curriculum twist

 Last week he learned how to drive a tearful mama through the dark and snow

How to walk into hospital rooms and give long hugs

How to see strength made weak, and not crumble at the knees,

How to give hugs liberally, to hold his Nana and speak love into her heart

To sit alone in the quiet rooms of her house, to miss all the noise, even siblings, 

and to lean on his people, and to let his mom see his tearful face without shame

And he learned how to keep praying the Lord’s prayer when his mama’s voice broke, when she couldn’t quite say “thy will be done.” 

and how to wait out her grief tornado with calm loving presence in a parking lot

(as she once waited out his temper tantrums)

We noticed the subtle difference between a hurried “Do you have questions?” and a gentle “What questions do you have?” How a posture can push away or invite, can threaten or serve; the gift of an unhurried presence and a compassionate ear. 

and we learned how to ender hospital rooms with a story to tell, about life on the outside

and a psalm or prayer for emergencies

and to let people talk; let them tell and retell all the horrible twists and turns

and how it’s always ok to say nothing and just be present

and to ask ourselves what we need to keep showing up to those hard places

What is the family’s treatment plan? 

And we looked around and saw Hope and Fear

Both stubbornly insisting on being in the room, all the time

(Let them speak, don’t let either bulldoze the other out

They both need to be heard

and neither one really knows the future)

If a tender heart peeks out, and ‘I need to tell you how much you mean to me’ starts, and a chin quivers, don’t smother the uncomfortableness- yours or theirs- let the words be said, and let your tears be seen, too. 

Remember, when you are allowed to enter in to someone’s pain,

you are standing on sacred ground.

Move softly. 

Hug often.

Carry grace.