The Misguided Sainthood of Mrs. Kleiner

Trying to get it right with the best of intentions.

Location: Seattle, Washington

I have been married to the delicious Joe Kleiner for 6 years. I got preg in 1999 & miscarried at 17 weeks. I was depressed for a very long time. I now know I have PCOS, an endocrine disorder and leading cause of infertility. Joe and I both felt compelled to adopt foster children so we called ANTIOCH ADOPTIONS. They are committed to helping normal people adopt & to getting kids out of foster care. Our kids came home in the fall of 2001. Bret (8), Nene (7), and Tony (5). In 2004 we were contacted because the kids had a new biological sister and through God's amazing providence we now have her too. Yes, that's four-ages 12, 10, 9 and 1. This is where the mythology begins. Often people who don't know us hold to an erroneous and misguided belief that I am special, a saint if you will. That THEY would never be able to live my life. That God has not CALLED THEM to fostering or adopting. I disagree with every cell of my being. I am no saint. But I do believe that Jesus calls us ALL to care for the fatherless, to love the unlovable, and to die to ourselves. So this is my attempt to set the record straight.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005


My name is Alecia and I have a rage problem.

I come from a long line of ragers.

My Dad breaks wild horses for a living. He is an intense human being. Very gifted and handsome. And he gets pissed really easy. When he fights he forgets how much he loves you. He comes to kick ass. His rage is quick and furious. And when he's done, he's done. He forgets and expects everyone to move on. I'm a lot like him.

My Mom is equally rageful, she's just the silent bitter type. Though I remember her losing it on me several times when I was a willful, smartassed kid. She suffered in silence most of her life. Her motto is "we will endeavor to persevere". Very martyrish. Very co-dependent. She remembers things forever, and struggles with bitterness. I'm a lot like her.

My dad's mama, grandma Wanita was the poster child for rage. She led a hard life married to an amiable alcoholic, supporting four children in impoverished Oklahoma. Think Grapes of Wrath. Legend has it that my deadbeat grandpa came home one night after getting his drink on and passed out on the bed. She was so pissed, she wrapped him in the bedsheets like a mummy--and then beat the shit out of him with the handle of a broom.

Her next husband disagreed with her scoring during shuffle board. She took the puck and pistol whipped him with it. In front of everyone. Their marriage only lasted a few years.

She was beautiful when she was young. But hard living and anger took it's toll. She wore her rage like a mask. You could see every line of anger. Every grievance. Every bitterness etched in her worn out face. In ways, I am a lot like her.

I had an epiphany tonight about my anger. Even though my episodes of freaking out on people have slowed down--and are usually centered around my hormonal peak each month--I still rage. My rage has gone underground. Instead of cussing someone out, I do it inside. I develop justifications for my irritations, and frustrations and deem them exceptable because I've been sinned against. To most people I seem to have it together. But I rage against my daughter, random strangers, and internally I always respond first with anger.

I'm the worst combination of my parents. When I sin--I forget immediately like my father. When I'm sinned against--I remember forever like my mother.

I want the redemption of Christ to flood my life and change me from the core. I want to die to my rage and the selfishness that drives it. I want my anger to be the righteous kind. When I'm an old lady I want my face to be etched with love and faithfulness and wisdom.