BY MIA MORRISON
One, two, three, four . . . Passersby look on with a mix of curiosity and amazement as the children keep piling out of the van. Five, six . . . there couldn’t be any more . . . seven, eight!
Restaurant patrons out for a quiet meal sigh with mixed feelings of dread and amusement. Servers cross their fingers, hoping not to be stuck with this menagerie. You can almost hear their thoughts:
This is going to be a long lunch. Honestly, how many children do they need? H’mmm, what an odd-looking family; I wonder how that worked out.
I can’t help agreeing with them; to a bystander the Morrison crew looks like a recipe for disaster: eight incredible children of different races, personalities; each with their fair share of issues.
“Mom, Mom, come quick!”
“What is it, Travis? What happened?”
“A masked man is following me! He ran across the field into the woods.”
At the time we lived in a large farmhouse on 200 acres. We were running a farm with cows, bulls, and goats, complete with 425 chickens, the product of our family business. My brother had begrudgingly been doing some extra chores, a result of an earlier altercation, when he ran into the house with the fantastic story of a masked man. “He was coming for me, Mom!”
“Who was coming for you?”
“The masked man. I was so scared I threw a shovel at him and told him to go away!” Incoherent words followed in rapid succession. Gathering as much information as she could, my mom phoned Dad at work, 40 minutes away. He left work immediately, coming home to protect his family. Next the police were called, and K9 units were bought out. All were understandably confused as the story kept changing, making it hard to know just where to look for this “masked man.”
Nevertheless, all of our land and much of the surrounding parts were searched. A few hours later all parties gathered to discuss just what to do next, as the presence of the “masked man” was still to be determined.
“I was just joking,” said Travis. “Ha, ha, I had you all fooled. I was tired of doing chores.” My parents exchanged a look of absolute horror and embarrassment. To have been duped so thoroughly by a child, causing such a ruckus, the loss of work and a wasted day, all because an incorrigible child was upset because his will was crossed.
Flames leap high into the air, heat so intense I feel its unforgiving scorch from 50 yards away. Running straight ahead, I search frantically. I should never have left her alone; it was only for a second. I never guessed this would happen. Where is my sister?
A bloodcurdling scream echoes in the back of my head. I stop suddenly, pushed to the ground by my own force. I rest on hands and knees, head cocked, listening for anything that would give me a clue to where my sister was. I yell out her name, hearing a scream in response. I see a bundle on the ground and realize it’s Gloria. I reach her in seconds.
“Me too hot,” she whimpers. Then I notice she is sweating, but also shivering so much you would have thought it 20 degrees below zero. Eyes full of panic, she looks to me for strength, for answers. People are everywhere; firefighters go in and out of the barn trying to save the livestock. Traffic is backed up for miles. Townsfolk come to lend a hand, but mostly to satisfy their curiosity while deciding just how the barn caught fire.
Meanwhile I have located my mom, who sends us to the closest neighbors. We had 425 chickens, some of which were trapped in the barn. Others had escaped, making their way into our home.
Later, when the fire chief felt it safe to enter our home, the sight that greeted us made us all wish we had stayed outdoors. No less than 80 chickens clucked about, laying their stinky droplets at will, hay and manure part of the once-clean carpet. The house was a debacle, the barn destroyed, two vehicles totaled.And the reason?
“I don’t like chickens. I don’t like goats. I only like hamburgers. And I hate chores!” My brother Andy’s yelling could be heard in the next room as my parents, the police, and a number of social workers talked with him. “You deserved me burning down that old barn; I hate you all!”
“Who ate the dried apricot-and-pineapple mix?” Gloria yells for all to hear. It’s time to make granola, and the dried fruit has gone missing.
This is not an unusual occurrence; household food items often go missing, automatically resulting in a hunt. Dressers have to be searched, laundry baskets dumped, mattresses pulled out, investigations made, and as many accusations by frazzled spirits and frustrated attitudes.
This was the general state for the next hour or so. This may seem minor; the dried fruit was eaten. But not when every day you’re at your wits’ end to try to put a meal together with ingredients you might have just purchased when all but the flour and oil were still remaining. It became such an obstacle and a money drain that an alarm system was set up, locks put on cupboards, and a constant guard kept.
On rare occasions a confession might be made and save the whole family from the uproar. Eventually the contraband would be found, what was left of it thrown away and forgotten, and the parental units would convene in the upper chamber.
I never envied my parents’ job. I have heard them wonder what they did wrong, what they would change to make it easier for their boys. Many times I found myself angry, just aching to clean some little worm’s clock! I can assure you, feelings of ungodliness coursed through my body all too often. I vowed that when and if I had children, the little rascals would be cute, cuddly, and perfect.
Parenthood is probably one of the top five most unselfish acts in which humans participate. Children are expensive, time-consuming, and sometimes disappointing. They can hurt you physically and emotionally, and they never seem to get the big picture until it’s too late. At times they are just truly ungrateful wretches.
Still, we continue to have them, love them, and cherish them. Flesh of our flesh, they say, bone of our bone. This is true: a bond stronger than steel is forged at birth between parent and child.
But what about adoption? Adoptive parents are in many cases the unsung heroes of society. My parents felt a burden for troubled boys. When I was growing up, it seemed as if every couple months yet another troubled boy showed up at the Morrisons’ home for love. Being young, I couldn’t understand why my parents kept putting me through the hell of it all. From pathological liars, kleptomaniacs, an arsonist (who succeeded in burning down our barn), to violent, hard, and seemingly unfeeling boys.
I shudder to think what might have happened to my “brothers” if God hadn’t touched the heart of my parents. Would they be sitting in jail soaking up our taxes? Would they be homeless, having been kicked out of the system at the age of 18? To some of these questions the answer is probably yes. But because of my parents’ unselfish acts of love they are healthy, gentle, kind members of society.
My mother summed it up nicely. “God has called us to love one another, to do good to those that hate us, to feed the hungry, to rescue the perishing, and most important, to teach others about God and show them how to love Him by loving them.”
“Ma’am, I just have to say, you have the most well-behaved children I’ve seen in a long time.”
“Your children are so polite. ‘Yes, ma’am’ this, and ‘No, thank you’ that. How did you do it?”
We are leaving the restaurant; patrons and servers alike give a friendly smile, invite us to return, and say they’d enjoy meeting us again. Mothers and grandmothers get my mom’s contact information for some child-rearing guidance. Men come to shake my father’s hand or give him a hearty pat on the back. We leave with well wishes, “good luck”s, and “God bless you”s.
There is no greater gift than when people lay down their lives for a friend. I believe my parents have laid down their easy, uncomplicated lives to give all six of my adoptive brothers a chance at life on earth and in eternity. That is the greatest act of selflessness I know.
Mia Morrison wrote this when she was a student at union college in lincoln, nebraska. She is now married and works as a nurse in lowell, vermont.
