Her face is inexpressibly sad, and her eyes are weary. Not young, but not old by any definition, she is aged by the burdens she carries. Her clothing is clean and modest, yet unstylish. Outward appearance is not her priority and seems far outweighed by the emotional and physical demands she faces each day.
I do not know her, but see her twice a week at my daughter's pool therapy. She arrives with two sons. One is a teenager, husky and confined to a wheelchair; the other, a pre-schooler, skips about with energy and delight.
I watch as she removes her older son's shirt and with effort heaves him from his chair and into the waiting pool. He is slow and serious in the water. In comparison I see the younger son splash about, often teasing his brother merrily and even on one occasion dunking his brother's head underwater to which his mother cries out a sharp warning. I think he must have received special permission to accompany his brother to therapy, because he seems so perfectly healthy.
Then one day the mother and I sit together on the bench to watch our children perform their exercises, and she asks me about my daughter's condition. In turn, I feel free to ask her about her sons. It is muscular dystrophy, she explains. She has three sons, and only one was born healthy.
Only one? That means ... And she goes on to say that her older son was just as active as his younger brother at that age. But the disease progressed, and once he sat in the wheelchair he never walked again. I can hear the pain in her voice.
I don't have words to say as I turn once again to look at her boys, one so full of life and one whose life seems to be slipping into apathy. My heart aches and I cannot imagine what it is like to see your once-vibrant, once-walking and running and skipping child, now so helpless and hopeless. I cannot imagine what it is like to have two children with the same diagnosis, the stark differences between them always reminding you that what one suffers, the other will someday experience.
My perspective shifts, and once again I am reminded of the blessings in my life. I am burdened for her burdens and wish there was something I could say or do to bring hope into her situation. I know the Author of hope, yet I feel that in pat phrases and well-meaning words He may be rejected. And so I begin by sitting beside her and offering companionship, praying that one day I could somehow do more.
I do not know her, but see her twice a week at my daughter's pool therapy. She arrives with two sons. One is a teenager, husky and confined to a wheelchair; the other, a pre-schooler, skips about with energy and delight.
I watch as she removes her older son's shirt and with effort heaves him from his chair and into the waiting pool. He is slow and serious in the water. In comparison I see the younger son splash about, often teasing his brother merrily and even on one occasion dunking his brother's head underwater to which his mother cries out a sharp warning. I think he must have received special permission to accompany his brother to therapy, because he seems so perfectly healthy.
Then one day the mother and I sit together on the bench to watch our children perform their exercises, and she asks me about my daughter's condition. In turn, I feel free to ask her about her sons. It is muscular dystrophy, she explains. She has three sons, and only one was born healthy.
Only one? That means ... And she goes on to say that her older son was just as active as his younger brother at that age. But the disease progressed, and once he sat in the wheelchair he never walked again. I can hear the pain in her voice.
I don't have words to say as I turn once again to look at her boys, one so full of life and one whose life seems to be slipping into apathy. My heart aches and I cannot imagine what it is like to see your once-vibrant, once-walking and running and skipping child, now so helpless and hopeless. I cannot imagine what it is like to have two children with the same diagnosis, the stark differences between them always reminding you that what one suffers, the other will someday experience.
My perspective shifts, and once again I am reminded of the blessings in my life. I am burdened for her burdens and wish there was something I could say or do to bring hope into her situation. I know the Author of hope, yet I feel that in pat phrases and well-meaning words He may be rejected. And so I begin by sitting beside her and offering companionship, praying that one day I could somehow do more.
1 comment:
wow!
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