Messes

By the time I finished my second year in college, I was weary of pain, suffering, and death. I had lost my first patient not in the hospital at UVa but during the summer following my first-year while working as a nursing assistant in a Shenandoah Valley nursing home. My patient was a bed-ridden, octogenarian who had no children and no wife; he had suffered a stroke several years before. Every need the man had, every function, every dignity needed to be provided by the nurses and nursing assistants charged with his care. His death was not considered a tragedy by even the extended family who came to see him punctually very Sunday.

My second year at the University, I experienced death in a completely different context. I lost a child – not a patient, but a tiny, beautiful dusky skinned almost two-year old who came to play with me every Monday during my volunteer shift on the medical center’s play terrace. He was a fixtuxe there, practically a mascot- a drug baby, no family, no visitors ever, but a child whose inner glow lit a room whenever he entered. He was always the highlight of my week.

And then one Monday, as I waited for him and waited for him, a sinking feeling began hollowing out my core, almost burning its way deep through my soul. I could barely bring myself to ask Nina, the director of the terrace, where my favorite playmate was, already knowing but longing for a denial. In her gentle manner, Nina explained that the drugs flooding my tiny ray of light’s body at birth had finally overwhelmed his system; he had passed quietly, peacefully in his crib one night completely alone. That aloneness was what snapped the last vestiges of my bearing, and I fled the play terrace that day not even halfway through my shift. I couldn’t tolerate the cheerful sounds of other children playing: laughter, the splash of the water table, the bouncing of the red playground balls knowing that my little friend would never enjoy those simple pleasures again.

So, when it was time to look for a summer job following that school year and after my AFROTC commitments, I simply could not face more death and dying.  Instead, I turned to a place of renewal and peace and what I saw as eternal optimism – a church daycare. That summer, I was given the “latchkey kids” – children aged 5 – 10. What I learned that summer is that Piaget, while he studied mostly children already familiar to him including his own, was spot on – there is an enormous difference between a 5-year old and a 10-year old, and that they learn by building upon the experiences they already have. What I also learned, and this might be the most important lesson, do not, under any circumstances, let two 6-year old boys go to public bathrooms together at the town park by themselves; they will utterly and completely destroy said bathrooms.  And then there is this, every class contains a tattletale (Yep, there’s ALWAYS one.). When you are trying to control 20 latchkey kids, that tattletale just may be your new BFF. (Hey, don’t judge until you’ve been there.)

Keeping those bathrooms routinely clean fell to the town pool manager who that year just happened to be Timmy, a boy I knew from my early teens. (It’s a small town. Of course I knew him.) So, after clearing it with my boss, I picked up the phone, called the parents of both of my 6-year old miscreants for permission, then called Timmy at home and told him my plan.

I was bringing those boys EARLY the morning after Bathroomageddon to the pool where Timmy would (gleefully) hand them a hose, paper towels, garbage bags, gloves, etc., and coach them through cleaning the public restroom they had single (or double) handedly destroyed the day before. Now, I realize this would never, ever happen in a large city without landing Timmy, both sets of parents, and me with mugshots and prosecution for some form of child endangerment, but 20+ years ago in a tiny Virginia town, this was how we taught children to clean up their own messes, learn from their mistakes, and understand that there are consequences to all behaviors – consequences that they cannot run from, hide from, escape from regardless of how cute or little they are. Otherwise, how do we help mold and form their characters?

We don’t stop landing in messes when we place our childhood things aside and take up the mantles of adulthood. I wish it were that easy – you have no idea how I wish it were that easy. I messed up today in an enormous way. I hurt someone I love. I don’t know when or if I will ever be forgiven. I don’t know if the pain inflicted can ever be released like a helium balloon, lost into the atmosphere, and, believe me, my heart is broken for the pain I caused. However, just as my latchkey boys had to suffer the consequences of their behaviors, I must suffer the consequences of hurting my friend. It’s a bitter pill to accept, even welcome, into my hands, much less place in my mouth and swallow, but swallow it I must. “They” say time heals all wounds, but what “they” forget to add is that while healing of wounds is promised, restoration, especially complete restoration, is not, and that is what I must accept. Restoration is my prayer, but it is not a guarantee.

So, my prayer shall be this: Father, ease the pain I’ve caused. Heal the damage I’ve wrought, and replace the wounds with the gift of Your tender mercy and love. Allow me to love better next time, and, if it’s in your will, soften both of our hearts and allow the Spirit of Forgiveness to restore our amazing friendship. Forgive me for my failings, and help me forgive myself. Thank you for the blessings in this painful place. Amen.