God can do anything. Of this I am firmly convinced. How He forms families is beyond me, simultaneously both wild and wonderful.

I have family members to whom I do not feel particularly related, and non-blood relatives to whom I would give my last drop of blood. My husband and I share no genetic connection (and that’s more than some of you can say!), other than forefathers who had large noses and foremothers who had moustaches (his side, of course). But we are strongly related, even if not by blood.

For us, Hanukkah and Christmas are totally normal, not a stretch of the imagination by any means. The fact that Hanukkah (the Feast of Dedication), a Jewish holiday, is mentioned only in the New Testament (John 10), and that Christmas celebrates a virgin birth with God coming to dwell among us, does not require me to suspend any rational powers of reason. But then I don’t believe in Santa Claus, so maybe I’m not mainstream these days.

I look at 324 Messianic prophecies written in the Hebrew Bible, hundreds and thousands of years before, telling when, where, and what the Messiah would do. Mathematicians say that if only one person fulfilled 48 prophecies (not 324), the odds of that would be one to 1… followed by 157 zeros! But one person fulfilled all 324 and His name is Jesus.

I’ve heard all of the other arguments: that Israel is the “suffering servant” of Isaiah 53, etc. For many years, it was thought that dishonest Christians, monks hidden away in some monasteries, had pencilled in this chapter that describes Yeshua to a T. But with the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls only six decades ago, we see the same prophecies included in manuscripts dating 1,000 years previous to anything in existence up until that time. There goes that theory.

This brings to mind the famous short story penned by Jewish American novelist Philip Roth, “The Conversion of the Jews”. It tells the story of teenager Ozzie Freedman in post World War II America and his theological questions posed to the local rabbi. The rabbi insists that the virgin birth of Jesus is impossible, which leads to a showdown with Ozzie on the synagogue rooftop, refusing to come down until Rabbi Binder answer why, if God is all-powerful, why He could not create a Divine birth if He chose.

Winner of a 1960 National Book Award, the story raises important issues faced by many families such as ours. Not just how Jews can believe in Jesus, but for us, it goes a step farther when you add the mix of adoption.

Our children are ours through adoption, not blood. I have no problem with this. We chose this route. I see it as Divine dealings in the affairs of man, the children being rescued from pain and suffering, none of it their own making. We discussed it one recent day in the car, where all good conversations take place until an ice cream shop looms on the horizon. I had just dropped the boys at one activity, and the girls were headed to their own sporting event.

“It’s only us three girls,” Sashenka giggled in the back seat. “Just like in Russia, da, Mama?”

They couldn’t get over the fact that I could drive, or take care of them, or do any of a variety of things unknown to their previous little patch of Russian countryside.

“Da…. Can you imagine, out of the all of the people in the world (and there are six billion), how we ended up together? God saw you and He saw us, and He put us all together in a family,” I start.

“And Misha and Grisha,” Mashenka adds, reminding me of the dogs…as though I would forget! If ever there was a closer connection, I did not know of any. Slit our paws and mingle our blood, and you could not have a stronger bond.

I continue.

“Did you know that Mama and Papa met in Israel? We were from different places, but we ended up working there together. That’s how God can bring people together from all around the world, people who are just right for each other.”

“Wasn’t Jesus from Israel?” Sashenka wondered, her almost-nine-year-old brow furrowed in thought. The girls were similar to Ozzie Freedman, trying to make sense of it all.

“Yes, He lived in Israel.” I acknowleged, anticipating more questions about Divine plan and intent…..

“So when you were very, very young, did you see Him there?”

Talk about pause for thought-!

“Um, no, honey. He was before my time….” I say slowly.

Or was He?

Jesus the promised Messiah is for all time, and for all people. He is the creator of all individuals, and all families, coming to dwell with us, renew us, and make us whole. He is the therapist par excellence, the redeemer who will save us from our sins, and save us from ourselves.

I have a favorite song, one among many, for this time of year. Performed by the Trans Siberian Orchestra, its lyrics kept me going forward during several years of dark holidays when we felt we would never bring home Petya’s friend Pasha. Ensconsed behind the high walls of a Dickensian institution, Russian officials felt he was unadoptable, an invalid-idiot to be relegated to the margins of mania. We saw none of their diagnoses and kept believing for our own Christmas miracle and homecoming of a child in which others could not believe. For four long years, we fought for the impossible, the Divine “Da” overruling the Russian bureucratic “Nyet”. The past would be forgiven, the future be rewritten.

It is my prayer for you today: believe, and open your life to the realm of all things being possible!

Here are the words to “Anno Domine”:

“On this night of hope and salvation
One child lies embraced in a dream
Where each man regardless of station
On this night can now be redeemed

Where every man regardless of his nation
Ancestral relations
On this night the past can fly away

And that dream we’ve dreamed most
That every child is held close
On this night that dream won’t be betrayed

All as one
Raise your voices!
Raise your voices!
All as one
On this Christmas day!

All rejoice
Raise your voices!
Raise your voices!
All rejoice
Anno Domine!

On this night when no child’s forgotten
No dream sleeps where He cannot see
No man here is misbegotten
And this night’s dreams are still yet to be

Where every man regardless of his nation
Ancestral relations
On this night the past can fly away

And that dream we’ve dreamed most
That every child is held close
On this night that dream won’t be betrayed

All as one
Raise your voices!
Raise your voices!
All as one
On this Christmas day!

All rejoice
Raise your voices!
Raise your voices!
All rejoice
Anno Domine!” Play Song Here: 06-anno-domine

Ours is not a close family. I’m not speaking in terms of love and affection, I’m referring to geographical distance. Trying to get all of us in one state, nation, or continent is not going to happen anytime soon. That’s why they call it an extended family—they’re extended, distended, and upended. And somehow we plan to visit as many as possible this fall to let them meet our cherished children.

Ours is the family that you won’t see in same-colored t-shirts, playing horseshoes, and eating fried chicken on picnic tables for several days straight in unbearable heat and humidity, clouds of mosquitoes or swarms of cockroaches greeting us in country cabins with broken screen windows… when we could be doing other perfectly fine activities, such as getting manicures, managing our portfolio, or relaxing at the country club. I’m not the least bit upset about missing the campfire true confessions hour, finding out which relative is having “problems”, who’s lost their job, who’s gained the most weight, or who makes the most money.

So our family tries to stay in touch, in order to avoid such extreme encounters. We do the Skype thing with those who desire to be in touch. For those who “vant to be alone”, we send a birthday card or holiday gift. I release the occasional silly family newsletter, but eventually, we really do have to make the trek to Mecca and see the folks, at least. If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain, this mountain-sized family is going to have to visit the non-traveling grandparents. It’s going to happen in approximately four weeks’ time and I already I feel that we’re Counting Down to Disaster. Apocalypic-like images of Armaggedon flash through my mind.

As a personality that could be accurately labeled “Controller of the Universe”, I find it very difficult to plan for every eventuality. We’re talking four kids and a few grandparents. Assorted siblings have already found it necessary to schedule being out of town the very week we arrive. Have you ever gotten this certain nagging feeling…?

It will entail creative flight scheduling, such as flying to Spain to land in San Francisco, or going through Alaska to make it to Paris. I’m sure the traffic controllers and ticket agents know what they’re doing, but I’m still trying to figure out how many granola bars a family of six will need when traveling for 49.73 hours straight, to accomplish a trip that could be walked in, well, maybe 49.73 days straight. So, chin up, we are saving some time, here.

And supposedly money. But once you add fuel surcharges, airport taxes, 9/11 fees, landing fees, bathroom fees, and seatbelt fees, the costs add up. Take your initial ticket price and multiply times pi. There was some fine print that flotational devices and oxygen masks are extra. I figure if we fly over the ocean really fast, or really low, we’ll be okay.

Plus, we’ve been informed that our family has been selected to act out the pre-flight emergency exit routine with those special hand motions where you point down the aisle with two fingers and a thumb. The flight attendants are cutting back on their roles and focusing all of their attentions instead on those who dawdle when boarding, on those who deign to use the restrooms or ask for a snack, and on those who demand that three inches of overhead bin space should belong to their assigned seat and should be within ten rows of said seat.

Already my father is discussing driving directions from the distant airport. He’s convinced we’ll miss his house. Probably because I did once, heading over the mountains toward points unknown. I just kept driving up and up, there were waterfalls and then snow, and really nowhere to turn around, much less anywhere to phone. It was before mobile phones and I was on my own. But it’s okay, Dad has much more confidence in Benedetto. In the recesses of my father’s mind, I’m still ten years old and utterly incapable.

Which means when I come to visit, anything I might say or suggest is overridden by the grandparents. Hence, my anxiety. The first time I took Petya to visit, it was just he and I. My father and his Russian wife were overjoyed. The only instruction that I gave, pre-visit to Little Moscow, was to not feed my son any sugar. He was used to small meals, and no sugar.

Naturally, when we arrived we ate an imperial Russian-style feast of ten or fifteen courses, followed by cake and ice cream of gigantic proportions. I told them no, while they plied my son with more and more. They separated us and spoke with him in Russian off to the side. I feared they would lock me up and take away my passport.

The next day, he’s sicker than sick. He moans and groans with a bloated stomach. He literally cannot move. He lays on their couch, the beached whale.

I don’t want a repeat performance this time.

Benedetto’s mother is much more easy-going, probably because she can’t hear anything we’re saying. This has its benefits. Once highly opposed to the idea of international adoption, homeschooling, spirituality, or any number of things we happened to pursue, she is now one of our greatest fans. She believes that our kids are the cutest, sweetest, brightest beings on the face of the earth. Never mind that they don’t speak the same language, since she can’t hear them, anyway. One shy smile in her direction and a kiss on the cheek for Babushka, and she’s smitten. What’s not to love?

Since she can’t get around very much, we plan to take her out to small-town cafes, drop her right at the door, then Benedetto will park the car and explore with the kids while they make their way back to the café. That means that I get to chit-chat with someone who has as many aches and pains as Starbucks has choices in drinks. It could be worse. My own mom is no longer among us, so we count our blessings.

I try to prepare the kids for the Russian side of the family and their lofty educational bar for the children. No doubt they will be asked to recite the times tables forward and backwards in Russian and in English, name every Russian writer, poet and composer in alphabetical order (the Cyrillic alphabet, that is), and sidestep prying inquiries as to what exactly they did to become orphans in the first place.

On the Italian side of the family, I prep the kids regarding various cheeses and pasta sauces. Parmesano is never placed on any seafood pasta or frutti di mare risotto, capisce? They practice their spaghetti-twirling skills, avoiding using a spoon like the peasants, and Mamma mia! never, ever a knife. Napkin in the lap, elbows off the table, sip the soup, stop monopolizing the conversation, and… enjoy! Jump on the plane to head to the next relative as we check them off like numbers on a bingo card.

At least we’ve been spared the picnic table pow-wows, stick-on nametags, and “Team Smith” t-shirts. We will reunite with relatives in our own way, but do it we will. Both Benedetto and I are down to one parent each, and idiosyncratic and eccentric though they may be, they’re all we’ve got. Whether inquisitions, irritations, or indigestion await, love conquers all. Time to pay them a visit.

My eye is starting to twitch a little. No, I am not winking at you…. It’s called nerves. Mother’s Day is upon us and in my family, it tends to run amok.

I’ve only passed a few of these holidays, myself. After having avoided the subject of motherhood for a great while, once I became a mother, I experienced no little amount of conflict.

You see, I feel a distinct connection with my single and married-with-no-children friends. For some of them, Mother’s Day can be a real downer if they always wanted kids.

But my problems are closer to home. My own mother is in heaven, my mother-in-law is far away. It focuses most of the attention on me. Or at least the chocolatiers and florists have me thinking it should.

“Are we doing anything for Mother’s Day?” I inquire tentatively, not wanting to have any Great Expectations which ostensibly would never be realized.

“Mother’s Day?” parrots Benedetto. “Are you my mother?”

This was not the intended response. My own children, Petya and Pasha, are naturally oblivious to such a holiday, being boys. Anything that the children’s TV channels do not promote heavily…. Add to that their abundant weekly allowances, and I can only imagine what a buck might bring me.

Sigh. Another perfectly fine opportunity lost for designer duds and diamonds.

Last year, there was severe weather in our part of the world. Our plans included flying in our private plane to the next Important Destination. At the last minute, that was scrapped, when we grabbed a rental car and high-tailed it to the meeting on clogged highways full of Sunday drivers intent on a leisurely brunch. Starving, and with no time to spare on the trip, my big Mother’s Day dinner was a hot dog from a convenience shop. Gas ‘n’ Go, that’s my gig. Though I wasn’t expecting anything in particular, it still added insult to injury.

Maybe he had forgotten the sins of the past. Can’t let that happen.

“Will I be having a hot dog for Mother’s Day?” I probe, glancing at him sideways.

“No, no need for that. We’re having hot dogs today!” Kosher, carb-free, who could ask for anything more?

So I took matters into my own hands this year. You can see what drove me to such depths. I finally decided to treat myself well, something that most moms consider to be a nice idea, but many of us can’t even go to the bathroom without someone knocking on the door and needing our immediate attention. Out I went, bought myself a cute card with four puppies on the front, representing what will be our four children. Perfect.

And one red rose, fragrant, lush, beautiful, wanting nothing in return.

These are my Mother’s Day insurance policies. No matter what happens come Sunday, I’ll be happy and content in myself. I am a mother, a good one. I love my children and my husband and am blessed beyond measure.

But sometimes, on days like these, I remind myself: I am more than a label. I am a mother…and so much more. And that’s something that I can celebrate every day.

Smiling faces, beautiful places—it’s what South Carolina is all about. Southern hospitality, historic plantations, more golf courses than pros could play in a year, outlet shopping, grits and gravy. Miles and miles of the cleanest, best beaches on America’s east coast, all under clear skies.

Or smoky skies this week, as wildfires raged all round. None of the beach areas were threatened, and one golf course suffered some cosmetic damage, but all in all, the areas affected were outlying pine forests and housing subdivisions. Almost 100 homes succumbed to the flames, and 100 more had damage, with 31 square miles and 20,000+ acres destroyed.

Residents were often awakened in the middle of the night by police, told to put on their pants, and head for the hills. Many described the horrific flames engulfing their homes as “the gates of hell”, tongues of fire shooting upwards to 150 feet. Sparks leapt across a six-lane highway, but at least could not traverse the Intracoastal Waterway.

Our family members enjoyed tennis, golf, and languid walks along the beach. Not even the smell of smoke came our way, as it swept more into North Myrtle Beach than Myrtle Beach proper. The first day or two (Wednesday and Thursday), large billowing clouds could be seen for miles. After that, Blackhawk helicopters shuttled across the sky, helping police, firefighters, the Forestry Service, and the National Guard. That was about the only indication that anything was amiss nearby, apart from a few highway closures and a distinct downturn in tourism, right when the community needed it the most.

Against our fun-in-the-sun, the distant, dark clouds begged the question: what is important in life?

Residents interviewed on TV took a grateful and thankful approach, “Things are things. But we are alive and safe and that’s all that matters.” Very refreshing. No dramatic tears nor sense of enormous loss, no animosity toward neighbors whose homes stood whole and intact next door. Apparently, wildfires can be very selective. If tragedy had to happen, it could not have befallen any better people or place than the environs around Myrtle Beach, which I have no doubt, will rise again from the ashes, stronger and more beautiful than ever.

It brought up family discussions. Petya had a sense of fear and loathing, obsessing that the flames might come after us. One night Benedetto and I had planned a nice evening out, but we dared not leave the boys even with a trusted babysitter. The old PTSD from Russia had reared its ugly head and we wanted him to feel safe, rather than abandoned and threatened.

We talked about what’s most important in life. What would we grab if we had to flee in the middle of the night?

Petya: “My DS, rucksack (backpack stuffed with his prized items), and Bible.”
Pasha: “Yah nee znahyoo…. (I don’t know…) Schoolbooks, toys, and dogs.”
Alexandra: “Of course, we’re taking Misha and Grisha! We’re just talking about things right now…. No money?” I pondered their small and highly-valued allowances.
Petya: “Oh yes, money. And you, Mama?”
Alexandra: “I would add photos, computers, makeup, my purse, some clothes for everyone, dog food.”
Pasha: “And you, Papa?”
Benedetto: “Computers and wallet. That covers the immediate needs, along with everything and everyone you’ve already listed.” He always was Survivor Man.

We sat together on the beach, overlooking the peaceful shoreline, sand crabs creeping out of their holes to explore our toes wiggling before them. Not much we actually needed in life as we saw families losing everything in one day.

Thankfulness. Gratefulness. Enjoying nature spreading before us. Helping the less fortunate, and holding each other tight.