Someday, I hope I get to meet Angela, who has written this beautiful piece about our family friend, Molly.....
Molly She is the first reason in 23 years that I've ever had to wake up with the sun. And her magic number is 21.
Born with an extra chromosome, Molly is a miracle.
She loves musicals, math problems, and literally refers to EVERY book she sees as her 'favorite'
Molly colors the world.
On ordinary days, She reminds me to sing songs that aren't playing And see things that aren't there.
At least, that is... to jaded eyes and ears like ours.
See, Molly has a gift: She lives as if no one is watching.
A true freedom.
She lacks an ego, Operates solely on love, and doesn't respond well to anger.
She is hello hugs, goodbye smiles, and occasional slaps on the butt.
She is random questions no; I mean REALLY random (She once asked me what time Jesus was born)
She is beautiful compliments and peculiar observations.
Molly is bright purple boots, knee high socks, and umbrellas when its not raining.
She is cafeteria salads topped with, of all things, sweet relish.
She is chocolate milk.
Together, we are anything but 'disabled' We are silly. and it is not uncommon for both of us to laugh uncontrollably when someone makes fart noises in the classroom.
I try to be an adult; But it is hard when she makes the musings of childhood seem so much more appealing.
We chase 'bad guys' around the track during gym, and break into show tunes in the hallway, and whenever she decides to I let that girl dance.
because she is preserving my silly... AND developing my patience.
Not every day is a bowl of cherries, See, Molly likes to sass me from time to time.
She has an attitude that rivals my own, and is not afraid to tell me, straight up, to "Get out of her face"
She is charming, but some days she gets frustrated.
Not because she cannot communicate her thoughts, but because we don't always speak her language.
I guess the only "down" to the syndrome is that everyone else can't seem to catch up.
There is nothing 'disabled' about her.
The problem is with us; see, the world likes to taint the beautiful with its "normal"
But Molly is a musical when the world is silent.
One of the goals of her education plan, Is to become more "well-adjusted"
And I can't help but ask "...to what?"
To boring? To egotistical? To vain?
Molly is so many things that 'normal' is not and because of that I've yet to watch her interact with someone who doesn't immediately fall in love.
She makes every day happenings anything but.
Once, at fifth period, Molly was working on her times tables, and I was taking notes...when in her loudest voice, with a smile on her face, completely out of nowhere, she yelled: "Teach me how to fly!!"
..and after we laughed it off,
I picked her pencil up off the floor and said:
"ME teach YOU..?! Girl please, you're the one with the wings...
Her life thus far, taken in the context of the all the possible kinds of lives of teenage girls, had been an easy one.
She had grown up in an affluent suburb of Southern California, gone to the finest private parochial schools, and had seldom touched real pain or loss. Her parents were basically good people; her father a corporate attorney, and her mother an accountant turned community volunteer. For her high school years, she had gone to a private, Catholic all girls high school on a mountain top, overlooking the green exclusive and private hillsides of her growing-up years. Her grades were good, she had a nice group of friends, and had been admitted at several highly ranked colleges. She even attended mass. Occasionally. Everything was going along fine.
But suddenly, in the final months of her senior year, a weekend came that would change her more than all the combined blessing of her charmed youth. And it would happen in a place both expected, and, at the same time, entirely unanticipated.
Each year of high school, the girls would take a long weekend for a spiritual retreat, a time away from the busy rush of school, sports, and social life back home. A two hour car ride away was a retreat center that offered a kind of separation from the rush of modern teenage life. For many, if not most girls, this was not something particularly looked forward to; it was more of an obligation than an anticipation. Some even counted the hours until it was over; bored by the lack of wireless connections, and the need for a "religious event". Silence. What could possibly happen of worth in a place that was known for its silence?
For many girls, these retreats were not given much thought. A time away from the annoyances of family and studies, perhaps. For others, this was merely a time to be with friends. If the intent and setting was intended to be focused on faith, that was at best, tolerable.
And yet, in her senior year, even in the midst of this routine of routine religious practice, something happened to this girl that was surprising, transformational, and filled with joy. Unexpected joy. Over the course of several days, in the midst of a structure of reading, conversation with friends and leaders, from solitude and reflection, in the most unexpected ways for this girl, God became known, Jesus became present. To even this high school senior girl with a "good life" and no apparent needs.
As the retreat weekend came to a close, this senior girl pondered the larger questions of her future away from home and off to college, and this new presence in her life. What did this all mean? She approached a retreat leader with these words:
"This is real. All this conversation about God that I have heard, for all these years, that I never really thought much about. If you take the time to think, and pray, and ask God.....it turns out, it's real!"
Real. Over the past 32 years, since my senior year in college, this has been my experience as well. Perhaps that is the reason my eyes filled with tears and my heart swelled when I heard this story. And the same thing happens every time I hear a similar story of redemption and transformation. The kind of business God is about on a daily basis.
This girl's story also made me think of the words of G. K. Chesterton in his book "Orthodoxy":
The vault above us is not deaf because the universe is an idiot; the silence is not the heartless silence of an endless and aimless world. Rather the silence around us is a small and pitiful stillness like the prompt stillness in a sick-room. We are perhaps permitted tragedy as a sort of merciful comedy: because the frantic energy of divine things would knock us down like a drunken farce. We can take our own tears more lightly than we could take the tremendous levities of the angels. So we sit perhaps in a starry chamber of silence, while the laughter of the heavens is too loud for us to hear. Its real, my friends. Real. "The Message that points to Christ on the Cross seems
like sheer silliness to those hellbent on destruction, but for those on
the way of salvation it makes perfect sense. This is the way God works,
and most powerfully as it turns out. It's written,
I'll turn conventional wisdom on its head,
I'll expose so-called experts as crackpots." - 1 Corinthians
1:17-18
He was despised, and
rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and as one
from whom men hide their face he was despised; and we esteemed him not. 4 Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows; yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted. Isaiah 53
Lets just all agree that, more times than not, Christmas is not anything like the Hallmark channel or a Rockwell painting.
You
know; those images of all the family huddled around the newly arrived
nephew, or joyfully belting out Christmas carols; happy, laughing, and
content in neat lives that radiate success and contentment.
But
I cannot shake the thought that somehow something with Christmas is not
right, and that it shouldn't be that way. I am guessing that I am not
the only person who thinks this way, not the only one who won't let go
of expectations. Each year, I find myself feeling perhaps like you;
perpetually mildly disappointed as Christmas recedes in the rear view
mirror.
A Turkey, Ham.....
As I
look back at my life of 53 years, and all the Christmas Family dinners I
have been through, I am beginning to finally be grown up enough to
notice some general themes. In the midst of all those rooms full of
holiday revelers, I am guessing that you have seen some of these same
people, or know of similar stories as well. All of us have a story to
tell, and all of us have lives that, in varying ways, reflect the
suffering and joy of the human condition.
Every year, we seem to be involved in one or more large, noisy,
extended family Christmas celebration. These are invariably held with
far too many people in a house slightly too small for the crowd. And
every year, there will be people there you have either know for years,
or hardly know. Both the ones you look forward to seeing, and the one
that, well, you could do without. We all come with our contributions to
the festivities, a salad here, an apple pie there. I come bringing my
roasted turkey, still wrapped in beach blankets, keeping warm right out
of the oven. Those who are cooking challenged come bearing their Honey
Baked Hams and salads from the designer grocery chain. We all do our
part.
Lets take a look around the room.
.....and Family Dysfunction
Bustling around in the center of the kitchen, the focal point
of this holiday bacchanalia, is the not-so-middle-aged mom of the host
family. She has been the driving force of this Christmas gathering for
more than a decade now, organizing, decorating, now hugging new comers
upon entry, and making sure the punch bowl is full and the conversation
is lively and cheerful. But within her, life has not all been easy and
cheerful. There has been the death of parents, the worry over children,
and her own health struggles that have carved lines into her smile.
Lines that speak of life, and loving, and worry. She has a story to
tell of her life that is rich, and full, with some parts not easy to
hear and other parts enough to make you cry with laughter. But that
story will have to wait, dinner must be served.
Over there, by the salted nut bowl, there is the loud
and crazy uncle, the one who is on his 4th marriage, (is it 4th or 5th,
we never can seem to remember?) who has the omniscient knowledge of all
things both political and moral. He can speak for hours on any subject,
but is nearly incapable of asking anyone how they are doing.
Whenever the Christmas carols begin, he is the one who starts to sing
his own song, separate and apart and far louder that whatever the chosen
carol is. He has always been that way. His whole life. It drives you
batty.
Sitting by the onion dip bowl over there is
the divorcee in the family, who is attempting to make herself look all
put together, her hair is just so, and the outfit that is charmingly
Christmasy. In reality, her last two years have been full of enough
emotion, pain, and distance from her family to the extent that it hurts
to think about it. Its not really entirely her fault. She has mastered
the art of the happy holiday smile and greeting, but you get the sense
of a hollow ring to her greeting. You wish you had something to say
that could offer hope, but words fail you. And so, you return the
greeting with the best warm hug you can offer, and a few minutes of idle
chatter about the kids and the weather.
Seated in the kitchen almost like a centerpiece in the midst of the
bustle, looking almost regal, is the family matron of 83 years. In one
way or another, all of us here have been touched by her warmth, her
engaging way of conversation, and the apparently real love she has for
each person in the room. She has a life story to tell that is
remarkable; of teen years saving various household items for the effort
of World War II, and of the meeting and marriage of her young soldier
sweetheart, with whom she was married for 48 years, until his death
several years ago. She is quite alert for her age, and so full of
grace, you want to sit next to her and listen for the rest of the
night. But, there are others in the room you need to catch up with.
And look, in the kitchen. The gaggle of late teens and
early twenties, the kids of several different families. They have
surrounded a bowl of guacamole dip and chips, which will be history in
five minutes or less. Our of the corner of your eye, you notice on the
periphery of this group the moody college freshman who doesn't quite fit
- who is not exactly socially graceful. She tends to put the other
kids at slight unease, never really feeling comfortable in this crowd.
These kids don't really understand where she comes from. Neither do the
adults. Diagnosed with a mild learning disability and depression in
her younger years, it feels to her like no one really understands her.
Although her parents have tried just about everything, she will not see a
therapist, nor will she consider taking any medication that might
alleviate her moodiness. She doesn't like the dull ache she feels when
on medication, perhaps she also revels in her shadowy personality. Its
easier to think everyone else is a butt hole, rather than than face up
to your own pain. We are all like that in some ways.
Unexpectedly, A Baby
Over
there by the fireplace. A sight that is in simple stark contrast to the
carnival of family issues filling the rest of the house. A
dark-haired, younger mother is sitting quietly; the only person who
seems entirely disconnected from all the noise, and bustle, all the
preparation and masked pain. She has a baby boy of less than six
months, wrapped in a blanket adorned with little tiny snowmen.
This sight nearly stops you in your tracks, and you feel your
breath softly exhaling as you take in this sight. A baby. Sleeping
soundly. You lean forward to watch that little face, softly twitching
in slumber. What thoughts are filling that new little mind? Look how
peaceful he is, not a care in the world. No issues, no confusion about
life, no dysfunction. No having to act glued together and dressed up
well.
Just how did we get here, at this Christmas
party, carrying in the door our culinary contributions along with our
pain, and sadness, our confusion and our fears? And how, in the midst
of all this noise and food, abundance and insecurity, can there be a
little soul sleeping so soundly, oblivious to all the struggle,
heartache, and frustrations the rest of us feel?
Our
Christmas feelings may not end up with everyone happy, with each person
in the room fondly reflecting on a life well lived thus far. But at
the deep, subtle, and shadowed center of all this Advent revelry, there
is this; a baby. We cannot avoid him. For in a moment, more than two
centuries ago, his screams of new life, brought forth in a crappy barn
in the middle of nowhere, changed everything for all of us. Forever.
Oh, the desert dreams of a river
that will run down to the sea
like my heart longs for an ocean
to wash down over me.
Oh, won't you take me from this valley
to that mountain high above?
I will pray, pray, pray
until I see your smiling face.
I will pray, pray, pray
to the one I love.
Oh, the outcast dreams of acceptance,
just to find pure love's embrace
like an orphan longs for his mother.
May you hold me in your grace.
Won't you take me from this valley
to that mountain high above?
I will pray, pray, pray
until I see your smiling face.
I will pray, pray, pray
to the one I love.
Oh, the caged bird dreams of a strong wind
that will flow 'neath her wings.
Like a voice longs for a melody,
oh, Jesus carry me.
Won't you take me from this valley
to that mountain high above?
I will pray, pray, pray
until I see your smiling face.
I will pray, pray, pray
to the one I love.
I will pray, pray, pray
until I see your smiling face.
I will pray, pray, pray
to the one I love.
