THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Saturday, September 7, 1996 TAG: 9609060066
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E5 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Issues of Faith
SOURCE: Betsy Wright
LENGTH: 90 lines
RECENTLY I'VE entertained a small fantasy.
It is August of next year. My daughter, Jordannah, is 2-years-and-change and the baby I'm carrying is 9 months old. It's a sunny, hot afternoon and I take the children out to our now-non-existent sandbox where we'll sit under the shade of four fledgling crepe myrtles.
The baby will nap in a playpen while Jordannah and I make sandcakes. We'll take our time molding those little cakes, mixing just the right amount of sand and water. Then we'll frost them with fallen crepe myrtle petals: pink, white, fuchsia and lavender.
We will make the most gorgeous inedible delicacies in town. I can almost feel the breeze and hear the laughter.
I love this little dream and it never fails to make me smile. It also, however, makes me just a little sad. Each time I entertain these thoughts, I think about the childhood of my other daughter, Caroline. Now 14, Caroline was just an infant when we discovered that her father, Elliott, had a terminal illness. The first four years of her life were not filled with volumes of precious moments like the ones I share now in abundance with Jordannah. Caroline's early years were spent with a mother who was often distracted by the chores of being a caretaker.
I will never get over the feeling that I somehow slighted this beautiful girl.
Did she suffer? No, not really. Neither did my son Luke, who was 2 when his daddy was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, more commonly known as Lou Gehrig's Disease.
Judging by the way they've turned out, they got what they needed. They got plenty of love and discipline. They got warm food in their bellies. They got a nice roof over their heads. They got a good assortment of toys with which to play.
What they often didn't get, however, was the kind of attention children crave. I don't remember ever having the time to play a board game or attend a make-believe tea party. Though I know we played a few t-ball games, I don't remember sitting down with them to color, dress Barbie dolls or blow bubbles.
And I certainly never had the time to make sand cakes with crepe myrtle-petal frosting.
(Note: My mother would tell you that my memory is faulty. She'd say I did many of those things, but was too distracted by the caretaking thing to incorporate them into memories. I think, however, that my mother is just being kind and trying to alleviate me of my guilt.)
Please don't get me wrong. I do not for a moment regret my decision to become my first husband's caretaker. Though the years were hard and the sacrifices many, no other choice would have been thinkable. Not only did I love the man I cared for, but I also believed then - and still do today - in the sacred vows of marriage. ``In sickness and in health'' isn't just some hokey cliche you abandon at the first cough. It's a promise to your spouse. It's a promise to God.
I also do not regret my decision to become a caretaker because of the many life lessons it offered. Foremost, Elliott and I began our serious faith journey in those difficult years. It was a journey that led us to the love of Jesus Christ. It was a journey in which I learned how very much God is present in our lives. I can honestly say that God provided my strength and patience during that time. I know this simply because I don't have that kind of stuff on a regular basis.
Nothing in my lifetime has matured my faith like my caretaker years.
Lastly, I do not regret my decision to become a caretaker because of the life lessons if offered my children. Though they missed out on tea parties and bubble blowing, they saw a model of courage in their dying young father. They didn't just hear about commitment, sacrifice and unconditional love. They experienced those values. I must believe that these things - the things they got in those difficult years - were more important for my children than the things they missed.
Having said all this and having come to peace with my necessary neglectfulness, why is it that fallen crepe myrtle petals stir up in me such bittersweet feelings?
Ten years ago, on a Labor Day weekend that seems both far and near, Elliott died. I write this column as a remembrance of that time, but more importantly, I write this column as a gift of encouragement to all those who have been or currently are, caretakers.
Jesus Christ once said that there is no greater love than the love of a person who lays down his or her life for another.
That's exactly what a caretaker does. For a time, the caretaker lays aside his or her own needs, desires and wants. The caretaker gives up their time, their energy and sometimes even their dreams and fantasies.
It is truly a labor of love . . . but it's a labor that's good for your soul. MEMO: Send responses to Issues of Faith, The Virginian-Pilot, 150 W.
Brambleton Ave., Norfolk, Va. 23510; call (804) 446-2273; FAX (804)
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Tuesday prior to publication. Must include name, city and phone number. by CNB