MSI Press Blog

  There’s a reason I feel safe letting Doah shop at the market on his own. It’s not because he doesn’t have challenges. He does. It’s because we live in a town where the community quietly steps in to help raise him. San Ignatius is the kind of place where everyone knows everyone, and the abuelitas keep the teenagers in line with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a well‑timed “Mijo, no.” They don’t hesitate to speak up, and the kids listen. Respectfully. Immediately. It’s a kind of social magic you don’t see in big cities anymore. And then there’s our priest. He is not just the Catholic priest for the Mission but also the town priest. Whether you g o to church or not, he’s everyone’s moral compass. If he sees someone misbehaving, he’ll correct them right there on the sidewalk or in the store, collar and all. People accept it because they know it comes from a place of care. But the heart of this story is the manager of our little market — the only one in town. He kn...

  Doah’s mind often worked in ways that startled me—sometimes funny, sometimes profound, always his own. His mental challenges meant he processed the world differently, but that difference often revealed truths I might have missed. 💰 The Nickels When Doah was five or six, nickels were his treasure. He loved to collect them, roll them up, and march proudly to the bank to exchange them for “real” money. Anyone giving him a gift—birthday, holiday, or otherwise—knew to tuck in a few nickels. And if he spotted one on the ground, it was pure delight. He prized those nickels as if they were gold. A few weeks later, we were on a plane—I can’t even remember now where we were returning from—sitting in the middle two seats of a bulkhead row. The man on the aisle beside Doah noticed how awkward the bulkhead could be: overhead bins opening and closing, trays swinging out of armrests, all the little inconveniences that make travel taxing for a child. He was kind and solicitous, helping us ...

  In our household, we’ve banned very few things. We’re more likely to adapt, explain, or redirect than to outright prohibit. But one evening, when Doah was about seven or eight years old, a certain black-and-white sitcom earned itself a permanent spot on the “nope” list. It started with a scream. Not the kind of scream that makes you pause and say, “Hmm, that’s odd.” No, this was the full-body, sobbing, clutching-his-stomach, begging-for-the-hospital kind of scream. It was late—only the ER was open. I checked his temperature. Normal. Breathing? Fine. No distended belly, no change in skin tone. But the pain appeaed relentless. After a long stretch of inconsolable wailing, I bundled him up and drove to the emergency room. The ER doctor was kind but puzzled. He found what I had found: nothing remarkable. He ordered an x-ray. Still nothing. “Take him home,” he said gently. “Watch him. Bring him back if anything changes.” We stepped out of the hospital doors, and Doah—my swee...

  Precerpt from  Raising God’s Rainbow Makers (Mahlou) I’ve always been a sound sleeper. Earthquakes, mortar fire, even sick children standing beside the bed—I slept through it all. But when Doah was born, everything changed. He had apnea attacks, day and night, and for the first six months of his life, there were no monitors leased to homes. No alarms. No backup. Just me. He slept beside me in bed, and every time he stopped breathing, I woke up. Instantly. No sound, no motion—just absence. My body registered the silence and responded before thought could catch up. I gave him CPR more times than I can count. I didn’t sleep lightly. I slept attuned . That’s the only word for it. That winter, there were eleven children in Pittsburgh with tracheotomies. Nine of them died. Only a ten-year-old and Doah survived. I believe he lived because of proximity—because my body recalibrated to his breath, because he was beside me, and because I refused to surrender to institutional neglect....