid they think that all restaurants serve chips and salsa when you sit down — we are a crazy Mexican-food loving family), we even got to take them to Disney World (along with 15+ other family members thanks to the generosity of my mom and Beebo).

We have certainly had a more difficult year than we planned for. We had braced ourselves for so many things . . . how will Abbey and Harrison deal with having new siblings? how will they respond to being out of birth-order? how will our community respond to a bi-racial family? will Wilton and Meremen have attachment issues? or affection issues? language issues? adjustment issues? These have only been secondary issues.

These are the things that we spent our two years in waiting thinking about and reading about and praying about. But what we didn't expect were the adjustment issues facing mom and dad (me and Jenny).

There is probably a school of thought out there to keep your children's and family's struggles to yourself . . . and for those people, I will say, "everything is good . . good . . yes, very good." But to the realists, I will tell you this . . . going into this process, I sub-consciously thought (not good theology), "Man, God is going to be really proud of me. Yep, storing up some treasures in heaven for this one." And now I see the much bigger(and truthful) story of our adoption process. Just like our biological children, God has used this process to show us that there isn't any amount of good-deeds that can bring us closer to Him. And in our own strength and in our own will-power we are simply short-tempered, self-centered, easily tired and easily frustrated. Our first year with four children has brought us closer to the end of relying on ourselves and, thankfully, it has brought us to the foot of the cross and to relying on Him alone. We love because He first loved us.

Wilton and Meremen's first year at home (which is only a few weeks away — they came home in June 2005) has been packed with "firsts."  Unlike our biological children, who we were able to watch when they said their first word, or took their first steps, or had their first birthday, or lost their first tooth, Wilton and Meremen's "firsts" have been more unique, more profound to watch and more enlightening to the how different life is here in the United States.

 – the first time on an escalator:  In the Miami airport, as Wilton and Meremen and I exited the plane and entered the airport, one of our first obstacles was the escalator.  I had a backpack on one shoulder and a guitar bag over the other, one hand holding Wilton's hand and one hand holding Meremen's hand.  I could tell that they were both scared (in general) of the airport, all the people, the noise, etc., and I could tell that they were terrified of whatever this metal-teeth-people-moving-monster that we were about to step on to.  Wilton was the first to step and as he was moving-up, Meremen froze, unwilling to take the first step on.  And, since I can only stretch so far, and since I wasn't about to let go . . . as the distance between Wilton and Meremen stretched to exactly 6'0", Meremen was yanked onto the escalator.  I am still not sure that Meremen is totally comfortable with escalators.  This story may explain why.

– their first time in a car on smooth roads:  Haiti barely has a working road system.  While I was there, I became the truck driver for the orphanage and the rules are fairly simple, stay on the right hand side of the road (most of the time), watch out for pot-holes (some about the size of a kitchen table), watch out for people walking, honk your horn every 5-10 seconds (usually to let someone know you were there, that they should move, etc), and don't make eye contact (apparently making eye contact gives up your right-of-way).  Wilton and Meremen had ridden in the orphanage truck with me in Haiti to go to grocery store or to the fruit market, but coming home, with Mom, Harrison and Abbey (and our Honda Odyssey) waiting at the airport was all new — your very own leather-seated, personally air-conditioned, double arm-rest captain's chair! 

– the first time to church:  The kids and I came home on a Saturday night and even though we knew there might-should be some time to rest and relax and let everyone get adjusted, we thought, "If there was ever a day for us to go to church – to give praise and worship to our God who brought us through this process, it would be today."  Maybe not such a great idea!?!!??  To make a long-story short, somehow the kids broke-out of their church service, dashed passed security (seriously) and came and found us in church.  I don't remember all the details, but first they were with us in church, then we took them to their church, they broke-out, they went back, they apologized for running-out, Harrison cried, they all cried, we went back into church, we had to get up and walk out, and then we decided to just go home.

– the first time out to a restaurant:  The second day that the kids were home was a busy day.  We had planned on having them home almost a year and a-half earlier and had decided that the best therapy during the waiting was to try to move on through life.  So Jenny and the kids were working at camp and we were a few weeks into building a new house.  So, after a morning of camp (and the first-time Wilton and Meremen had ever played in a sprinkler, or played in grass barefoot), Jenny raced the kids across town to the doctor's office for their physicals.  And on the way, she handed the kids back a lunch that she had packed, knowing they would be pressed for time.  So she handed each child a pb-n-j sandwich, a small bag of chips and a juice box.  So, fast-forward through the doctor's visit (which was not the first time they had seen a doctor, but was definitely the first-time that Jenny has ever had to physically restrain one of our children, while they were screaming at the top of their lungs, while the nurse was drawing blood for testing), through the afternoon and time for dinner.  I came home from work, came upstairs and announced to everyone that we were going out to eat dinner.  And to anyone who knows us, it is implied, when we say "going out to dinner", we mean "going to eat Mexican food."  Since Wilton and Meremen had only been home for three days, I had been speaking mainly Creole to them and so I told them in Creole, "Ou bezwen ale a machine.  Nou ale manje."  (You need to go to the car.  We are going to eat.)  Makes sense, right?  So, as all four children are jumping and rejoicing (Wilton and Meremen have no idea why really, but at this point have caught-on quickly to copying Harrison and Abbey), they get on shoes and start climbing into the van.  Meremen climbs into the back of the car, starts looking around her seat in a mild-panic and says to me, "Dad, I no see my food.  I no have any food."  Ha!  It makes perfect sense, this is how we eat meals at home.  It's how they ate lunch and it is exactly what I had said, "You need to get in the car.  It's time to eat." 

Before kids came home from Haiti, people would remark, "when Wilton and Meremen come home, it's going to be like being in Disney World." 

Just think of it . . . from a small village in Haiti, a one room "house" for a home, no running water, no electricity, no family doctor, a blanket for a bed, from the poorest country in the Western hemisphere . . . to all of this.

To say that Wilton and Meremen's world has changed is an understatement.  Even when I was in Haiti visiting the kids, a ride in the truck and a trip to the supermarket was primo entertainment, ice cream (crem') was a first experience when Jenny visited, candy was a treat and all the kids at the orphanage would lineup at the refrigerator at the chance of getting a piece of ice to eat.  

Imagine this . . . it wasn't until my second trip to visit the children in Haiti that Meremen started to understand that we didn't live at the bottom of the hill.  She asked me why we didn't come and visit her more often and my explanation of an ocean, of the island of Haiti, of the United States, of the state of Georgia, was at best, partially understood.  

Even the Miami airport was a shock to the kids.  A staircase that moves by itself (an escalator) was our first obstacle at the airport.  About 50 yards off the plane, I practically had to drag both kids on to it – their eyes huge with caution and fear.  The first few weeks at home the "new-ness" of everything was overwhelming:  water from the fridge, ice on demand, their very own beds, sleeping with a pillow, playing on grass, sprinklers, bathtubs, eating at a restaurant, a bike, new toys, and on and on and on. 

So, if an escalator at Miami airport created wide-eyed little amazement, you can only imagine what Disney's Main Street view of Cinderella's castle was like for Wilton and Meremen.  Thanks to the generosity of my mom and my step-father, twenty one of us got to spend a week at the magical world of Disney.  All four kids loved the parks, the characters, the rides, the parades and the great time with family.  

It was interesting to see how each child handled and processed all of the sensory-overload that IS Disney at each park and around every corner.  Wilton loved the rollercoasters.  Space Mountain, loved it, Splash Mountain, loved it, Big Thunder Mountain, loved it, Rock-n-Roll roller coaster (which by the way takes off like a bullet out of a gun — from 0 to 60 in a few seconds, three upside-down loops all with blaring Aeorsmith music), loved it.  A Bug's Life 3-D Adventure . . . tears.  Harrison was almost exactly the opposite.  He braved each ride (including the Rock-n-Roll rollercoaster), each time excited to go . . . and then by the end of the ride, not so excited and a little white in the face.  Abbey and Meremen loved their princess breakfast, loved the tea-cups and with the help of Jenny, they had their picture taken with a ton of characters.

I can't imagine two other places more different than the poverty-stricken hills of Haiti and the imagination-bricked roads of the Magical Kingdom.  I pray that they never forget . . . either.   

It is an oddity to me that a disoriented, bottle-nosed whale can grab the headlines of papers across the globe and “steal the hearts” of millions of people.  The little amount of video footage I saw showed hundreds, if not thousands, of people lining the streets and bridges to watch the rescue attempt.  I don’t think that I could even come close to guessing at the number of people-hours that were devoted (and that are still being devoted in autopsies and blood tests and kidney tests, etc) to saving this one helpless animal.  Don’t get me wrong, I think that it is a sad situation with a lousy ending . . . but it is strange.  And it’s not strange in a surprising kind of way; it’s strange in a “makes me wonder” kind of way.  And here’s why . . .

UNICEF reports that approximately 1.9 million children (under the age of 5) die every year due to diarrheal diseases because of the lack of safe drinking water — over 5,000 children each day.  5,000 children a day.  And with a very few exceptions, there are no front-page headlines.  No interviews.  No autopsies.  No hundreds of people stopping in their tracks to take notice.  And it’s not like these 5,000 deaths per day are from incurable diseases; they are from the simple lack of safe drinking water.

I am not trying to make an argument that there is no place in the media for the sad story of the whale, though it is strange to me that at the news of a misguided whale, the world stops to listen, to watch and to rescue.  But then, at the statistics of children dying, we all too often shrug our shoulders, furrow our brow in sadness, say a sympathetic “HMmm, so sad” and then move on with our lives.  

One whale stuck in a river is a task feasible of taking on.  An easily defined problem: the whale shouldn’t be in river.  An easily defined solution:  move the whale out of river.  An easily defined timeline:  when the whale is moved, the task is complete.  An easily defined outcome:  the whale moved = success, the whale dies = failure.  I found the same trend in my own life just a few weeks ago.  I was pulling my car out of my parking space and I noticed a women and her daughter with the hood of their car up apparently in need of a battery-jump (the car needed a jump.  I have jumper-cables and I had 3 minutes to spare).  I rolled down the window, offered some help, and four minutes later, I was on my way.  Just a few days later, I saw a person on the side of the highway working on changing a flat tire . . . a few excuses-in-my-head later (and at least long enough to get a few seconds at 60 miles per hour past the problem), I passed at the need for help, justifying my lack of “Good Samaritanism” with a long list of excuses — it’ll take too long, it’d be too dangerous, why doesn’t she have roadside assistance?, there’s probably somebody on the way to help out, she looks like she knows what she’s doing, I’m in the wrong lane to get over, I’m not even sure I can change a flat, and on and on and on. 

Most of the time, we evaluate a problem before we offer to help.  How much time is this take?  Is this going to cost me anything?  Will I be inconvenienced by this?  Is it really possible to make a difference?  Is the problem something that is too big to tackle?  Too big to “get my arms around” as my coporo-jargo friends like to say?

If this idea of 5,000 children dying every day due to lack of safe drinking water is too “big” to grasp, let me try and help.  In Haiti there is no public water system.  One report said that 42% of infant deaths in Haiti are attibuted to unsafe drinking water.  Even at the orphanage (HCRM) the water has to be trucked in every few days and pumped into the houses cisterns.  The cistern pumps the water to the tank of the roof, and that provides the water pressure to the house.  The water is visibly clean, but it is not drinkable (although most of the children drink it, brush their teeth in it, etc). 

In talking more with Wilton and Meremen about how they grew up, we discovered that one of Wilton’s chores (at age 4) was to walk everyday to get water.  We also found out that drinking water for their family meant going down to the stream, washing clothes on the rocks and then filling up a bucket full of water for drinking and cooking.  Not surprising, since only 1 in 10 Haitians have access to piped water.  I guess that would also explain why one of the kids favorite things to do (at least for the first three weeks that they were home) was to get water out of the refridgerator door.

We take so much in our lives for granted . . . including clean, drinkable, water.

The big day is finally here . . . my wedding day??  the day my son was born, or my daughter??  the day my adopted children finally came home??  No.  Today is my first day as an infantile blogger.  A neophyte entering in to the expansive world of self-proclamative authors known as the blogging commuity.  Ok, those are most of the big words that I know.  (Which, as an aside is, I think, one of the reasons that so many people like to blog.  How often do you get to use the words you learned in AP English class?  Not often enough, I guess). 

So why a blog?

I hope to create a place where families can share their adoption stories . . . where people can share their miracle of adoption with friends, family, co-workers, and neighbors . . . where people can share their story of God working through their family and through their adoption journey.  I hope to create a place where people can read of the stories and mircales of God, and although they may see our good works, I pray they would give praise and honor to our Maker, Creator and Protector.

To the One who breaks the arm of the wicked and defends the orphan,

Jeffrey Pinkerton