Author: Ruth Bullock

I went for a walk the other day with our 11-y-o daughter, Kristall.  We were walking on the docks downtown, enjoying a sunny spring day before our town gets inundated by cruise ships and visiting tourists.  The warm air was a pleasant break from our wet and windy spring. 

As we walked along the dock, squinting against the brightness of the sunshine on the water, Kristall covered a number of topics, in fairly rapid succession.

“In math we are working on dividing fractions.  I don’t do good with decimals.  I never know where to put the decimal.”

I reminded her that I’m actually pretty good at math, and that I can help her anytime she wants to bring her math home.

She nodded.  She knew this.  

“Girls on the Run is going pretty good,” she offered up, switching topics again. 

I asked if she’s thinking she wants to be in cross country once she gets to middle school, which is coming up sooner than I had realized.  

She thought about this, but wasn’t sure.  “I like to run, but I don’t know.  There are other things I want to do.”

We talked about a few of her friends, and how band is coming along.  Then she mentioned that she’s been thinking she would like to be a teacher when she gets older.  I said I thought that was a great idea, and that I could see her being a really good teacher.  She smiled and didn’t say anything more for a few paces.  

Just then a very large sea lion blew next to us on our right.  We hustled over to the edge of the dock to get a better look at the 8-foot creature lying on the surface, watching us.

We watched it for a few minutes, gracefully rolling around, staring up at us and blinking. Seemingly as interested in us as we were in it.  After a moment or two it dove again and we continued with our walk.

“Did you know that a couple hundred killer whales beached themselves in New Zealand and died?” she asked.

I said that I hadn’t known about that, and asked her to tell me more.  To my surprise she knew quite a bit about it. 

“So did this just happen?” I clarified.

“It was a couple months ago,” she said.  “We learned about it in school.”  

We agreed this was a tragedy.  Then we were both quiet as we rounded a corner in our route and headed down another stretch.  

“Yeah,” she said, breaking the silence, “nobody knows what their porpoise was.”

I hesitated.  Did she just say ‘porpoise’? Or did I hear that wrong?

I glanced sideways at her.  And that’s when I knew.  Every muscle in her face was working hard to keep a serious face.  

I elbowed her, and she wrapped her arms around herself and doubled over with laughter.  I laughed, too.  

“Dork,” I said.  

She giggled the rest of our way down the dock, continuing to enjoy her sense of humor.  And I chuckled the rest of our walk, too, enjoying her reactions to her own humor. 

We worried about Kristall in her early years.  Almost everything was difficult for her.  She struggled.  She was often unhappy.  We worried that she wouldn’t ever just fit in the world.  

We were wrong.  

She is remarkable.  She enjoys almost every aspect of her life.  Some things are still difficult, and they might always be.  But she fits in the world.  She is successful.  She is smart, and talented, lovely, and delightful.  She is musical, artistic, compassionate, and athletic.  She even has a sense of humor.

I don’t know if Kristall will become a teacher one day or end up doing something else.  But I do know that whatever she decides to do she will be wonderful at it.  Whatever her porpoise is.

There’s a small remote controller under the desk in my office.  All of the counselor offices have one.  It looks like a garage door opener, and it’s held in place under the front lip of my desk by a Velcro strip.  It’s a panic button.  Our alarm system.  Should a client become combative or threatening.  Or if for any reason we need help or are in danger we’re to reach under the front of the desk and sound the alarm.

I’ve never actually had to use it.  In fact I’ve rarely even given it much thought.  But there was an afternoon not too long ago when I thought I might have to sound the alarm.

I was in my office catching up on some paperwork.  The person working at the front desk called and asked if I had a minute to see a client who wasn’t doing well at the treatment program we run and needed to see a mental health counselor.  I set aside my paperwork, and accepted the walk-in appointment.

The woman was in her early thirties, and had been detoxing from methamphetamine. The dark rings under her eyes; the drawn, tightened skin around her mouth; the multiple scabs and scars on her face, neck and arms all pointed to her drug use.

She came into the office wearing pajama pants and an over-sized sweatshirt. Her hair was greasy, or sweaty. She wore no make-up, and her face was pale.  She followed me into the office and collapsed into the vacant chair looking at me nervously. 

“I, uh…. I’m not doing very good.  Uh…” she started to rub at her temples.   And I wondered how many days, or hours, she’d been in treatment.  

“I just, you know … I think I need somethin’.  I think I might be dyin’ here.  I’ve never felt like this before.  My skin is crawling …” she rubbed her arms vigorously, as if trying to crush the bugs she could feel crawling on her.  

I nodded, wondering how much of this was the physical detox process. Wondering how bad things were for her.    

“I don’t think I can do this, you know?  I have migraines, and PMS.  I think I might have a kidney infection, too.  And you know, the doctors wouldn’t renew my prescription for Prozac before I came in here.  They said they wanted me off everything.  I don’t know that that’s such a good idea, though.  I don’t feel good.  I think I need somethin’.”  

Again, she rubbed hard at her temples, then briefly scrubbed her hands over her face before roughly pulling all her hair back tightly from her face.  I asked how long she’d been in treatment.  She said it had been a matter of days.  Then she repeated that she thought she actually might be dying.

“I just don’t know how much of this is the drugs, and how much might be somethin’ else, you know?”

I said I understood, and that we should check with her physician.

That’s when she erupted.  She pulled her knees up under her chin, wrapping her arms tightly around them, and howled.  

“I have two kids.  They don’t deserve this.  They’re good kids.  And they have a mother who’s a drug addict.”

She howled again.  A real howl. Like what a wolf or coyote would do. Maybe what a wounded wolf or coyote would do.

“My boy sits at home under a blanket playing video games all day long.  He has no friends.  He doesn’t do anything.  He just sits home under a blanket.  You know, like he’s trying to shut out the world.  My little girl, she’s real smart, you know?  Last year, she bought Christmas cards with her own money, and sent them out to all our relatives saying that we hoped they had a good Christmas. She signed all our names.  And paid for them with her own money ….. because …” she dropped her head and erupted in another painful howl.  

It was obvious that she wasn’t okay.  The howling was unusual.  Her hands trembled and she clawed at them to hold them still.  I was starting to get a little concerned, struggling to try to predict what she might do, if she was crossing the line between distraught and dangerous.

“Because,” she continued, “because … she didn’t want the world to think she had a dysfunctional family.”  She broke into another round of sobs.

Her head was resting on her knees.  Her sobs coming in full force.  Loud, rhythmic weeping and moaning.

“Her mother’s a drug addict, and she doesn’t want the world to know.  She’s 10 years old!  Just 10 years old!  Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus!”

At that she began pounding on her legs, slamming the heels of her hands into the sides of her thighs.  She was sweating heavily now, beads of perspiration on her forehead and on her throat. Shaking almost convulsively, becoming more and more agitated.  

And for the first time ever I actually glanced at the alarm button under my desk. I wasn’t threatened.  But the woman’s level of agitation and desperation was becoming worrisome.  And for that one instant I thought I just may need some help.

“I’ve got to do this!” she declared suddenly, mopping a sleeve across her face. “I’ve got to do this. I’m scared, you know? I hurt all over. My body’s a mess. My brain’s a mess, too. I’ve smoked too much Drano off of foil. My brain doesn’t work the way it should anymore. But I’ve got to do this. I gotta get off this stuff.”

I encouraged her.  I offered support.  Agreeing with her that she did need to beat this addiction.  For herself, and for her kids.  

She nodded, smiling nervously.  

“Yeah,” she sniffled.  “My kids need me.  They need to know that they actually have a mom.”

She continued to cry quietly for a little while, and sniffled a few more times. The trembling settled down a bit. And eventually she uncurled, and slid her feet back down to the ground.

Then, with equal abruptness to how she had come in, she said, “Thanks for seeing me. I know you’re real busy.  I just … I just didn’t know what else to do.”

I asked if she was okay for now, and she nodded.  She thanked me again, smiling nervously.  I said that it was no problem.  And I reminded her that this was probably the worst the withdrawal would be. She nodded, stood up, and left my office.

When the door  shut behind her I exhaled.  Glad that I hadn’t sounded the alarm.  Glad that I hadn’t needed to.  

I looked at the alarm for a second.  Thinking about how its presence here is for my protection.  In case I am ever in jeopardy.  

And I thought about the woman who had just left my office.  The mom.  I thought of her sobbing for the pain of her children.  Howling over her own failures and shortcomings.  

No, I hadn’t needed to sound the alarm this time.  She had.  Fearing for her safety, recognizing the danger she was in, she’d come in asking for help.  Crying out for help.  Howling in pain, she had come into the office that afternoon for one purpose.  To sound the alarm.  

We were asked to go meet this little boy a few weeks ago.  He couldn’t stay where he was, and if we agreed to take him we would be his sixth, and hopefully his last, foster home.  If we didn’t agree to take him it was likely that he would be moved out of state to a children’s treatment facility.  

When he came into the room to meet us we were immediately taken by what a sad little boy he was.  He sat down on the couch next to us and we were introduced.  The first thing he said by way of introduction was, “My mom is dead, and my dad is drunk.”  

Midway through our conversation I asked him why he has moved around so much. Without hesitation he answered, “Because I’m bad.”

He moved in the next afternoon.  

And it hasn’t been an easy transition.  

No one really knows what his life’s story has been.  So far he hasn’t disclosed much.  He’s from up north, about 1200 miles away from here.  There is nothing similar between here and there except that both communities lie within the state of Alaska.  The customs, the size of the community, the schools, the climate, the people, the terrain are all very different.  

This morning while he was playing Legos with our 11-y-o son there was a disagreement.  Our son told him not to cheat, and tossed a game piece back in the bucket.  

And our day changed.  

The boy started to scream.  He wailed and screamed loudly.  Without end. After 15 minutes of his screaming I started trying to clear the other kids out of the house.  After 30 minutes we put a white noise machine on full volume just outside his door to help deaden the disruptive wailing for everyone else in the house.  

An hour into it we put in a movie for the other kids, and even handed out cookies.  Loudly. Hoping he would hear that he was missing out and decide to pull it together.  He didn’t.  

Two hours into it, after he had stopped screaming but was still in his room and not ready to re-engage, Geoff went in to talk to him.  Geoff asked him if he was ready to talk and he turned and kicked the wall, leaving a hole in the sheetrock.  

Three hours into it I opened his door and asked if he was ready to visit. He was sitting on a chair in his room with his knees pulled up to his chin and his head down inside his shirt. I said his name and asked if he was ready to visit.  He pulled his head out of his shirt and turned and looked at me, blank faced.  Almost as though he was trying to see me through the fog.  I repeated my question, asking if he was ready to visit.  He started to whimper and pulled his head back into his shirt. I said okay, and quietly closed the door.

Geoff and I were sitting in the living room discussing what our next approach would be when we heard his door open.  He walked slowly into the living room, looking small.  His facial expression was still flat, and he looked exhausted.  

We stopped talking and looked over at him.  Waiting.

“Ruth?” he said in a very small voice, without looking up, “what was the question again?”

I repeated what I’d said at his door earlier.  “Are you ready to visit about what’s going on?”

He didn’t move.  He just stood there in front of us, head down, shoulders slumped, worn out, fighting the tears.  Broken. 

Geoff patted the couch next to him, and the boy came and plopped down next to Geoff.  He put his hands up to his face and pressed on his eyes, trying to keep the tears away. 

Geoff and I each said a few things.  We asked him to tell us what had happened.  Asked him to walk through how he might have handled it in a way that would have gone better for him.  Explained that when he can’t resolve things himself that’s when it’s time to get a parent involved.  We laid out our rules again, and set the boundary on how we handle things when we’re upset.  We reassured. We problem solved.  Geoff put his arm around him, and I rubbed his back.  

A few minutes later we offered him two cookies, and a couple of the kids invited him to come help with a puzzle.  About two minutes after that he was smiling and laughing, talking about Christmas and his birthday.  Asking what was for dinner.  And were we going to watch a movie tonight before bedtime.

We don’t know what all he has experienced.  But we know it’s been a lot.  We know that he’s a little boy who is 1200 miles away from home, away from his family and all of his relatives.  And today he screamed, cried, wailed, punched and kicked several holes in our walls, and created havoc in our home for four hours.  

And in the future when I think back over this day.  This grueling and exhausting day.  I think what I will remember most is how he looked when he timidly walked into the living room and in a very little voice asked for help.  

“Ruth? What was the question again?”  

That was the moment everything changed.  That was when grace happened.  When all that whispers to him was silenced.  That was the moment he reached out for the life ring.  

Our daughter Emma, age 11 at the time, had signed our whole family up to serve dinner at the homeless shelter downtown.  It was after church while Geoff and I were visiting with people that Emma saw the sign-up sheet in the fellowship hall. There had been an announcement about it during the service.

“Hey Mom, can we do the dinner for people at the homeless shelter?” she’d asked me eagerly.

I said, “I guess so,” and asked her to find out what dates they needed help.

She had returned with a couple possible dates, and together we picked one for a month away. I was pleased that she was so eager to serve dinner to people who were hungry.  

A month later on Sunday morning we were notified at church that it was our evening to serve, and who to contact if we had any questions.  It was mid-summer so the population of people in town needing to be fed would be higher than at other times of the year because of our transient population.  If we needed any help preparing a meal for 100 people there were a couple folks we could call to help us.  Oh and by the way, only people 18 and older were allowed to help in the kitchen at the shelter.

Emma was disappointed. Here she’d been the one to sign us up, and now she couldn’t even go with to help.  Martha and Ben, 11 and 13 respectively, were also disappointed as they had been excited to help.  Anna, 15, had to work that evening so she said she wouldn’t have been able to help even if she had been old enough.

Geoff and I couldn’t both go to the shelter as someone had to stay home and keep an eye on the younger kids in our home, ages 10, 4 and 2.  That left us with only one adult to cook and serve 100 hungry people.  And of our kids only Kathryn, newly 18, was qualified to help us.  

“What?” she complained loudly when we brought it to her attention.  “I’m not gonna go serve dinner to a bunch of homeless people.  They scare me.  Emma signed up.  Make her do it.”

We explained that none of the other kids could help because according to the rules at the shelter they weren’t old enough.

“Well that’s not fair,” she argued.  “Then she shouldn’t have signed us up.  She can’t go obligating me to do things because she wants to.  No, I’m not gonna do it.  I don’t want to.  I do other things.”

And she does.  She helps out with church youth group.  She has tutored kids in the schools.  She’s helped at preschools.  And has volunteered countless hours coaching soccer for younger kids over the years.  She has certainly done her part.

We reiterated that we were in a bind.  That we would both love to do it, and were disappointed that the other kids couldn’t help us.  But we needed her help today.  She could either help serve at the homeless shelter, or stay home and watch the younger kids so that we could both go help with dinner at the shelter.

“But I had plans this evening,” she argued back.  “And I don’t want to stay home watching the kids.”

We waited silently. Giving her a few minutes to adjust.

“I don’t like those kind of people.  They come into the store sometimes, and they steal stuff.  They’re dirty.  They smell bad.  They scare me.  And I don’t feel like going downtown and being around them.”

We understood. Then we gave our speech about how people with mental illness and drug addictions are just as precious in God’s eyes as we are. We assured her that it would be a safe environment.  Dad would be there, too.  And other people would be there to help.

“I know all that, Mom. I just don’t want to do it. Okay?” she said, rising to go get changed.  To go serve dinner to homeless people downtown.

She left with Geoff a little later.  Still unhappy.  Still blaming Emma for this inconvenience.  

Throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening I hoped that things were going well at the shelter.  It was disappointing that Emma and the other kids weren’t able to help.  And we both felt bad that Kathryn had been obligated to go. I whispered a couple of small prayers asking God to help this to be a good experience for Kathryn. That it would be an enriching experience.  Something she could grow from.

As I was finishing the dinner dishes I heard the car pull into the driveway.

“That was so cool,” Kathryn announced, bursting through the front door.

“Really?” I asked, not quite sure if she was being sarcastic.

“Really,” she confirmed. “Mom, there were like 120 people there. Karen and Carrie from church were there to help us, so we didn’t have to know how to do everything.  We made a HUGE dinner.  And the people were lining up out front.  They have to sign up to do some kind of chore around there before dinner, so people were coming in and helping us.”

“And how were they?” I asked.

“Okay,” she said thoughtfully.  “I mean, there were a couple who were kinda sketchy.  I wouldn’t have wanted to run into them by myself someplace.  But they were okay there.  Very appreciative.  They kept thanking us, and saying how good everything was.”

I couldn’t help smiling as I listened to her.  Recognizing that this had been a good experience for Kathryn.  An enriching experience.

“Oh, and Mom, this girl came in.  She was like my age.  I’d seen her before.  And she had this baby.  And all the baby had on was one of those little onesies.  And it’s cold and rainy outside today.  She looked kinda embarrassed to see me there.  Probably because I was like her age.  Anyway, I told Dad I had to leave for a second, because I’d seen really cute baby blankets at Anna’s store the other day when I went to pick her up from work.  So I ran up to Anna’s store and bought one of those blankets.  And gave it to the girl.”

I raised my eyebrows. 

“I mean, Mom, it’s cold out today.  The weather’s been terrible.  There’s no way that baby wasn’t cold.  So, anyway I handed it to her and said that my little foster sister has one just like it and loves it and that this was an extra one.  I didn’t want her to know I bought it for her.  She looked at me for a second and then she took it and smiled and thanked me.”

I said, “Good job,” and caught Geoff’s eye.  He was looking at me, nodding.  I told her I was proud of her.  Then I asked her if she was glad she had gone.

She smiled. Actually, I don’t think she had stopped smiling since she’d walked in the front door.  

“Yeah.  That was pretty cool.  I totally want our family to do that again.  Can we sign up again?”

I said that we would. Then she took off up the stairs to find Emma and the other kids and tell them all about the homeless shelter.

And I sat there smiling.  Acknowledging our Creator God who can use all things.  Even the eagerness of younger siblings, and enormous inconveniences.  To create in us what God sees that we need. To enrich our lives.  And help us to grow.  

Periodically we wonder how our kids are doing in developing their relationships with God.  It’s a private thing.  And we want them to know we respect that privacy.  Their relationships with God are between them and God.  And that’s it.  Nonetheless, we sometimes wonder how they’re doing.  Hoping that they are taking this part of their development seriously.  Hoping that they do visit with God about whatever troubles them, about their hopes, about their everyday thoughts.  Knowing that God is God of the universe, creator of all things, and also the God who wants to sit and visit with them.  

The young son of a close friend of our family’s had had a sudden seizure.  The parents were worried, understandably. They had contacted us and asked us to keep their son in our prayers.

Our kids knew the boy well, having often played together when our families were together.  We discussed with the kids what had happened with the boy.  We talked about what a seizure was.  What might cause it.  Whether we thought the boy would or would not be okay.  We discussed the need for brain tests to find out what’s happening.  And we prayed.

The kids prayed that night, and every night after, for the boy to be okay. They didn’t really understand what it was to have a seizure.  Or what it might mean.  But they understood that this was not a good thing, and that his parents were worried. So they prayed at bedtime.  Please God, help him to be okay.

Sunday morning at church, there was stirring in our pew.  Which is not a notable thing by any means.  I saw our son Ben, then 10 years old, whispering intently to his sister Kathryn, then 15.  I saw her reach for a prayer request form.

In our church, we have a time for prayers from the congregation. These can be said aloud from the pew. They can also be written on a sheet of paper and passed to the front to be read aloud by someone else. It was one of these prayer sheets that Kathryn wrote on, while her brother whispered intently to her.

After a few moments, she passed the sheet over to him.  He read it over and handed it to me.  I took the sheet and read the prayer, dictated by Ben, transcribed by his sister.

“Dear Father, please be with our friend.  He had a seizure.  Help him to be okay.”

I handed the sheet back to Ben and nodded.  He held a serious look on his face and shook his head slightly when I handed the sheet back to him.  I looked at him, puzzling for a moment.

Then he whispered hoarsely to me.  “No. Not okay.  Ex-cellent!  God can make him excellent!”

I nodded my head.  Fighting a smile and tears at the same time.  I understood.

The prayer sheet got passed along to the end of the pew to be picked up and carried to the front of the church.  I shrugged to him that this would have to be good enough.  And he seemed to understand that there wasn’t time now to re-write the prayer.  

A few minutes later Ben’s prayer was read aloud from the front of the church.

“Dear Father,” the reader said into the microphone, “please be with our friend. He had a seizure.  Help him to be okay.”

Ben, who at age 10, was usually bored during most of the church service, was following along seriously that morning.  And in that moment, when his prayer was read our loud, he corrected it quietly.  Under his breath.  

“No, not okay.  Make him be ex-cellent!”

The tears came to me again then.   As I pictured God sitting or standing in church with us that morning. Hearing our hearts’ desires, our burdens, our worries.  And hearing Ben, who’s heart’s desire that morning was for his friend to be well. Not just okay.  But perfect.  

I think God smiled then.  Maybe even teared up.  Nodding encouragement to Ben for his faith.  For Ben’s unwillingness to settle for just okay when, as a child of God, he knew he should ask for nothing less than everything.  Opening His arms to Ben and thanking Ben for entrusting his worries to God.  And at the same time, reaching out and touching our young friend’s brain. Making it once again perfect.

I glanced over at Ben as we stood while the rest of the prayers were read. Ben still held his hands folded, eyes closed, mind intently focused. Definitely not his normal attention level in church. I knew he was talking with God. And I knew God was listening to him.

Periodically we do wonder how our kids are doing in developing their own personal relationships with God. It’s a private thing. So we try to encourage them, without intruding. But every once in a while, we are thankful for the little glimmers we receive that let us know that all is well. That God is real to them. That their faiths are alive. And that they trust God not only to take their burdens and worries. But to fix things. Not just to make things okay. But to restore them to excellence.

I had an appointment one afternoon with a high school girl.  I had vaguely known who she was, though I hadn’t ever really spoken with her before.  I’d known she was a nice girl, one whom others seemed to generally think well of.  

Shortly into our appointment I asked what was going on, what brought her in for counseling.  It can be a difficult question for people to answer when it’s finally asked.  Difficult to actually lower the defenses and give voice to the pain.

She looked down at her hands resting in her lap, and hesitated for a moment.  Then she said very quietly, “Um, I just … I’m different. I don’t fit in with everybody else.”

I waited a second to see if she was going to say more.  But she sat quietly, staring down at her hands.

So that’s where we started.  She didn’t fit in.  She was odd. All the time.  I asked dozens of probing questions, trying to get a better picture of what was troubling her.  

She was a junior in high school.  Her mom was a single mom who worked nights to support herself and her kids.  This girl was the oldest, so she was the one in charge at night.  She got good grades.  Had an after-school job four or five days a week.  Then went home to get dinner, and do her homework.  She participated in a couple different school sports, as long as she could fit the practice times into her schedule.  Her mom was supportive of her, but her work schedule kept her from being able to be very involved.  The girl’s employer had nothing but appreciation for the girl. Her teachers all identified her as a student they liked having in class.  Her coaches, too, were pleased to have her on their teams.

In her free time, when she had free time, she hung out with a good group of friends.  Nice kids. But they did more as a group than she did. She didn’t have the discretionary time that everyone else had.  So, often it seemed, they would make plans on weekends which didn’t include her. Probably because they were used to doing things without her.

As we talked, there were tears a few times.  The loneliness and longing on her part twisted itself into a framework of inferiority and insecurity.  She was a loner.  Not by choice.  But by something she couldn’t quite understand.  Not by her own design.  She wanted to belong.  But she was just different.

Some weeks later our kids were doing art projects at the kitchen table one evening.  Several of them were finger painting.  And what had initially been a mixture of individual, vibrant colors were manipulated for too long by eager little fingers.  In that over-manipulation the colors changed into a universal dark brown goo covering the entire page.  

As I was examining their efforts, I noticed one painting in particular. In what appeared to be an afterthought, the artist had added a splash of bright yellow paint on top of the brown goo. And then, most remarkably, had been able to resist the urge to mix the vibrant yellow into the brown.  The result was lovely.  One area of brilliant yellow in an otherwise page of brown, finger-painted chaos.

Looking at that particular piece of art I thought of the teenaged girl.  I’d known since that first appointment with her that her burden came from remaining a brilliant splash of yellow in an otherwise over-manipulated brown mess.  Why is it that the need to fit in is so great?  So great in fact that others willingly give up their uniqueness, their color, just to be accepted as part of the communal goo.  And when there is someone who clings to their uniqueness, for whatever reason, the pressure on them to become part of the chaos is tremendous.  

Her pain was that she didn’t fit in. The way, I suppose, gold nuggets don’t completely fit in with the quartz that they’re embedded. Or the way a diamond doesn’t really fit into a deposit of coal. She didn’t fit in. The way the extraordinary never fits with the ordinary.

It’s a funny thing about being extraordinary.  It doesn’t seem to recognize itself.  I’ve not yet met anyone extraordinary who saw themselves for what they were.  Always, they believed they were just ordinary.  Or, as with this girl, sure that there was something wrong with them because somehow they just couldn’t quite rise up to the level of ordinariness which surrounded them.  Not sure how to get there.  And not realizing that they were looking in the wrong direction.  

I’ve had similar conversations with our own kids over the years, as each goes through periods of not quite fitting in.  Not being able to do things that everybody else is doing.  Feeling lonely, and longing to fit in.  And looking at me in disbelief when I try to point out the very simple reason for their loneliness.  That not fitting in isn’t always a bad thing.  Hanging onto our own individual thoughts and perspectives, our own vitality, is in fact what separates us from the collective goo.  It is the very making of the extraordinary. And the extraordinary, by design, doesn’t fit with the ordinary.

I lost track of that particular girl a while back.  She graduated from high school, financially independent at age 18.  Last I’d heard she had completed college and was pursuing a graduate degree.  

I think about her every once in a while.  And I wonder if she’s realized it yet.  How extraordinary she is.  And that the extraordinary, by design, simply does not fit with the ordinary.

Tonight I am on Henry watch.  The kids are asleep.  Geoff is working late.  And I am keeping watch on Henry, our little blue parakeet.  

Something happened to Henry this morning.  I wasn’t in the room at the time, which puts me at a disadvantage of having to piece together what happened after the fact from various and opposing witnesses.  Something happened to Henry, though, and it involved Benson.

Kathryn, age nine, and Benson, newly five, were in the girls’ bedroom playing. I said they could let the birds out of the cage as long as they kept the door closed so that our dog Maggie couldn’t get to the birds.  A short time later, a tearful Kathryn came out and said that Henry was hurt.

I asked what happened.  

“Henry kept flying around, and Ben wanted him to sit on his shoulder.  So he threw his pajamas at Henry so he would land. He didn’t mean to hurt him, Mom. But I think he did.”

I went in the room to find an injured parakeet, and a worried little boy. I glanced over at Ben, standing at the foot of the bunks, head down.  I could see that he was trying not to cry.  Then I knelt to take a look at Henry, who was on the floor.

Henry was standing on one leg, with the other leg tucked up high.  His feathers were fluffed up.  Not a good sign.  I gently poked him with my finger, trying to see if he would put the other leg down. He lost his balance, and still didn’t use the other leg.

“Ben, what happened to Henry?” I asked.

“I threw my PJ’s at him to hold him still so I could get him,” he started to cry. “I wanted to pick him up.  But he just kept flyin’.  Is he okay?”

“No. He’s not okay,” I answered.  It was one of those moments when I couldn’t decide whether to lecture one of the kids, or just put my arms around them while they realized their own mistake.

“Will he be okay?” he asked again.

I said I didn’t know.  That it looked like something was wrong with his leg.  I explained that these little birds are so small that there’s not much we can do for them when they’re hurt. 

I picked up Henry.  He slumped in my hand.  His feathers were still fluffed up.  He let me touch his foot, and I could see that the foot and leg were purple.  He kept it curled up against his body, unused.

The kids had all gathered in the room by that point.  All in tears.  As I looked at the injured little bird, I slipped into my impatient lecture mode. I scolded the kids for being too rough. I told them that this was one of God’s little creatures, and that as one of God’s bigger creatures they all had a responsibility to protect what was smaller than them.  I told them that I thought Henry was hurt bad.  I suspected that he had a broken leg.  And there wasn’t anything we could do for him.

Amidst all the tears, Benson spoke up.  “If we ask God to take care of Henry’s leg He can fix whatever’s wrong.”

I agreed with that and said that I suppose God could do whatever God wanted to do.

So, with Henry in my hands, we prayed.  Actually Benson prayed.  He wiped the tears away, and told God that he was sorry he had hurt one of God’s little creatures.  He told God that he hadn’t meant to hurt Henry.  That he just hadn’t been careful.  He asked God to take care of Henry’s hurt leg and help him to feel better. He said again that he was sorry, and asked God to please not let Henry die.  

Ben’s sisters joined him on the “Amen.”  And I carefully set Henry down on the floor of the cage.  We put the blanket over the cage, and left the room. 

We checked on Henry throughout the afternoon.  He stayed on the floor of the cage, fluffed up.  Madge, our little yellow parakeet, also sat on the floor of the cage right next to Henry.  

The kids had a hard time getting to sleep tonight.  Everybody’s worried about Henry.  Including Madge, I think.  Benson said another prayer for Henry at bedtime.  He asked God one more time to please take care of Henry’s hurt leg. And help him not to die.

And I am a mix of emotions tonight.  I’m worried for little Henry.  I am sad to think of him hurting.  I’m disappointed in the kids for not being gentle enough with the birds. I’m also proud of Ben for being honest about what he did, and trying to take responsibility for it.  And I keep remembering back to a particular spring afternoon when I was a kid.

I was in third grade at the time.  We had a parakeet.  I can’t remember its name.  I was playing in the park across the street from our house and some older neighborhood kids were there.  I said that I had a bird in my house.  They didn’t believe me.  So I said I could prove it.  They dared me.  Since none of my older siblings were home at the time, I went in and took the bird from the cage.  I brought it across the street to the park.  I showed them our bird.  

But my satisfaction ended abruptly when a neighbor’s dog ran up barking and jumped on me, knocking me to the ground.  I let go of the little bird.  And before I understood what had happened, the dog had the bird in its mouth and was shaking it.  I got the bird back a few seconds later, dead.  In that one moment, our little bird was dead.

I remember walking back across the street to my house, with the dead bird limp in my hands.  I remember the tears streaming down my cheeks.  I remember one of the older kids calling from behind me, “Hey, sorry ‘bout your bird.”  I remember being afraid that my older brother and sisters would be mad at me for killing our bird, so I just opened the cage and set the dead bird on the floor of the cage. I didn’t tell anyone.  Later, everyone got home and found the dead bird. They didn’t know what had happened. And I don’t know that I ever told anyone what had happened.  

So, tonight I’m on Henry watch.  I keep checking on him.  So far I haven’t see any improvement.  

And I’m thinking about our son.  He did well today.  He made a mistake.  But he stepped up and acknowledged it.  He has carried this responsibility.  He’s cried. He’s sought forgiveness.  And he’s prayed.  For God to take care of this little creature who tonight has a hurt leg.  And for God to please not let Henry die.  

I’m praying for that tonight, too.  For Ben’s sake, as well as for Henry’s.  

As a postscript:  Henry survived that night.  And the next couple of years.  I actually think God did that one as a special favor for Ben.

When Kathryn, our first child, was born she was given a number of handmade baby blankets.  Some were quilted, others crocheted, knitted, or embroidered.  They were beautiful.  And right off the bat, the one she seemed to prefer was a thin, store-bought blanket.  It was white, with stripes of yellow, pink, and blue, and was bound with satin.  By the time Kathryn was a couple months old it had definitely become her blanket of choice.  

She slept with it every night.  She soon developed a conditioned response that, day or night, when she held her blanket her thumb automatically went to her mouth, and her eyes began to droop.  

The blanket went everywhere with us.  If we were going out for a drive, and wanted Kathryn to sit quietly in her car seat, we took the blanket.  Baby sitters were told about it as a surefire method for calming her.  It went on every vacation with us.

The blanket also went through the laundry pile every week.   And after a few years of daily snuggling, and weekly washing, it started wearing thin.  What began as a few loose strings quickly became gaping holes.  Kathryn never seemed to notice, however.  It was the satin binding that she loved.  As a toddler she would wait by the dryer for her clean “blankie” to come out.  Then she’d hold the blanket and begin rubbing her fingertips hypnotically on the satin as her other thumb would slip into her mouth.  

By the time she was five all that remained of the beloved blanket was the satin binding and long, tattered strings.  There were no more yellow, pink and blue stripes.  Just long, hanging strings held together by satin binding.  

One afternoon, as I was pulling stray strings from the lint basket of the dryer I finally broke down and cut away the remains of the blanket from the satin binding.  I tied the binding together in a big knot and gave it to Kathryn.  Braced for tears, I handed the knotted “blanket” to her, fresh from the dryer, explaining why I had cut it.  She was visibly surprised.  Without saying anything, she took the knotted mess from my hands, found the spot on the binding that she had rubbed the most over the years, and stuck her thumb in her mouth.  Then she thanked me for making it so nice for her without all the strings hanging down.

When Kathryn started school she still slept with the knotted satin binding of the blankie every night.  She still sucked her thumb, but we were beginning to work on that.  During the day the blankie was tucked carefully inside her pillowcase to prevent desperate bedtime searches for it.  And at night she would climb into bed, pull the blankie from the pillowcase, and go to sleep.  On the rare occasion that she spent the night with a friend, the blankie went along–inside her pillowcase.  She even took it with her to summer camp.  

At the age of nine, Kathryn lost her blankie.  She had taken it along on a family drive one afternoon.  Something which didn’t happen very often anymore. When it was bedtime she couldn’t find it anywhere.  We searched the house, and the car.  We looked under couch cushions, in the wastebaskets, in the toy box, closets, dresser drawers, coat pockets.  It was gone. 

She had a hard time getting to sleep that night.  I think she cried herself to sleep.  I had gone into the girls’ room to talk with her about it and explain that we had always known that someday the blankie would probably just disappear somewhere.  I told her that I knew she missed it, but that it might turn up.  And I encouraged her that she really didn’t need it anymore anyway.

She laid still, hands covering her face, quietly tearful.  When I finished talking, she rubbed the tears from her face and whispered.  “I know all that, Mom.  I just miss it.”

We hugged for a while that night.  Kathryn was grieving the loss of her blankie.  Her comforter.  This was a big change for her.   The blankie had become such a part of her childhood.  Clothes were outgrown, friends had changed, toys came and went, even favorite books changed.  But the blankie had been a daily part of her life for nine years.  

Pretty soon Kathryn was going to sleep just fine without it.  No more was said about its disappearance.  Until one night after I had kissed her good night and she’d crawled up into her bunk.  She whispered to me in the dark.  

“Hey, Mom?  Do you think my blankie will ever be found?”

I thought for a moment.  I said I really didn’t know.  That I’d been surprised we hadn’t found it yet.  

I waited for a response.  She was quiet for a second or two.  Then she whispered back, “I miss it.  I’m okay without it.  But I’d like to find it.  Just to have it put away in my box of all my special stuff you save.  I don’t need it anymore.  But I’d like to know that it’s safe in my box.”

“So would I,” I said.  And I went on to tell her how proud we were of how she had adjusted to its loss.

She didn’t answer me.  I knew she was crying hidden tears.  I kissed her good night, again.  She held onto me for just a moment.  I knew she no longer needed the comfort of having her blankie.  She just missed it, as a link to her childhood.  And I knew, standing there hugging her in the dark, that I missed it for that same reason.  It was a part of a childhood I have loved.  It was a tangible part.  And as that childhood was quickly slipping away from me, I too sometimes wished I just had something familiar to hold onto.

Post script:  Kathryn’s blankie did eventually turn up.  We celebrated its return, and put it away for safe keeping in her box of special childhood treasures.  

After my dad died my mom lived alone in her house.  One of my nieces, realizing that Grandma needed a companion, found a rescued dog through a local pet store and got it for my mom.   It was a beautiful dog, a German shepherd mix, soft cream color, with a mostly-black face, kind eyes, and a skittish personality. We all thought Sheba would be a great companion for Mom.  

Pretty soon Sheba was going everywhere with Mom. They’d take walks together around the neighborhood.  Having a dog again forced Mom to get out of her house and go for walks.  Sheba rode in the car with Mom wherever she went.  And Mom talked to her like the companion she was.

“Let’s get in the car, Sheba.  We’re going for a ride.  We have to get some groceries.  Now where’s your leash?”

Even in the house, Sheba would follow Mom wherever she went.  To the bathroom.  To her bedroom.  To the laundry room.  The kitchen. 

Sheba seemed to understand her job.  She was a companion for Mom.  And her presence in Mom’s life enabled Mom to continue to live independently in her own house a little longer.

Eventually we sold Mom’s big house, and Mom and Sheba came to live across the street from us in another state.  Sheba did remarkably well with the move.  Her job hadn’t changed.  Only her location had changed.  She still followed Mom everywhere she went.  From the living room to the bathroom.  Into the kitchen.  To the laundry room.  Mom didn’t drive anymore.  So no more rides.  But the two of them still went on walks every day.  Even in the ice and snow of winter.  

Mom’s memory was failing much more rapidly by then as Alzheimer’s took more and more control away from her, and there were times when she and Sheba lost their way during their walks.  Mom would stop and wait on a street corner looking around, not sure which way to go to get home.  

“Well, Sheba, which way do we go?  Do you remember? Which way is home?”

Sheba never seemed to mind the waits.  And with her calming presence they always managed to find their way home together.  

As Mom’s disease progressed it wasn’t long before she could no longer safely live independently, so she moved in with us. She and Sheba.  Mom couldn’t go out on walks anymore.  Which was good.  She no longer knew which way to go, or where home was.  She and Sheba stayed to the yard.  And Sheba depended on us to take her out for exercise when we took our dogs.  I’m sure she missed their walks together.  But I think she understood.  The way dogs always seem to understand.

Eventually Mom moved into an assisted living facility.  A difficult decision made easier as Mom’s disease progressed.  It had become a safety issue.  Mom needed a  staffed facility where someone would be awake to help her day and night.  

Sheba had been around our family fairly constantly over the years and we were confident that she would be fine staying with us and being with our dogs.  

We were wrong.

Sheba changed overnight.  She became aggressive.  Which was very out of character for her.  The look in her eye was suddenly frantic.  Confused.  Afraid. She started attacking.  The vet explained to us that when Mom moved to the care facility Sheba lost her companion.  And in losing her companion she had lost her role.  

We tried to reassure Sheba.  We explained that Mom had needed more help than what we, or Sheba, could offer.  She searched our eyes, apprehensively.  She wagged her tail.  But there was something different.  Almost wild. We all saw it.  She was on high alert.  Ready to attack at the slightest provocation.  

Nothing we did seemed to help Sheba.  In fact, she worsened.  We sought help.  We exhausted our options.  But the message was clear.  Sheba wasn’t okay.  

Ultimately we had to put her down.

Our kids were devastated.  And disappointed in us.  How could we even think of putting down Sheba?  She had been such a wonderful companion for Grandma all those years!  

That day at the clinic we surrounded Sheba. We all sat by her, petting her and telling her over and over what a wonderful friend she’d been.  We thanked her for her years of faithful companionship to Mom.  We told her we were so sorry.  That we weren’t sure what had even happened.  And we hadn’t seen this coming.  

And later, we wondered if Sheba had somehow understood the disease that was changing Mom all along.  That when Mom became agitated and mean at times it wasn’t because of anything Sheba had done.  Or even anything that Mom had done.  It was because of the disease that was slowly taking Mom away from all of us.  And we commented to each other about how strange it was that when Sheba was no longer needed by Mom, she too suddenly became agitated and aggressive, snarling and attacking those around her.

We prayed together, asking God to please send one of our loved ones in Heaven to come and be with Sheba so she wouldn’t be alone in her moment of death.  Someone to be with her, to be her companion, so she wouldn’t be scared.  Someone to reassure her that she was loved.  Someone to help take her Home.  

We believe God heard our prayers that day. And granted them.  We believe that someone was there to greet Sheba and be with her.  To be her companion.  And to welcome her Home. 

Mom lived another five years.  Dying just a few weeks ago.  

And I suspect that Sheba, along with other loved ones, was there in that moment as death approached.  Coming to greet Mom.  So that Mom wasn’t alone, or scared.   And I am certain, to the very core of my being, that they both enjoyed going on a walk together again.  That this time there was no more confusion or agitation.  No more fear.  Just two dear friends.  Reunited again.  Heading for Home.

It was a beautiful, sunny August afternoon in southeast Alaska.  The sun glistened off the water.  There was a pleasant breeze and the air smelled like summer.  The chattering of birds and the sounds of children at play filled the air.  I’d been working outside in what I loosely refer to as “my garden.”  Our five-month-old twin babies were sleeping peacefully in their seats in the shade of the alder tree in our backyard. Kathryn, age 6, had ridden her bike over to a friend’s house to play for a while.  And Anna and Benson, ages 4 and 2 respectively, were over at Nancy’s.  

Our neighbor Nancy ran a daycare.  And Nancy’s was always a favorite place for our kids.  From the day we moved into that house our kids thought it was the greatest set-up in the world to live next to Nancy and have so many kids come to play every day.  There was always something interesting to do over at Nancy’s.

I was alone, kind of, enjoying the quiet afternoon.  There were rare moments anymore when I could relax and spend some time doing things I actually wanted to do.  I resisted the urge to turn on some music, deciding instead to listen to the quiet. I took another sip of my iced tea, checked on the babies again, and was getting ready to pull some weeds when the phone rang.

“Yeah, Ruth.  Nancy.”

I greeted her.

“Hey, good news and bad,” she continued.

“Okay,” I said hesitantly.  Bracing myself for the bad.

“The good news is that Anna has a great face for short bangs.” 

So the bad news would be that Anna now HAS short bangs? I wondered aloud.  

Laughing, Nancy said, “Yeah.  I’m sorry. I keep a dull, old pair of kid scissors around for art projects.  I never thought it was anything to even worry about.  But, when I went in to where Anna was playing there she was with a big chunk taken out of the middle of her bangs.  I’m sorry.”

I thanked her for warning me.  And as I went back outside I wondered just what our little, curly-haired, blond would look like with short bangs.

An hour or so later I saw Anna wandering home.  She was smiling, swinging her shoes in her hand, and it looked like maybe singing, as she walked barefoot along the sidewalk.  Her hair was wet from swimming in Nancy’s toddler pool.  And immediately I could see that right in the front her bangs had been completely cut off.  

Nancy was wrong.  Anna didn’t have short bangs, though they might have looked good on her.  Anna had no bangs.  She had cut off a chunk of her hair at the scalp.

As she walked through the front door her demeanor was transformed.  The  expression of carefree bliss after a long, happy, summer afternoon playing with friends instantly switched to a sad, repentant, maybe even grieving expression. She lowered her head, sucked in her lips, and looked up at me out of the tops of her big blue eyes, blinking slowly. 

After four years’ experience with this expression I found myself immune.

“What happened?” I asked casually.  “Have a run-in with a lawn mower?”

She shook her head sadly, blinking enough to get some tears started.  “No.”

“Well, so what happened?” 

“I don’t know,” she answered, with the slightest quiver in her bottom lip.  

Nice try.  

“You don’t know what happened to your bangs?” I pressed.   “They’re gone.  That’s what happened to them.  How did it happen?” 

“I don’t know,” she repeated.  “I was just playing at Nancy’s.  And this,” she motioned helplessly toward her hair, “happened.”

“And you don’t know how it happened,” I echoed in disbelief.

“Well, there was a pair of scissors there and…” she lowered her head again and looked at me sadly through the tops of her eyes.

“Did you cut them or did somebody else?” I asked for clarification.

“I did.”

“Why?”

 “I don’t know.  I thought it would look nice,” she finally admitted.

 “Okay.  And are you pretty clear now that it doesn’t look nice?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said quietly.  Although still not quite convincingly.

We went upstairs to the bathroom and I got out the haircutting scissors.  There was no way to fix the stubble in the very front.  But I thought maybe if I rounded out the rest of her bangs it would look a little less drastic than the long bang–no bang–long bang look she had going across her forehead.  I worked on it for a few minutes, slowly blending her “top hat” bangs into more of an “inverted U” look.  When I was finished it was still far from unnoticeable.  

That Sunday at church I noticed a small group of women gathered around Anna during coffee hour.  Anna was grinning and very animatedly telling a story which the group of women were riveted to.  They were all smiles.  Some were chuckling.  And nodding encouragingly.  I started to wander over that way.

A friend grabbed me by the arm before I got there.  Barely suppressing a laugh, she said, “So.  I heard the scoop.  Anna’s telling everybody that her mom cut her hair!  Nice job!”

As it turned out, Anna loved her new bangs.  And actually the look kind of fit her personality.  Cute, but unconventional, and you’re never really sure what she’ll do next so stay on your toes and try to keep a visual on her at all times.

I guess Nancy was right.  Anna does have a great face for short bangs.  And that’s the good news.