Families!!
(Names are changed to protect the guilty)

Characters: Francisco Vega (Our 25-year old foster son)
Nancy Soto - his girlfriend
Rev. Vega (Francisco's father)
Rev. Soto (Nancy's father)
Hubby and OF COURSE, me, the screaming woman in red.

Scene 1

Hubby: Dear, here's some food Rev. Soto dropped by. He brought it for Francisco. It seems Francisco called his dad (Rev Vega) and said he's been sick for 24-hours and hasn't eaten. So his Dad, (who lives in Central America, but is visiting family in Texas) called Nancy and said that we are not feeding Francisco. He's sick and hasn't eaten in 24-hours so Rev. Vega ordered Nancy to make some food and take it to Francisco. The Rev. Soto just delivered the mercy package

Me:
He said what?? I'm gonna go ask Franscisco what he said to his dad.

"Knock, Knock" on bedroom door. A bleary-eyed Franciso appears, obviously has been sleeping and looks like he has a headache. I'm about to add to it I fear!

Me: Have you eaten today? (Demanding voice)

Francisco: Si. Si Comi este rato. (Yes, I ate a little while ago)

Me: Do you know where the food in this house is? (In the voice one says, "Where have you been since midnight!")

A confused Francisco: Si, Si. En la nivera. (In the fridge)

Me: Do you ever have to go hungry here? Do you know you have the freedom to fix yourself a meal whenever you want?

Francisco: (Looking around frantically. I'm not sure if he was looking for the usually normal woman who run this household, was looking for an escape or was wondering if he'd awakened in a nightmare.) Si. Y se donde esta la comida. Si. Si. Si. (I know where the food is. Yes.)

Me: Well, your dad just called your girlfriend and told her that I'm starving you. That I won't give you anything to eat and you haven't eaten in a day. Her dad brought over food for you. It's on the stove when you want it.

Francisco: Que? (What?)

Me: Francisco, I don't care if your girlfriend fixes you food and brings it. She can cook you anything special she wants and bring it her. But I really don't like your father calling her father and telling him I'm abusing and mistreating you.

Francisco: Que? No. Seguro que Nancy no mas me cocino algo. Se que puedo comer cualquier cosa aqui. Me trata muy bien. (What? No. I'm sure that Nancy just cooked something special for me. I know I have freedom to eat here and you treat me very well.)

Me: Okay. Your food is on the stove whenever you're hungry.

Francisco: Gracias

Scene 2

THEN . . . My granddaughters had witnessed this conversation. They understand about two words of Spanish.

8-year old: Gramma, why were you yelling at Francisco.

Me: I wasn't yelling. I just asked if he'd eaten.

6-year old: Gramma!! You were yelling. Why were you yelling at Francisco. What did he do?

me: He didn't do anything

8-year old: (mystified) But if he didn't do anything, why were you yelling at him? Are you mad at him?

Me: No. I'm not mad at Francisco. I'm mad at his Dad.

8-year old: What did his Dad do?

Me: He called our friend, Rev Soto and said I wasn't treating Francisco right. That I wasn't feeding him. I just asked Francisco if he had eaten today. I just really don't like his Dad.

6-year old: Why don't you like his Dad?

Me: (Beginning to realize that I'm in over my head. I'm being double-teamed by my Granddaughters and I haven't a clue what to say that's appropriate.) Okay. Suppose you have somebody in your class that you know. That's sort of a friend. One day this friend shows up at your house and says, "I'm coming in to play." The friend goes and takes your favorite toy away from you, messes up some stuff and says, "I'm staying until tomorrow."

6-year old: I wouldn't like that at all.

8-year old: I think I'd tell them to go home.

Me: Well that's kind of what happened with his Dad. So I just don't trust him very much. I make sure he comes to my house for a short period of time.

But the 6-year old won't be distracted.

6-year old: But Gramma. You were yelling at Francisco. Why would you yell if it was his Dad you're mad at?

Me: (THINKING ONLY: Do you want to be the therapist? I think I'm waay out of my league here). ALOUD: Does your Mommy ever yell at you?

Both in a nonchalant voice: Oh sure!

Me: Do you ever get yelled at when it's not your fault.

BOTH: Yeah!

Me: Well Francisco is like my son. Mom's always yell at their kids. It's just the way it is.

Both: Okay

AND THAT WAS THAT!!!

Synopsis

Now let me get this straight. Francisco's father called Francisco's girlfriend to order her to cook. Nancy's father brought the food to us with the message that Francisco's father thinks we're mistreating his son. I respond by yelling at Francisco because I'm mad at his Dad and think Francisco said something to spark this. Who needs therapy most? Me, the therapist?

Christmas Tales
"The Burning Cloth"

Once upon a Christmas, a beautiful hand crocheted lace cloth graced our Yuletide table. It was eventide and the meal was complete. Plates had been removed, glasses carried to the living room for use while we opened presents. The dishwasher was loaded, dessert was set out on the buffet for later, and the dining room still had candles burning. An entire array of candles flickered amidst the greenery on the mantle. On the now empty dining room table in the center of the handmade all cotton tablecloth, two tall slender nutcracker candles continued to burn. Now these candles were the kind one buys at the dollar store, they were painted (probably with lead paint), not dripless, not long-lasting either. What can I say?? They cost one dollar for the two of them and they were cute. (I love nutcrackers!)

The tablecloth was a gift, of sorts. It was beautiful; it was made by hand. It was just the kind of gift that I would have treasured forever. There was one problem. The giver and I have history. Aah, you say, history!

She was an addict with several children: two teen boys and two pre-schoolers. We had helped her off and on for several years. We'd talked to her about the Gospel. From time to time she'd be arrested for being drunken and disorderly, once for shoplifting. If we found out about it in time, we'd check on the boys. Made sure they had a place to stay. We had obtained furniture for her for one apartment when she had only the oldest two boys. On numerous occasions, we had brought food, clothes and other necessities.

But a few summers ago, she had received an eviction notice. She'd brought it for me to translate and explain. I carefully explained what it meant, highlighted what date the Sheriff would come and toss her things out if she had not vacated. We inquired if she had somewhere to go. She assured us she did; she and her current partner, father of the two younger children, would take care of it. I warned her again that things would literally be thrown out on such-and-such a date. She needed to pack necessities for the children and find a place to stay. She said she understood.

We were busy with other things that summer, other missions projects and didn't follow up until I got a call from one of the teen boys. The Sheriff had come that day, tossed out their stuff while mom stood by and wailed. Both boys were with a kindly neighbor and had nothing except the clothes on their backs. When they got home from school, they found nothing but garbage on the ground, he told me. Mom had managed to find someone to lend a truck and had some of the furniture in the back of the truck, but all of their clothes were gone. Less kindly neighbors had rummaged through everything and taken anything else usable. I'm fuming, "She can find a truck AFTER things are thrown out willy nilly! Why not before?" (I didn't say THAT out loud.)

"But she did, at least put some clothes for you in a plastic bag, didn't she?"

She had not. And I was angry. Angry that a mother had not bothered to prepare for the inevitable, had not attempted to protect her teenage sons. As far as I was concerned, she was derelict in her duty. "A change of underwear for her children, at least that," my brain kept sputtering.

I headed to the store, purchased clothing for the week. Eventually one of the boys moved in with us. He finished High School. The other moved in with relatives and had to drop out of school in order to support himself.

About a year later, she brought me the tablecloth out of the blue. It was something she'd said previously she could make for me if I'd just pay for the thread. I smiled graciously, told her thank you, tried hard to remember that she is an addict struggling to keep body and soul together, and paid for the thread. The tablecloth was absolutely lovely. I knew she'd done a lot of work on it, but it reminded me of a woman who couldn't care enough for her children to stick a few clothes in a plastic bag when she knew full well she would be evicted.

We've lost touch with the family. They've moved many times and haven't called in several years. The two older boys work, hold down jobs. As far as I know, mom still drinks and does drugs. The younger children would be teenagers now. I pray for them. Maybe Mom has learned to care for these children, but somehow, I doubt it.

Back to the beautiful cotton tablecloth with two nutcracker candles burning while we were in the other room opening Christmas presents.

Rachel looked up. "I think something's on fire in the dining room," she said.

"It's just the reflection of the candles in the mirror," I replied calmly.

"I don't think so. Something's on fire. I smell smoke," she insisted. And she got up to go look.

Then we heard a shriek, and I raced to the dining room to view my two nutcracker candles bend double, the flame now merged with the burning tablecloth. I turned to the kitchen, grabbed a pitcher, and filled it with water. (No, I still don't have a fire extinguisher in the kitchen, but I do know it's a good idea to have one!)

Rob (my older son) quietly entered the room. Passing the buffet, he picked up the large silver platter of cookies and candy and sat it down on the flames. I scurried into the room with my water pitcher in hand to view a silver platter with smoke seeping out from the sides. Flames all gone. Fire out. Silver platter only slightly warm. Candy and cookies unharmed. The tablecloth, though, sported a 15-inch hole rimmed in black. The table also has a large smoked circle in the antique wood surface.

And every year, someone will look up from opening presents, glance toward the mirror in the family room and say, "Do you remember the year we set the table on fire.?" Then we all laugh at how everyone reacted. Rachel, who had sounded the alarm, stood mesmerized by the fire; I frantically filled a pitcher with water; Christy, Brad, and Bob watched from the kitchen door as Rob put the fire out.

And I remember the charred tablecloth that I tossed in the garbage and pray for a very lost woman who again has two teenage children.