It Takes a Village

My friend Ellen once said 'It takes a village to rescue a dog.'  I  contemplate my Quacker Jack who was found as a new born puppy, abandoned on the side of the road in Mississippi, with his Mama and lots of little puppy siblings.   A veterinarian student discovered the family and brought them to a shelter. The people at the shelter worked to find a no-kill shelter in the north that would take them in. The transport team brought them to New Hampshire.  The shelter found a foster family to care for them until the puppies were old enough to be adopted. So many people touched the life of my dog before I ever met him. I'll always be grateful that they took the time to care for him so that he could become my dog.

For me it doesn't stop there...it takes a village not just to rescue a dog but to raise a child.  If all those strangers can impact the life of a puppy in his first eight weeks of life, what about all those people who wander in and out of the lives of my children? Aunts and uncles, grandparents and cousins, teachers and coaches, parents of friends, the list is long. Each person touches my child, some good, some bad but they all leave their mark. I hear the stories, what the coach thinks, what the teacher says, how that other parent behaves.  It is all fair game for dinner table conversation.

Some people are only there for a sport season, or a school year. But some stick around for years and years. It would be naive of me to think that my children don't love these people who circle the fringes of our lives. I've seen it. I've heard it. I've felt it.  Too often I don't give these peripheral people their due. Perhaps I don't see their value. Perhaps I take them for granted. Yet they are there, in the trenches, raising my children with me. Even when I think I'm on my own, they are there. The teacher planning a lesson or grading a paper, the coach volunteering his time four nights a week, or the parent that feeds my kid dinner and tucks him in for a sleepover.

My son with Asperger's went to a private school. For six hours a day he was under the care and supervision of another woman.  She helped him. She advocated for him. She disciplined him. For six years. Then she died. The sense of loss and grief I felt was extreme for this woman that I barely knew. But what I did know was that my son loved her and she loved him. I remember asking him if there was anything I could do. He replied, "No, you can't bring her back."  That was the moment that I realized how vitally important the village is, to me and my children.

I'm part of the village now. I cook dinner for other people's kids. I ask your teenager about his girlfriend, his grades and his summer job.   I've had the raincoat talk with boys that aren't my own. I pick up your kid when he gets hurt on the playground and walk him into the nurse. I sit at school and listen to your children read and I hear their stories.  I cheer for your kid when he hits a home run and then I hug him when he's crying on the last day of school.  I'll even tell your kid to stop throwing rocks when she is being naughty.

I'm part of your village and you are part of mine. Just recently I hugged my son while he cried.  Together we mourned the death of his friend's father. Papa is gone. He was a part of our village and he will be missed. Never again will I take my village for granted. I see the time and effort and love that you put into my children.  I appreciate it.  Speak wisely,  act with kindness. My children are watching you and you matter to them and to me.

On Wounds

After a beautiful afternoon on the water I beached the kayak. I stood up, wobbled a bit and put one foot out of the kayak and into the water. That foot landed on some slippy rocks and went flying. I went under, dumped the kayak and ended up soaking wet with a terrible bruise on the back of my leg.

I dropped one of the boys off at kindergarten. I put the baby in the back, got her buckled into her car seat and then slammed the back door of the car on my finger. The blood poured. It took a nice long visit to the ER and some stitches to put the tip of my finger back together.

As a child I was running in the hall, I slipped and fell, hitting the side of my head on the baseboard. The top of my ear was cut open. A trip to the ER, and stitches left a permanent 'mutant' ear attached to the side of my head.

I stepped on some glass. I sprained my ankle. I sliced open the side of my arm, left it gaping and bleeding.  Cuts, bruises, scrapes, broken bones, blood, stitches.... wounds.

Each wound leaves a mark, sometimes permanent scars, other times temporary,  bruises fading through black, blue, green and yellow.  Sometimes the story is traumatic, remembered for all time. Other times the scars remain and yet the story fades out of memory...wounds.

All of those are surface wounds, here today, gone tomorrow. The bumps and scrapes of a human existence. Unfortunately there are wounds much deeper. Cuts and bruises on the heart and soul of a person. Wounds that scab over, yet can seep and bleed at the slightest touch.

Often these wounds go unrecognized. They lie there under the surface, oozing and festering.  Then, someone, completely unaware, makes a comment that rips me open and leaves me weeping and bleeding. I lash out, blame them for being cruel. Yet it is not their fault that they bumped into one of my unseen wounds.

Each time someone brushes up against my wounds, I hurt, I cry, I probe the tender spots, like poking at a bruise to see how deep the hurt goes. I'm learning to see that the hurt comes from within, from the scars on my heart and not from something that someone has done to me. As I look at my wounds, poke and prod, weep and wail, I'm letting the poison out so they can heal clean.

It isn't pretty. It isn't fun. But I feel that it is necessary.

I've also learned that all too often I poke into someone else's wounded spots. My intentions are good but it hurts them none the less. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause pain. I don't even know what I've said or done. The hurt remains. It is easier to forgive myself because I recognize the wounds of the heart.

I realize now that there is nothing I can do to ease the pain of someone else's heart wounds.  There is no bandage for the blood. There are no stitches for the gaping holes in the heart.  All I can offer is my sympathy. To those whose wounds I've touched and to myself as I struggle with my own inner wounds.

We all carry wounds deep in our heart. When I say something or do something that hurts you, I offer my most sincere apologies for poking at your wounds. When your words or deeds scrape up against my wounds, I forgive you and I thank you for calling my attention to another area that needs my loving attention so that I can heal my wounds.