Advent 2010

Advent 2010
“Are you the king?”

Dear Family & Friends:

For two Advent seasons, the annual writing of the Winchell family Christmas letter has proven difficult. Then this week I came across the Advent reading in which Herod asks Jesus, “Are you the king?” Jesus explains that he is, but not in the way that Herod might expect. As he puts it, his kingdom is not of this world. I have struggled in these last two years to come to terms with Jesus’ claim, to accept a spirituality that doesn’t always “fix” the problems in THIS world, in my world. I have longed for a kingdom—a peaceful, loving, healthy, visible kingdom. As it turns out, this is not the way God usually chooses to become involved in our lives or our world.

Many of you celebrated with us as we welcomed our daughter Moriah in July of 2009. Her Down syndrome diagnosis moments after her birth—followed in the next year by countless medical appointments, hospitalizations, therapies, open heart surgery, and a seizure disorder—were not at all what we had anticipated. Having put our plans for biological children on hold for years as we adopted Orilüs and Jackson, navigated Orilüs’ bone marrow transplant, and helped the boys to re-settle into life post-transplant, we were expecting to be “rewarded” with a healthy baby. We have struggled in these last 17 months with what sometimes has seemed like a cruel cosmic joke. Jesus, we have asked, are you the king? Where, we wondered, was God’s power, his healing, his peace, his ability to set things right?

We—maybe I should say, I—wrestle still with these questions. But we have “seen the star,” so to speak, and this Advent, we want this letter to reflect our gratitude for the ways in which God has been Incarnate in our lives. He does not come as we expect—a king to rule—but he comes as a quiet and lowly presence, comforting even as he disrupts. This Advent, we are thankful for the ways in which Moriah’s birth disrupted our family. In retrospect, so much good has been birthed of her diagnosis. We moved quite abruptly to West Bridgewater to be nearer to Jason’s family; though we loved Lynn, we recognized that we were going to need the help of family nearby. Their support and the support of my own family have restored us many, many times this year. The “family” we have added since our move—in a loving church, a wonderful Early Intervention staff, medical personnel, and friends through our Down syndrome support groups—has given us courage and hope. We’re grateful for new jobs for us both—Jason at Stoughton High School, and me at Massasoit Community College and UMass Boston. Orilüs and Jackson (7th and 6th grade, respectively) are flourishing in their new school, in youth group, and as well-known basketball players in the town and school leagues. We’re grateful to see the ways that their lives have been enriched by living in a more rural locale, attending classes in small public schools, and walking back and forth to Grandma and Papa’s house. And, we are especially grateful this Advent for the health of our children. Orilüs’ bone marrow transplant worked miracles in his life; he is healthy, medication-free, and unrestricted in his activity. Moriah has overcome much in her 17 months, and she, too, is alive thanks to some serious medical intervention. We are grateful for that mercy.

This Advent, our family’s prayer is that we might accept the loving inner workings of God, even as our lived experience is not all we anticipated. We are not yet sure what this season of unfulfilled expectation will cultivate in our family’s inner life. Like you, we use Advent as a time to anticipate, to contemplate the mystery of Christ’s kingship, and to hope that his love-kingdom might enlarge our hearts and renew our spirits.

With our love, Melissa for Team Winchell
now at 358 Spring Street
W. Bridgewater, MA 02379

growing up

Our oldest son is growing up.

How do I know?

Two weeks ago, he organized his own life so that he could dedicate his afternoons to basketball tryouts. For two hours for 5 afternoons, he played hard. "Mom," he told me after one particularly long practice, "I really worked hard today. I want my coach to see that I'm going to work hard if I make the team." It's the first time I've heard Orilus express an explicit connection between effort and achievement. As I dropped him off back at the house on my way to my graduate course, I sat in the driveway, marvelling at how effortlessly he bounded our front porch steps and trying in vain to remember what the limitless potential of 14 felt like.

Yesterday, he woke himself up at 7 to start his homework, which he did for 3 hours, because he wanted to get assignments due on Wednesday done, too.

Today, he put away dishes without being asked. And picked up some board games. And did his laundry. And emptied the car or a few things.

He made the school basketball team, after those 5 try outs. Less than half the kids made it, and a handful of his friends dropped out without even finishing the week-long grueling sessions. He is so proud of himself. We watched his first scrimmage yesterday. How does he get lay-ups with such ease? How can he make a 3-pointer look so effortless? And why does he look so darn tall in his basketball uniform?

He's also talking about colleges now. Helped along by a book about the history of basketball, he's beginning to recognize the names of the top basketball colleges and universities, and inquire about them, and talk about what kind of grades he'll need to get into them. He wants to make NBA, you see. Mostly I'm just happy to hear him talk about college for the first time in his life, to hear him think beyond the moment and to set goals.

Tonight I had to iron his dress shirt and pants for him. You won't believe this, he told me yesterday, but I have to dress up on the days our team has a game. I have to wear a tie to school on Monday! He was complaining in that I'm-so-proud-of-myself way, and as we searched his closet tonight for the crumpled remnants of his 6th grade graduation outfit, I thought to cherish the way he wanted me to help him out and the way he chattered freely to me while we looked through his closet. Things won't always be this way.

This week, every time I have come through the door, he's dropped whatever he's doing and yelled out, "Mom! You're home!" He's being funny and melodramatic, of course, but I love it, and I get a hug out of the deal, and this, too, I cherish. Three months ago, he was in a no-hug stage, and he may go there again, I know.

Last week Oldies 103.3 was hosting their annual Wish-a-Thon, raising money for the Make-a-Wish foundation. We had a wish, after Orilus' transplant three and a half years ago, and the foundation paid for our family to have a week at Disney World. Listening to the Wish families tell their stories--some of them we know from our transplant days, some of them without the kids who didn't survive their fights with cancer or other diseases--I've spent more than a few minutes in the mini-van shedding tears. I'm grateful. Things won't always be this way. Like too many families, we know that health is a gift, and is often temporary, and elusive. Sort of like your teenage son offering you a hug. Sort of.

No matter. He's here. He's healthy. He's tearing up the basketball court. And his mother sits in the stands, clapping but willing herself not to stand up and cheer (I've been told I'm embarrassing, so I really am trying to tone it down).

Life won't always be this way.