Category Archives: Heartfelt

Katie and Roy

Our family was transformed in the summer of 2008.  It was then that my husband and I met our two children, Katie and Roy, and the three children we already had – Julia, Jackson, and Jamie – welcomed two new siblings.  Technically it didn’t all come about so quickly, and it would be four more years until Katie and Roy shared our home for good, but they were a part of our family long before that.

I met them first.  Katie was a wild thing, like an animal uncaged.  She used each minute to have as much fun as possible, to live as much as possible.  You could see the energy coming off of her in waves. Roy was clingy, desperate for attention and affection.  Both were extremely thin, and very hungry.  Roy was eight years old, had just finished second grade, yet he was only as tall as Jamie, who was six.  He had just lost his two front teeth, whereas most children I knew had lost them in kindergarten or first grade. 

It was clear from the beginning that something was wrong with their home life.  The more time they spent with us, the more obvious it was that they were neglected, at best.  Possibly more than neglected.  They spent a lot of time at our house, and never wanted to leave. 

Roy, who couldn’t say his r’s, cemented himself in my heart permanently the day he asked, “Can you buy me fwom my dad?”

“Well, I would if I could, but it’s against the law to sell children,” I explained.

He thought about this for a minute, then asked, “Can you give them away?”

When I explained that yes, in some circumstances you can go to court and a judge will say if a child can live with somebody else, he said “I’m going to ask my dad tonight to give me to you.”

I can still see his snaggletooth grin, his skinny body in his borrowed swim trunks, planning a way to come be with us forever.

This is a long story of abuse, neglect, drugs, and other ugliness, and all the ways in which the system did not work.  Said system is geared to protect the rights of the parents more than the rights of the children, despite horror stories you hear of the reverse.  The ugliness has been told elsewhere in writing, to the court.  It doesn’t bare repeating here.

Child Protective Services was involved many times, but it is difficult to prove neglect.  Each time they would give parenting advice to the custodial parent, their father, check up for a few weeks, and then close the case.  The children had been primed on what to say, warned that they would be sent separately to live with strangers, and their father would go to jail if they ever said anything other than what they were told to say.

As summer gave way to fall, weeks turned into months, and months became years, we struggled to give these kids all we could, without having the rights to truly change their lives.  My husband taught Roy to play baseball.  We bought him gear and paid for Little League.  We put him in soccer.  We paid for soccer camps and baseball camps. I helped both kids with homework.  I talked to teachers.  I bought Katie maxi pads when she started her period, and I bought her her first real bra.  We bought both kids clothes, fed them, and had them over our house as much as possible.  We celebrated birthdays, and had belated celebrations together for Christmas and Easter.  Katie called us Mom and Dad.

Years before meeting Katie and Roy, I had felt as though our family was not complete.  I wondered if we should adopt, or maybe foster a child.  But our own children had so many needs and special issues, I wasn’t sure they could handle an addition being thrust upon them.  Our house was too small for any more people, and we didn’t really have the funds, so I put those thoughts away, thinking maybe when our three were older it would be a better time.  I remember asking God to lead me if he had plans for us.

Frankly, I didn’t think Katie and Roy would ever get away from their father.  My husband had to constantly remind me that they were not our kids, not legally.  We prayed for them.  We thought the best we could do for them was to provide a better example, take care of them when they were with us, and give them a respite from their stressful lives.  It wasn’t easy, as they both had emotional issues which affected our family dynamics.  But, our three biological children accepted that Katie and Roy were a part of our family, understanding that they needed us.  I can’t count the number of times Julia said, “Let’s just not take them back.”

Fast forward to 2012.  Things were not going well for Katie and Roy.  But in the span of one hectic 24 hours, things came to a head and they were here.  Living with us. There was a court dependency case that lasted almost two years, and a lot more ugliness.  Yet within that ugliness, just as nature reclaims with new growth areas devastated by disaster, tiny seeds sprouted and grew.

Our house is very small, still we somehow managed.  We bought a loft bed for Katie, and Julia made room for a sister in what had been her private domain.  In order to fit three boys in one room, we had a custom three-layer bunk bed made. We were officially a family of seven.

I don’t’ know how to explain what came next except to say it was very, very hard.  For all of us.  We were crammed into our house like sardines, and our biological children suddenly had to share everything, including their parents, all the time.  Katie and Roy had to adjust to new rules, and Roy particularly suffered as the move brought home to him the fact that his biological family would never be a functioning unit.  A lot of childhood hopes and dreams were obliterated overnight. 

Kids who have had trauma in their young lives do things that are strange to the rest of us. Katie would fill her plate to the brim, leaving nothing for others, then not finish what she had taken.  She hid food in her bed.  Actually, she kept all of her belongings in her bed, and hoarded everything. 

She was a sophomore with almost no hope of graduating, ever, let alone with her class.  She had no sense of who she was, did all sorts of things that we had to make clear she understood were not allowed while living in this house, and entertained no thought beyond the present moment.

Roy was argumentative, desperate for affection and attention, and prone to tantrums.  He was so hyperactive he would watch TV, play with a moving toy, and play a handheld video game all at the same time.  He was 12 years old and could barely read.

Katie had to go to adult school every day after her regular high school classes, and had to go to summer school every summer.  It was touch and go, but she graduated with her class.  She is now slowly making her way through college, studying psychology and American Sign Language, and working in the floral department at Safeway with her sister.

I fought tooth and nail to get Roy tested for special education.  After being told endlessly he would not qualify, once tested he qualified in three categories.  With the proper support, he slowly made up for lost time.  Today he is in college in Minnesota with his older brother, where they both play baseball.  He works on campus, and is academically sound and independent.

Sometimes I look back and wonder how all of us made it this far.  And yet, we are all so blessed to be a part of this bumpy journey.  Our biological kids learned compassion, forgiveness, patience, hope, and to love when loving isn’t easy.  For Jerry and I, it has been a fascinating process, watching all of our kids grow.   Many times we get so bogged down in the day to day struggles that we don’t see the progress, but when we get a chance to breathe deep and step back, it truly has been amazing every step of the way.  I marvel that God placed such trust in us.  We are so ordinary.  We are not out to save the world.  Shoot, sometimes it seems like a miracle we even get through the day!

Katie and Roy are still a work in progress, as are we all.  But this is a story of what may lie hidden in every kid who seems like he or she is going nowhere.  Every kid who gets in fights, skips class to get stoned, has no friends, has too many friends of the wrong sort, acts out, shuts down, and is academically light years behind, has a spark inside that just needs a little fresh air and fuel to brightly blaze. 

The story here is what stability, unconditional love, and a safe place to call home can do for a kid. This is Katie and Roy’s story of courage.  Jerry and I are the supporting players.  We opened the door, but they had to walk through it. 

Lessons from Oz

UPS isn’t going to leave it at your door in a plain brown box.  Of this I am certain.  Oh, the UPS man (or woman) might leave you something that gives you a fleeting taste, but it doesn’t fit in a box, so no shipping service is going to deliver it.  The wizard doesn’t have it in his black bag.  And it won’t hit you like a stray meteor from some random act of the cosmos.  If you are lucky, once life has pushed you around a little bit, you learn this.

I am speaking of, dare I say it, happiness.  I hesitate to even use the word, it is so overexposed.  Once you have adequately suffered, you realize that happiness is merely a state of mind, an attitude.  It is always available to you.  At least that’s my theory.  Don’t get confused with joy, that euphoric state that we experience when grand and wonderful moments color our lives, such as the birth of a child.  I am talking about everyday, garden variety happiness.   How would you answer the question “Am I happy?”?

During a very low time in my life when I was bemoaning the events that had left me so miserable, and the cruelty of this world to leave me feeling thusly, a dear friend told me “You are responsible for your own emotions.  It’s your decision to be unhappy.”

Huh?  I don’t think so!  I was unhappy because I had reason to be unhappy. 

“I’m not saying it’s unreasonable to feel bad,” she explained.   “I’m saying that you have decided that this is worth feeling bad about.  It’s OK to feel bad, you just have to take ownership of your emotions.  The world is not responsible.”

Now that took a very long time to digest.  I actually coughed it back up a few times before I could finally hold it down.  This friend of mine had had her own challenges in life:  alcoholic parents, a failed marriage at a young age, date rape, and more.  Yet somehow she overcame it all, and pulled her life together.  She was the strongest person I knew, and I valued her perspective.  I thought about what she said for a long time, and then I finally got it. 

You can’t do something or get something to make you happy.  You might decide that you like your new something so much that you are happy about it, but that new something didn’t make you happy. 

Conversely, when unpleasant things happen, our reaction is the product of our evaluation of the situation and our own personal determination whether or not we will be sad over this thing.  What happened didn’t make us unhappy, even though we may be unhappy because this thing happened.  Nor are we at the mercy of the happiness gods that allow happy and unhappy to strike without warning or cause.  And, most importantly, good things and bad things happen to everybody; the world owes us nothing.  It’s how we choose to feel in spite of all that life dishes out. 

That said, it doesn’t mean of course that we always have control over ourselves.  Mental illness, such as depression, cannot be overcome just by singing “High Hopes.” And when we lose someone dear to us, we can’t just say to ourselves, “Well, I don’t want to be sad so I’m not.”  But it does mean, however, that most of us have control over our everyday attitude. 

Haven’t you ever known someone who has “a bad attitude”?  “Nothing ever works out for me,” they may say.   “Something always happens to ruin things.” Or even, “My life is terrible.”  Nobody’s life is exactly as he or she would like.  There are things we need, things we want, situations that just don’t work out very well, and annoyances up the ying yang.  And for all of us, some very, very bad times.   But I have never known anyone yet who didn’t have something worth celebrating, however humble.   I have come to realize that it is the quiet celebration of what is good in our lives that not only leads to general happiness, but that builds strength to endure the worst in our lives.

Think of the biblical Job on his dung heap, praising God.  If we can be happy with where we are at the moment, then it really doesn’t matter if we are not where we would really like to be.  I am sure Job would have preferred to be somewhere else, yet he chose to glorify God despite his hardships.  The happiest people I have known are probably those that most people would say had suffered the most.  There were many things they wanted to change, or wished had never happened, but they saw with such clarity and brilliance all that was good in their lives.  The unhappiest people I have known are generally those who have had rather ordinary lives, with their share of hardship, but nothing shocking or unusual.  Most of these failed to see all the wonderful aspects of their lives, or could not appreciate what they had.

We can choose to appreciate what is good and to tolerate the day to day hardships.  It is not always easy to do, especially if that has not been your pattern.  It takes work like a good marriage. But if you let the little things knock you to the ground, you will never be on your feet, and you will be simply swept away by the big things. 

This is what unhappiness has taught me.  That happiness is being OK with who you are at the moment, even while striving for something else.  That happiness is your child’s smile and a sunny day, even though the car is in the shop, you’re late for a job you hate, and the toilet is clogged.  You may be worried, tense, frustrated and annoyed, but you are not overcome.  It’s OK.  You are OK.  And little by little you will work on all these things and more, but doesn’t the sun feel good as you walk out the door?

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

I am so “not OK” right now.  If you asked me, I’d say “Oh, I’m OK.  Just tired”  or “Just stressed.”  Just fucking crazy.

It’s hard to remember, but we cannot judge each other by what we see on the outside. 

Every one of us is carrying a cross, even if it doesn’t look like it.  We might smirk and say “Yeah, I’d like her troubles,” but it’s all about what you can bear.  Do you remember being a kid, and thinking your troubles, whatever they were, were so difficult?  Or a teenager?  And yes, often a gentle (please, remember the “gentle”, at least the first few times) reminder of where our troubles fit on the great trouble scale of life helps reign in the terror for a while, but in the end the only person who can truly attest to the weight of our cross is ourselves.

I think of myself as a happy person.  Lively, silly, outgoing, strong.  I am all of those things.  I am also in bitter, bitter pain. 

Not everyday, mind you.  But when the pain comes, it is so very, very draining, on my body and spirit.  The pain I bear has a name, and it carries a stigma.  It is misunderstood, misdiagnosed, belittled, and eye-rolled.  It is a pain of the heart and mind, and I bear it for life.  Here is where you can roll your eyes, or shake your head, say “Oh, that, yeah that’s bad”, but if you don’t have it, you will never really understand.  It’s called depression.

My history isn’t the topic of this discourse, but let it suffice to say that I have every medical, instinctual, and experiential diagnosis to know that this is a physical problem which causes me to feel too damn intensely, and to think too damn much.  There are transient varieties, but I have the chronic kind.  The kind that requires lifelong management, as my body does not have the ability to repair itself. 

If you are uneducated on the subject, have never suffered yourself or loved someone with this condition, then you may think somebody afflicted has sudden, dramatic mood changes without warning.  Or needs to be on 24 hour suicide watch.  Possible, of course, but for most of us, the day to day reality is carrying our loads on our very strong backs with little falter,  But then, an event, or that damn last straw that keeps breaking that poor camel’s back, or simply the passage of time with no ease to our burden, causes a misstep.  And we fall.

The fall is personal.  It is not the same every time.  It may last a day.  Several weeks.  Several years.  It may be obvious, or it may be born with fortitude until the façade becomes part of the burden, and we cannot hide the beast within. 

Do not fear the beast if you are not so afflicted.  If you know one of us, and we are under good medical care, and we have spiritual and emotional support, we are not going to cause you great stress.  Just understand that what we bear is far, far more painful than it appears to you.  And if we fall so hard that we ask for your help, that we ask for a hug, or sympathy, please, don’t turn away.  Chances are if you are a decent friend, spouse, or sibling, you’ve offered the same care to one of us many times before, without knowing it. 

The bonus to loving us is that we will love you back with a loyalty and fierceness that is unequaled.  We will gladly help you with your pain, because we feel.  Our hearts are weary, but huge.  We will joyfully, yes, I said joyfully, share our souls with you, and help you fight your battles without question. 

I like to note that this particular condition is often seen among the great.  Abraham Lincoln, Winston Churchill, Charles Dickens, Vincent Van Gogh.  There is no causality, the lifelong kind of depressive disorder doesn’t make you great (damn!), but I like to think that those who bore greatness as well as depression did so because they both thought and felt so deeply.  I will never be remembered for anything beyond my lifetime, which is fine by me, but I do like to note that I am in good company.

I know what you are thinking…Van Gogh cut off his ear and mailed it to his prostitute girlfriend.  Yeah, that’s pretty off the “normal” chart.  But when you remember that medical treatment during his time consisted largely of cutting arteries, attaching leaches, and administering opiates, plus the fact that he only sold one painting during his entire life, well, you can see why he did not successfully cope with his condition. 

If you are not a fan of Van Gogh, then I urge you, if you ever have the opportunity, to visit the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam.  It will convert you.  Reproductions simply do not tell the tale.  When you see his paintings, you will see he left a little piece of his soul (soul, not ear) among the thick palette knife strokes of vibrant paint.  I know I digress, but in his paintings I felt the soul of one who feels too much, thinks too much, sees both the exquisite beauty and crippling pain in his world.

Of course, there are those among us who are jerks, losers, wack jobs, whatever you like to call people who seem to have a screw loose, but I contend that is often the result of personality flaws, not depression.  Just my opinion.  I have no data to share with you, no scientific studies.

As to what leads me to not be “OK” on this Good Friday, I will save that for another day.  It seemed appropriate that on this holy day, although I did not make it to church, I did reflect on picking up my cross and continuing on.  That I begged God for the gazilltionth time to please, let this cup pass from me.   That I asked not for changes in my life but changes in me.  I am nobody’s savior, but perhaps there is some small blessing that in my affliction I turn to mine.

Lessons From My Children

Parenting is a humbling experience.  Whatever vague notions you may have about how your children will be, God doesn’t really take that into account.  You get what you get.  Leaving egos and expectations behind to find the unique and complex creations with which our lives have been blessed is the journey of parenthood. 

When I was single and childless, I was very critical of other people’s children.  If they were unruly, or rude, or loud, or impertinent, or whatever, I told myself that my children would never get away with that.  They’d tow the line or know the wrath of Mommy.  It was just that simple. 

It isn’t.  It’s not about misbehaving, either.  At least, not always.  Beneath the round cheeks and toothless grins lie complicated little people with all sorts of talents, emotions, and issues.   When I first held each of my children, I promised them I would love them and take care of them, no matter what.  I do, and I have.  But there was no understanding with that first kiss how that promise would change me. 

I didn’t know then how watching my child run after a group of children on the school playground who didn’t want him to play with them would tear my heart in two.  Or how heavy I would feel seeing him happy when they finally agreed to let him be the bad guy in their game, since nobody else wanted to be.  I didn’t realize that a child of two well-educated, reasonably intelligent, avid readers, would suffer severe anxiety about school, and would struggle with basic reading and writing.  And I didn’t know that same child, who couldn’t pass the test, would impress his teachers with his vocabulary and ability to understand and recall details of science and history.  I wouldn’t have guessed that this child would be the most insightful and empathetic of my three, the one who would love and feel the most intensely. 

And if I had known those things, I would still have never anticipated the convoluted mix of emotions when other parents roll their eyes at my child, or lose patience with him.  How many times I have wanted to take those parents aside, and ask them to switch children with me for a month, because perhaps then they would be less judgmental, and would feel compassion instead of impatience.  What a loss to these parents, and to their own children, that they cannot see beyond the surface, that they cannot see the amazing spirit in each and every child.  Who are we, any of us, to judge the worthiness of God’s gifts? 

I don’t believe there is such a thing as a bad little kid.  Yes, they test their boundaries, and that is part of their natural growth.  Those that exhibit extreme amounts of testing are rarely being “bad”, they are coping with something in their lives in any way they can.  Children don’t have the cerebral development to stand back and analyze their feelings, put a name and a source to it, and figure out what to do about it.  Whatever “it” is comes bursting out in ways that seem strange to us adults.  I’m no expert in child development; these are simply my observations and personal experience. 

And in the same strange way that I have ultimately been grateful for the worst times in my life because of the personal growth and eventual rewards that pain brought, I consider myself lucky to have complex children, and one in particular who works very hard at tying my angel wings in knots.  Because if all my children were as happy and adaptable as my youngest, I would continue today with the one dimensional view of children with which I began this journey, and with which I see some other parents still afflicted.  I would have missed so much

.

Reconciliated

Contrary to popular belief, Catholicism has changed in the past thirty-seven years.  Let me take you back, back to 1970, when I was seven years old.  Yes, you did the math right, that makes me 44 years old. Hey, I’ve got nothing to hide.  Besides, you can’t see the 24 ounce mason jar of diet coke and the three empty 100 calorie Chips Ahoy packages that litter my desk, or the spot on my hairline where the hair is really grey and grizzled.  Oh, wait, there’s another empty package under the monitor.  Make that four.

But back to sinning, and Confession.  Because that’s what I was leading up to.  When I made my First Confession, in the embers of the riotous ‘60’s, and the blaze of “free love”, hip hugger bell bottoms, and The Partridge Family, the Catholic church wasn’t buying into the social changes of the times, and was really big on sin, in the time honored fashion of Catholicism.  The pastor at our Church, Monsignor Varni, was educated and ordained pre-Vatican II, which is to say, before the church tried to come into the twentieth century just a little bit.  Some of those changes initiated by Pope Paul included recognizing a loving and forgiving God, versus the angry, penitential deity who’d launch you to Hell in a heartbeat if you didn’t follow all the rules. 

Monsignor had many admirable qualities, but his sermons were not among them.  His were of the “You are truly flawed from birth and God can only forgive a selfish, sinning butthead like you if you cry, pull your hair out in distress, give a lot of money to your Monsignor for his church, and pray every waking moment for forgiveness.  Otherwise, you’re screwed.”  And he was an intimidating presence, in his Monsignor cap, or whatever it’s called (hey, I went to public school, we didn’t have time to learn all the little details in just one hour a week of religious ed).

In those days, Confession meant going into a tiny dark room, no bigger than a small closet, and kneeling onto a padded kneeler that creaked with your weight.  In front of you was a small window, frosted and screened.  The room on the other side, where the priest sat, was lighted, and as you sat in the dark, and it was really dark, you spoke through this window to the priest beyond.  I can’t remember if there was an opening of some sort so that the priest could hear you.  Anyway, he seemed to hear pretty well, so I guess there was something.

As you kneeled, there, shaking in the dark, because what little kid likes to be alone in a dark room, you told the Father your sins.  You were given absolution, and a penance, usually some specific prayers to recite quietly in the pews after you left the confessional.  Monsignor, bless his soul, might have scared the crap out of you, but he gave the lightest penance of any priest.

Now all of this is really odd to non-Catholics, and I could go into religious theology, and tell you why we do this, and what it is that Jesus said that led to all this, but this isn’t a lesson in theology, and I’ve already admitted I’m a little shaky on my theological history.  The point here is that if the experience didn’t scare you into sainthood, you were pretty much a lost cause anyway.

So fast forward to the present day.  My seven year old son just had his First Reconciliation.  That’s what they call it now, Reconciliation.  Because that is what it is supposed to be about, reconciling with God, not beating yourself with a switch and ditching your Gap sweater for a hair shirt.  All of the kids who were to make their First Reconciliation, and all of their families, gathered in the church.  A joyous service was held.  The theme was more “Hey, let’s think about what we might like to do better in our lives, and isn’t it great that God forgives us for all those times we punched our siblings and back talked Mom?”.  When it came time to actually do the deed, several smiling priests sat in chairs at various locations around the church, each with an empty chair next to him.  One at a time, we took our children to a priest, introduced our child, who was warmly welcomed by the priest.  The child was supposed to name one or two things he thought he probably shouldn’t have done. 

At the point where the priest gives absolution, he raises his hand.  Watching from the sidelines, I saw my son look at this raised hand, hesitate a moment, and then give the priest the old high five.  The priest didn’t miss a beat.  He finished his piece, patted my son on the shoulder, said something softly to him with a smile, and that was that.

My son came away with a big grin.  I didn’t tell him he wasn’t supposed to high five the priest.  He was proud of himself, and who was I to take that away?  At the time, I was torn between laughter, and chagrin that everyone would see I had not fully prepared my son.  But now, several weeks later, I think how appropriate this was.  Isn’t this what faith in God is all about?  “Good job, I forgive you, now give me five!” 

Heaven’s Gardener

Sometimes, something special happens.  Well, I suppose something special happens more often than we realize, but sometimes we notice. I am sitting by the pool, gazing at clouds that look like they’ve been sponge painted across the sky…only God could do that.  And I think of things… 

A year ago May, my aunt passed away.  She was an unusual person.  She was generous, loyal, hard working, committed to family.  An excellent gardener and cook, and an expert knitter. She was also opinionated, often abrasive, argumentative, stubborn, and basically difficult.  A vulnerable know-it-all with fragile self-esteem.  She was very bright, a master with finance, yet consistently chose relationships with men who could only offer heartache.  She claimed to not be religious, though we found bibles and religious articles in every room of her home.  She had many talents, and many problems.  She was a contradiction, and she was ours. 

I could fill a book with anecdotes, some pretty funny in retrospect.  But this is about something special. 

Niki was not given to outward displays of affection.  When we were children, our grandparents (her parents) would warmly hug and kiss us goodbye.  Niki would coolly turn a cheek.  As adults we would literally have to grab her and force a hug upon her.  I don’t think she minded, she just didn’t feel comfortable being the hugger.  Yet, she sent cards for every occasion, including Easter, Halloween, and Valentine’s, always adorned with cute little stickers, and simply signed “Love, Aunt Niki.”  No one else ever mailed me a valentine.  There were no valentines in the mail this year.  I almost expected one. 

In her beautiful Berkeley hills garden was a painted wooden sign that read “Niki’s Garden.”  I took it home and put it in our front garden on one side of the walkway by the porch.  Though our garden isn’t as impressive, I thought she would like us to plant it anew among growing things.  I’m not a gardener at all.  My thumbs are black right to the bone.  But this past November, I planted bulbs.  I always meant to every fall, however it seemed I never got around to it.  Niki had planted them for us once or twice in the past, and we would have beautiful tulips in the spring.  She always planted hundreds in her own garden.  So this past fall, among others, I planted white and yellow narcissus in front of her sign, as a sort of tribute. 

All of the bulbs sprouted, but the white narcissus in front of her sign outgrew all at a furious pace.  By January, they were in full bloom, while all the other bulb plants were only a few inches high, nowhere near blooming.  They made me smile each time I passed.  Perhaps these bloom early.  I don’t know.  But I liked to think that Niki made them bloom. 

Scattered around the garden, the crocus and tulips each took their turns.  Of the yellow narcissus, half were planted by Niki’s sign and half a few feet away where they had the same amount of sunlight, same drainage, same exposure to rain.  As the white waned, the yellow sprang to life in front of the sign.  The other half of the yellow bulbs bloomed weeks later.  

Our front garden faces north.  It gets afternoon sun, but very close to the house it stays shaded.  Thus the closest beds all point their faces toward the road, tendrils stretching toward the sunlight. 

Except this once.  

As the spring flowers inevitably faded away, a grey-green plant called a Dusty Miller sent a large shoot away from the sunlight and back toward the house.  The rest of the plant reached for the source of sunlight, but this one shoot grew backward, about 18 inches back into the shade until it had reached Niki’s sign, where it wrapped itself around the wooden stake, and curled upward toward the painted letters where the leaves spread out in a graceful fan around the edge of the board. 

It is summer now.  On each side of the walkway, near the porch, the hydrangeas are in bloom.  My husband had cut them back some time ago, and they started the season unequally.  One was small and stunted.  The other was larger, strong and healthy, with large deep green leaves, and tiny buds that would become colossal pink blooms.  Fast forward to the present.  The plant that started stronger looks healthy, with two big beautiful blooms.  The runt is now enormous, with ten big blooms, and buds hinting of color to come.  I keep straightening the sign next to it, and each time I pass by, I find it gently leaning toward the plants that grow in profusion before it. 

Is there a logical explanation?  Possibly, maybe even probably.  Perhaps for some reason the soil on one side of the walk is richer this year.  Perhaps the drainage is better even though it doesn’t appear to be so, or the sprinklers are more accurately aligned.  Perhaps the sign has just come loose in the soil.  Or perhaps from God’s beautiful garden, a soul who loved deeply but could only show it indirectly, visited mine. 

Each time I pass through the front door, I look closely at our garden, admiring, and looking for anything extraordinary.  Because sometimes, something special happens.  Sometimes we  notice.

Reflections

Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the continuity of life.  The vastness of spirit that flows throughout time, that came before us and will continue beyond our presence here on earth.  It is humbling and comforting all at once.  The year I graduated from high school, I searched through my record albums for a quote to put beneath my senior yearbook picture.  I guess you can figure out how long ago that must have been, at minimum, since I was still spinning vinyl for tunes.  Oh, all right, since you don’t have your calculator, it was in 1980, OK? Anyway, I chose a line from “Within You Without You” by George Harrison from the Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper album.  The Beatles were long gone by then, but timeless as ever.  I didn’t actually care for the song much, but I liked the line “And to see you’re really only very small, and life flows on within you and without you.”

I still like that line, but especially the second half.  I think of what our life may have been before this earth, if our soul existed with God first, about our life in this body, and about what it may be after.  I think of life in all its forms all over the earth, and of how we are a small part of that beating force.  And I think of my family members, some of whom have passed, of my children who were just a vague dream barely 10 years ago, and of their children who have yet to come. 

There are other quotes I can recall from different times in my life that bring me back to the same themes, the endless flow of life, and love, although they were given breath by those dear to me, not by famous musicians with funny haircuts.  When I must have been in my early teens, I remember my grandmother saying absently to my mother, as she watched me at some task, “Nana [my great grandmother] said you love your grandchildren just like your own, and it’s true.”  I didn’t have any children of my own yet, of course, and I heard this with the ears of a child, but I knew it meant something special.  Now that I do have children, I can appreciate the enormity of what she was saying.  I can envision her heart expanding to include me and my sister in the special circle of love that only a mother can conceive.

Many years later, I had my first child, Julia.  What a beautiful baby! Oh, I know, every mother says that, and every mother means it.  And my mother, who has always adored babies, was completely enraptured by her.  In fact one of the clearest memories I have from Julia’s birth is the pure joy in my mother’s smile as she watched.  The only other time I saw her smile quite like that was the day I was married.  I have only one sibling, and I remember when I was small my mother wanted another baby desperately, although I didn’t really understand why you just couldn’t have one if you wanted one!  One day when Julia was only a few weeks old, my mother and I were going somewhere together with the baby. I drove and my mother rode in back next to Julia.  My mom muttered something, but I didn’t quite hear.  “What?” I asked, watching her in the rearview mirror.  Without looking up from the baby, she continued her own little conversation. 

“I was just thinking, this is the best time in Grandma’s life.  You are that baby I wanted all those years ago.  I didn’t know then that God would give you to me as a grandchild.” 

I’ll never forget those words.

Still more years later, my Gammy grew old and weak.  She suffered from dementia, remembering things from decades ago but not that her husband had passed, or if she had eaten breakfast.  She lived with my mother after my grandfather passed away, until her body grew so feeble that she needed constant medical attention.  Reluctantly my mother had her transferred from the hospital to a convalescent home, but Mom went to see her for hours every single day.  I had two children by that time, and later a third.  I tried to go at least once a week, at lunch time when my mother was there, and to bring my little ones with me to make Gammy smile, although I am ashamed to say I didn’t always make it.  One day Gammy looked at my pretty daughter and said to my mother , “Diane, what happened to my little girl?”  She looked worried and perplexed.  Where was her own pretty little girl with big brown eyes?

“Well, Mother, I’m your little girl, remember?  I’m all grown up now, and I have grandchildren.  These are your great grandchildren.” 

“Oh,” Gammy said, and nodded, but she didn’t look convinced.  Her first child, a pretty little girl, just like mine, burned forever into her memory too deeply for dementia to touch.  Her love for her little girl was the same as it had been 65 years earlier, the same as it would be in 65 more years.

In my children’s faces I see God, and I wonder how anyone who has ever loved a child could possibly doubt that there is indeed a God, that there is indeed an ongoing life that flows from one of us to another, day after day, year after year, decade after decade, forever.  I remember the things I have heard that I keep in my heart, and I know that at least once, George Harrison was right.  Life flows on, within us and without us. 

The Dance

My five year old son is torn between needing his Mommy, and becoming a Big Kid.  I know he is going to continue along this vein for several years, until finally he is an adult and breaks away from me.  He has an older sister, yet the struggle seems more pronounced in Jackson, my middle child.  My daughter moved gently into Big Kid status.  Not Jackson.  Nothing is subtle with him.  As such the transition is more painful, perhaps because I see our inevitable destinies so clearly.

We have had rain here on and off for three weeks.  This morning the school office called, and told me Jackson had dried the kindergarten slide with his butt.  Well, they didn’t phrase it like that, but they asked if I could please bring him some dry pants.  We live quite close to the school, so I grabbed a pair of pants and walked down the street.  Jackson was waiting for me in the office.  He grinned when he saw me, happy I had come to his rescue.  I took him into the office bathroom and helped him change.  His pants were not really that wet.  His Disney-enhanced undies were still dry.  If he were at home, of course, I would have popped him into dry pants immediately, and I guess he wanted that level of comfort and attention.  He continued to smile the whole time he was changing, and as I retied his shoes.

Transformation completed, as we left the office I told him I would walk with him back to his classroom. 

He put his hand up, palm toward me.  “No!  I know the way!”

“Well, I’m sure you do, but I’m going to make sure you get there.”

“No, Mom, really, don’t come with me!”

Oh dear.  Have we reached that age already?  But the truth is, Jack is very mischievous, and I simply didn’t trust him to go back to his class without a detour.

“OK, I won’t go with you, but I am going to stand here and watch you.”

With that he took off, scampering across the courtyard to the doors that opened into the group of kindergarten classrooms.  As he pulled one of the doors open, putting all his weight into it and leaning back slightly, he didn’t move out of the way fast enough and stubbed his toes on the door.  Abruptly he let go and stood there jumping up and down, looking across the courtyard at me, howling.

“Owie, owie!  I hurt my toes!”

I hurried over, examined the damaged extremity, kissed my fingertips and planted them firmly on the insulted toes.   Miraculously cured.  “I’m OK now,” he said slowly, testing the foot as he turned once again toward the double doors.  I opened one for him, and watched him as he walked down the short hall.

Turning around he said exasperatedly, “Stop doing that!”

Sheesh.  Make up your mind.  I closed the door and turned toward home.  My path took me directly past the kindergarten playground.  I watched discreetly as Jackson emerged from his classroom to join the other children.  Hands in pockets, smiling, he sauntered over to a group of little girls who appeared to be asking something.  He gestured toward his pants, still smiling.

Ah, of course.  Mom would totally spoil the cool. 

Yet I understand his conflict.  I am torn between wishing he would grow up a little and do some things for himself, stop messing, stop doing the kid things that are not so cute and adorable, while another side of me watches him when he is unaware, committing the sweetness of childhood to memory.  Not wanting to let go of the last vestige of the little baby who slept safely next to my chest in a sling while I worked at the computer.

Of my three, as a toddler Jackson would most vehemently proclaim, “No, me do!”.  He would never hold my hand, whereas the other two reached for my hand automatically.  Jackson always wanted the freedom to break away from me at will.  Interestingly enough, this year, his first year at Big Kid School, he holds my hand on the way to school voluntarily.   He has reverted to wanting me to dress him, though he has been wriggling into his own threads since he was two.

Letting go and holding on. 

The sacred dance between parent and child.  So it has always been, so it always will be.    

Still Going Back to School

At 42 years of age, I am long out of elementary school.  But with just a thought I can call up the butterflies launched into flight each year in recognition of the first day of school.  I grew up here in Walnut Creek, and Walnut Acres was my school.  The weeks before school was to begin, the excitement began to build.  My mother would take my sister and me shopping for new clothes.  We would get five or six new dresses (girls were not allowed to wear pants to school).    We each got a new package of pretty colored underwear and a new pack of white undershirts with little bows sewed onto the bodice.   My mother would take me to the Junior Bootery, the only store that carried wide width shoes for my chubby little feet, and I would get one pair of school shoes to last the whole year.

Class assignments were mailed in August, and every day I would ask if mine had come yet.  There was some anxiety associated with this, anticipating the unknown.  I can still remember every teacher, from Mrs. Anderson in kindergarten to Mrs. Templeton in 6th grade.  Back in those days elementary school was K through 6.  As soon as I knew what teacher I was assigned, I would call my friend Christy to see who she had.  My mother would check with Mrs. Seamount across the street to see which class her son Brian was in.  The last week of the summer, we would go to the school to find my new classroom.  Then my mother would take me back to the entrance of the school, and have me find the classroom again on my own.  I would try to peak in the windows, and gaze at the door.  What would it be like?  Would I have any friends in my class?  Was the teacher nice?

The day before the big event, I would pick out my first day outfit.  Everything would be laid out, waiting.  I had a new book bag, paper, pencils, and erasers all ready to go.  And of course, a special new lunch box.  One year I had a Monkees lunchbox.  Another year, we bought a plain brown vinyl lunch pail with a zippered closure, and my mother put violet appliqués all over it.  It was beautiful.  Fresh from the bath, my damp hair neatly braided, I got to select a new pair of undies, and put on one of my new white undershirts to wear to bed.  It would still be hot in September and we didn’t have air conditioning, so the window was open.  I could hear the crickets.  It wouldn’t be quite dark yet, and Mommy would let us color in bed for a few minutes.  But I could never focus on my coloring book.  My heart would beat a little faster than normal, and I would feel funny in my tummy.  Surely I could never sleep. 

And here I am, years later, graying hair and all, still just as excited.  Only this time, it is my children who are going to school.   The routine has changed some since I was a child.  My children get many new outfits.  They get new shoes, but I do not expect them to last the whole school year.  Girls and boys can both wear shorts to school.  Book bags have been replaced with backpacks.  But still, it is a thrill to pick just the right backpack.  Should it be Hello Kitty or Barbie?  Ninja Turtles or Scooby Doo?  And of course a new lunchbox, in the same theme.

First day outfits are still carefully selected and laid out for the next day.  Flowered undies, Scooby Doo briefs, are tugged out of plastic packages.  Each child has a big bag of school supplies, as requested on the list from the school.  Clean and smelling of baby shampoo, they climb into bed.  A book or a video is allowed for just a little bit, because it is so hard to go to sleep this night!

The morning of the first day of school is the only day of the year I don’t have to take a steam shovel to get my daughter out of bed.  She is up before I am, gets dressed without a single nag, and is waiting at the door for me.  The rest of the year we barely make it to school on time, even though we live just down the street, but this one day she is ready to go and we are early.   I pull all three kids out to the front porch, and take our traditional “First Day of School” picture.  Happy scrubbed faces, new outfits and shoes, still stiff backpacks and unscuffed lunchboxes.  They are precious.

And I am excited.  Excited to meet the new teachers, to see what kids are in their classes, to learn what field trips there will be and see the new books.  Excited because my children are excited.  Because I get to be part of these days they will remember for the rest of their lives.  It is a privilege.  And each year, as I escort my little ones to their first day, I think “How lucky I am!”  This is the stuff life is made of.

The Fair

Every now and then the crust of everyday life withdraws and you are left momentarily with the fundamental core of motherhood.  You never know when you are going to have one of those moments, because it is not necessarily when something of great magnitude is happening.  You may be changing a diaper, watching your children play in the backyard, helping with homework, doing or hearing something you have done or heard before.

I had one of those moments today at the county fair.   My almost-five-year-old son was on an airplane kiddy ride. About 8 miniature red baron type airplanes on long arms extended from a central pole.  As the pole turned and the airplanes went around in a circle, the long arms slowly raised and lowered the planes.  I watched my little boy run up to a grounded plane and climb inside.  He looked uncertain as the ride started, then slowly grinned.

This son of mine, of my three children, is the one most likely to drive me to drink.  This is the one who pushes every button his temperamental 8 year old sister has, just to see the show.   He is the child who tries to climb the display of Pepsi 12-packs at the grocery store, and hides from me behind massive packages of paper towels at Target.  He has more than once deliberately dumped an entire bottle of shampoo in the bathtub to make bubbles.   He will scream and throw himself on the floor, wrapping his arms around my feet in an effort to prevent me from moving until he gets his way.   His water glass empties, and his dinner plate becomes an ocean for an armada of lettuce leaves around a mashed potato island.  He has locked me out of the house, laughing as I ordered him to open the door, and said things I cringe to repeat.  Oh, I could go on and on.

But he is also the child most likely to spontaneously hug you and tell you he loves you.  He can be happily playing with toys, will look up for a moment, “I love you, Mommy”, and go right back to his play.  He even hugs his siblings and tells them he loves them, when he is not torturing them.  He is the child who thinks to thank me for small pleasures, like making more lemonade or washing his favorite shirt.  If he and his two year old brother get a Happy Meal for lunch, he asks for one for his sister, too, even though she eats lunch at school.  He remembers to console family members who have suffered a loss. He asks more questions about life, love, God, death, and heaven.  He is the child who told his Daddy that he would never forget him, not even when Daddy got old and died.  He is my middle child.

And as I watched this exacerbating, wonderful, contradictory little boy of mine fly up and down, I felt a tidal wave of love.  I stood in the hot relentless sun, squinting up at my airborne boy, treasuring his joy.  The noise from the midway slowly receded. Time stood still.  I stared at him as he flew, and concentrated hard to commit this exact moment to memory.  His grin, his dimple, how the breeze from the flying plane moved his hair, his wave each time he passed the spot where I was standing.   I will remember this as long as my mind is my mind.

When such special moments occur, I think of a passage from the Gospel of Luke.  Unlike Mary, Mother of God, I was born with a large helping of original sin and my son is no Messiah, he’s just an ordinary boy.  But Mary was a mother who loved her son, too.  And I remember that Mary, watching her child, “kept all these things in her heart.”   Of course the situations are far different, but somehow the words seem to fit.  Everything else slips away,  I am left with something intense and basic that I somehow must preserve, and I keep these things in my heart.

Middle Child

There was a fully hosted bar.  The wedding guest rested one foot on the railing of the bar, caught the bartender’s eye, and motioned to his empty glass.  “Hit me again”, his silent gaze seemed to say. 

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, son?” the bartender said quietly. 

The guest looked at the bartender with sad hazel eyes.  “Please”, he said with a catch in his voice. 

The bartender took pity, and filled the glass with a dark liquid, adding a squirt of something red.  My five year old son Jackson said “Thank you”, and walked off with his fifth cherry coke.  

My cousin walked past me, laughing.  “Jackson sure looks at home at that bar.  That kid cracks me up!” 

Sigh.  I worry about that boy. 

Dear Jackie, what am I going to do with him?  He tries to climb the stacks of Pepsi 12 packs at the grocery store, and hides on the shelf behind huge packages of paper towels at Target, ignoring my frantic calls.  He delights in torturing his older sister, who is so sensitive.  He knows every button she has, and pushes them at will.  He has repeatedly dumped out entire bottles of shampoo in the bathtub to make bubbles or wash his Rescue Heroes.  Tonight he deliberately threw rice in my water glass at the dinner table, laughing until he saw my look, then saying belatedly, “Oops.  That was an accident.”  At five years old he still throws tantrums, wrapping his arms around my legs in an attempt to hold me hostage until I agree to his demands.  No punishment, no incentive seems to reach him. 

Yet this same child, who is most likely of my three to drive me back to the bar for a refill, is also the most likely to spontaneously hug you and tell you he loves you. He can be happily playing with toys, will look up for a moment to say “I love you, Mommy”, and go right back to his play.  He even tells his sister he loves her, between button pushings.  He remembers to thank me for the small things, like making more lemonade, or washing his favorite shirt. 

This contradiction in Underoos asks more questions about life, love, God, death, and heaven.  After nighttime prayers with his Daddy, he told my husband, “I love you, Daddy.  Even when you get old and die, I’ll never forget you.” 

One night his sister Julia asked at the dinner table “What does steak come from again?  I forget.”  I opened my mouth to say “cows”, when Jackson piped up and said,

 “It comes from God, Julia.  God made everything.  He loves us, so he gives us food to eat.” 

My sister wonders at his range.  How can one child be so blatantly disobedient yet so loving and sensitive? 

When Jackson was born, our pediatrician, with whom we have a wonderful relationship, was busy giving birth to twins.  When she returned to her practice and met Jackson for the first time, she held him in her arms and looked intently into his eyes.  “Julia will always be our angel”, she said, “but this one…there’s something special about this one.” 

Yes, his spirit is larger than life.  What will become of this child of mine?  Will he be president or criminal (or worse, both)?  Watching him terrorize the household, my uncle once laughingly commented, “Better put bars on his windows now, so he can get used to them!” 

Recently we started giving Jackson an allowance for completing simple chores, and thus discovered his avarice.  Well, maybe we could use this to both our advantage.  After misbehaving dreadfully on allowance day in spite of several warnings, my husband sentenced Jackson to surrendering one of the two dollars he had received.  He was very proud of his allowance.  This will hit him where he lives, we thought.  He was upset for a moment, but then calmly took his remaining dollar, made copies on the copy machine, colored them green, and cut them out with safety scissors.

 “Now I have lots of money!”  he said gleefully.  “Do you want another one, Daddy?” 

Oh my.  Our son the generous counterfeiter.   We are so proud.

The Wall

It’s hard not to want things.  It’s human nature.  Sometimes we want things we need, or think we need, and sometimes we want things just because we want them.  Most of us here in the United States are better off than so many others in poorer parts of the world.  I try to remind myself of that, and to not place too much importance on anything I don’t have.  But sometimes knowing you have all you need is not enough.  You have to feel it.

When my daughter Julia was two and a half, and I was pregnant with our first son, we lived in a tiny condominium.   There were technically two bedrooms in the 880 square foot dwelling, but the second bedroom was more like an exaggerated closet.  There were three humans and three cats sharing the space, and I wanted a house.  I needed a house.  I deserved a house.

Never mind that our little condo was in a nice neighborhood, and within walking distance of the BART train that took my husband to his job.   There was no yard.  Sure, there was a park across the street, but it was a very busy street, and I had a toddler!  There was only one bathroom.  Our daughter was potty trained, and there was some competition for toilet time.  The kitchen was too small for more than one person at a time, and the dining area not nearly large enough to seat all our family for holidays and birthdays.   And storage space, well, let it suffice to say that we had to use the trunk of the car for things most people would put in a utility closet.

In the San Francisco Bay Area where we live, home prices are astronomical.  Our little condominium was worth more than two hundred thousand dollars.   We needed more than twice that to buy even a modest older home, and we just couldn’t afford the mortgage. My parents lived close by in the same home I grew up in.  I would drive through my old neighborhood, and see new families in the houses that used to be occupied by my young friends.  The schools near my childhood residence are the most sought after in the area, and the homes, though old, sell for premium prices. “How can these young families afford to live in a nice established neighborhood like this?” I would agonize.   

Back in our own cramped quarters, we had a routine, my little girl and I.  After bath time, I would snuggle up with her in her tiny toddler bed, and we said our prayers.  “God Bless Mommy and Daddy, Papa and Grandma, Gammy, Niki, Lisa, Papa and Grandma Carolina, Cindi, Danny, and Emily.”  Then I would ask Julia what she would like to thank Jesus for today.   She loved this part.  She would look around her room, and pick a stuffed animal, her shoes, a doll, whatever seemed special at the moment.  Sometimes she would put her little arms around me, and say “Thank you for my Mommy and Daddy!”

But on one particular evening, nothing seemed to be special enough.  I made some suggestions, but she shook her head.   “No, not that.”  She looked around her small cluttered room, and then smiled as inspiration struck her.  She put her dimpled little hand on the wall next to her bed, and said proudly “Thank you for my wall!”  She patted the wall soundly, “Amen!” 

“Amen,” I repeated.

Snuggling close, I curled my legs up, and held my child as she drifted off to sleep.  Leave it to a child, I thought, to put everything back into perspective.  The wall separated her warm cozy bed from the dark night.  It kept strangers out, and those she loved in.  Everything she loved, everything she needed, was on her side of the wall.  Nothing else mattered.  Why didn’t I see that before?  “Forgive me, Lord,” I thought.  “And thank you for my wall.”

Reason for the Season

The lights are on the roof,
The presents are all hid,
Mom’s checking her list twice,
And spending too much quid.
 
Ice shows and recitals,
Parties at the school,
Baby picks the darndest times,
To have to do a stool.
 
Mom’s driving hither nither,
Got too much to do,
Thinks she can get home soon,
And then she sees the queue.
 
Shopped for evergreen,
But simply couldn’t agree,
Accept that 97 bucks,
Is too much for a tree!
 
Need to mail the gifts,
For the folks so far away,
Too late to send them ground,
Gotta pay for Second Day.
 
Had to bake some cookies,
To make some memories,
Ate them all by midnight,
The hell with calories.
 
Haven’t bought the rib eye,
To cook on Christmas day,
But did check out the egg nog,
Now don’t care anyway.
 
It’s the same way every year,
As hectic as can be,
Mom tries to plan ahead,
But still works frantically.
 
The kids are so excited,
“We’ve been good girls and boys!”
“By whose account?” Mom says,
“But it’s not about the toys!”
 
“It’s not about the goodies,
Or trees and blinking lights,
It’s not about the presents,
Delivered in the night.”
 
“It’s an enormous birthday party
Where we all receive,
A beautiful remembrance,
Of the miracle we believe.”
 
“Food, lights, and endless shopping,
For the gift we hope that pleases,
Is really to remember,
The birth of our Lord Jesus.”
 
.


 
 
 
 
 


The Wall

It’s hard not to want things.  It’s human nature.  Sometimes we want things we need, or think we need, and sometimes we want things just because we want them.  Most of us here in the United States are better off than so many others in poorer parts of the world.  I try to remind myself of that, and to not place too much importance on anything I don’t have.  But sometimes knowing you have all you need is not enough.  You have to feel it.

When my daughter Julia was two and a half, and I was pregnant with our first son, we lived in a tiny condominium.   There were technically two bedrooms in the 880 square foot dwelling, but the second bedroom was more like an exaggerated closet.  There were three humans and three cats sharing the space, and I wanted a house.  I needed a house.  I deserved a house.

Never mind that our little condo was in a nice neighborhood, and within walking distance of the BART train that took my husband to his job.   There was no yard.  Sure, there was a park across the street, but it was a very busy street, and I had a toddler!  There was only one bathroom.  Our daughter was potty trained, and there was some competition for toilet time.  The kitchen was too small for more than one person at a time, and the dining area not nearly large enough to seat all our family for holidays and birthdays.   And storage space, well, let it suffice to say that we had to use the trunk of the car for things most people would put in a utility closet.

In the San Francisco Bay Area where we live, home prices are astronomical.  Our little condominium was worth more than two hundred thousand dollars.   We needed more than twice that to buy even a modest older home, and we just couldn’t afford the mortgage. My parents lived close by in the same home I grew up in.  I would drive through my old neighborhood, and see new families in the houses that used to be occupied by my young friends.  The schools near my childhood residence are the most sought after in the area, and the homes, though old, sell for premium prices. “How can these young families afford to live in a nice established neighborhood like this?” I would agonize.   

Back in our own cramped quarters, we had a routine, my little girl and I.  After bath time, I would snuggle up with her in her tiny toddler bed, and we said our prayers.  “God Bless Mommy and Daddy, Papa and Grandma, Gammy, Niki, Lisa, Papa and Grandma Carolina, Cindi, Danny, and Emily.”  Then I would ask Julia what she would like to thank Jesus for today.   She loved this part.  She would look around her room, and pick a stuffed animal, her shoes, a doll, whatever seemed special at the moment.  Sometimes she would put her little arms around me, and say “Thank you for my Mommy and Daddy!”

But on one particular evening, nothing seemed to be special enough.  I made some suggestions, but she shook her head.   “No, not that.”  She looked around her small cluttered room, and then smiled as inspiration struck her.  She put her dimpled little hand on the wall next to her bed, and said proudly “Thank you for my wall!”  She patted the wall soundly, “Amen!” 

“Amen,” I repeated.

Snuggling close, I curled my legs up, and held my child as she drifted off to sleep.  Leave it to a child, I thought, to put everything back into perspective.  The wall separated her warm cozy bed from the dark night.  It kept strangers out, and those she loved in.  Everything she loved, everything she needed, was on her side of the wall.  Nothing else mattered.  Why didn’t I see that before?  “Forgive me, Lord,” I thought.  “And thank you for my wall.”