If you’ve committed a crime and seek to rectify it, you may cause more trouble than you ever imagined possible. It happens.
On the other hand, great good may come of great pain if it heals in the healthy atmosphere truth can provide. This happens, too.
And when good comes of exorcising the demons, other people, seeing, may take heart and clean out a closet of their own.
In this spirit, I tell you my story.
Thirty-seven years ago, when I was twenty, I was engaged to marry. Announced at Christmas, the wedding was set for the following August.
In the spring of that year, my fiancée and I succumbed to the power of love and passion, so that by the time of the wedding she was four months pregnant, though, for some complicated reasons, we didn’t realize it at the time.
Today, a pregnant bride is not so unusual. For better or worse, society seems to be far more comfortable with a wide variety of timing when it comes to the bearing of children. But not in 1958. Not in small-town Texas.
My fiancée and I had been raised in an environment of strict fundamentalist religion and narrow social values. We were ignorant in sexual matters, on less than intimate terms with our parents, and about to make a major break with our cultural roots by going off to graduate school in California.
When we discovered she was pregnant, we panicked. It’s hard to reconstruct our state of mind from this distance, but I know we were scared, unready for childrearing, fearful of parental rejection despite our defiant need for independence, ashamed, confused, and dazed.
We hid the fact of pregnancy from everyone—friends as well as family—easy to do if you’ve just moved to a new city far from home. As if nobody else had ever faced this dilemma, we sought no counsel, concluding there was no choice but to place the baby for adoption. We contacted a social-service agency and made the necessary arrangements. Three days after the child was born, we went home without her. The agency placed her with a family who wanted a child.
The birth of our daughter and the relinquishment of her were soul-searing experiences. It was a death. Her mother and I buried all our feelings—never sorting them out between us, even to this day.
Life went on—we grew up, two sons were born to us. And we adopted a daughter—because we wanted to be certain of having a girl, and perhaps because we wanted to balance some equation in our hearts between sadness and joy.
Despite this reaching for family, our marriage failed, and we divorced. She remarried, happily, and so did I.
Over the years, we each accommodated ourselves, at least on the surface, to the sorrows around the birth and relinquishment of that first child.
But the memory of that child did not fade. I found myself celebrating the child’s birthday each year. A secret anniversary—January 16—observed with a ritual walk, alone, to imagine what the child was like, what the child must be doing, where the child must be living.
I knew when she must be going to school, passing through puberty, entering high school, graduating, going out into the world, falling in love—the whole story. The child existed in my imagination as surely as if I had all the facts of her life.
Not knowing what had become of her haunted me, pained me, grieved me.
I wanted to find her. But I felt I had no right, and that my appearance would be unwelcome, if not damaging. I could not look for her, though I often was tempted. Both searching and not-searching vexed me.
What if she was in trouble, had a terrible life, needed me now? What if she was looking for me? What if she never wanted to know about me? What should I do? A tenacious dilemma—and my life’s great sorrow.
Sometime after I assumed she was an adult, I began to unburden myself—telling friends, a counselor, and, finally, my other children. It seemed to me there would never be a reunion. Some things one has to live with; there is no choice—some things cannot ever be undone. I felt the same way when my parents died—I knew a homecoming was permanently out of the question.
The January I knew she turned thirty, I decided the story would remain unresolved, and I was conscious of ritually laying my grief to rest in a far corner of my heart.
–
During the year when All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten achieved recognition, the adoptive parents of my child read the book. They knew my name and enough about me to know that the author and I must be the same person. After careful thought, they decided to tell their daughter what they knew.
I know now that this decision was a reflection of their love for her—a love that made it possible for them to let her know and let her go to find the missing pieces of her identity. They would not lose a child in the process, but the child would find a missing part of herself—no more and no less than what any parent wants. They trusted that their child would come back to them knowing who her parents are and have always been and why: those who wanted her, adopted her, cared for her, reared her, and who love her still. And so it has been.
–
And so the telephone call came:
“Are you Robert Fulghum?”
“Yes.”
“Did you place a child for adoption in 1958?”
“Yes.”
“I think I’m your daughter.”
“Yes!”
Stunned, I wept and walked around in a daze. I could hardly believe it.
She came to Seattle the following Wednesday.
Because I was arriving from an out-of-town trip later the same evening, she was met at the airport by other members of my family. A little later I came straight from the airport to my first wife’s house and parked a block away, thinking I would walk a little and compose my mind.
Instead, I ran—as hard as I could run—rushed through the front door and into the living room—the prodigal father, come to the reunion.
–
It’s enough to tell you that she has had a fine life, has wonderful parents, and has important accomplishments to her credit. Married now, teaching at a university.
The rest of the story will be unfolding for a long time to come.
Relationships always take time. Always.
If I’ve dealt with all this reunion in an intelligent way, no small part of the credit goes to the staff of a remarkable institution, the Hope Cottage Adoption Center in Dallas, Texas. By coincidence I made a connection with them just after my daughter and I were reunited. Invited to speak for the agency at a fund-raising event, I spent time in its offices, where I shared my story with its staff and asked for advice and help. This time I wanted to do the right thing.
More than being an agency devoted to placing children in families, Hope Cottage has done extensive research into the long-term effects of adoption on all those involved. The people at Hope Cottage are experienced, and compassionate. And I am in their debt for their generous, thoughtful counsel.
Their director and staff helped me understand there would be many stages of this reunion—and that, like all relationships, it would take time to establish common ground between my daughter and me.
In sum, they counseled, “Be patient. Be kind. Be wise.”
–
Several years have passed, and much water has flowed under many bridges, and as some bridges collapse between my daughter and me, new bridges keep getting built. Her adoptive parents have been gracious in telling me their part of the story and in sharing their photographs and memories. Whatever happens in the future, the fierce anxiety of not knowing what happened to my daughter is resolved.
I have a talisman of all this—a keepsake, a piece of existential evidence of this reunion—which I value beyond any price. It’s on an ordinary piece of white typing paper in a small frame on my wall. On the paper is the overlapping outline of two hands.
At the end of her first visit, when we were parting and were at a loss for words and unwilling to say good-bye, she took a piece of paper off my desk, placed my hand on it, and drew around my hand and fingers with a pen. Silently, she gave me the pen, and I placed her hand on top of the outline of my h
and and drew around hers. We put our initials side by side, dated the drawing, hugged each other, smiled, laughed, cried, and she was gone—back to her parents, her home, her life.
That wordless act of the drawing of the overlapping hands was a ritual of reunion. At that threshold moment, our lives crossed again.
COMMUNION
Once upon a time, somewhere far back in ancient human history—so far back that personal survival was the only concern—a defining event must have taken place. Someone didn’t eat what he found when he found it, but decided to take it back to the cave to share with others. There must have been a first time. A first act of community—call it communion—in the most elemental form.
–
As with other important things, I learned about this in kindergarten. Or, I should say, I finally understood it by being with little children.
When my first son was in kindergarten, I was a parent volunteer who visited the school once a week to teach folk songs to the children. Singing came between naptime and snacktime. Regularly, I was invited to stay after singing and join the class for milk and cookies. I gladly stayed. Not because I was particularly hungry, but because I enjoyed watching the children carry out this ordinary task with such extraordinary care.
Since learning community cooperation is an essential part of kindergarten, the children took turns bringing cookies from home. Each day every child had an essential job in the sharing.
Two children set the table with napkins and cups. Two others arranged chairs. Others went to the refrigerator for cartons of milk, while two more fetched the cookies from the cupboard and arranged them neatly on plates. One child was responsible for placing something in the middle of the table to talk about during the snack—anything the child wished, but something the others might appreciate, as well. Show and tell.
For half the class, their job for the day was being good guests. Saying, “Yes, please, I would like to have some milk,” and “Thank you very much,” and “How nice the table looks.” An important task.
When all were served, everyone was expected to sit quietly for a moment, with hands folded in lap, until the teacher said, “Let’s share.” Each “host” took a cookie off his plate, broke it in half, and gave it to a “guest” before eating the other half himself.
During this snacktime, they discussed the “think about” object in the center of the table—a book, a goldfish in a bowl, a toy, whatever. After the cookies and milk were consumed, the children who had played “guests” for the day cleaned up and put away everything, before all went out to play.
The children did this efficiently and unselfconsciously—it was their routine. I, too, took the event seriously. It was a high point in my week.
A lovely, sane moment with people—never mind our difference in age.
The finest, simplest elements of civilization at work.
It served as an example of the way daily habits become sacred rites. For me, it was communion.
The sacraments are defined by the church as “outward and visible signs of an inward and spiritual grace.” Cookies and milk with those children became a sacrament for me. Grace was clearly present. It was a ritual reminder that civilization depends on sharing resources in a just and humane fashion. This is not kid stuff.
–
To speak of sharing milk and cookies with children as a communion experience may verge on blasphemy in the eyes of some. “Communion” is neither a neutral nor a simple notion for most adults who have any experience with organized religion. In our culture, it’s almost impossible to separate it from two thousand years of investiture in the heart of Christianity. For Christians, communion is a sacrament, even though theologians debate its meaning and churches disagree on how it should be celebrated and who may join in the celebration.
I say that for all human beings, communion is a sacrament.
I think of communion as an act of community in spiritual fellowship, which predates all organized religion. Within the Judeo-Christian tradition, the Seder—the Passover service—was observed long before Christian communion. And before the Seder, before Jews were Jews, people did something like this for the same reason. It’s not an act that belongs to any one group—it’s ours.
Since the beginning of time, people who trust one another, care for one another, and are deeply connected to one another have shared food as a sign of and a reaffirmation of their relationship.
When attention is paid to this sharing, it takes on a ritual character.
The nurturing of the body becomes a metaphor of the mutual nourishing of lives. Every time we hold hands and say a blessing before a meal, every time we lift a glass and say fine words to one another, every time we eat in peace and grace together, we have celebrated the covenants that bind us together.
I cannot say this strongly enough: Whatever else communion may come to be, it is an act that arises out of our humanity, not organized religion.
–
When we speak of “breaking bread” with one another, we are not talking about merely parceling out the loaf. The phrase implies a conscious lack of haste in sharing a meal. Slow food, not fast food. Attention will be paid—to the food, to the company, and to life. We will be mindful of one another. Amen.
It has become the custom in my home, especially when we have company, to catch hands around the table just before food is served, and after a moment of silence to say:
“In this house we believe the finest blessing is fine companionship during a meal. With such company as we have now, we are blessed, indeed. May God bless us all. Amen.”
–
When Jesus, the Jewish carpenter’s son from Nazareth, met for the last time with his friends and followers, they had supper together and did what Jews have always done—blessed the meal. And it was at least a deeply human experience, regardless of any theological interpretation one might place on the occasion and the gestures made there.
There was unleavened bread and wine.
One, the bread, made and eaten daily—the other, the wine, a product of time.
He must have said, in effect, “I will not be around much longer. When I’m gone and you come together, don’t forget me. Keep me in your hearts and minds when you break bread and drink wine—and thereby renew the covenant we have made with one another.”
This Last Supper has been and will continue to be viewed in many lights. I’ve no quarrel with any of these views. All are free to interpret it. However organized or even disorganized religion has chosen to understand and reenact that meal, the fact remains—it is open to the meaning one brings to it.
I only say that it, like all meaningful religious acts, rests on something essential to all human relationships. And that any group of human beings who share any food together under any circumstances are free to invest that sharing with the spirit of communion. And often do.
We wrestled with this matter in the church I served for many years.
Unitarians, among others, are uncomfortable with the doctrine of transubstantiation—of bread becoming flesh and wine becoming blood. Many feel it takes away from rather than adds to the meaning of that Last Supper. Yet, my congregation was open to experiencing some similar act of community in a religious setting.
We already had some sacred habits in place to build on. At potluck dinners, we held hands, encircling the tables bearing the food we were about to eat; then we stood in silence, which was broken by singing a fivefold amen together.
Inspired by the appropriateness of this and comforted by the feelings it engendered in me and others, I thought we might look further in this direction and see where our longing led us. And though the attempts did not, in the end, succeed, the search for communion was successful as an end in itself.
I invite you to consider a family church service—held at the beginning of the morning before the children go off to church school. It’s the first Sunday in a new year. After the Call to Worship and some singing, the minister speaks:
The members and friends
of this congregation—
you and I—we—are tangled up with one another—
woven together in a unique fabric called the Fairview Church.
Sometimes we understand why we are here together.
Sometimes we don’t.
Sometimes we will talk about our being in this place together.
Sometimes we can’t.
But we keep showing up here on a pretty regular basis.
Because there is more of something here than anyplace else for us.
And that something is essential to our well-being.
That something is community—religious community.
Common concerns, common needs, common principles—
these bind us together as an extended family.
And the tie which binds must be celebrated from time to time.
This is an ancient tradition—communion is its name.
An occasion when those who trust and care for one another
share food together.
Communion is an act of spiritual community.
This morning we will share a tangerine—a fruit of midwinter.
Small yet bright—like our best hopes and dreams.
Both bitter and sweet—like life itself.
Nourishing—as we wish our relationships to be.
Plucked from a tree, it is a dead thing—like yesterday.
Examined, it contains seeds—like today.
Planted, the seeds contain great possibilities—like tomorrow.
The ushers will now pass among you with baskets of tangerines.
There are only enough for about a third of us to have a fruit.
Those who take a tangerine must peel it.
Someone else will take the fruit and share it so that all have a piece.
And a third of us will be responsible for the peels and seeds.
Sharing the tasks is an act of community as well.
When everyone has a few pieces of tangerine, we will say the blessing and feed one another.
Blessing (unison, seated):
We share this as an act of community;
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