Trapped in a wounded mind

Some years back, I worked as a paraprofessional in a classroom for severely disabled high school students. I was a "one-on-one" para, primarily responsible for the well-being of one boy, Jayse.

Oftentimes when I share about these two years,  folks tell me I am a saint and laud my sacrifice.  It's a kind but inaccurate sentiment.  I needed a job. I wanted to work at the school. Here was an opportunity, and at the time I had no idea what this job would mean.

My second day with Jayse, he slapped me across the face. Jayse was a young man, average height, very strong, very wiry. I had red finger-shaped welts on my cheek all afternoon.

I cried every night that first week. Undoubtedly exhaustion and stress, but the greater part of my tears came from the break down of a very secure wall around my heart. These kids had no walls of there own and demanded vulnerability from me. They undermined my defenses.

Jayse had profound mental disabilities. I was told he had the mental capacity of a two year old.  But Jayse had amazing perception of emotion. He sensed what I was feeling, regardless of  my attempts to mask it.

After that initial slap, I was intimidated. The first month, I did what was necessary for him, but would work with another student when I could. I knew he was my responsibility,  I even felt like God had intentionally chosen me to work with Jayse, but I was afraid.  Jayce felt this, and made my job very difficult at first.

And then, one night in a dream, Jayse came up to me and said, "Pay attention to me".  In reality, Jayse couldn't speak, he only hummed nursery rhymes. But the  dream command hit the mark, and I knew needed to change.

Over the next months, I learned to dodge the occasional slap, to tell him with authority not to hit.  I think he approved of this. He knew I was no longer afraid of him. We did a lot of sitting, walking, singing, and paper shredding together.  I could sometimes get him to write his name, hand over hand, with me. He occasionally would draw a picture too, but the boy was an athlete more than an artist. If life had been different for him, he would have been a sports star.

Jayse and I got along famously. I really loved him, and he knew it. He was like a son, and at the school the teachers referred to him as my boy. I knew that he loved me too. He would come up to me sometimes, thumb in mouth, grab my head and blow in my ear. He would lean against me or hold my hand. And sometimes I would fall prey to one of those non-pucker baby-like kisses. A few times he tried to sit on my lap, which always required redirection, because while innocent, it looked really inappropriate.

He had different kinds of seizures. The Grand Mals were always  the most frightening, helpless situations. As he labored to breathe,  I would watch his lips turn blue and count the seconds, trying to tell him encouraging things until it was over. I don't know if people can hear during a seizure, but I believe he appreciated it.

He really liked cheesy tater tots and chicken nuggets. He had an insatiable appetite and a huge sweet tooth. His metabolism was so fast that I was told to give him food whenever he wanted it. He did not favor oranges or most vegetables... but maybe it's just because cafeteria food is, well, cafeteria food.

Loud noises, like the beeping of the bus in reverse or the fire alarm, became my nemesis. Jayse couldn't stand those noises.  He would start to sing in an aggravated way, slap the side of his head and bite himself.  I hated that. My ears tuned in to every potential noise hazard so that I could steer him clear of it.

Later on in those years, Jayse rarely hit me. Never hard, and always on the arm. When he was frustrated--even when I frustrated him, he would mostly hit himself. I would grab his arm and say gentle words, and he would calm down and let me clean him up. Only later did I realize that he didn't want to hit me,  that he would rather beat himself than hurt me.  His mental capacity wasn't limited to two years old. Jayce was just trapped in that wounded mind.

Those kids, and Jayce in particular, taught me more than my entire formal education. It was a classroom full of laughter and great suffering, but devoid of vanity, pride, pretension, prejudice, and class consciousness.  While still trapped in his own mind, Jayce offered me freedom and healing in mine. It was the best job I've ever been given.

Maundy Thursday

It's Passion week: Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, all culminating in celebration on Easter Morning, and today is Maundy Thursday in the church calendar.

As a young girl, I pronounced it "Monday-Thursday", which was a mystery beyond my abilities of reason. Why would "Monday-Thursday" have any significance? What were they getting at? (Other words, like "half-fast" as a descriptor of how I cleaned my room, were easier to figure out. Obviously it meant that I had cleaned at a quick-to-middling pace and therefore wasn't thorough. It still makes more sense to me than half-assed... rabbit trail...).

Maundy Thursday is probably the most underrepresented of these days. Maundy isn't really part of our vernacular, but it comes from the latin mandatum, which means authoritative instruction. This is the night of Jesus' last teaching to His disciples before He faced the agony of the cross.

Maundy Thursday offers a privileged seat at their Passover table, lets us listen in to the intimate conversation between Jesus and His closest friends, allows us into private struggle before the public shame.

On this eve, Jesus washed the feet of His disciples like a lowly servant, and told them, "I have set you an example that you should do as I have done." He gave them a new commandment: "Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another."  He told them He would be betrayed and killed; that He would leave them. He told them the Counselor, the Spirit of truth, would come to guide them.  They would never be alone.

On this night, Jesus spoke of heaven, the house of many mansions. He told them He was the life giver, the vine who fed their branches. He admonished them to stay connected to Him so that they would truly live, and indeed, do greater things than He had done.

He warned them of hardship, of how the world would hate them because of Him. They would weep and grieve, but their grief would turn to joy."In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world."

He prayed for them: protection, calling, knowledge of the truth. He prayed for us, and all who would believe His message, that we would be united to God and know His great love.

On this night, He prayed in Gethsemane with such anguish that He sweat drops of blood. He battled internally against the darkness, and accepted His Father's will of the cross. This is the night He was betrayed by a friend and wrongfully tried before the temple courts.

This is the night of bread and wine, body broken and blood shed, of "do this in remembrance of me," love as I have loved, served as I have served, follow as I have followed, and die as I die.

Jesus Christ, our Word made Flesh, our Passover Lamb, our God. If only we followed His mandatum: "By this all men will know you are my disciples, if you love one another."

Empty Rooms, Empty Rooms

When we were young, my siblings and I walked home from the library during the Chicago summers. Our route passed an impressive, two story house on an expansive lawn. It had dark, sage-colored siding, and white trim with shiny black shutters. We considered it a mansion, and would heatedly fight about which of us would own it. Funny how often we argued about something to which we had no rights.

Sometimes I'll pass an elderly manse and that old "big house" longing returns. I always figured I would fill it's many rooms with children- my own and adopted. How else could one justify owning a house that big?

We own a home now (with the help of the bank). It's a sweet, brick ranch from the 1950's, and I really love it.  Ironically, I occasionally wonder if we should find a smaller place. Not that it's a big house, but we have two empty bedrooms. One is a guest room, but the other is just empty. Empty of life, anyway.

At the moment, it contains a queen box spring that I need to sell and odd pieces of furniture that don't fit anywhere else in the house. My new sewing machine has also recently settled there. But it's still an empty, misfit room.

Every month I wander into hoping, realizing belatedly that I've done so, that perhaps this time next year the room will contain a little life.  Without regard for common sense, my imagination creates murals for the walls and curtains for the windows, places crib and rocking chair, and scatters toys across the floor. It fills the space with laughter and cry, coo and lullaby.

Every month the hoping is confronted by reality and the empty room, which feels so much more empty in the aftermath of hope. How is it possible to miss a life that has never been? Perhaps it is better not to have a room that can be so empty.

A few years back, I visited my home town and we drove past the old, much debated mansion. It seemed to have diminished in size and magnificence. The sage green paint was dingy and peeling, the black shutters faded to grey, and the lawn pocked with yellow patches and crab grass. Reality had slithered up to our mansion as well.

Are hope an reality always at odds? Where does the persistent hoping come from? It can't possibly come from this world. There's too much bad news for hope to be borne here.

Maybe hope is only realized in a different kind of dwelling. I just haven't gotten home yet.