I should have known by the way she spun in a circle as she moved among the pine shavings, even somersaulting as she crashed into the other chicks. Sometimes, she kept one eye closed.
Soon, she couldn’t stand up without tipping over. It turns out she was “stargazing”, looking skyward, for she had wry neck, a neurological condition perhaps due to a vitamin deficiency or an injury sustained during her travels to the farm.
If she had a fighting chance, we were going to give it to her. We held her tiny yellow body. We fed her electrolytes with a dropper. We positioned her in a little cup filled with soft pine shavings. We kept her warm.
Still, Sarah Minor made weak little peeps as she continued to look to the sky. She didn’t seem to be getting better.
Chickens already have wings, so getting to heaven would be easy. She wouldn’t need angel wings.
All of the little boy’s sadness came through the five-day old chicken whose stay here was short. His own life’s loss and grief came as tears for a lost soft feathered friend. There were other chickens in the flock, but none was Sarah Minor.
“I think I just felt her going to heaven,” said the boy.
Sarah Minor died.
We wrapped her lifeless body in a soft white cotton cloth embroidered with tiny white flowers.
We set her into the farm’s earth, tied up with all her little chicken hopes and chicken dreams. Sarah, we were so glad that you came. Even though your time here was short, we know you visited for a reason.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” —Matthew 11:28
Many of you probably do not know that Dan Ihm, one of Hillcrest’s faithful musicians, even has a wife, as I have made it to church about five times in as many years…
Five years ago, Dan and I moved our family from a bungalow on a small lot in town to a farmette between DeKalb and Malta, where our roosters crow as they please and the chickens…and children…can range free. It has been a while now since an angry neighbor has come to our door with a bucket of balls that landed on his side of the fence at the hands of my boys.
The stories of the saints and angels of my Catholic childhood offered, for me, a way to see God at work through others. As I grew, the challenges of being among people often overwhelmed me, and, though I am a helper at heart, I chose small circles for interaction and found the greatest comfort in nature.
As a child who preferred holding the jump rope’s end while others took their turns at “Mary Mack”, I began finding contentment in solitude. I learned that God is in the garden. He’s in every nondescript sunrise, in the tiniest bud on the lowest branch of the wild rose bush, in the weakest pine seedling that stretches for its spot of afternoon sun. He is in the mountains, the streams and the skies. He’s also in the glorious hundred-year-old maple that provides us with an abundance of sap for maple syrup, in the robust clusters of grapes that delight all the farm inhabitants, and, for certain, in the cotton-candy-pink and creamsicle orange stripes of the most magical sunset.
Three or four years into our fostering journey, we committed to permanency for a little boy. At the time, we had no way to know the depths of the challenges that our family would face due to overwhelming chaos and fallout of mental illness and trauma, where a day’s end becomes a crossed finish line in a race where survival mode is constant.
God is with us as we watch our near-teenage son dissolve in his own emotions because he cannot understand why he has to do school work at home. He is with us as we intervene to hold him through his violent rage, which cannot be tempered through reason, which is understood only by God.
Continuing along a journey that has led to countless consults, therapies, medications, and physical and emotional struggles is exhausting. The farm, though, has offered the best medicine for the anger, the grief, and the unrest…in the form of water fights, dirt bike racing, cap gun battles with brothers…discovering the season’s first blueberry, and in peeking at a newborn chick that has just hatched under the warmth of a mother hen.
It was a rare occasion that I actually made it to church on a Sunday morning even before the virus ordered us home. In this time, the needs and overwhelming behaviors of our children have caused me to look more deeply at my place on this earth, and to experience God through the life around me, in the faces of grief and hope. I truly see God in my children.
Is this really God’s will? This has been an arduous journey. This isn’t what I expected. But, I remember God’s messengers that I learned about as a little girl. I remind myself that this is the hand of God, who is with us in our celebration, who is with us in our despair.
He is with us as the church benches are full on a Sunday morning, and He is with us in the darkness of our solitude, when we are alone, by shelter-at-home orders or by our own choosing.
In perfect honesty, I must say that “having” to stay home has been a bit of a relief for me. I know others may not see it as that, but in a way, it normalizes my isolation. Declined invitations from friends, fast food drive-thru or carry out dinners only, and staying home from church on Sunday; I no longer have reason for excuses.
The days are often hard. Looking back, though, I know that they are not as hard as they once were. Perhaps this is a time where it is clear that our constants are God and nature. We have been given rest, rest that we didn’t even know we needed.
“I will send you rain in its season, and the ground will yield its crops and the trees their fruit.” —Leviticus 26:4
The sun is out now after a hard spring rain. The blooms here at the farm are ready to burst, and one of the hens is expecting two eggs to hatch in the upcoming days. Soon, my dear Dan will be playing live music at church once again. And one day, I hope to be able to join him.
—Written for Hillcrest Covenant Church, DeKalb, IL
If our eyes are windows to our souls, the other features certainly help with interpretation.
The thoughts are higher, bigger, and more pervasive. There are questions in everything. Our world is different.
For some, it’s really the only world they know. A quandary in the world of child welfare is the often dumbfounding loyalty from a child to a parent who has hurt them, from a child who has suffered terrible things at the hands of those that they love best. This is not something that I could begin to understand until, through life experience, I could see it with my own eyes.
They loved, quite simply, because along with the hurt, there was also a lot of good. And that love, that good, carried them through the unthinkable. This life of hurt…and also of love…was what they knew.
I took my teenage daughter to the doctor for a routine physical last week. I was conscious of each door handle I touched, however hesitantly, and grateful that I hadn’t been asked to sign anything. Many times I reached for my hand sanitizer which I now carry in my purse.
Wearing twin masks that covered our noses and mouths, we walked the length of the clinic to the office of our longtime pediatrician, whose services we value even more in these days of uncertainty. A profound thought registered inside of me as I smiled at a young mother, also masked. I was unsure if she knew I smiled, though I am certain that the age lines at the corners of my eyes must have deepened. I really had no way of knowing if she returned my smile. Her glorious baby girl, perhaps six months old and the picture of happiness and joy, wearing a soft cotton floral dress and a matching headband, stood in her mother’s lap. The baby wore no mask, as they are not recommended for the youngest population. Her face was pure. There was no question that the baby was smiling, squealing, and showing the waiting patients her sparkly new teeth. Her bright eyes took in all there was to see. She looked to those around her, making eye contact and blowing raspberries.
No one, though, blew raspberries back to her. Not then.
The world outside that baby girl’s home is suddenly different from how her mother likely envisioned it would be. For me, and for my teenage daughter, it was a curious thing to see people out in public begin wearing masks. For this baby, for now, it will be what she knows, and how she sees most people.
She won’t see the facial expressions or smiles of passing strangers. Her interpretation of body language and communication in society will be different than mine. But it will be what she knows.
All my life, I have marveled at how those with sensory impairments navigate the world. My longtime friend works with children with visual impairments. She often shares stories of her small clients and the victories that they achieve and the ways that she supports them as they learn to grow within the world as they know and experience it. I have sat in homes of children and families that have learned to speak with their hands and to listen with their eyes. I am brought to my knees at the wonders of humankind.
Maybe I wear a mask when I am afraid to speak. Now, the mask may cover what I need to hear. The beautiful baby will learn to talk, communicate, and interpret language as she grows. There may, though be some differences from how babies learned before the world changed before us, and before we put on our masks.
I have lived through many hopeful experiences in the child welfare system, where things changed for a while. Hard things happened, and children were separated from their families. There was a period of time when things were different…confusing…sad…and where we all sometimes felt like covering our faces so that nobody would know that we were crying. Changes had to happen, and when they did, families were reunited. They were, though, forever changed by what they had been through.
To us, this time is unsettling. It seems we are missing out. That little baby, though, reminded me of all that we do have, even as we are forced to wear masks, masks which protect us from the unknown, masks which can keep all of us safe during this time of great uncertainty.
If I can’t see your smile, I hope to hear your laughter, and perhaps to feel your energy from six feet away.
“Without a noise, without my pride, I reach out from the inside.”
As a little girl, on my sick days from school, the best part of the day was the half hour when I could sit in my dad’s recliner in my pajamas and watch Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. I found great comfort in staring at the trolley while it circled the neighborhood, where I could pass some of my time with this great man who had so much to show me. He always knew the right thing to say to make me feel better.
After nearly thirteen years of fostering, we surrendered our license, which was somehow at once sad and celebratory. During that tenure, one of the greatest challenges lay in trying to answer questions which were essentially unanswerable.
“When am I going home?”
“When can I see my mom?”
“Will I be staying here forever?”
As I, too, longed for answers to these questions, I knew it was my job to reassure, to be honest, to share what I knew could be understood, and, often impossibly, to comfort, even when the words I could provide were not what the children longed to hear.
When our license capacity had been and would be at the maximum for many years, when our final adoption was made official, and when the many needs of our family made the decision clear (well, maybe not to me…), it was time to close our doors to fostering.
It seemed, then, that the questions might stop.
I know that the hard questions came from the birth families, too, who had loved and lost so much. At the judge’s decision, the life long grief is hardly an answer.
My children still wonder when they will see their birth parents, why they cannot be with their first families, if they had always been loved, and whether they will really be staying with us forever…because the formality of adoption, for many, is not enough to answer those questions.
The state of our recent days reminds me of the challenges of unanswerable questions.
“When is this dumb virus going to be over?”
“When can I see my friends? When can I ride dirt bikes with Ray (our revered family friend)?”
“When is baseball going to start?” (I am in on this one, too, for sure).
“When can we see the big kids? When can we go on an airplane to California?”
“Are we all going to die?”
Am I actually going to be able to help them through this? Because, really, I have no idea. No one does.
I guess I can try to apply the fostering philosophy for handling these questions, too, and I will likely wind up feeling just as bewildered in my inability to really give them what they need.
The truth isthat we don’t know what weneed. No one does. I wonder if we ever will again, or if we ever even did. If only Mr. Rogers was still here…
As my children are tucked safely in their beds each night, the stars shining high over the forest, in this home where they will be welcomed forever, I can’t help but think of those who, even in this period of great uncertainty, have even bigger questions. Those youth in care and those who have just aged out of the system have the same unanswerable questions that I have heard many times, only now there are harder and more uncertain, even more foreboding questions. An uncertain future in an uncertain world is just too much to bear…and far too much to bear alone, wondering.
In the night, the claps of thunder shook me awake, but then I heard the rumble of the train in the distance, in quiet competition with a soft, steady rain that carried on through most of today.
The wisdom of Mr. Rogers advises us to “look for the helpers”. These days, certainly, they are not hard to find.
I wonder, really, how best to be a helper in these overwhelming, often lonely times. Maybe just doing our best to listen to those questions and worries, maybe just being there, is being a helper. After all, we can’t really go anywhere…
Once the rain had passed, it really was a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
The fireball sun recalled orange-slice smiles and puddle stained skirts from the day’s careless frolics.
She was unconcerned with the passage of time, painted with mud splashes and oblivious even to the dinner bell, and her day’s accomplishments included garland crowns for her sisters and a mud tunnel nearly halfway to China.
She didn’t know; maybe she wouldn’t have to. But the years take her anyway, in a pirouette from the dark curtain, with tinny violin strings…sleepovers…campfires and marshmallows on sticks…notes passed in secret…the highest cage on the spinning ride where his hand on her knee made her forget the sick feeling inside of her…the click of two-inch heels across the auditorium stage…and a champagne toast to the bride and groom.
A snowman that melted into years of childbirth and nine-to-five; tiny feet that ran swiftly through their own childhoods, closing the door behind them, only to return as the seasons beckoned, as the wind blew in gusts of celebration and sorrow, as souls were reclaimed by the heavens.
The sun set softly this time, a gentle orange that faded to the darkness of night as her eyes closed for her last earthly sleep. She couldn’t have known, but perhaps she did.
I would always have someone with me, and I would never be lonely, not ever again.
At twenty-four, and I was about to have my first baby. Early Motherhood, though inherently challenging, treated me gently. It had been my deepest wish, to become a mother. With my new mom friends, I passed idle days walking to the Chocolate Moon for coffee, nursing my tiny sons, washing diapers, and learning to make wildflower jelly.
It’s just not that simple anymore.
It seemed a good idea to sit in the back seat with a tiny infant on the trips with our new family. I could keep an eye on the little being and feed him, entertain him, and clean him up if something happened to erupt. With him beside me, I knew he was safe.
When our second baby was born, his older brother was a bright and contemplative preschooler, capable of replacing a pacifier or making the little one laugh. I returned to the passenger seat for our family road trips, for an unsuspecting decade.
Our recent years have been peppered with people, with helpers that came to our home, that saw who I was deep inside, that saw the things I didn’t even know were inside of me; people that sometimes knew me better than my best friends. The helpers would come, some for short times and some for longer. I have never really known if we are better once they have gone, or if they were just there to help us pass the time.
And we have a lot of time to pass these days.
These were people that I didn’t want to need, people that I didn’t know we needed, and sometimes even people that we couldn’t live without.
At some point, after enough questionable behaviors and dangerous things, I started sitting in the back seat again, with all riders in strategic places to encourage the least amount of consternation. I have never really made my way out: not yet, anyway.
So many years in the back seat have made me question who I am, and who I thought I might be. It’s a lot of waiting…and a lot of hoping…that when my time is done, it will have been enough.
Sometimes the roads are easier. Maybe that’s part of the rhythm of the year, or because we are driving through the countryside instead of the city’s traffic. We try to make it uphill. We run out of gas. Maybe we are all a bit safer when I am in the back seat, or maybe it wouldn’t even matter.
I sometimes wonder what would happen if I just let them be, if I didn’t intervene, if I didn’t try to separate the brothers from their torment. Maybe I am not helping at all.
There are times, of course, when I am driving alone with a little person or two. There are times when I am hit by a flying boot, and when I have to drive with one hand and mediate a fight with the other.
It’s so hard for them to understand all of this; it’s so hard for us to see when we don’t understand, when we don’t even know what we need.
I miss the front seat for the little things: sitting alongside someone that I have loved for so much of my life, having idle conversation, sharing coffee from the cup holder, reading a book in peace. It’s a bit harder when I am in the back seat. I guess we have gotten used to it. Nearly thirty years have passed, and I am not yet back to this place that I once took for granted, that I abandoned by choice. I’m trying really hard to get back there.
I guess I got my wish, though…for I always have someone with me. Always. And I am far from lonely, especially when I am in the back seat.
It’s helpful, necessary, and smart. It’s good practice. Also, it’s terrifying.
There’s no more solace to be found in the garden these days. “Put them to work with you,” advise the well-intentioned folks who do not understand my reality of the transformation of a tiny farmer that uses a three-quarter-scale shovel to scoop compost into a wheelbarrow, only to turn (in the time it takes to pull two weeds) on a brother who had let his thoughts escape into words. I can only hope to reach the angry pair before the shovel strikes.
It’s the images of the masks which hide the faces; the hands, including mine, fitted with gloves; the grocery store carts topped with hand sanitizer and bleach as though a disinfectant sundae was on the dinner menu; the plastic shields intended to protect the brave cashiers who come to work so we can eat; and the heaviness of fear, both known and unknown, that’s terrifying beyond measure. Terrifying, too, is that we don’t really even know what we’ve lost.
Maybe I should have wiped down all the packages from today’s supply runs. I didn’t. Maybe I just needed another thought to wake me at two in the morning, when the boys are actually sleeping.
I had envisioned a brightly-colored piñata hanging from the tree in the sunshine, with my little line of children barely able to contain their excitement. It would be a treat for us all during this time of uncertainty. The box came from Amazon, but I told them it was a surprise for the next day. One boy became incensed; he didn’t like surprises, and he hated me. “Sorry! It’s a piñata,” I blurted. “I thought it would be fun.” At that, another brother announced that he, too, hated me, and pretty much everything, because I had ruined the surprise.
Next, there were cartoon-style clouds of body parts swirling through the air to the tune of an anguished choir. Maybe we should have called for help. That concept, too, is terrifying for so many reasons.
Come tomorrow, I will have to decide what to do about the piñata. It might feel good for all of us to take a turn at striking.
There’s so much loss going on all around us…so much on top of what’s already there, most of which may be hidden so deeply within that we cannot call it up. It must come on its own, in its own time.
It’s hard to know how to help my children through all of this, when my band of supporters must keep a social distance or communicate over a screen.
Maybe it’s like hitting a piñata, where finally all the beating and shaking becomes too much, and it just breaks apart. What it once was is lost. The masks and sanitizer will just help soften the blow.
I did manage to get some seeds in the ground earlier in the day. In about a month, my lettuce will be ready to harvest, and soon I will be able to transplant the seeds that we started inside. There will also be sugar snaps, beets, and carrots to follow. By mid summer, I hope that we will have stored our medical gloves and masks away. I hope for a lot of things. We all do.
We’ll try to record our piñata adventure, if it even happens. My guess is that everyone will be lined up and ready to take a swing. Even me. Especially me.
It was hard to discern where the brilliant blue sky became the ocean’s choppy waves, where the hope looked more like fear.
From his little spot in the Florida sun, my dad sends me things to read: funny and interesting things…things that he has found on the internet or in the newspaper, things that he hears the neighbors talking about, or things that he thinks will remind me of something from an earlier day. Many of these things are about baseball.
This year, we are going to have to wait for our great game. We are going to have to wait for a lot of things.
Sometimes I don’t get to these things right away; often I have the intention to return to my messages later in the day. Often, though, my time gets swept up in other things, and more messages come. I know there are some that I have yet to open, messages that my Dad knew would be worth the two minute read.
A car trip to the ocean to visit my parents who, though gracefully, are nonetheless aging, seemed like the perfect way to pass the time leading up to the start of our great game. I wanted my little boys to know them as our grown children do. With the ebb and flow of behaviors in our home, traveling has not been easy. We took a chance, and we planned our seventeen-hour car trip one week before the school’s spring break, just because the timing seemed right.
The night’s sparring match began with one brother wanting to play a racing game and the other not wanting to give up his Minecraft berth. The first brother, miraculously, decided it would be okay if the second brother kept on playing his game. Dumbfounded, I watched as the second brother announced and then acted out his rage that the first brother “gave in” to him. After some yelling and escalation, he stood, abandoning his game controller and the coveted spot on the couch.
When it gets hard, we sometimes go outside and run around the property. By now, he was shaking and crying, saying over and over how he didn’t want to be here, how he needed to go.
The hard part is that even if we could go somewhere, we wouldn’t know where to go.
First it was the play castle, an outside climbing toy that we had inherited from a good friend whose many children had hung up their capes and crowns years before. He ran at the castle, kicking, hitting, yelling and turning over a structure many times his size with the force of his fierce anger.
Next was the giant maple tree, pummeled by my strong little-leaguer’s strife, channeled through a baseball bat, which had been lying nearby. “I hate the tree. I hate everything,” he cried. Barely four feet tall, in this fit of angst, he had the strength of the tallest giant…the wrath of a little boy whose pain was taller than a hundred-year-old Maple tree.
I stood by him for what seemed a terribly long time, watching the fire burn from his tormented soul. I told him that I needed to lock up the chickens. Before I had reached the first coop, I turned to find that he had nearly caught up to me. Somewhere along the way, he had abandoned his baseball bat. He had also dispelled most of the rage, and he was ready to say goodnight to our flock. We closed the chicken doors. The hardest part of the night was behind us.
We spent a few minutes more walking around the property, looking for spring’s promise in the form of new buds on black raspberry canes, young apple trees, and fairy roses. He apologized to the castle and to the tree.
We were better.
If I had called for help in the height of his anguish, there might have been none. Instead, our earth provided.
Just days earlier, this boy had the ocean nearly to himself. For blissful hours, he caught the waves and dug for shells. I sat on the hot sand with my dad, who, in that moment, was healthy and well. The Florida sun shone on his skin. He turned to me as he looked out onto the waves of the coming tide.
“You always did love the ocean, didn’t you?” he asked, but his question begged no answer.
The waves became more rough and uncertain with each news report. Our long-awaited getaway was overshadowed by fear and anxiety of the unknown. We cut our trip short, and drove across the country, barely stopping for an hour.
We have been ravaged and beaten by something that is beyond understanding. Did we do wrong by trying to travel at the early rumblings of what was to come? Will we be together again?
Even baseball is canceled.
We’re all fighting against the castles and the trees to find what we’ve lost.
I hope I have read all the messages.
It’s such a glorious time of year; it’s so easy to see God’s work and to know which branches to prune. It’s a clear, familiar path. It’s meaning, though, is elusive. Tomorrow was supposed to be opening day.
My son had a better day today. He had not said much other than to utter a few groans before we sat down to begin our school day at home. I looked over his shoulder to see that he was, indeed, working on his math.
Maybe we’ll make it to a baseball game this season: my dad, my son, and me, once this is all behind us. And hopefully, we will make it back to the ocean before sunset.
Monday had a promising start: the sun shone brightly, and I had a few minutes to spare before I would be meeting my longtime friend, so I stopped at the post office. Two pairs of ladies occupied the lobby in front of me; both sets engaged in separate conversations.
The first pair consisted of the very pleasant post office clerk and a vibrant middle-aged customer whose hair was tied in a floral bandanna and whose presence radiated some sort of energy that (I inferred from my unintended eavesdropping) was clearly born from the relaxation of a beach vacation.
The second pair, two ladies who were standing eight feet or so from the first pair, off to the side of the line and presumably finished with any mailing business that had brought them there in the first place, exchanged a bit more concern with each turn of their conversation, which seemed to involve some unfortunate surgical mishaps or medical disturbances.
The two stories, in that space of time, in the stiff environment of the post office, blended into one conversation that was at once uplifting and unsettling, depending on which part I allowed myself to focus.
What entered my brain from the post office lobby went something like this:
“So good to see you… what a lovely day we have…”
“He lost part of one foot, then the rest of it, then the other foot…”
“I have my list, and I’m sticking to it. We just got back last night….the sun’s out for us; how lovely…”
How lovely, indeed, and how tragic, this dichotomy of our lives.
“Horns from my head, wings from my shoulders…”
I hadn’t seen my friend in more than a year. We had worked together for a period of time, what seems like a lifetime ago.
She spoke of her children, now nearly grown, of places that she had visited, and about how she had been starting flowers from seed. We talked a bit about growing older, about worrying about things, about food, and about how much changes in a space of time….well, mostly.
She asked about each of my older children, whom she had known as the young children that they once were. I told her, too, about the trials of parenting this second wave of children.
The struggles are mighty. My older sons referred to me as “garbage” exactly zero times (out loud, anyway) during their collective years at home. This week alone, I have been called both “trash” and “garbage”, a “toddler” (because I cried; perhaps I earned that one), “lazy”, “mean”, and a “pig”. I have also been told that my glasses were pretty, my pajama pants were cool, and that I smelled good. I have been fallen asleep upon at least six times, and I have been given no less than twenty-seven crayon drawings, also in this week, which I chalk up to mean that I am loved.
So maybe one skill that I have learned is to let the insults, the comments spun in webs of anger, bounce from my back like a crumpled paper which, I suppose, could be classified as either garbage or trash, depending on the moment.
These days, we have therapy sessions and behavior plans in place of baseball practice and band…oh, wait…we have that, too…
“Quick, Mama, look up…your baby has grown up…”
My friend and I drank good coffee and ran out of time before we had run out of things to talk about. At some point it occurred to me that I could try to fight and defy the challenges that interrupt my path, or I could spend that same hour, minding my own business, in my garden. While I might not have control over my problems, which may not even be my problems in the first place, I can surely stand to breathe in something of nature even as I bend in defeat. I suppose, then, all would not be lost. There might even be a flower at some point, maybe some sunshine instead of the amputation of some toes, depending on how I see…or hear it.
My friend went back to her work late on that Monday morning, and I went home to meet my little son’s bus, wondering if he would still think that my glasses looked nice, or if he would give me a few more reasons to spend a late hour in the garden.
Song lyrics from “O Behold”, by Kevin Morby, courtesy of Sam who, for the record, never called me either “garbage” or “trash”
A friend mentioned that in just a few weeks, it will be time for pitchers and catchers to report to training camp. He didn’t really have to remind me, though, as I have been looking desperately forward to a fresh season since my befallen heroes hung up their cleats as the ivy turned last year.
There had been momentary struggles with this boy through the years, the most epic of which paled in comparison, though, to the regular antics of a couple of his siblings. Aaron had been through much in his ten years: the losses that come through foster care and adoption, obscure medical issues plaguing his early childhood, and growing up in the shadows of the chaos of mental illness. Aaron was often the target of the wrath of an older sibling who needed help carrying a burden, the target of misplaced anger and fear born from the confines of a tormented mind. This, certainly, was hard to bear.
There was an escalation in challenging behaviors. Something had changed; a limit had been reached, perhaps. There was much more conflict at home, provoked, even, by the child that had often found himself merely in the line of fire. There were calls from school, disciplinary measures, and consequences. There was rage, anger, and sadness…great sadness.
The harsh weather hit early last fall. My little boy came in from school with a bit of an extra skip in his boots one afternoon; this had not been his recent pattern.
I asked how his day had gone.
“Great!” He flashed the smile that I had been missing for too long. “I saved someone,” Aaron proudly announced as he went about putting away his coat.
He went on to tell me that just as the students were filing out for dismissal, the fire alarm had gone off. Notoriously pokey, he had been the last to leave the classroom, along with one other boy who was, according to Aaron, scared and crying. He told me that this classmate had trouble with one of his hands, and that it didn’t always work because of something that had happened when he was a baby. On that day, the little boy stood, frozen. Aaron put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and the two walked out of the classroom and safely out of the building, together.
“Give us the chance to feel like heroes, too…”
For a while now, Aaron has been doing great. I haven’t heard of any disciplinary measures at the school, and he has worked hard at home to be a peacemakerwith a tough crowd.
We asked him what had changed, and he didn’t hesitate: “It was when I saved him from the fire, Mom.” To him, it was a simple act of heroism that altered the course of his behavior in the direction of positivity, courage and bravery. It didn’t matter that someone had pulled the fire alarm. Aaron had saved his classmate and saved much more in the process.
“And here’s to the men and the legends we’ve known… Teaching us faith and giving us hope…”
In a few short months, my hero will be back on the baseball field, giving new hope to the game as we cheer from the bleachers.
Maybe that little spark will be the one that ignites the fire for him to see just how brightly he shines.
To some, it’s just a game. To the rest of us, it’s a whole lot more. XO
Lyrics from “All the Way”, Eddie Vedder’s tribute song to the Chicago Cubs