Category: Simple Observations and Musings

            “When the blackberries hang swollen in the woods, in the brambles nobody owns, I spend all day among the high branches, reaching my ripped arms, thinking of nothing, cramming the black honey of summer into my mouth . . .”Mary Oliver

 

          “Through Love all that is bitter will be sweet, Through Love all that is copper will be gold, Through Love all dregs will become wine, Through Love all pain will turn to medicine.”–Rumi

 

Isn’t it interesting how the mind works? As a kid, it seemed as if summer stretched on endlessly like driving across the state of Kansas on Interstate 70.  During the infinite sunny season of my youth, I spent many days and nights at my Grandparents’ house in the small town of Raceland, KY.  I can recall the unique smell of their home—a hybrid of mixed scents: fresh garden green beans, rambling rose and spirea bushes, fried meats, sweetly baked treats, Pledge wood polish, old books and magazines, moth balls, and Estee Lauder Youth Dew.  Even now, the memorable scent wraps me in a blanket of security.

 

 

One of the highlights of these lazy, hazy days was the July 4 holiday week.   We almost always gathered at my grandparents’ house for a holiday feast.  Grandmother, as I called my maternal grandmother, was a phenomenal traditional, good ol’ Appalachian cook. Translated:  She often cooked and baked with bacon grease, left over fat drippings saved in a can, and plenty of sugar.  July 4 was her time to shine, let me tell you!!  Freshly strung half-runner green beans pressure cooked with about a half pound of bacon grease in an oversized pot with a whistling top that seemed to dance on the steam emanating from its center, thickly sliced and salted “just picked from the garden” beef steak tomatoes, Heiner’s brown and serve rolls topped with smears of “oleo,” aka margarine, homemade mashed potatoes mixed with whole milk and slabs of butter, fried chicken that was prepared in an electric skillet using an ample supply of Crisco vegetable shortening, salad sprinkled with little croutons from a can, and her famous, block-you-up-for-days macaroni and cheese.    Additionally, there was always a relish tray with olives, varieties of stuffed celery, and an assortment of pickles.

 

 

The real rock star, however, of this show was the tri-fecta of July-4-only-desserts:  made-from-scratch brownies (I still use this recipe.), hand-cranked homemade lemon custard ice cream, and blackberry cobbler baked in a long metal sheet-cake pan with fruit filling on the inside, and a hand rolled pie crust on top. Yes, sir-ree this was some real unbuckle-your-belt and unbutton-your-pants sort of eatin’!

 

 

Spending time with Grandmother and Papaw (as I called my maternal grandfather) a day or two before this epic-eating event was to watch ritualistic feast preparation worthy of mythological Gods.  Energy flowed and vibrated through my grandparents’ entire beings, and thus created a frenetic field of ever flowing love perfected through food. The house was redolent with sweet, savory, and salty aromas.  Typically, I’d hang out in the kitchen, offering to help, but really hoping for food samples.

“Do you need someone to clean the brownie batter dish (or icing bowl, custard dish, etc.)?  I’d be happy to ‘clean’ it for you.”

 

 

I attempted to sound sincere, but my mind schemed, I’ll clean it after I slurp up all the generous leftovers clinging to the sides of the bowl. I’m sure my grandparents knew what I was up to, but they didn’t appear mind my so-called help.

 

 

If I was up early enough during this time period, I’d eat breakfast with Papaw before his assent into the mysterious, overgrown hillside filled with “sticker bushes,” snakes, and insects.  No matter the temperature, he’d don his denim britches, as he called them, a long sleeve plaid shirt, cowboy boots, and a straw summer work hat that had a permanent perspiration ring around the closest part encircling his head like a dirty halo.  Lastly, work gloves were added to one hip pocket, and a red bandana (kerchief) was added to another. Then, once breakfast was over, he’d get an old metal bucket, and head into the safari of overgrowth on both the side and back embankment of their yard.

 

 

Papaw would be gone for hours, or so it seemed. When he finally did return, his bucket would either be overflowing or contain just enough berries to make a cobbler—depending upon the weather the weeks leading up to his picking for which he would never fail to explain to any one who would listen.  His hands would be stained purplish-black, while his arms, legs, head, and face were often scratched with briar claw marks and numerous bug bites despite his clothing.  Aw, but the scent emanating from the bucket was sweet and earthy, the fruits of his stick-to-it-ness.

 

 

All of these recollections, and more, ruminated within my head recently as I picked blackberries one hot July evening. Plucking those tiny jewels of dark sweetness, my mind also drifted to thoughts of how berry picking is so much like life.

 

 

Picking blackberries is hard, often painful, and even annoying work.  It takes time, effort, energy, and much patience to pick enough blackberries to make a cobbler.  As I plucked away at the fruit, thorns perpetually pricked my skin, while mosquitoes and flies dined on my exposed flesh.  Much of the fruit was hidden in the brambles or dangling high above me.  I had to learn ways to work, such as lifting a branch by a leaf to reveal the berries behind it; or, contort my body by sucking in my belly, stretching up on tip toes, and craning my neck at odd angles in order to successfully gain a few more gems. I spent over an hour, and in that time I was able to pick about a pound of berries—not a lot for the wear and tear on my body.  Yet, the sweet reward of fresh baked cobbler scenting my home seemed enough motivation as I thought of my connection to family love.

 

My hands were stained, scratched, and scoured from picking berries, but the sweet reward kept me moving.

 

My grandparents had it right.  Marriage, childbirth, education, friendships, work relationships, healthy habits, maintaining a robust faith life, and even family feasts–none of these are easy.  We get snarled, tangled, and stung by life events.   There are time periods in life where we may feel as if we are ensnared in the middle of the world’s biggest briar patch, but it is at these very times where we must keep the faith and continue to pick away from a place of love, genuine good-will, and honest effort, for the ultimate sweetness awaits us—the metaphorical taste of yummy-for-the-tummy, laugh-out-loud at the stain-your-teeth-purple goodness of the simple cobbler that is the joy of life.

 

Over a pound of blackberries, ready for the freezer in order to make a cobbler later this month.

 

 

 

 

           “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”—Psalm 23:4

           “When walking through the ‘valley of shadows,’ remember, a shadow is cast by a Light.”—Austin O’Malley

 

 

           I have often written about the willow trees in our yard.  The elegant, softly whispered grace of their meandering limbs are like the hem of a ball gown, long and loosely flowing behind a woman riding the waves of the air disturbance she creates waltzing about a large dance floor.  Unlike that gossamer dress, the willow is deeply rooted. It was this very image that came to mind this past weekend.

Father’s Day, our 29th wedding anniversary, our daughter’s birthday, and time set aside for writing were all on the agenda for the week.  It was all planned out, or so I thought . . .

 

 

Father’s Day, Maddie’s 19th birthday, and our 29th wedding anniversary were all celebrations on the schedule for the week.

 

           Saturday night.  Call came in. It wasn’t good.  Without revealing too much in order to honor privacy, John, my husband, and I ultimately headed to St. Mary’s hospital in nearby Huntington, WV on Sunday morning.  One delay after another, led us to arriving later than planned. Nonetheless, it worked out as our loved one was being moved from ICU—where we probably would not have been able to see her–to another floor of the hospital.

           As we spent time with this fragile soul, I took time to gently massage and caress her hands, arms, and shoulders. They were tense, tight, and cold. I kept trying to encourage the loved one to relax, but it was nearly impossible.  I suspect she was subconsciously grasping for control of a situation that was nonetheless uncontrollable. The few words she spoke reflected a deeply rooted faith; but her limbs as well as the tears welling in her eyes, like so often in life, revealed her hidden fear.  

 

A picture in St. Mary’s Hospital, Huntington, WV, from the 1920s of one of the hospital’s early operating rooms.

 

             My heart ached as we departed from the tiny room.  John and I made our way through the maze that is a hospital in order to find our way to the exit. We were already behind the so-called schedule in our heads, but all would be on-track soon, or so we thought.

           With the whoosh of the elevator door, we stepped into the lobby.  For a split second, the moment was surreal. The vortex of my mind saw two beloved men with whom John, Maddie, our daughter, and me had spent countless weekends at the local YMCA soccer field.  For that mini-point of time, I was swept away into the past, and then just as swiftly thrust forward into the harsh reality. One of the men, approximately the same age as my dad, was sick—there was no doubt about it.  The other man with him was his son. It was clear the son was trying to get help for his father. Wait, what was happening?

           John and I made our way quickly through the crowded lobby and to these dear ones.  I was swept into the arms of the older gentleman, and John warmly gripped the hand of the younger one in a handshake that had the conviction of warmth and genuine happy-to-see-you-gratitude. Sinking into the older man’s arms, my gaze glanced over his shoulder to his seated, and very frail, wife and worried daughter-in-law.  Oh no . . . before I heard the truth, the pain of its bite fought to overtake my pounding heart. No, no, no . . .not this too.

 

 

           I felt the grip of the man’s emaciated figure pull me tighter still as my arms tried to hug him with an even more tenderness for fear of hurting him.  My dear sweet friends of years’ past, where had the time gone, and why are you hurting so? My mind raced through the maze of what-ifs before I heard the facts.

           Well over an hour passed as we sat with these precious souls.  John and I took turns speaking with husband and wife as well as son and daughter-in-law.  Just as it is when friends reunite, the time apart matters not, our hearts resumed their previous rhythms.  Hands held, shoulders stroked, eye gaze maintained with intention, ears perked to attention, all senses heightened.  Words of faith and strength were uttered, but body language belied the substratum of fear that is our human nature.

 

 

           An unplanned, impromptu phone call followed. I needed to connect with this couple’s daughter with whom, at one point in my life for many years, I spent nearly every day.  I listened to her strong voice, so similar to her sick dad’s; but also, like her Daddy, that voice was filled with a dam of emotion, hovering below the surface of her brave declarations, threatening to break free.  Even in roots of faith, a vein of fear was nicked in the rawness of life.

           Arriving home to a torrent of anxiety.  Our daughter had made a mistake—the kind you make when you’re entering those early years of adulthood.  It was a minor one, but it burst within her a deluge of tears, self-criticism, and panic. Her faith in herself and her higher source wavered.  And so it was my calling to once more sit, listen, connect, and offer my time and presence. Writing remained undone, and the schedule continued to fall to the wayside. This was not the plan for the day, but yet it was all perfectly orchestrated by a power greater than us.

 

 

           As I write these intensely felt words, my eyes often wander to the willow trees outside.  Not only have their roots deepened over the 17 or so years we have lived here, but also the branches have broadened and extend in all directions. Their shade now covers large portions of the yard, while the size and shape of their shadow shifts throughout the day as well as the seasons with the movement of the sunlight and the dressing and undressing of their leaves.  And so it is with life . . .

 

 

           Our lives branch and broaden not only from day-to-day, but also from life-season to life-season.   As we move through the stages of life, we may form new connections, but all branches of our life remain intact.  Sometimes we are stripped bare, like the limbs of a willow in the winter, or even broken by the strong winds of life.  

 

          

            Still, like the willow, there is opportunity for growth and strength when we root deeply into our core values of faith, family, and friends.   Then, the shadow cast by our lives becomes more expansive and shifts shape. This shadow, like the valleys of darkness we all must endure, is merely the underbelly of light.  Even though the willow must endure months of winter darkness, a time period in which it is disrobed of its brilliant emerald adornment, it redresses and is renewed each spring as the shafts of light begin to break through the winter clouds of bitterness.

 

            “No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.”—Aesop

          “Remember there’s no such thing as a small act of kindness.  Every act creates a ripple with no logical end.”—Scott Adams

 

Public confession:  I love to people watch and eavesdrop in public.  I suppose I indulge in this habit for a number of reasons.  Perhaps, it is the story-lover in me in search of an interesting “read.”  Maybe, my default teacher mode is continually surveying whatever surrounding area I happen to land in order to ensure the safety of all.  Then again, it could be a genetic predisposition as my parents and grandparents possessed a knack for taking in the public behaviors of others.  Sometimes, I think I am driven to seek examples of goodness in the world in order to prove wrong the media’s focus on the negative side of humanity. Regardless of the reason or motivation, I am guilty as charged.

 

 

My husband, John, our daughter, Maddie, and I have often discussed the importance of treating others with kindness, especially in the public arena.  John and I spent years as youth working in a wide variety of minimum wage job settings, but even as teachers, we have had eye-opening experiences both positive and negative when interacting with the public.

 

 

For example, while working at McDonald’s as a teen, a customer actually tried to physically pull me through the drive-thru window in a fit of rage because his food wasn’t ready.  Then, I once encountered was a woman at Lazarus (now Macy’s), who repeatedly berated me and accused me of purposely charging her the wrong price for a sales’ item.  (Thank heavens for a nearby manager in both situations.)

Even as a teacher, I have certainly had my fair share of negative/shocking experiences.  Thus, it is important to our family that we try to treat those who provide services for us with as much respect and kindness as possible as illustrated by a couple of recent experiences. I am by no means implying we are perfect, but we believe it is a worthwhile goal.

With Madelyn home from college, I have accompanied her to a few public spaces rife with opportunities to people-watch, specifically, doctor office waiting rooms.  Summer is the perfect time for updating contact/glasses prescription, visiting doctor and dentist for check ups, and, the big one, removing wisdom teeth.  Some of these visits, Maddie can navigate on her own with our family’s insurance card, while other appointments require a parent’s presence for either payment, or in the case of wisdom teeth removal, as a designated driver.

 

Our eye doctor, Mark Brown, OD, has an office is inside a Wal-Mart, which is always an interesting place to observe people! However, for the sake of this story, I’ll stick to the take-away point: the importance of kindness.  Dr. Brown has a gentle way of interacting with his patients, and his staff reflects a similar sense of calm.  As we were leaving, Maddie and I were conversing with one of the staff members who began sharing with us the challenges of working with the public.  She concluded with a rude interaction she recently experienced with a (now former) patient.   In the end, she stated, “If he had only been nice in the first place, we would have worked something out with him.”

One day later, Maddie and I were once again together in another doctor’s office, Mountain State Oral and Facial Surgery, in order to have her wisdom teeth extracted.  She was naturally apprehensive and nervous, but the staff exuded kindness beyond measure, as did many of the patients in the waiting room.

Since I was in the waiting room for quite an extended period of time, I visited the restroom a couple of times.  On my last visit, I took the last of the toilet paper.  As I exited the bathroom, another lady was heading in there.  I suggested she wait while I asked the front desk staff for more toilet paper.  She seemed astonished that I would tell her, and even thanked me as she momentarily returned to the seat while the staff member graciously took care of the issue.

Later, a surgery staff member made a special trip to find me in the waiting room.  This young lady explained that Maddie wanted me to know that everything was fine, and that she was only now going under anesthesia.  “She knew you had been out here for quite a while, and she didn’t want you to be worried.”

Not only was I incredibly touched by my daughter’s thoughtfulness, but also by the staff member’s follow-through. After all, she could have assured Maddie she would tell me, but not actually taken time do it with good reason, as they were quite busy on that day.

While continuing to wait, another patient began to inquire about Madelyn.

“How has she adjusted to being old enough to fill-out and sign her own paper work?”

Realizing I was with another people-watcher in order for her to know this about Maddie, I respectfully listened to her experiences when she first turned 18 even though I had planned to use the time to study and read.  Ultimately, she ended up sharing information about a medical app called, Care Zone, which I could download on all of our family phones that would store our medical history, medicines, and insurance information.  She explained it would not only help Maddie as she independently navigated medical appointments, but it would also help the entire family keep track of important information medical facilities need for routine visits and emergency situations. I was moved by her helpfulness.

 

Finally, I was called back to the holding room where, Kayla, another assistant, detailed all of the information required to adequately and safely care for Maddie as she recovered from this minor, but significant, outpatient surgery.  When Maddie was finally wheeled into me, she was naturally quite silly from the anesthesia, but Kayla remained patient, considerate, and tolerant of Maddie’s antics and repetitious commentary even when I could not keep a straight face.

 

 

In the meantime, another staff member, who I believe was named Brittany, came out to talk to me.  While I am not able to recall her precise wording, a couple of points stood out.  First of all, she explained that all types of people visit their office, especially young adults, but that Maddie was one of most thoughtful and respectful. Secondly, she appreciated Maddie’s curious mind and ability to engage in meaningful conversation.  There were other points shared that made my parent-heart smile, but I’ll privately treasure those.  The main point is: Brittany didn’t have to leave her workspace to tell me.  Likewise, it would have been understandable, given the situation, for Maddie to not have taken time to courteously interact; and yet, they both did.

Like begets like; kindness begets kindness. Even if you never see the effect, to act kindly is always the right choice. Is it always easy? No.  Are you going to have days where you forget? Probably.  Is it worth practicing as often as possible? Absolutely!  Besides, you never know who is watching, and what lessons you are exemplifying.

 

           “The moment a child is born, the mother is also born.  She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never.  A mother is something absolutely new.”—Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh

 

          

           This weekend, I will be traveling, once again, to the Wheeling/Bethany, WV area.  My husband, John, and I will be making this trip together in order to pack up our daughter, Madelyn’s, belongings for the summer.  She will remain at Bethany College with the few items she needs for the next few days in order to study and take her final exams before returning home mid-week.  

           A few weeks prior, when Maddie came home for a rare and quick weekend visit, it occurred to her, as we discussed the plan, that we would be moving her possessions on Mother’s Day weekend.

           “Sorry, Mom, that’s not much of a Mother’s Day present,” she said half-laughing, but I could see the remorse in her eyes.

           “Sure, it is,” I replied.  “I am spending time with you—Best. Present. Ever.”

 

           

          Maddie, being Maddie, rolled her eyes at me, but I spoke the truth—at least for the most part.  Did I look forward to lugging totes, boxes, and bags out of her dorm room, into John’s truck, and into the house once home?  Well, that is not exactly the most exciting part, but I am glad to do it. In fact, I am happy to help move her belongings for many reasons.

           First, and foremost, I am spending time with my daughter, the young woman who birthed me into motherhood.   I still fondly recall those nine months of pregnancy. Okay, the morning sickness was not that fun, but everything else was filled with wonderment.  

 

          

           Pregnancy in the late 1990s meant no gender-reveal party, no 3-D ultrasound images, no social media blasts, and so forth.  John and I did not even own a computer at that time. Instead, I went to the library often, and checked out multiple books on pregnancy, purchased the classic book, What to Expect When You’re Expecting by Heidi Murkoff and Sharon Mazel (now in its fifth edition and considered to be one of the most influential books of the past 25 years), and eagerly called family to share to the news once we found out we were having a girl.

 

          

           As my belly expanded, I would gently caress it, thinking about the new life growing inside of me.  I talked, sang, and even read aloud to her. John would lean down in the evenings, put his hands on my stomach, and speak to her as well because, “She needed to know her Dad’s voice too!”

           The first time I saw her foot pressing against my stretched mid-section, I cried—such a miracle of life growing inside me.  It was a time in my life when I felt as if I was God’s assistant in creating and caring for life. Thus, why would I mind helping her move most of her things out of her dorm room nearly 19 years later?

           Secondly, helping my daughter move out at the end of an academic year is an act of celebration.  After all she successfully completed her first year of college as well as her first year of semi-adulthood.  (I say “semi” in that, we hold her accountable for and respect her decisions, but she is not yet 100% financially independent.) That first year away from home in college is not an easy transition.  Maddie, not only made it through, but also achieved a few significant milestones along the way for which John and I feel extremely proud.

 

          Maddie always loved to draw pictures for me as well as leave me notes when she was small.

 

           Thirdly, helping her move her out allows me to feel part of her life-away-from-home.  While there, we will have the opportunity to connect with her friends, walk the paths she daily ambles, and perhaps gain a bit more insight into life at Bethany College.  I don’t mean to imply I wish to hover; rather, it’s more about a genuine interest into the person Maddie is becoming, the person who made me, “Mom”.

 

                     In fact, she still leaves me notes.          

 

           Finally, while the trip will be a whirlwind of activity that will most likely create some fatigue, John and I will have some down time together.  The trip to and from Bethany traverses some beautiful scenery that we both enjoy sharing. It will grant us an opportunity to talk without interruption.  Plus, it will also give us the gift of shared quiet—something that is often undervalued in our society.

 

                    Maddie certainly “baptized” John and I into parenthood!          

 

           It’s funny, while writing this; a memory has repeatedly popped up in my mind’s eye.  It is a fuzzy, movie-like image of driving to work towards the end of my pregnancy. May was in its full-glory as the morning sun glowed through my windshield.  While waiting at a rather long red light, I began to rub my distended belly, as I was less than three weeks away from Maddie’s birth. Unexpected tears of joy began streaming down my face in that moment at the thought of soon meeting my daughter.   Now, I get to feel that sensation again as John and I drive to see and embrace our child once more. Life is good, and I am blessed. What more could I ask for on Mother’s Day?

           

           

 

            “A person’s a person, no matter how small.”—Dr. Seuss

 

“To deal with individual human needs at the everyday level can be noble sometimes.”—Jimmy Carter

 

 

“Mamaw, Can I have one of those books?” asked the ingenuous boy of about four or five years.

 

He was wearing YMCA soccer clothes, and by the look of them, he had already played in his morning youth league game. The boy and his grandmother were in line in front of me at the Starbuck kiosk inside of a grocery store. There was a kid’s book section directly across from the coffee area, and it was filled with colorful, inviting books.

 

As a current middle school Language Arts teacher and former kindergarten teacher, I was impressed that the young fellow was interested in books as so many kids are far more interested in screen time. Oh, how I would have enjoyed walking him over to the bookshelf and allowing him to read, or at the very least, look through, a few of those books as I would have done years ago with my own daughter when she was his age.

 

“Mamaw, please.  Can I just go look at the books?” the young lad implored this time carefully patting his grandmother’s arm.   She ignored this request in the same manner in which she had ignored his first by incessantly talking to the lady behind the Starbucks counter.

 

 

From my vantage point, I perceived the slightest flicker of irritation cross the Starbucks’ employee’s face due to the grandmother’s persistent barrage of questions, but then, quickly fade. Despite the fact the employee was politely answering the questions based upon Starbucks’ policies/products, the grandmother kept debating with her.  Nevertheless, I will hand it to this employee; she remained patient even as the grandmother continued her demands.

 

“Mamaw, can I please look at the books?” The boy tenderly tapped his grandmother’s arm once more.

 

“No!  Now, stop bugging me!”

 

The boy hung his head, and his face turned bright red.

 

“I was just kidding, Mamaw,” stated the boy after a few moments in such a way to show contrition, and he returned to patting his grandmother’s arm once more as she ignored him again.

 

You can bet Champ, my mom’s oldest great-grandchild is not ignored by his grandmother, my sister, Rachel, or his great-grandmother.

 

Her questions and demands to the meek employee continued, and I felt my own frustration grow in this situation. I wanted to take the boy over to the book area, tell the grandmother to give the kid and the Starbucks’ employee a break, and just place her order while I read to her sweet grandchild. Instead, I remained quiet.

 

“Mamaw, I was just kidding,” implored the boy once more as his eyes looked up at his grandmother seemingly with the hope of her to noticing his remorse, but she remained focused on her questions.

 

It was then I saw a tear trickle down the little boy’s face, and my mom-heart broke.   It was a silent tear that I recognized as his soundless hurt, and I sensed this was not his first time to be ignored and/or treated badly by an adult.  I was so absorbed in watching the boy; I had not realized the grandmother had finally placed her order until she jerked the kid by his arm.

 

 

“Get over here with Mamaw, now!  Can’t you see we need to move over here so I can get my iced tea?”

 

The little fellow said, “Sorry, Mamaw,” hung his head, and obediently began walking.

 

Stunned, I stood there for a moment, and before I could say anything, I noticed the Starbucks’ employee reach into the bakery counter, pull out a pink cake-pop, gently place it in a crisp white bakery bag, and hand it over the counter to the grandmother.

 

“Can he have this?” the Starbucks’ employee sweetly asked.

 

The grandmother snapped it out of the employee’s hand, impatiently passed it to the boy, and said, “Here you go,” with no hint of gratitude or consideration in her voice, and she resumed her nonstop complaint session with the employee.

 

 

“Can I eat it now?” the little boy asked with a bit of hope as he once again gently patted his grandmother’s arm and longingly looked up at her.  He was never answered—at least not in my presence.  I watched as he clutched the bag tightly in one hand, looked down at it, glanced up at his grandmother, and then looked down again as his shoulders sagged.

 

 

As I contemplated the scene driving home, I was reminded of an article I had read earlier that same morning entitled, “The 6 Human Needs for Fulfillment,” by Cloe Madanes.  The reading was part of my yoga teacher training.  My teacher, Katrina Mailloux, had encouraged us this month to spend time reflecting upon these needs and noticing how we can share these needs with others.  These six needs include: certainty/comfort, uncertainty/variety, significance, love/connection, growth, and contribution.

 

 

Clearly, the little boy longed to feel certain in his relationship with his grandmother.  He seemed to yearn for the variety, and perhaps growth, that a book might offer him.  Additionally, he displayed his desire to feel significant and important in his grandmother’s eyes as he did not look at any one else but her.  He plainly desired love and connection—a hug, a smile, or a tender pat on his head—yet, he received none of those.

 

 

John and I have both had the privilege of working with special students as pictured her left to right, Kaity Brumfield with John and Brenna Chapman.  Teaching is reciprocal experience in that we meet many needs of fulfillment with our students, and likewise, they meet many of our needs.

 

Sadly, this child’s emotional growth has the potential to be stunted if the grandmother’s behavior is a reflection of how he is frequently treated.  And, while the young boy would not be able to articulate this, I do sense he was trying to contribute to his grandmother’s needs by remaining compliant and obedient.  Furthermore, instead of the grandmother going beyond her own personal needs, it was the Starbucks’ employee who attempted to contribute a bit of positivity into the youngster’s day.  It struck me as both sad, but somewhat refreshing—at least with regards to the employee’s behavior

 

It is worth remembering that every person we encounter has the same needs as we do—even that grandmother.  The Starbucks employee exemplified this to me in her every action.  She remained calm, kind, and considerate to the grandmother’s demands.  Additionally, her behavior reflected her recognition of the grandmother’s need to feel significant.  At the same time, she noticed the boy’s need for comfort, significance, connection, variety, and growth.  While she could not give him a book, she gave what she could. And, that, in the words of Jimmy Carter, was indeed a noble event.  One from which we could all benefit if we would interject more of that understanding and behavior into our daily interactions and practices.