Her Face to the Sun

You met my friend, Kelsie, here in this blog a few weeks ago. She was homeless and in a very bad place; physically, emotionally, and mentally. She and her young children fled an abusive relationship and found themselves bouncing from shelter to cheap motel to shelter. Our paths intersected coincidentally (or not) in the aisle of a local store. That is where we picked up the thread of friendship that had been dropped last fall. God directed both our paths to the same store, on the same day, and at precisely the same moment. We both fully believe that. After hearing her story during that encounter, I promised her I would walk her journey at her side. It has been an honor to do so.

Without transportation life is doubly hard. If you don’t believe that, try getting a handful of young children to a store, or a doctor, or any place, without a car. It’s like herding fire ants. It’s crazy-hard. I brought Kelsie’s plight and immediate needs to you, my readers. I could not help her if I could not transport her. And I could not transport her without car seats for her young children.

And so, shortly after reconnecting with Kelsie, I put out a plea on Facebook for used and forgotten car seats, thinking that surely someone within my realm of influence had child flotsam floating around dark and dusty garage corners. I was unprepared for your response.

Within minutes of the post, I received texts, private messages, and post responses, all volunteering to donate a car seat (or two). Some of them were used, but others were brand-new, straight from the store. I had one seat travel from from farm owner by school bus, to teacher that drives by my house everyday – a beautiful network of small town ingenuity and compassionate resourcefulness. I soon presented Kelsie with enough car seats for all her children, and my aging van, Goldie, unaccustomed to young children or their paraphernalia, was bursting at the seams with both.

But there is more to Kelsie’s story that I think you should know. She has granted me permission to share, hoping that someone else will be encouraged to keep moving forward, no matter how dark their night or difficult their path.

About a month ago, illness hit her young family, hard. I picked them up for church on Easter Sunday and noticed one of the girls was shivering. Later Kelsie reported that her daughter had thrown up after church. Kelsie sheepishly asked if I could help her with laundry money. She didn’t have the seventy-five cents required for the shelter washing machines and little Lisa had soiled everything.

A couple of weeks later, Lisa climbed out of bed in the morning and could hardly walk. “Like Bambi right after he was born,” was Kelsie’s description. The next day it was worse. She told her mother that her legs didn’t work and urinated on herself without being aware of it. Frantic, Kelsie found a ride to the ER and doctors began an exhaustive round of tests. I got a voice mail on my phone mid-afternoon asking for prayer for Lisa and a rundown of what was occurring.

I headed to the hospital after school and found them in the ER, waiting for test results to trickle in. The team of puzzled doctors finally decided to admit her for the night and run more tests the next day.

Because the shelter has strict rules about residents babysitting for one another and Kelsie has no outside support network, her other children ended up spending the night at my house. My amazingly wonderful husband helped me feed, bathe, and rock to sleep a houseful of precious, confused, hungry, frightened children. It would be an understatement to say he and I had sort of forgotten how chaotic caring for young children can be. But we all survived and I safely delivered them back to their grateful mother the following morning.

A huge shout out is warranted here to those that helped on that busy night. There were nurses that packed supplies to help out for the night. There was take-out dinner picked up by my son, Cody. And there were shelter friends that grabbed fresh clothes for the next day. I am happy to report that Lisa is now recovering and will begin physical therapy soon.

Life is so very hard when you are homeless. Unless you have lived it, you have no idea. I didn’t. I still don’t. But I have viewed it through Kelsie’s eyes and am staggered by her struggles. Imagine your own life without the “luxuries” of stable shelter. Or income. Or transportation. Or laundry facilities. Or family to support you. Imagine. Then thank God that you are so richly blessed. Take nothing for granted.

Kelsie is beginning her climb out of her dark valley of despair. There is no easy or quick fix. But she is trying. Everyday she moves forward a little more. In spite of the dark tunnel Kelsie has been in for the recent past, good things are beginning to happen for her. She has come to the attention of shelter administrators for the comprehensive and responsible way that she daily cares for her children. They have added supports for her that will help her get into housing and receive childcare help. Best of all, she is enrolling in a local state college to begin nursing courses.

I could not be more proud of her.

My husband and I live in a farming community. My absolute favorite crop is sunflowers. A field that stretches to the horizon with blazing yellow flowers under a blue sky is a breathtaking sight. You already know that sunflowers are so named because the flowers literally follow the path of the sun each day. In a phenomenon called heliotropism, the young flower heads face the sun at all times in order to maximize photosynthesis.

My friend, Kelsie, also faces the light. She is resolute and brave. Her face is to the sun, her back to the dark. She remarked to me not long ago, “I don’t feel lost anymore!” She hopes to inspire others. She doesn’t realize she already has.

Allowing your life to intersect with another’s is a stewpot of emotions. It is joyful, messy, achingly raw, heartrending, inconvenient at times, and the greatest blessing imaginable. It is looking beyond your calendar of soccer tournaments, church functions, daily work, idle shopping, and sterile charitable giving. It is removing the manhole cover off the sewer under your feet and realizing that beneath the pristine street is a river of devastating poverty, disappointments, abuse, and loss of hope that stagger the victim and cause them to lose a faith in humankind. It is fear, and frustration, and the stench of deprivation of basic needs. It is children who have no choice in any of it and learn to stress about things that only adults should have to think about.

But there is also kindness, hope, and remarkable courage. I have seen the homeless give to others sacrificially. I have witnessed a brand of grit you and I are unfamiliar with. I have wept at dogged determination to move forward and create a better life. Sometimes they just need someone to walk beside them and remind them in which direction to find the sun again.

I must end this by thanking all of you that poured your love on Kelsie, a stranger, with gifts of car seats and cash. She couldn’t believe that others would do something so unexpected for her. And now with her new apartment ready for occupancy, she is being showered with household items, again by people she does not know. People who spur her to keep climbing.

You have helped restore her faith in humanity, and her faith in God.

You are my heroes. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Meet Me at the Moon

I read a book last night to a tossing preschooler. Its literary characters included a best-friend giraffe, a gigantic moon over the savannah, an adorable baby elephant, and his worried mama. Meet Me at the Moon by Gianna Marino lay at the bottom of the stack I pulled from the book cupboard. The dust jacket described the story as, “A young elephant learns that his mother’s love is everywhere and enduring.” I was hooked before I read the first word.

When I gently knocked on the door of Room 652 and heard a soft, “Come in,” I opened the door to a young patient whimpering and tossing about in her bed, her pink-casted IV port trying frantically to keep up with the waving arm.

I introduced myself and asked if she would like me to read a story to her. Her mother smiled tiredly and said, “That would be lovely. Maybe I can close my eyes for a moment. We didn’t get much sleep last night.” Without waiting for a response from me, she moved to the recliner by the door and allowed her heavy eyelids to close.

I settled myself by Miss Restless and showed her the cover to the richly-colored book in my hand. The waving arms stopped and she tentatively touched the cover with her uncasted hand. I began reading in soft tones, both for the benefit of the mother, and also to soothe my little reading buddy. The lights were dim and a hush descended in that hospital room. The restlessness ceased and for ten quiet minutes, or so, the only sounds in the room were the lilt of my voice, and the soft, engaged remarks of the child.

The book was enchanting. A worried mother elephant knows that the rains need to come to the drought-stricken savannah in order for life to exist. In a tender exchange between she and her child, she pledges her love and affection, and sets off for the mountain to ask the skies for rain. As I read, I thought of the parents of the children I read to. This tired mother. The other parents in rooms up and down the corridor. The anxious homeless families I know. Such challenges they face! And yet, they go to remarkable lengths to care for the needs of their children. Love is an amazing and powerful thing. Unquantifiable and a little mystical.

When we finished our story, Mom opened her eyes and thanked me for the small break. I smiled and left, but as I stood outside the door preparing to enter another room, I heard wails behind Door 652. I quickly chose a second book for the child, knocked again, and slipped inside. The tiny girl’s symptoms had spiked suddenly and she was miserable. I laid the second book on the side table and the mother gratefully thanked me. “And thank you for the first book. Elephants are her favorite,” she remarked with gratitude and a touch of awe in her voice.

I stood outside the room with the inconsolable child and weary mother and smiled with wonder. A tiny miracle. A book I nearly passed over was the very one that grabbed and held the attention of a miserably ill child, giving her bone-weary mama a much needed break.

“When the night sky is bright, Little One, meet me at the moon, where the sky touches the earth. I love you, Little One.”

To every mother tonight nursing a sick, miserable child, or wondering where your next meal will come from, may you be blessed with rest, peace, and courage…