Does It Really Matter?

Ok, so...I'm a sucker.

I'm a sucker for the stories that pull at the heart strings. Maybe it's because I'm partly a cynic and I need constant reminders that even through all the flaws in our world, I should remember the good bits, too.

Those of you who have ever spent more than an hour with me will know that laughter comes easy but so do tears. I can't help it. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I'm not afraid to...and I take the ridicule in good stride. Or at least most of the time. When I'm not in a middle of my own personal breakdowns.

A friend of mine emailed this to me...it's from a co-worker and was written by the co-worker's sister-in-law about her niece. Well, that's what my friend's email said...but does it really matter who wrote it?

Can't we all glean a little wisdom from it??

Shouldn't we all care a little more about the people around us??

First Grade Race Day

Every now and then, by the grace of God, something inside of us says: Remember this. Remember the purple sundress and the bare feet, the wide grin missing four teeth, the blonde bob haircut. Make note of how she looks walking away and ringing her friend’s doorbell. Don’t forget how she skips back to the car and says with that wide jack o’ lantern grin, “She liked it!” Remember, because soon she’ll be grown and then she’ll be gone and this is a story you’ll want to tell her because it reveals, on some base level, who she is and it is important to be reminded of who we really are once we’re let loose in the world and everyone else has an opinion of us.

She’d come home from school concerned about a friend. “Ashley didn’t turn in her car today.” I had been afraid this might happen. Ashley is having a hard time, a harder time than any six-year-old should ever have. Her parents have split and there has been violence and then both parents were gone and her grandparents have stepped in to try and take care of her and her younger brother. She has shared stories at our house in a matter of fact way that make me want to cry and scream. All I can do is listen and pretend they aren’t as outrageous as I know they are, even as I also know such stories are all too common. The car was due today. The assignment was to make a car, “Be Creative!” the note home read. “Make sure your first grader does most of the work and you supervise.” Yeah, right. “We will race the cars on Friday, parents are invited to attend. Those who do not have a car or parental permission will not be able to participate and will go to a special classroom during the race.” Yes, let’s punish those children whose parents, for whatever reason, aren’t up to the task. And, as I feared, Ashley is one of those children. My daughter is worried about her friend, “Mrs. Wilson didn’t cut Ashley any slack, Mom. I don’t want her to miss the race, and the permission slip HAS to be turned in tomorrow!” I want to intervene in some non-intrusive sort of way but I am not sure how. Besides, we had a hard time with this project, two parents, both college educated and more, unable to construct, I mean supervise, the construction of a car that would actually roll. We gave up and my husband took our daughter to our neighbor’s house, our handy neighbor who owns a table saw and wood and washers and bolts and has the skill to put all of these together and come out with a little, awesome car. I am sure our first grader was well supervised when the table saw was employed. But my child is concerned for her friend and so I mumble, “We’ll figure something out.” without a clue as to what that “something” will be.

We get home and the evening progresses as it normally does: homework, housework, dinner to get on the table. My little girl surfaces and asks for tape and scissors. I give them to her. She returns and asks if I have a small box. I do. I am curious as to what she is up to but I am too busy to give it a whole lot of thought. She is happily occupied. This allows me to get a few things done. Hence, I don’t ask questions. Once again she comes and finds me. “I made Ashley a car,” she says. I look and, yes, she has made Ashley a car. “It isn’t the best,” she acknowledges, “but at least she can come to the race.” I want to cry. She has cut the wheels out of paper plates and taped them together four plates thick. She has cut a flap in the top of the little box that once contained four pieces of chocolate. She has folded the flap forward to make it look as if the car has a windshield. The wheels, not exactly perfect circles, have been affixed to the box with four push pins. “Now,” she says, “will you drive me to her house because she needs to turn it in tomorrow and I need to tell her grandmother to look in the front pocket of her folder and sign the permission slip?” My daughter has thought this through. She has worked something out, without even my supervision. What is there left for me to do but chauffer her around the block?

We get in the car, turn the corner, and pull into Ashley’s driveway. The grass is high and there is a car, without license plate, parked in the middle of the yard. There are pieces of siding missing from the house and I think that it looks as sad as the little girl who lives there. “Come right back,” I instruct. “I know, I know,” my daughter says, exasperated with me. She walks with confidence to the front door, little car in hand and something in me says: Remember this. Remember the purple sundress and the bare feet, the wide grin missing four teeth and the blonde bob haircut. Remember this because she needs to know this story someday. Remember this because it reveals on a deep and pure level who she is and she is so very good. I see her standing at the door and soon it opens. The woman who answers bends down and listens. She turns and calls. Ashley appears. The two girls hug. My daughter comes skipping back to the car, gets in and says, “She liked it!” Again she says, “It isn’t the best. It may not go very far. It may come in last place, but at least she can be in the race.” And all I can think is it is the best car ever because it was made from pure, unsupervised, unprompted love and that means what place it comes in is absolutely irrelevant. I need to remember that. I need to remember this, my girl, the car, the wounded house, the hurting child, the struggling grandparents and the unexpected grace that comes in the midst of it all. I am pretty sure Ashley will never forget it because it means she got to be in the race and everyone should have a chance to at least be in the race.