BY CONNIE VANDEMAN JEFFERY

HEY'RE NOT MY REAL KIDS. But most of them have been calling me "Mom" for the past few months, and they've been consuming large quantities of food at my house, so whether or not I've actually adopted them, they've adopted me.

My husband and I have one son, a teenager named Craig, and this whole Starbucks thing is really his fault. Because of him, a stream of kids ranging in age from 18 to 26 are not only eating everything in sight at our house, but they're also calling my husband "Dad," me "Mom," and one of my best friends "Aunt Donna."

This new extended, rather unconventional, loving "family" didn't start out loving, though. I would never have actually chosen these kids to be part of my life. I guess God knew I needed them far more than they needed me. And He used my son to find them.

It seems that Starbucks is to this new millennium what the diner was to the 1950s-a place to hang out with your friends. The kids don't go there to drink coffee. They go there to talk, laugh, pass time, and generally, to try to make sense of their lives. Craig began hanging out there around the time he got his driver's license. Large groups of the kids sit at the outside tables, and every now and then one will go in and buy a hot chocolate or iced tea so they don't get kicked out for loitering. I started dropping by unannounced to see what kind of company my son was keeping. Needless to say, he got a little defensive when I started criticizing his new friends. I'll admit I used rather strong words.

"Why are you hanging out with a bunch of losers?" I asked, not in my most loving voice. "Look at them. The tattoos, the body piercings. Can't you find some nice people to hang out with?"

"They're my friends. You can't pick my friends," he answered. "And if you just got to know them, you'd see that they're good people."

Get to know them? Was he nuts? I didn't want to get near them, much less get to know them. But he was right. I couldn't pick his friends. I could only hope that he would use his good judgment in choosing friends-something I hoped had been instilled in him from birth.

And then I remembered the time when my son was 6 years old and we passed a homeless man taking a rest from pushing his overflowing shopping cart on Ventura Boulevard. "He looks sad, Mom," Craig said, tugging at my arm. "Let's buy him a Happy Meal." We did. I won't forget the look on the man's face or on my child's face as Craig handed him the brightly colored box and said, "Here, we got you a Happy Meal with a toy. I hope it makes you happy!" Every time Craig had the urge to do something spontaneous or generous or thoughtful after that, I never tried to suppress it. Now I decided to trust my son's judgment and get to know his new friends. After all, I was the one who preached, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these . . . ye have done it unto me" (Matt. 25:40). These kids were definitely poster children for "the least of these."

I knew I was being judgmental when it came to the kids. But something told me to relax, put away the attitude, and try to be loving-even if I had to fake it at first. These were the kind of people Jesus associated with. If my goal in life was to be more like the Master, then why shouldn't I start with these kids?

Friendship Begins With Food
I didn't want to keep barging in on them at Starbucks, so I asked my son to bring them home next time they were hungry. Turned out, a couple of them were out of work, five of them lived together in one small apartment, and the rest lived at home with extremely dysfunctional families. Not one of them had a spare dime, and they were always hungry!

The first night, he brought Michelle, Scooter Steve, and Chris to our home. We ate pizza and drank root beer floats, and I heard Michelle's and Chris's stories. Steve didn't talk. He just ate and ate, and then ate some more. Michelle was 19, had a 3-year-old son who lived with his daddy's (her ex-boyfriend's) parents. She couldn't get custody because she was homeless when she gave birth at 16. She had another baby at 18 whom she gave up for adoption. Michelle spent her teen years in group homes, and her parents were dead. She craved a real home and spent many evenings at our house just sitting by the fireplace, with a full stomach and a contented smile.

Scooter Steve was the hardest to draw into conversation. His nickname should have been the Incredible Hulk, but he rode around on a beat-up Honda scooter, hence, Scooter Steve. He's about six feet tall, 225 pounds, and even though he probably showers on a regular basis, it appears that he never washes his long brown hair! And yet he is the most gentle of the kids. One Sunday we asked Steve to help us move a refrigerator. I paid him 20 bucks for a couple hours of work and fed him burritos from Taco Bell. He was sitting at my kitchen table inhaling three bean burritos in record-breaking time when I decided to ask him about his dad. I knew Steve lived at home with his mom and three younger brothers, but I'd never heard a word about his father. Since he was 19, he paid his mom rent to sleep on the living room couch, but I don't think he ever ate a meal at home. He seemed to spend all his time at Starbucks and, now, at our house.

"Steve, tell me about your dad," I said while he ate and I put the food back in the new refrigerator.

"You want the short version or the long one?" he said in the most matter-of-fact voice.

"Any version you like," I quipped.

"Well, my parents are divorced. I do have a dad," he replied tentatively. "The thing is . . . well, his name used to be Mark, and now he's . . . he's Marcy. That's the short version." I nearly dropped the jar of mayonnaise. I turned around, trying not to act shocked. Rule number one for interacting with the kids is not to act shocked-by their appearance or by what they say.

"Oh, honey," I said, as I walked over and sat next to him at the table, "I'm sorry to hear that. Are you OK with that?"

"Yeah, sure." He tried to sound so brave. "He . . . I mean she . . . is a lot happier now-now that he's a woman." The whole story tumbled out. Steve was 12 when his dad spent $11,000 to fly to Belgium and get a sex change operation. There were follow-up procedures, hormone therapy, a divorce. Steve had spent seven years trying to be OK with it, but his pain was palpable.

"Do your friends know?" I asked.

"A few of them, but not Craig or most of the kids at Starbucks," he answered.

"Do you mind if I tell him?" I asked Steve, knowing it would be a lot easier for me to do it than for him. I also had no way of knowing how my son would react to the news.

"Yeah, sure, I want him to know," he said. "And I'm really OK with it, I mean more than my brothers are. They won't be seen with him, I mean her, in public." I could see that Steve was far from OK, but all I could do was be there for him and listen.

Craig burst through the front door, grabbed the two remaining bean burritos, and sat next to us at the table.

"Hey, Steve, what's up?" he asked, full of high spirits.

"Nothin' much, dude. I was just talking to your mom." Steve looked at me like he wanted me to tell him then. So I did.

I could have hugged my son for the way he reacted. Craig just said such things as "Oh, really?" and "That must be kind of weird for you, but you're cool, dude"-and then the two of them went on with their plans for the rest of the afternoon. Steve was relieved to have told us, and I was relieved my son didn't laugh or get nervous or treat Steve differently once he knew. It was apparent that Steve had been afraid of how Craig might react.

Steve and I have talked about it only twice in the months since then.
I don't pry-I just continue to listen and let him know we love him, and
I continue to feed him when he's hungry.

Blue Hair, Big Heart
Chris's story is different, but his burdens just as heavy. His dad died at age 45 while smoking a cigarette-he just dropped dead of a massive heart attack. His mom died of emphysema two years ago. But from the time he was 15 and his parents divorced, he's been living on other peoples' couches. He'd go back and forth between the dad and the mom before they died, and with his aunt for a while. But now most of the time he just crashes on the couches of friends.

Chris is the scariest looking of the kids-he's got lots of tattoos and wears only black clothing. Recently he dyed his hair blue. That's right-blue! But Chris also has the most beautiful green eyes I've ever seen, and he is an amazing musician. And he's also turned out to be the kid with whom we have the closest relationship. He's 26 going on 16, emotionally, but we have developed a special bond nonetheless. Now I don't even see the blue spiked hair and the tattoos. I just see the hurt kid with the resilient spirit who responds so well to love.

We opened our home and lives to these young adults, but that's as far as it went-for several weeks. I didn't tell anyone except Donna about the kids for a while. She adopted them too, and we took turns buying the Fiesta meals for them from Taco Bell. Finally, one Thursday morning during the worldwide circle of prayer at the Voice of Prophecy, one of the places where I work, we were sharing our personal prayer requests. I poured out the story of the kids and asked that we include them in our prayers. It was just after Thanksgiving, and I told about having four of them over for dinner and how appreciative they were-especially for anything involving food!

After worship Lynn put in my hand an envelope containing $40 cash and a note that simply said "This is to help feed the kids!" The others started bringing bags of groceries. Some bought the huge industrial-size jars of peanut butter and jelly from Costco. There was more money and more food, and always lots of prayers. My friends at work have been amazing. By Christmas we had delivered bags and boxes to the apartment where most of them lived, goodies purchased with help from my friends. I went to Target and bought sweatshirts and packages of new socks and a silly game or toy for each one. It meant so much to me, and I think it meant a lot to the kids, too. My son overheard Chris tell a friend when he was out of work that "if it wasn't for Mom and all her friends, I would have starved the past couple of months."

An Open Invitation
For my son's birthday, all he wanted to do was take all the kids and Donna out to eat at his favorite Mexican restaurant. Chris sat next to Donna and seemed particularly depressed the entire evening. When she asked him what was bothering him, he told her that his mom had passed away exactly two years before. Then he added that he was being evicted from the apartment. So were the other kids who lived there, but most of them had found other places to live. Chris had no one and nowhere to go. "I've lived under park benches before," he said. "It won't hurt me to do it again." He made only about 40 to 50 bucks a day washing cars, so it was a stretch for him to save up enough to live in a motel. He would be homeless on Easter Sunday, which was exactly five days from then.

I watched as Donna pulled one of her Faith for Today business cards from her purse, scribbled her home and cell phone numbers on the back, and said, "If nothing works out for you by Sunday, Chris, you can stay at my place for a few nights. I'm not going to hear about you and a park bench!" He took her card, looked at it, and then looked away as he wiped his eyes.

On Easter Sunday I picked up Chris and his few belongings-two guitars and a duffel bag-and we drove over to Donna's. The couple of nights turned into just about two weeks, as he soaked up her hospitality, saved his money, and slept. It had been months since Chris had slept an entire night. They talked and talked. She baked him a birthday cake, and we all celebrated when he turned 26. She helped him do his tax return and showed him how he was entitled to a $669 refund from his work last year at Wal-Mart. Chris walked with a lighter step and seemed to relax. He even started smiling more.

No one had asked Donna to take him in. She just did it. When I asked her why, she responded, "It's the way I was raised. My mom always took people in when they needed it." I reminded Donna that it was what Jesus would have done too. When Donna left for work after Chris's first night on the sofa bed in the living room, she asked him if he slept all right.

"I haven't slept this well in years, Donna," he said. "Do you have any idea what it's like to sleep between sheets, to be warm, and not to have drug deals going on in the living room in the middle of the night?" he asked.

She replied, "I can't even imagine how you feel. But I'm glad you slept well." She watched his green eyes fill with tears.

In the time he stayed at Donna's Chris was able to save enough money to rent a room at a friend's house in the area. She told him when he left that if he ever found himself in that position again, she'd be happy to help him out. "You know my number, Chris," she said.

The Coolest Christians Around
We still get together at least once a week with the kids. They actually invite us to go hear them play guitars and sing at a coffeehouse in Ventura that has Open Mike Night every Tuesday. Chris taught my son to play the bass guitar. One Tuesday the "talent" list was rather short. One of the girls wrote "Mom" on the list, and when it was my turn I borrowed a guitar and sat in front of the microphone. Chris came and sat next to me with his guitar. We played three songs together. After a John Denver tune and then the song "I Believe in You," by Don Williams, Jenny (another of the kids) called out of the audience, "Play the one you wrote!" And so I played "Jar of Tears," the song I wrote after the September 11 tragedy. I talked about how I came to write the

Update on the Kids Scooter Steve has cut his long brown hair and is such a handsome guy! He works in a home taking care of an autistic child, and has traded in the scooter for a truck. Michelle has drifted out of our lives. She's pregnant again and living in a motel. The prospective adoptive parents are paying her bills. Chris is still washing cars and playing music, and has enough money to pay rent. He continues to eat us out of house and home! And we love it!

song and about how blessed I was to have a dad who told me about the jar in heaven in which God keeps all our tears. When bad things happen, I still know that God cares and that He cares enough to count each one of my tears. And then I sang it-with Chris playing arpeggio chords to my strumming. You could have heard a pin drop. After the brief silence the kids applauded and yelled, "You go, Mom!"

Sometime later when we were all sitting around eating together, Little Rudy (another of the kids) turned to Donna and me and said, "Do you know how I see you two?"

"No, Rudy, how do you see us?" I asked.

"I see you ladies as the coolest, hippest, contemporary Christians I know!" Little Rudy turned back and finished his pasta. Wow! Donna and I exchanged a look that said We can't remember when anyone has said that about us! Both of us were warmed and touched at how the kids viewed us.

There is so much more we can do. We've been talking about the right timing for inviting them to the new church that Pastor Tim is planting in a nearby town. We meet there on Sabbath evenings at 5:00 p.m. If the kids want to get to know more cool, contemporary Christians, we know just where to find them. Already I know that our church will accept the kids-tattoos, blue hair, and all! But for now, we are feeding them when they're hungry, spending time with them, and loving them. And we're getting back so much more than we give!

To (mis)quote the TV ad:
One package of new white socks for Steve $6.99
A family-size tray of Stouffer's Macaroni and Cheese $9.99
One black hooded sweatshirt for Chris from Target $11.99
Groceries to feed the kids One healthy dinner $20.00

Knowing they're not hungry; hearing them say, "Thanks, Mom" seeing a kid's eyes fill with tears when he's had a good night's sleep . . . priceless! There are some things money can buy. For everything else, there's the Master's love!

_________________________
Connie Vandeman Jeffery is the assistant manager of the Adventist Media Center, in Simi Valley, California, and the announcer for the Voice of Prophecy radio ministry.