October 25, 1997
Dear Mom and Dad,
Our confidence in New York City was shaken yesterday. After we had been to the MoMA, we were hungry. We bought hot peanuts from a vendor, but they were not quite enough to satisfy us until 6 p.m. We had an appointment to see Sister Valeriano (a woman I had taught in the Philippines, now 87 years old, living at 333 14th Street), and we weren’t sure we would be fed at 6. We planned to visit a shop called “Gus’ Pickles” on the Lower East Side first and entered the subway by Radio City Hall.
This was the Rockefeller Center Subway Station, a little nicer than most. A nearly deserted pizzeria came up on the right. We decided against it. And then we saw Au Bon Pain on the left. That seemed perfect. We could get a cup of soup and a bagel. Katie decided to get fruit instead of soup but found that the watermelon was bad. I encouraged her to take it back to the counter. As she left, I had the sensation that something slipped from its place near my hand. I turned to the left and noticed a man headed for the door and yelled, "My wallet!" "You took my wallet!" "He has my wallet!" He broke into a run. I was running after him yelling, "Give me my wallet!!" "Give me my wallet!!" "Give me my WAAA-LET!!!"
All I could think of was the little money I had, my checks, my cards, my ID, everything I valued that HE had no right to. He was very tall and easy to see loping through the crowds. His thin head towered above everyone, and the shoulders of his light tan jacket stood out above the crowd. My voice surprised me, a foghorn magnified in the subway tunnel. A couple of men took up the chase. I was hoping for a man, a policeman, anyone ahead to stop him. I felt I was running like the wind and took three stairs at a time coming out of the subway to the street. There I met the men who had chased ahead shrugging their shoulders. He had disappeared.
I knew I had lost. The closest man pressed two quarters into my hand, apologized for my trouble and insisted I call the police immediately. At least, he said, I could claim the loss on my income tax return.
I was still trembling with adrenaline when I returned to Katie. I felt strangely invigorated. I had always wondered what my reaction to theft would be. Now, I know. It would be mindless and uncontrolled. Why would I expect control when I had never been controlled?
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
“All I need is a crowbar …”
My mother was infamous for her “little projects.” Pay attention to the dates in this series of excerpts from various letters. As I recall, this particular project started with a cracked tile in the shower of the master bedroom.
March 1, 1997
[T]he shower is still torn out, but I woke up this morning with wonderful plans for remodeling the whole bathroom. Dad is terrified. All I need is a crowbar. You will love this bathroom. It will add to the value of the whole house! It's similar to the kitchen remodel. Take out walls. Let in light and air. Add a tub and tiled floor. We can do it. We watched a video on doing the floor. Easy. It just takes work and time and not that much money.
July 9, 1997
We are making inside home repairs. So far, we’ve made a major mistake with every improvement. We are putting in sun tunnels--compromise sky lights. Glenn did a great job on the first part but continued working after he was tired, lost his balance, and put his foot partly through the ceiling. We are nearly finished with the master shower I ruined last February. We’ve been down to one shower for a long time. I have to grout the new tile, and I am afraid to start. It should be easy. I have watched videos and read books. All that’s left is doing it. There is something exciting about these projects but frightening, too. All are learning experiences.
July 21, 1997
Dad put in a new shower floor, and I fixed the new row of tile. I am worried that I have chosen tile that will actually attract mildew, but we will see. Today, I put sealant on that grout and pick up a new shower door. I never would have torn things up as much as I did if I had known the cost or the time involved. It has been a great learning experience. I am actually enjoying our construction projects. It is interesting to me to see how things have been put together. I am convinced we can do as well as any builder if we just know what to do and get the right tools together--and the physical strength.
October 6, 1997
The bathroom we finally nearly finished has inadequacies. Some kind of acid is in the old paint and leaches through any new paint we put on the wall. So, this morning again, I painted with KILZ. I hope it kills the stuff, and we can be done with this project.
March 1, 1997
[T]he shower is still torn out, but I woke up this morning with wonderful plans for remodeling the whole bathroom. Dad is terrified. All I need is a crowbar. You will love this bathroom. It will add to the value of the whole house! It's similar to the kitchen remodel. Take out walls. Let in light and air. Add a tub and tiled floor. We can do it. We watched a video on doing the floor. Easy. It just takes work and time and not that much money.
July 9, 1997
We are making inside home repairs. So far, we’ve made a major mistake with every improvement. We are putting in sun tunnels--compromise sky lights. Glenn did a great job on the first part but continued working after he was tired, lost his balance, and put his foot partly through the ceiling. We are nearly finished with the master shower I ruined last February. We’ve been down to one shower for a long time. I have to grout the new tile, and I am afraid to start. It should be easy. I have watched videos and read books. All that’s left is doing it. There is something exciting about these projects but frightening, too. All are learning experiences.
July 21, 1997
Dad put in a new shower floor, and I fixed the new row of tile. I am worried that I have chosen tile that will actually attract mildew, but we will see. Today, I put sealant on that grout and pick up a new shower door. I never would have torn things up as much as I did if I had known the cost or the time involved. It has been a great learning experience. I am actually enjoying our construction projects. It is interesting to me to see how things have been put together. I am convinced we can do as well as any builder if we just know what to do and get the right tools together--and the physical strength.
October 6, 1997
The bathroom we finally nearly finished has inadequacies. Some kind of acid is in the old paint and leaches through any new paint we put on the wall. So, this morning again, I painted with KILZ. I hope it kills the stuff, and we can be done with this project.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Mary Ellen Edmunds
I love this tribute that my mother wrote to introduce one of her good friends, Mary Ellen Edmunds, at a conference in 1990. It manages to say a lot about Mary Ellen and my mother at the same time.
I first met Mary Ellen Edmunds in Hong Kong in 1963. In spite of her hilarious letters welcoming me as a missionary to the Southern Far East Mission, I wasn’t quite prepared for her. My defenses were down. When it came time for me to meet the Mission President for the first time, I was hiding behind a door barefoot, wondering what to do. Sister Edmunds had tied my shoes to the 20 foot ceiling of the mission home. I didn’t have a clue how to get them down. I didn’t come out until my mission president was really irritated. When I finally did come out, he thundered, “Sister Davidson, WHERE are your shoes!!!”
The next thing I remember him saying was, “Sister Edmunds, see me in my office after dinner.” She wasn’t scared. She was as much at home with him as she would have been with my little brother. So, that’s one side of Sister Edmunds: she plays mean tricks.
Mary Ellen was prepared early in life for such things. One morning-- just to see what her reaction would be--her own mother threw a pie in her face.
Eventually, we were companions in the Philippine Islands for 9 months. I got to know her well. I learned she doesn’t sleep as much as most people. She kept me up working all night and then made fun of me when I fell asleep on a bus the next day. She said she couldn’t decide whether to hold my legs together or to hold my mouth shut to keep me decent in public. Once she tended a little boy all night in a primitive hospital while I slept in the nurses' quarters.
There are several things Mary Ellen does not like: she can’t stand pessimism, she can’t stand being late, and she doesn’t tolerate dishonesty. I remember a dishonest taxi driver who should have known that before he let her into his cab. Because he guessed we didn’t know the territory and was driving us all over town, she grabbed the back of his neck and shook him. He was glad to stop the cab and let us out without paying his outrageous fee. Mary Ellen has the courage to stand for truth and righteousness under any circumstances. You would want her next to you in a good fight. I have seen her take on a whole gang of ruffians single handed, just because one of them was harrassing me. As a result, she earned the admiration of the whole gang.
Mary Ellen has an elephant-sized heart. That is what drives her to stay up nights, to be a champion of righteousness, and to work with all her might, mind and strength ... literally. She came home from Africa--her 4th mission--in a wheel chair. She loves people. She loves all of us, even though she notices our idiosyncrasies. She is equally at ease with the famous and the infamous, the wealthy and the poor, with the suffering and the dying, with the disfigured and the disabled. All are safe in her presence (except those who are pessimistic, those who are late, and those who are cheating). Her love is irresistible. It takes away all fear. Everywhere she goes she has a following, like the pied piper. Her following includes children and old people, men and women, sick and well. I am one of her followers. I love her and consider it a great privilege to be able to introduce her tonight.
I first met Mary Ellen Edmunds in Hong Kong in 1963. In spite of her hilarious letters welcoming me as a missionary to the Southern Far East Mission, I wasn’t quite prepared for her. My defenses were down. When it came time for me to meet the Mission President for the first time, I was hiding behind a door barefoot, wondering what to do. Sister Edmunds had tied my shoes to the 20 foot ceiling of the mission home. I didn’t have a clue how to get them down. I didn’t come out until my mission president was really irritated. When I finally did come out, he thundered, “Sister Davidson, WHERE are your shoes!!!”
The next thing I remember him saying was, “Sister Edmunds, see me in my office after dinner.” She wasn’t scared. She was as much at home with him as she would have been with my little brother. So, that’s one side of Sister Edmunds: she plays mean tricks.
Mary Ellen was prepared early in life for such things. One morning-- just to see what her reaction would be--her own mother threw a pie in her face.
Eventually, we were companions in the Philippine Islands for 9 months. I got to know her well. I learned she doesn’t sleep as much as most people. She kept me up working all night and then made fun of me when I fell asleep on a bus the next day. She said she couldn’t decide whether to hold my legs together or to hold my mouth shut to keep me decent in public. Once she tended a little boy all night in a primitive hospital while I slept in the nurses' quarters.
There are several things Mary Ellen does not like: she can’t stand pessimism, she can’t stand being late, and she doesn’t tolerate dishonesty. I remember a dishonest taxi driver who should have known that before he let her into his cab. Because he guessed we didn’t know the territory and was driving us all over town, she grabbed the back of his neck and shook him. He was glad to stop the cab and let us out without paying his outrageous fee. Mary Ellen has the courage to stand for truth and righteousness under any circumstances. You would want her next to you in a good fight. I have seen her take on a whole gang of ruffians single handed, just because one of them was harrassing me. As a result, she earned the admiration of the whole gang.
Mary Ellen has an elephant-sized heart. That is what drives her to stay up nights, to be a champion of righteousness, and to work with all her might, mind and strength ... literally. She came home from Africa--her 4th mission--in a wheel chair. She loves people. She loves all of us, even though she notices our idiosyncrasies. She is equally at ease with the famous and the infamous, the wealthy and the poor, with the suffering and the dying, with the disfigured and the disabled. All are safe in her presence (except those who are pessimistic, those who are late, and those who are cheating). Her love is irresistible. It takes away all fear. Everywhere she goes she has a following, like the pied piper. Her following includes children and old people, men and women, sick and well. I am one of her followers. I love her and consider it a great privilege to be able to introduce her tonight.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Harvard Humility
June 29, 1996,
We’ve just come back from a business trip to Cambridge, Mass. We stayed in an old house called “A Friendly Inn” run by a Chinese family almost on the Harvard campus. Couldn’t have been closer to the old school. Dad was America’s representative there to an international medical standards group--the only American and the only non-doctor--to decide on the international standard for suction.
We took a tour there, guided by a Harvard Junior in English, who was absolutely certain Harvard is the only school in this country worth talking about. Their motto “veritas” (truth) apparently does not include humility. He also said that the only book saved from a fire in the Harvard library in 1856, The Christian War Against the Devil and his Hosts and the Flesh (approximate title), “Certainly didn’t interest him in this day.”
* * * *
I don’t remember when I have spent four such idle days. While Dad attended his sessions, I was left to myself. Most of the time, I walked the campus, the arts and science museums and the little downtown area known as Harvard Square. There are many old frame houses of all colors--mostly three stories high--and many picturesque churches in the area. I found the Cambridge Ward on Brattle Street. We were told Julia Child lived in the area and “many other famous people.” It was home to Henry James, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and Louis Agassis. The Longfellow house still stands. Memorial Hall at the center of campus has the appearance of a gothic cathedral erected to knowledge--beautiful stained glass windows, and a regular cathedral transcept in the center with marble plaques on its walls commemorating the Harvard Civil War dead. A large part of the building is a dark wood dining hall decorated with marble busts of philosophers and other great intellects. The exterior includes the latin learning of men mingled with scripture. In some bygone day, someone chiseled, “What is man that thou art mindful of him?” over the doorway to Emerson Hall. I am not sure that is the sentiment of the current freshman class.
We’ve just come back from a business trip to Cambridge, Mass. We stayed in an old house called “A Friendly Inn” run by a Chinese family almost on the Harvard campus. Couldn’t have been closer to the old school. Dad was America’s representative there to an international medical standards group--the only American and the only non-doctor--to decide on the international standard for suction.
We took a tour there, guided by a Harvard Junior in English, who was absolutely certain Harvard is the only school in this country worth talking about. Their motto “veritas” (truth) apparently does not include humility. He also said that the only book saved from a fire in the Harvard library in 1856, The Christian War Against the Devil and his Hosts and the Flesh (approximate title), “Certainly didn’t interest him in this day.”
* * * *
I don’t remember when I have spent four such idle days. While Dad attended his sessions, I was left to myself. Most of the time, I walked the campus, the arts and science museums and the little downtown area known as Harvard Square. There are many old frame houses of all colors--mostly three stories high--and many picturesque churches in the area. I found the Cambridge Ward on Brattle Street. We were told Julia Child lived in the area and “many other famous people.” It was home to Henry James, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and Louis Agassis. The Longfellow house still stands. Memorial Hall at the center of campus has the appearance of a gothic cathedral erected to knowledge--beautiful stained glass windows, and a regular cathedral transcept in the center with marble plaques on its walls commemorating the Harvard Civil War dead. A large part of the building is a dark wood dining hall decorated with marble busts of philosophers and other great intellects. The exterior includes the latin learning of men mingled with scripture. In some bygone day, someone chiseled, “What is man that thou art mindful of him?” over the doorway to Emerson Hall. I am not sure that is the sentiment of the current freshman class.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Hope for Change in Us All
This is a rather personal journal entry, but I wanted to share it to show (a) my mother's self-awareness, and (b) her ability to pivot from a negative to a positive--her desire to see the good in herself and others and to make the best of the situation. Several of the references here may be unfamiliar to readers who are not members of the LDS/Mormon Church. "Relief Society" is a women's meeting taught by lay members (one of several meetings held each Sunday). The "Gospel" is a generic term for that faith/belief system, which places a strong emphasis on appreciating and learning about one's ancestors. In that faith, we often refer to fellow members as "brother" or "sister." The "pioneers" were early Mormon settlers who fled persecution in Illinois and Missouri to the valley of the Great Salt Lake in the mid-1800s. That migration remains a great source of pride to many Mormons, and my mother's point was to emphasize that--regardless of our blood lineage--we all have "pioneer" ancestors who paved the way for the blessings and opportunities we currently enjoy.
Sunday, August 1, 1993
Last Sunday I gave a Relief Society lesson on our "pioneer heritage" and made sure each sister recognized that she had a pioneer heritage of her own in those ancestors who have made their present blessings possible. During the lesson, I gave examples of my own pioneer ancestors and, in an effort to make them more human, I referred flippantly to their weaknesses--temper, theft, etc. I then said how thankful I was to them for their sacrifices that have benefited me so much, making it all right that I had mentioned their faults.
During the week following I have been overshadowed with the conviction that I have wronged people I love, people who are just as real now as they ever were. Grantma Groen's love of beauty in all her surroundings and her insistence on quality in work and workmanship lives with me. Every time I see a beautiful farm and wonderful animals I think of her. Treelined streets and landscaped shopping areas would have delighted her. Benches in beautiful places would have been a joy. She would have loved our shopping mall and would have been overjoyed at some of the fine European breads available here in the East.
As for Grandma Davidson, I am just like her. I have the same feelings for the Gospel that she had. I want to be faithful as she was. I don't want to be remembered as bad-tempered any more than she would want to be. It is not fair for me to label my grandmothers as "dishonest" or "hot tempered" because of a few instances in their lives. Labeling is hard to overcome, especially when it hounds us even beyond the grave. Does their death give me license to label them for their faults? My mouth has done a terrible thing.
I realized I am guilty of even more offense. Somehow I have felt free to point out the faults of all those I am closest to, especially those who live in the same house. I am kinder to the neighbor next door in my judgment. How different it would be in our family if I changed and could put a bridle on my tongue! I want to change. I really want to do it. With God's help it must be possible. (And yet, during this writing when I left to go upstairs and found my picture knocked from the wall, I immediately railed on Ben for being so rough in the hall.)
Today, I feel that our brotherhood is limitless--that there are no bounds between dead and living, between races, between countries--and in the other direction, no open license to condemn father or mother, brother or sister, son or daughter, or husband just because they are family and are somehow part of me. I guess I have no right to condemn myself for a fault. There has to be hope and real possibility for change in us all.
Sunday, August 1, 1993
Last Sunday I gave a Relief Society lesson on our "pioneer heritage" and made sure each sister recognized that she had a pioneer heritage of her own in those ancestors who have made their present blessings possible. During the lesson, I gave examples of my own pioneer ancestors and, in an effort to make them more human, I referred flippantly to their weaknesses--temper, theft, etc. I then said how thankful I was to them for their sacrifices that have benefited me so much, making it all right that I had mentioned their faults.
During the week following I have been overshadowed with the conviction that I have wronged people I love, people who are just as real now as they ever were. Grantma Groen's love of beauty in all her surroundings and her insistence on quality in work and workmanship lives with me. Every time I see a beautiful farm and wonderful animals I think of her. Treelined streets and landscaped shopping areas would have delighted her. Benches in beautiful places would have been a joy. She would have loved our shopping mall and would have been overjoyed at some of the fine European breads available here in the East.
As for Grandma Davidson, I am just like her. I have the same feelings for the Gospel that she had. I want to be faithful as she was. I don't want to be remembered as bad-tempered any more than she would want to be. It is not fair for me to label my grandmothers as "dishonest" or "hot tempered" because of a few instances in their lives. Labeling is hard to overcome, especially when it hounds us even beyond the grave. Does their death give me license to label them for their faults? My mouth has done a terrible thing.
I realized I am guilty of even more offense. Somehow I have felt free to point out the faults of all those I am closest to, especially those who live in the same house. I am kinder to the neighbor next door in my judgment. How different it would be in our family if I changed and could put a bridle on my tongue! I want to change. I really want to do it. With God's help it must be possible. (And yet, during this writing when I left to go upstairs and found my picture knocked from the wall, I immediately railed on Ben for being so rough in the hall.)
Today, I feel that our brotherhood is limitless--that there are no bounds between dead and living, between races, between countries--and in the other direction, no open license to condemn father or mother, brother or sister, son or daughter, or husband just because they are family and are somehow part of me. I guess I have no right to condemn myself for a fault. There has to be hope and real possibility for change in us all.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
To Dance and Dream
July 19, 1993
Today is a beautiful summer day, warm and humid. I have just baked some cookie bars, whole wheat and raisin, brown sugar and almonds, and the house is filled with the aroma. Katie and her friend Sherrie are upstairs trying on my make up and perfume and having a wonderful time. Peter, Josh and a boy from France are playing on the trampoline and squirting each other with a hose, Paddy running around their feet hopefully, begging them to throw the ball. I have been listening to Andrew Lloyd Webber's Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat, a brazen, irreverent, wonderful, inspiring musical account of the story of Joseph sold into Egypt. I feel it would offend my mother, but it makes me laugh and cry and want to dance and dream of the coming of Zion.
Today is a beautiful summer day, warm and humid. I have just baked some cookie bars, whole wheat and raisin, brown sugar and almonds, and the house is filled with the aroma. Katie and her friend Sherrie are upstairs trying on my make up and perfume and having a wonderful time. Peter, Josh and a boy from France are playing on the trampoline and squirting each other with a hose, Paddy running around their feet hopefully, begging them to throw the ball. I have been listening to Andrew Lloyd Webber's Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat, a brazen, irreverent, wonderful, inspiring musical account of the story of Joseph sold into Egypt. I feel it would offend my mother, but it makes me laugh and cry and want to dance and dream of the coming of Zion.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Sharing Sarah
My mother published the following article in the June 1981 edition of the Ensign magazine, when she was roughly my age, and already the mother of six. Despite its length, I thought it worth sharing. The original title was "Sharing Sarah: Our Down's Syndrome Baby."
Once the possibility had been suggested, our doctor left me alone with my new daughter to see for myself. He had mentioned a few of the signs: low placement of ears; flat nose; short, stubby hands and fingers; large cleft between big toe and little toes; umbilical hernia; simian crease in hands; mongolian fold in eyes. She was so tiny and new—not beautiful, really, but cute, adorable.
It was late evening, and no one bothered me. No nurses came. I examined her from head to toe and found some of the signs to be possible. She was so little it was hard to tell. But even then, without clinical verification, I sensed it was true. Our little girl was mongoloid: born, as I was later to know, with Down’s Syndrome.
Cuddled there together in a darkened hospital room, I felt we faced a menacing world. I carried the memory of a shallow conclusion formed years earlier that the greatest gift a man could possess was a brilliant mind, the greatest curse, a dull one. I had actually expressed it: “Give me a child with physical handicap, never a mental.” From my elementary school days, I remembered two small brothers who said very little and clung to each other on the playground. None of us played with them, and none of us seemed to know where they had gone. There was a foster child placed with a family in our neighborhood, a little girl who watched us enter the chapel each Sunday with slow gaze and heavy tongue. I winced as I applied these memories to our tiny daughter. Of my little Sarah I asked overwhelming questions, “What kind of person will you be?” “What will people do to you?” “What will your dreams and heartaches be?” “Will we be able to teach you?” My husband and I together asked the age-old question: “Why was little Sarah born this way?” “What did we do wrong?” (We remembered the ancient question, “Who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?”—John 9:2.) Now, as we look back on Sarah Jane’s short four and a half years of life, we have found at least partial answers to these questions.
In answer to the first question, “What kind of person will you be?” our doctor assured us that she would be lovable. The best possible thing, he said, would be to take her home and love her. That was a good beginning.
The other questions were not so easily answered. But since most of my husband’s university experience had been in child development and psychology, he knew where to begin. We read books and visited a center for developmental disabilities. They gave us instructional material and moral support. We received regular visits from our county health nurses. But our most comforting resources were other parents of handicapped children. We traveled with our two-week-old infant to a “Parent-to-Parent” group in Salt Lake City. A woman there touched me. “My little daughter,” she said, “was born following three healthy boys. She is the light of my life.” I clung to that.
As we learned, we taught others. We decided to share Sarah with all who were interested. The Sunday Sarah received her name and blessing, Glenn announced to the congregation that she had a unique mission in life and that we were not sure yet what it would be. Everyone was warm and interested. Some families in the neighborhood made a special project of Sarah. They visited and brought little gifts. They always spoke to her. Certain she was among friends, she developed a bright response and a ready smile.
I had feared most the answer to my second question: “What will people do to you?” From the beginning, we discovered that this depended largely on us. Sharing Sarah openly helped a great deal. I dreaded the natural, open questions of children, not knowing in advance what I should say. Simple answers proved the solution to simple problems.
Each week as my piano students came for lessons, they greeted Sarah and sometimes played with her as she sat near the piano in her little rocker. When doctors discovered a massive heart defect and recommended surgery, these children and other children in the neighborhood and family gave us great strength through their fasting and prayers.
Once, after Sarah had finally learned to walk in spite of great obstacles (bone infection, heart surgery, paralytic stroke, shortened leg, and a broken leg), a little boy laughed and said, “She walks like a gorilla.” Swallowing my instant hurt, I explained that Sarah had one leg shorter than the other, so it was hard for her to walk straight. The little boy was satisfied.
Many little ones asked, “Why doesn’t Sarah talk?” I always explained that it was harder for Sarah to learn words than it was for them, but added that she could learn if we were careful to teach her. They remained Sarah’s friends.
What people did to Sarah was to care for her, to learn from her, and to love her.
The answer to my question, “What will your dreams and heartaches be?” is only a guess. Sarah was just beginning to want to do more than we were ready to allow her when she passed away a few months before her fifth birthday. She evidenced talents and capabilities full to overflowing that wanted expression.
From infancy she was responsive to music. She loved it. When my students played, however badly, she quieted and listened or bounced her rocker rhythmically. When my trio sang, she clapped and shouted, “Wow!” When the stereo played especially stirring music, she danced, changing her body movements to harmonize with mood and tempo. She had favorites among my piano pieces. Whenever I played a particularly lively Schubert piece, she would come running, climb onto the piano bench, and beat time with me on the high keys. It became a kind of ritual with us, our duet.
We sensed in her celebrations a beautiful spirit. Whenever anything delighted her, she used all her resources to express her feelings. When grandma and grandpa came or the home teachers stood at the door, she greeted them with a big “hiya!” She danced and laughed and hugged and kissed. When we had spaghetti for dinner, she clapped and hollered, stamped her feet, and passed her dish for more. Dogs, cats, horses, birds, and bumpy roads made her lift her arms and squeal and laugh. If she had found any more means for expression, we feel she would have used them.
Sarah had a special sensitivity to peace and happiness. Discord distressed her. If baby Ben cried, she said, “Oh, Bee,” and pulled me to him, or pushed his head toward me, knowing I could quiet him. If the boys were fighting, she’d bang me on the arm and take me to them, jabbering the story on the way. If a visiting cousin were minus a toy and crying, she would snatch one from her brother and offer it as a solution.
Quite by accident we discovered her fierce desire to accomplish household tasks. Her fussing with the dishwasher turned out to be a desire to help load and unload dishes. Similarly, she demanded to be included in diaper-folding, bed-making, and putting away clothes and toys. Her interference at the dinner table turned out to be a desire to help with the passing. Once we gave her the opportunity, however, she passed food with such gusto we had to stay alert. As she grew older, these desires to help began to expand.
Though it was not always apparent, Sarah helped to keep us all tidy. Thoroughly smeared with spaghetti, she often demanded that we attend to the escaped pea or the spilled milk before she would continue eating. When she and her younger brother Ben were seated at their own small table, she assumed responsibility for him, mopping his face, the table, the floor, running for napkins and tissues, and pronouncing it finished with a big “There!”
Decidedly unlike her five brothers, Sarah expressed a deep femininity. Any hat, shoes, or dress sent her trotting to the mirror, where she cocked her head and turned slowly, acting pretty. Her favorite decoration was a large, lacy doily, my treasure, made by my deceased grandmother. Sarah discovered it no matter where it was. With the doily on her head, she walked a little straighter, regally, peering up through the lace to see for herself just how pretty she looked. She loved to comb her daddy’s hair carefully all around, even sideburns, cranking his head this way and that by the chin and standing back to admire, as though she had a particular design in mind. Like any little girl, she loved to mother. Her little brother Ben was the victim of most of this. She dressed him in his coat, often upside down, and helped him escape from the house to play. Three weeks after Sarah was gone, Ben was still searching the house for “Tah-tah,” his once constant companion.
Somewhat like her father, Sarah enjoyed ritual. She was upset if not always allowed to zip up her sleeper. No matter how prolonged her bedtime antics, she settled to sleep in the same position, placing her two little hands in her daddy’s big one.
Some of her rituals demanded all her strength at times, but Sarah evidenced a Spartan power to endure. With breath and energy failing, Sarah often woke suddenly in the night. Religiously, she would cross the room, turn off her humidifier, and then turn on the light before stumbling to her daddy’s bedside. Occasionally, these duties accomplished, she would collapse on the floor and whimper before she could reach him, but she refused to take shortcuts. Once, following six days of intravenous treatment and liquid diet in the hospital, she was placed on a total fast for tests but allowed to go home. She woke in the morning and, as usual, stumbled to the cupboard for dishes, then stumbled on to set the table before requesting the breakfast we couldn’t give. Just three days before her heart stopped for the last time, we watched her pull herself up the ladder at the park to go down the slippery slide five times.
The answer to our question, “Will we be able to teach you?” is simple. Yes. Sarah learned everything we consciously tried to teach and much that we didn’t. Our big problem was assuming she could not learn. Teachers outside our home accomplished things with her we would not have tried. With her own stubborn insistence, she often taught us she could do more. She learned several words on her own, but we did teach her the word drink. Often Sarah would resort to banging daddy on the arm, pointing to the pitcher and jabbering, but as we worked with her, more and more she remembered the word. She would stop in the middle of the action, duck her head and say deliberately, “dri,” then give a big cheese grin and celebration while dad poured her drink. “Dri” was the last word she ever said. With her mouth full of tubes keeping her alive, we are sure she attempted the “dri” and the grin. Yes, we could teach her.
Sarah’s short life broadened our understanding, increased our compassion. Her life was of value, all of it. To us she was not a partial person, but so whole we were constantly aware of spirit. She reminded us of the frailty of this life and of her need and ours for fulfillment in the eternities. During her time with us, we found ourselves thinking and speaking of her as “our bright spot,” “our little sunshine,” the “light of our lives.” So at last, to the age-old question in its ancient phrasing, “Who did sin, this man, or his parents?” (“Why was Sarah born this way?” “What did we do wrong?”) the answer is the Master’s:
Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him. (John 9:3.)
The works of God have been manifest in Sarah Jane. In her innocent suffering, she has made us again aware of the sacrifice of “the just for the unjust.” And through her sweet influence, she has caused a great longing in us to be reunited with her. If we accomplish this, she will have helped us gain eternal life. Then “the works of God” will finally be manifest when both she and we come forth in glory, in the morning of the resurrection of the just.
Once the possibility had been suggested, our doctor left me alone with my new daughter to see for myself. He had mentioned a few of the signs: low placement of ears; flat nose; short, stubby hands and fingers; large cleft between big toe and little toes; umbilical hernia; simian crease in hands; mongolian fold in eyes. She was so tiny and new—not beautiful, really, but cute, adorable.
It was late evening, and no one bothered me. No nurses came. I examined her from head to toe and found some of the signs to be possible. She was so little it was hard to tell. But even then, without clinical verification, I sensed it was true. Our little girl was mongoloid: born, as I was later to know, with Down’s Syndrome.
Cuddled there together in a darkened hospital room, I felt we faced a menacing world. I carried the memory of a shallow conclusion formed years earlier that the greatest gift a man could possess was a brilliant mind, the greatest curse, a dull one. I had actually expressed it: “Give me a child with physical handicap, never a mental.” From my elementary school days, I remembered two small brothers who said very little and clung to each other on the playground. None of us played with them, and none of us seemed to know where they had gone. There was a foster child placed with a family in our neighborhood, a little girl who watched us enter the chapel each Sunday with slow gaze and heavy tongue. I winced as I applied these memories to our tiny daughter. Of my little Sarah I asked overwhelming questions, “What kind of person will you be?” “What will people do to you?” “What will your dreams and heartaches be?” “Will we be able to teach you?” My husband and I together asked the age-old question: “Why was little Sarah born this way?” “What did we do wrong?” (We remembered the ancient question, “Who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?”—John 9:2.) Now, as we look back on Sarah Jane’s short four and a half years of life, we have found at least partial answers to these questions.
In answer to the first question, “What kind of person will you be?” our doctor assured us that she would be lovable. The best possible thing, he said, would be to take her home and love her. That was a good beginning.
The other questions were not so easily answered. But since most of my husband’s university experience had been in child development and psychology, he knew where to begin. We read books and visited a center for developmental disabilities. They gave us instructional material and moral support. We received regular visits from our county health nurses. But our most comforting resources were other parents of handicapped children. We traveled with our two-week-old infant to a “Parent-to-Parent” group in Salt Lake City. A woman there touched me. “My little daughter,” she said, “was born following three healthy boys. She is the light of my life.” I clung to that.
As we learned, we taught others. We decided to share Sarah with all who were interested. The Sunday Sarah received her name and blessing, Glenn announced to the congregation that she had a unique mission in life and that we were not sure yet what it would be. Everyone was warm and interested. Some families in the neighborhood made a special project of Sarah. They visited and brought little gifts. They always spoke to her. Certain she was among friends, she developed a bright response and a ready smile.
I had feared most the answer to my second question: “What will people do to you?” From the beginning, we discovered that this depended largely on us. Sharing Sarah openly helped a great deal. I dreaded the natural, open questions of children, not knowing in advance what I should say. Simple answers proved the solution to simple problems.
Each week as my piano students came for lessons, they greeted Sarah and sometimes played with her as she sat near the piano in her little rocker. When doctors discovered a massive heart defect and recommended surgery, these children and other children in the neighborhood and family gave us great strength through their fasting and prayers.
Once, after Sarah had finally learned to walk in spite of great obstacles (bone infection, heart surgery, paralytic stroke, shortened leg, and a broken leg), a little boy laughed and said, “She walks like a gorilla.” Swallowing my instant hurt, I explained that Sarah had one leg shorter than the other, so it was hard for her to walk straight. The little boy was satisfied.
Many little ones asked, “Why doesn’t Sarah talk?” I always explained that it was harder for Sarah to learn words than it was for them, but added that she could learn if we were careful to teach her. They remained Sarah’s friends.
What people did to Sarah was to care for her, to learn from her, and to love her.
The answer to my question, “What will your dreams and heartaches be?” is only a guess. Sarah was just beginning to want to do more than we were ready to allow her when she passed away a few months before her fifth birthday. She evidenced talents and capabilities full to overflowing that wanted expression.
From infancy she was responsive to music. She loved it. When my students played, however badly, she quieted and listened or bounced her rocker rhythmically. When my trio sang, she clapped and shouted, “Wow!” When the stereo played especially stirring music, she danced, changing her body movements to harmonize with mood and tempo. She had favorites among my piano pieces. Whenever I played a particularly lively Schubert piece, she would come running, climb onto the piano bench, and beat time with me on the high keys. It became a kind of ritual with us, our duet.
We sensed in her celebrations a beautiful spirit. Whenever anything delighted her, she used all her resources to express her feelings. When grandma and grandpa came or the home teachers stood at the door, she greeted them with a big “hiya!” She danced and laughed and hugged and kissed. When we had spaghetti for dinner, she clapped and hollered, stamped her feet, and passed her dish for more. Dogs, cats, horses, birds, and bumpy roads made her lift her arms and squeal and laugh. If she had found any more means for expression, we feel she would have used them.
Sarah had a special sensitivity to peace and happiness. Discord distressed her. If baby Ben cried, she said, “Oh, Bee,” and pulled me to him, or pushed his head toward me, knowing I could quiet him. If the boys were fighting, she’d bang me on the arm and take me to them, jabbering the story on the way. If a visiting cousin were minus a toy and crying, she would snatch one from her brother and offer it as a solution.
Quite by accident we discovered her fierce desire to accomplish household tasks. Her fussing with the dishwasher turned out to be a desire to help load and unload dishes. Similarly, she demanded to be included in diaper-folding, bed-making, and putting away clothes and toys. Her interference at the dinner table turned out to be a desire to help with the passing. Once we gave her the opportunity, however, she passed food with such gusto we had to stay alert. As she grew older, these desires to help began to expand.
Though it was not always apparent, Sarah helped to keep us all tidy. Thoroughly smeared with spaghetti, she often demanded that we attend to the escaped pea or the spilled milk before she would continue eating. When she and her younger brother Ben were seated at their own small table, she assumed responsibility for him, mopping his face, the table, the floor, running for napkins and tissues, and pronouncing it finished with a big “There!”
Decidedly unlike her five brothers, Sarah expressed a deep femininity. Any hat, shoes, or dress sent her trotting to the mirror, where she cocked her head and turned slowly, acting pretty. Her favorite decoration was a large, lacy doily, my treasure, made by my deceased grandmother. Sarah discovered it no matter where it was. With the doily on her head, she walked a little straighter, regally, peering up through the lace to see for herself just how pretty she looked. She loved to comb her daddy’s hair carefully all around, even sideburns, cranking his head this way and that by the chin and standing back to admire, as though she had a particular design in mind. Like any little girl, she loved to mother. Her little brother Ben was the victim of most of this. She dressed him in his coat, often upside down, and helped him escape from the house to play. Three weeks after Sarah was gone, Ben was still searching the house for “Tah-tah,” his once constant companion.
Somewhat like her father, Sarah enjoyed ritual. She was upset if not always allowed to zip up her sleeper. No matter how prolonged her bedtime antics, she settled to sleep in the same position, placing her two little hands in her daddy’s big one.
Some of her rituals demanded all her strength at times, but Sarah evidenced a Spartan power to endure. With breath and energy failing, Sarah often woke suddenly in the night. Religiously, she would cross the room, turn off her humidifier, and then turn on the light before stumbling to her daddy’s bedside. Occasionally, these duties accomplished, she would collapse on the floor and whimper before she could reach him, but she refused to take shortcuts. Once, following six days of intravenous treatment and liquid diet in the hospital, she was placed on a total fast for tests but allowed to go home. She woke in the morning and, as usual, stumbled to the cupboard for dishes, then stumbled on to set the table before requesting the breakfast we couldn’t give. Just three days before her heart stopped for the last time, we watched her pull herself up the ladder at the park to go down the slippery slide five times.
The answer to our question, “Will we be able to teach you?” is simple. Yes. Sarah learned everything we consciously tried to teach and much that we didn’t. Our big problem was assuming she could not learn. Teachers outside our home accomplished things with her we would not have tried. With her own stubborn insistence, she often taught us she could do more. She learned several words on her own, but we did teach her the word drink. Often Sarah would resort to banging daddy on the arm, pointing to the pitcher and jabbering, but as we worked with her, more and more she remembered the word. She would stop in the middle of the action, duck her head and say deliberately, “dri,” then give a big cheese grin and celebration while dad poured her drink. “Dri” was the last word she ever said. With her mouth full of tubes keeping her alive, we are sure she attempted the “dri” and the grin. Yes, we could teach her.
Sarah’s short life broadened our understanding, increased our compassion. Her life was of value, all of it. To us she was not a partial person, but so whole we were constantly aware of spirit. She reminded us of the frailty of this life and of her need and ours for fulfillment in the eternities. During her time with us, we found ourselves thinking and speaking of her as “our bright spot,” “our little sunshine,” the “light of our lives.” So at last, to the age-old question in its ancient phrasing, “Who did sin, this man, or his parents?” (“Why was Sarah born this way?” “What did we do wrong?”) the answer is the Master’s:
Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him. (John 9:3.)
The works of God have been manifest in Sarah Jane. In her innocent suffering, she has made us again aware of the sacrifice of “the just for the unjust.” And through her sweet influence, she has caused a great longing in us to be reunited with her. If we accomplish this, she will have helped us gain eternal life. Then “the works of God” will finally be manifest when both she and we come forth in glory, in the morning of the resurrection of the just.
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