Wednesday, 9 November 2011
Tuesday, 8 November 2011
Hana Williams: Another child "disciplined" to death
This Saturday will mark six months since the tragic death of thirteen-year-old Hana Grace Rose Williams, born Hana Alemu, who died at the hands of her adoptive parents Larry and Carri Williams.
Hana is the third in a string of deaths linked to the use of training methods outlined in Michael and Debi Pearl's book, "To Train Up a Child". The deaths of seven-year-old Lydia Schatz and four-year-old Sean Paddock were also attributed to the use of these teachings. The siblings of all three children were found to have been struck repeatedly with plumbing supply line, the tool recommended by the Pearls for "training" children as young as six months old.
Are the teachings in the Pearls' book inherently abusive? At first glance, perhaps not. They wrap their message up in pretty bows, encouraging parents to "tie strings" and develop mutual respect and trust. A cursory read-through by a well-meaning parent may raise only a few easily-ignored red flags. But what happens when these teachings are followed religiously and taken to their logical conclusion?
The horrifying affidavit filed after Hana's death paints precisely this picture. For months, Hana had been regularly beaten, denied food, forced to shower under cold water outside, locked in a dark closet, and permitted to use only the lavatory set up for her behind the barn. She ultimately succumbed to hypothermia when left outside in the rain. Her adopted brother had endured similar abuses, including being hosed down in cold water when his documented medical condition caused him to urinate in his pants.
The Pearls would deny that any such abusive actions had any relation to the teachings in their book. And yet according to the affidavit:
The book itself further substantiates these claims:
Continue the disciplinary action until the child is surrendered...or dead.
After Lydia's death, Micheal released a statement saying that he "laughed at his caustic critics". A child is dead, and Michael laughs. He concludes his lengthy mocking statement with the following:
But there is hope. These deaths are not going unnoticed. As these children rest safely in the arms of their Heavenly Father, others are questioning the Pearls' methods. CNN recently a ran a two-part series on Michael Pearl and Lydia Schatz (Part 1 and Part 2), which was later followed up with their report Ungodly Discipline and interview Faith and Discipline after the death of Hana Williams. The New York Times has also reported on the Pearls and their role in Hana's death. Although the reports thus far have failed to truly unearth the severity of these teachings, they are a hopeful beginning.
Others are speaking out against the Pearls' abusive teachings as well:
In memory of Hana, I will be devoting next week to a three-part exploration of the "rod verses" in Proverbs. While the issue at hand isn't limited to corporal punishment - even many who spank find the Pearls' teachings to be horrifying and cruel - it is the Pearls' twisted use of Scripture that so many supporters, both fervent and reluctant, hold out as evidence that what he teaches must be biblical. It is my hope that the idea of physical chastisement as a necessary, or even acceptable, part of "biblical" discipline will continue to be questioned by those who learn of the tragic results of such twisted theology.
As I've asked before: How many more? How many more children need to die before the teachings of the Pearls are seen for what they really are? How much longer will this needless abuse happen behind closed doors, not at the hands of monsters, but those of well-meaning, loving parents who have been taken in by the Pearls' promises of godly children? This is not a case of taking away nuggets of gold and leaving behind the small part that tends to the extreme - no, this is a case of digging through a garbage dump in hopes of finding one small fleck of gold. Perhaps the Pearls are all the more insidious for that very reason: for all their advice of "tying heartstrings", the practicality of carrying out what they put forth achieves anything but attachment.
Hana is the third in a string of deaths linked to the use of training methods outlined in Michael and Debi Pearl's book, "To Train Up a Child". The deaths of seven-year-old Lydia Schatz and four-year-old Sean Paddock were also attributed to the use of these teachings. The siblings of all three children were found to have been struck repeatedly with plumbing supply line, the tool recommended by the Pearls for "training" children as young as six months old.
Are the teachings in the Pearls' book inherently abusive? At first glance, perhaps not. They wrap their message up in pretty bows, encouraging parents to "tie strings" and develop mutual respect and trust. A cursory read-through by a well-meaning parent may raise only a few easily-ignored red flags. But what happens when these teachings are followed religiously and taken to their logical conclusion?
The horrifying affidavit filed after Hana's death paints precisely this picture. For months, Hana had been regularly beaten, denied food, forced to shower under cold water outside, locked in a dark closet, and permitted to use only the lavatory set up for her behind the barn. She ultimately succumbed to hypothermia when left outside in the rain. Her adopted brother had endured similar abuses, including being hosed down in cold water when his documented medical condition caused him to urinate in his pants.
The Pearls would deny that any such abusive actions had any relation to the teachings in their book. And yet according to the affidavit:
"Other forms of discipline taught in this book include cold water bathes to assist in toilet training or putting the children outside in the cold weather, having them miss meals and sleeping on the floor or outside as forms of punishment."
The book itself further substantiates these claims:
"So, my suggestion was that the father explain to the boy that, now that he was a man [at all of three years old], he would no longer be washed in the house. He was too big and too stinky to be cleaned by the babywipes. From now on, he would be washed outside with a garden hose. The child was not to be blamed. This was to be understood as just a progressive change in methods. The next dump, the father took him out and merrily, and might I say, carelessly, washed him off. What with the autumn chill and the cold well water, I don’t remember if it took a second washing or not, but, a week later, the father told me his son was now taking himself to the pot. The child weighed the alternatives and opted to change his lifestyle. Since then, several others have been the recipients of my meddling, and it usually takes no more than three cheerful washings."
"If a child doesn’t like what is on the table, let him do without until the next meal. A little fasting is good training."
"If you have to sit on him to spank him then do not hesitate. And hold him there until he is surrendered. Prove that you are bigger, tougher, more patiently enduring and are unmoved by his wailing. Defeat him totally. Accept no conditions for surrender. No compromise. You are to rule over him as a benevolent sovereign. Your word is final."
"Use your own judgment as to what is effective. I found five to ten licks usually sufficient. Sometimes, with older children, usually when the licks are not forceful enough, the child may still be rebellious. If this occurs, take time to instruct and then continue the spanking. A general rule is to continue the disciplinary action until the child is surrendered."
Continue the disciplinary action until the child is surrendered...or dead.
After Lydia's death, Micheal released a statement saying that he "laughed at his caustic critics". A child is dead, and Michael laughs. He concludes his lengthy mocking statement with the following:
"Even my chickens are laughing...well, actually it is more like cackling, because they just laid another organic egg for my breakfast and they know that it was that same piece of ¼ inch plastic supply line that trained the dogs not to eat chicken."To put this into perspective, consider author Stephen King's response when actual school shootings were linked to his book "Rage". Far from laughing, King expressed deep remorse and had the book pulled from further publication. That is the human, compassionate response to death. Michael Pearl laughed.
But there is hope. These deaths are not going unnoticed. As these children rest safely in the arms of their Heavenly Father, others are questioning the Pearls' methods. CNN recently a ran a two-part series on Michael Pearl and Lydia Schatz (Part 1 and Part 2), which was later followed up with their report Ungodly Discipline and interview Faith and Discipline after the death of Hana Williams. The New York Times has also reported on the Pearls and their role in Hana's death. Although the reports thus far have failed to truly unearth the severity of these teachings, they are a hopeful beginning.
Others are speaking out against the Pearls' abusive teachings as well:
- Why Not Train a Child has explored why blame the Pearls at all?, a question explored further in Part 2. The blog continues to follow the unfolding story and the many reactions it has elicited.
- Elizabeth Esther wrote about another dead child, the cognitive dissonance of "biblical" child-training, and why the Pearls must be held accountable.
- Free by His Grace has asked, Hana Williams: “Rebellion” or Reaction to Abuse?
- TulipGirl wrote about Hana Williams and the Pearls and parenting.
- A member of No Longer Quivering shared her own heartbreaking experience with using the Pearls' materials in her article Corpses Don't Rebel.
- Christianity Today writer Rachel Stone read the book for herself, discovering that the line between the Pearls’ “child training” and child abuse is blurry at best.
In memory of Hana, I will be devoting next week to a three-part exploration of the "rod verses" in Proverbs. While the issue at hand isn't limited to corporal punishment - even many who spank find the Pearls' teachings to be horrifying and cruel - it is the Pearls' twisted use of Scripture that so many supporters, both fervent and reluctant, hold out as evidence that what he teaches must be biblical. It is my hope that the idea of physical chastisement as a necessary, or even acceptable, part of "biblical" discipline will continue to be questioned by those who learn of the tragic results of such twisted theology.
As I've asked before: How many more? How many more children need to die before the teachings of the Pearls are seen for what they really are? How much longer will this needless abuse happen behind closed doors, not at the hands of monsters, but those of well-meaning, loving parents who have been taken in by the Pearls' promises of godly children? This is not a case of taking away nuggets of gold and leaving behind the small part that tends to the extreme - no, this is a case of digging through a garbage dump in hopes of finding one small fleck of gold. Perhaps the Pearls are all the more insidious for that very reason: for all their advice of "tying heartstrings", the practicality of carrying out what they put forth achieves anything but attachment.
Saturday, 5 November 2011
The Saturday Evening Blog Post
It's time again for the Saturday Evening Blog Post, hosted by Elizabeth Esther. Elizabeth collects the "best of" posts on the first Saturday of every month, an opportunity for bloggers to gather and share their favourite post from the previous month.
Tonight, Elizabeth invites us to share our favourite post from October. I added more gentle discipline posts last month - Attachment Parenting: Beyond the baby years, Nurturing parent-child relationships through play, and Ten alternatives to time-outs - which are always some of my favourite posts to share.
But my most favourite of all from October is Bedtime bonding, in which I recall a particularly peaceful bedtime experience in our home. Other nights would include more frustration, more grumpiness on my part because patience wears thin by the end of a long day. These more peaceful nights, however, are the ones I want to remember, and particularly so because it is the memory of them that somehow calms me during the nights when I am tempted to snap and growl and throw a temper tantrum of my own. Just remember the better nights...and breathe in peace.
If you've written something you'd like to share this month, swing by her blog and add your link!
Weekend Reading
- God is Good @ A Deeper Story
- A Walk From 6th to Pike @ Rosmarinus Officinalis
- It's a Lifestyle, Not an Event @ Dulce de leche
- Myth Busting 6: “I could see it in her eyes” @ Dare to Disciple
And a bonus this weekend, because it made me laugh and lifted my spirits after our long evening in the ER:
- Vespers @ The Not-Ever-Still Life
Thursday, 3 November 2011
Inevitable
It was bound to happen.
I'd known it since he was just a few months old, climbing the stairs before he could even crawl.
I'd known it back when I would regularly find him grinning at me from the top of the kitchen table, long before he learned how to walk.
I'd known it from the anxious looks on the faces of the other parents at the playground as he climbed far higher than seemed right for his age.
I'd known it as he shook off bumps and scrapes and bruises that would leave most toddlers sobbing.
I'd known we'd end up in the Emergency Room eventually.
Last night was the night. Our first, somehow, in our four-and-a-half-years of parenting. The boys were almost ready for bed, just finishing up their bedtime snack of cheese as they ran around the living room. I was getting things ready in the bedroom - the toddler's favourite blankets, the boy's pallet, my laptop ready to entertain me as they drifted off to sleep - when I heard the crash.
The crash was followed by a cry - The Cry - the one that causes you to drop everything and run to check for broken bones or gaping wounds. I found the toddler curled up on the floor, face down as he sobbed into his hands, and his older brother next to him, stroking his hair and asking him if he was okay.
I gently turned him over. It was the latter - gaping wounds - and chaos erupted as I called to the husband, "we need to go to the hospital!" There was that instant knowing that this needed a doctor. When he'd fallen yesterday and bumped his head, I sent the older one for a wet facecloth for the blood and ice for the swelling. When he'd danced his way off the counter a few months ago, I checked his pupils and watched his behaviour and snuggled him oh-so-tightly. When the oldest had that bad fever as a little baby, I kept him close and nursed him often and watched him carefully. But this - this needed more than a mother's touch could provide.
Facecloths and shoes and phones were grabbed. The oldest was strapped into his carseat while I snuggled the bleeding one on my lap, laws be damned. The husband (the one who was never good with the blood, the one who passed out as the oldest was crowning) drove, looked over, got queasy, looked away, drove some more. I whispered reassurance in my baby's ear, kissed his face, mopped up blood. He stopped crying halfway there, my tough little boy.
We talked to registration, waited, talked to triage, waited, talked to registration again, waited. Half an hour...one hour...two hours...two and a half. The bleeding had slowed and my little clown had returned. He made eyes at all the ladies. They cooed over him and clucked over his bleeding wound and fetched him more leaves when the ones he'd found on the floor had fallen apart. He pretended to be stuck behind the chairs while I hovered, nervous, not wanting him to bump his head again. Now that the bleeding had slowed, I could see how grossly deep it was - how was there even that much room between the surface of his skin and his skull?
When he got too antsy, I scooped him up again and wandered the waiting room. He wanted to be hung upside down and I was reluctant because hello, bleeding head wound. I could hear half the waiting room thinking for shame, hanging him upside down when his head is bleeding! and the other half thinking for shame, denying an injured child the one thing that is making him laugh! But he kept trying to fling himself back and sometimes I let him, just for a quick second - so much for consistency, so much for being kind yet firm, but all those good parenting rules go out the window when your sick or injured child looks at you with those big gorgeous eyes. What's that? You want some ice cream? And a pony? Anything for you, baby.
Finally we were called out of the waiting room and into the doctor's office, where a nurse applied numbing gel and covered the whole mess with tape and gauze and more tape. Then it was back to waiting, playing "this little piggy" and carrying on conversations in toddler-ese and trying to ignore the growing ache in your own limbs from two and half hours of holding and rocking and pacing.
At last the doctor came in, looking serious and short-tempered. I steeled myself as he began to speak. "So...you'd like me to put your kid back together for you?" I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding, laughed, nodded. But then he was called away - "STAT!" - and there was more waiting.
Half an hour later, I'd given in to the ache and found a chair, and the toddler had given in to the late hour and fallen asleep in my arms. I kissed him and rocked him and waited until finally the doctor was back and it was Time.
The nurse wrapped him in a blanket and he stirred but fell asleep again until the doctor poked that first stitch through and the screaming began. I held him down and held back tears and sometimes the most painful things really are for your own good.
Five stitches later, it was done. I scooped him up and he stopped sobbing but I was still shaking like a leaf; little man is tougher than his mama, that's for sure.
And so ended our very first trip to the ER. Back home and ready for bed for the second time that night, the little one fell right asleep. The older one (who had waited oh-so-patiently in the waiting room the entire time) chattered away about diggers and graders and whales and other things of Great Importance to a four-year-old boy. The husband and I, too hopped up on adrenaline to sleep, decompressed in front of our computer screens, heading to bed shortly after the boy's whispers were finally replaced with the deep, slow breaths of sleep.
This first trip, with this boy? It was inevitable.
Now it's just a matter of biding our time until the next one.
I'd known it since he was just a few months old, climbing the stairs before he could even crawl.
I'd known it back when I would regularly find him grinning at me from the top of the kitchen table, long before he learned how to walk.
I'd known it from the anxious looks on the faces of the other parents at the playground as he climbed far higher than seemed right for his age.
I'd known it as he shook off bumps and scrapes and bruises that would leave most toddlers sobbing.
I'd known we'd end up in the Emergency Room eventually.
Last night was the night. Our first, somehow, in our four-and-a-half-years of parenting. The boys were almost ready for bed, just finishing up their bedtime snack of cheese as they ran around the living room. I was getting things ready in the bedroom - the toddler's favourite blankets, the boy's pallet, my laptop ready to entertain me as they drifted off to sleep - when I heard the crash.
The crash was followed by a cry - The Cry - the one that causes you to drop everything and run to check for broken bones or gaping wounds. I found the toddler curled up on the floor, face down as he sobbed into his hands, and his older brother next to him, stroking his hair and asking him if he was okay.
I gently turned him over. It was the latter - gaping wounds - and chaos erupted as I called to the husband, "we need to go to the hospital!" There was that instant knowing that this needed a doctor. When he'd fallen yesterday and bumped his head, I sent the older one for a wet facecloth for the blood and ice for the swelling. When he'd danced his way off the counter a few months ago, I checked his pupils and watched his behaviour and snuggled him oh-so-tightly. When the oldest had that bad fever as a little baby, I kept him close and nursed him often and watched him carefully. But this - this needed more than a mother's touch could provide.
Facecloths and shoes and phones were grabbed. The oldest was strapped into his carseat while I snuggled the bleeding one on my lap, laws be damned. The husband (the one who was never good with the blood, the one who passed out as the oldest was crowning) drove, looked over, got queasy, looked away, drove some more. I whispered reassurance in my baby's ear, kissed his face, mopped up blood. He stopped crying halfway there, my tough little boy.
We talked to registration, waited, talked to triage, waited, talked to registration again, waited. Half an hour...one hour...two hours...two and a half. The bleeding had slowed and my little clown had returned. He made eyes at all the ladies. They cooed over him and clucked over his bleeding wound and fetched him more leaves when the ones he'd found on the floor had fallen apart. He pretended to be stuck behind the chairs while I hovered, nervous, not wanting him to bump his head again. Now that the bleeding had slowed, I could see how grossly deep it was - how was there even that much room between the surface of his skin and his skull?
When he got too antsy, I scooped him up again and wandered the waiting room. He wanted to be hung upside down and I was reluctant because hello, bleeding head wound. I could hear half the waiting room thinking for shame, hanging him upside down when his head is bleeding! and the other half thinking for shame, denying an injured child the one thing that is making him laugh! But he kept trying to fling himself back and sometimes I let him, just for a quick second - so much for consistency, so much for being kind yet firm, but all those good parenting rules go out the window when your sick or injured child looks at you with those big gorgeous eyes. What's that? You want some ice cream? And a pony? Anything for you, baby.
Finally we were called out of the waiting room and into the doctor's office, where a nurse applied numbing gel and covered the whole mess with tape and gauze and more tape. Then it was back to waiting, playing "this little piggy" and carrying on conversations in toddler-ese and trying to ignore the growing ache in your own limbs from two and half hours of holding and rocking and pacing.
At last the doctor came in, looking serious and short-tempered. I steeled myself as he began to speak. "So...you'd like me to put your kid back together for you?" I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding, laughed, nodded. But then he was called away - "STAT!" - and there was more waiting.
Half an hour later, I'd given in to the ache and found a chair, and the toddler had given in to the late hour and fallen asleep in my arms. I kissed him and rocked him and waited until finally the doctor was back and it was Time.
The nurse wrapped him in a blanket and he stirred but fell asleep again until the doctor poked that first stitch through and the screaming began. I held him down and held back tears and sometimes the most painful things really are for your own good.
Five stitches later, it was done. I scooped him up and he stopped sobbing but I was still shaking like a leaf; little man is tougher than his mama, that's for sure.
And so ended our very first trip to the ER. Back home and ready for bed for the second time that night, the little one fell right asleep. The older one (who had waited oh-so-patiently in the waiting room the entire time) chattered away about diggers and graders and whales and other things of Great Importance to a four-year-old boy. The husband and I, too hopped up on adrenaline to sleep, decompressed in front of our computer screens, heading to bed shortly after the boy's whispers were finally replaced with the deep, slow breaths of sleep.
This first trip, with this boy? It was inevitable.
Now it's just a matter of biding our time until the next one.
Wednesday, 2 November 2011
Wordless Wednesday: Snapshots
The boys' castle, where they trapped an evil spider
and saved all of the townspeople from certain death.
(Really, there was quite the elaborate story that went along with this particular creation.)
and saved all of the townspeople from certain death.
(Really, there was quite the elaborate story that went along with this particular creation.)
Making pretzels.
(Yum.)
Playing airplanes...
...and helicopters.
Rolling in the leaves.
"Excuse me, is there something in my nose?"
"Ah, just joshin' ya."
Tuesday, 1 November 2011
Why I need you
I need you because sometimes I forget.
I forget that relationship trumps all, that all the compliance in the world is meaningless in the absence of love.
I forget that my children are not intentionally manipulative and bent on defiance.
I forget gentleness.
I forget.
I need you because you help me stay focused in a world that is telling me obedience is the focus, the goal, and the prize.
I need you, gentle mothers and fathers, to keep me strong when temptation calls. It would be so much easier - so easy - to use force and dominance to get my way. MY will be done.
I need you, gentle Christians, to encourage me when I feel alone. Remind me that I'm not the only one who loves God and believes with my whole heart that He would never have me strike my children to gain their obedience.
I need you, like-minded people, to bring peace to my confused thoughts. Yes, yes...that's right. I remember now.
I need you, not-so-like-minded people, for your knowledge and wisdom and grace. Our differences need not divide us when we assume the best in each other, knowing that we're all just muddling through as best we can. I don't have all the answers and I will never be right about everything. Your mocking and criticism hurts; I would value, however, your friendship.
I need you, online friends and mentors, intangible and yet so very present. I need you when those I can see and feel and touch would pull me away from what I know to be right and good and true.
I need you when I am in the valley, yes, but I need you when I am on the mountaintop too. The view may be clearer up there but God knew that we would need others to walk with us on this journey.
I need you. I need your support when I feel weak, your reminders when I forget, and your friendship throughout it all.
I need you.
Perhaps, if you have not yet done so, you would take this opportunity to introduce yourself? Who are you? What brings you here? What needs do you have? If there is anything you'd like to share, I would love to hear it.
I forget that relationship trumps all, that all the compliance in the world is meaningless in the absence of love.
I forget that my children are not intentionally manipulative and bent on defiance.
I forget gentleness.
I forget.
I need you because you help me stay focused in a world that is telling me obedience is the focus, the goal, and the prize.
I need you, gentle mothers and fathers, to keep me strong when temptation calls. It would be so much easier - so easy - to use force and dominance to get my way. MY will be done.
I need you, gentle Christians, to encourage me when I feel alone. Remind me that I'm not the only one who loves God and believes with my whole heart that He would never have me strike my children to gain their obedience.
I need you, like-minded people, to bring peace to my confused thoughts. Yes, yes...that's right. I remember now.
I need you, not-so-like-minded people, for your knowledge and wisdom and grace. Our differences need not divide us when we assume the best in each other, knowing that we're all just muddling through as best we can. I don't have all the answers and I will never be right about everything. Your mocking and criticism hurts; I would value, however, your friendship.
I need you, online friends and mentors, intangible and yet so very present. I need you when those I can see and feel and touch would pull me away from what I know to be right and good and true.
I need you when I am in the valley, yes, but I need you when I am on the mountaintop too. The view may be clearer up there but God knew that we would need others to walk with us on this journey.
I need you. I need your support when I feel weak, your reminders when I forget, and your friendship throughout it all.
I need you.
Perhaps, if you have not yet done so, you would take this opportunity to introduce yourself? Who are you? What brings you here? What needs do you have? If there is anything you'd like to share, I would love to hear it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)