Love Who Is There

Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

My Uncle Tom was a Down Syndrome child. He was born a year before I was, when my grandmother was in her late forties, and it was at least two full generations before ultrasounds became a routine part of pregnancy. My grandfather told me that during the delivery, after the doctor had seen the baby, the doc came out into the hall and told my grandpa it would be best if they found some sort of residency setting for such a child—that is, if the baby survived the night.

Years later, when I was well into adulthood, my mother said that my grandpa’s only response to the doctor back then had been, “Well. At least the Lord knew where to send him.” And that was the end of that. They brought Uncle Tom home, and he died in his own bed more than 60 years later—downright elderly for a Downs child.

I could not have guessed that having a special child like Tom in the family would be one of the great blessings of my life. When I was a kid, Uncle Tom liked to hold over my head that I was a year younger than he–as I tied his shoes or helped him put on his suspenders. Because we were a military family, I saw Uncle Tom on summer vacations or at Christmas time. Then the only difference I ever noticed between him and me was that he constantly tried to talk me into watching the old black and white scary movies he loved, and which terrified me.

If we visited my grandparents’ house, Tom and I always played together, or at least alongside each other—he WAS a BOY, after all. But by the time I was a teenager, the differences between us were considerably more obvious. I loved to read and sometimes buzzed through 5 or 6 books a week. On the other hand, every night, Tom would sit at my grandparents’ dining room table, and, with his finger under every word, he’d sound out one syllable at a time, line by line, for a couple of years until he finally finished the entire Book of Mormon. It was a tribute to my grandfather, an elementary school principal, that Tom could read at all. He sat patiently next to Uncle Tom every one of those evenings, helping him learn. His doctors were astonished. While Tom could never read a newspaper or a letter, he learned to read the scriptures. Our family wasn’t in the least surprised; we have always believed in miracles.

It took Tom almost three times as long to eat his dinner as it did anyone else. Sometimes his mom or my mom would have to help him. His speech was slurred and not always easy to understand. And brushing his teeth before we went to bed was a marathon—every night. But it was a step he never missed. Ever. As he grew older, his parents assigned him chores just like everyone else. It was Tom’s job to vacuum the house. That took him an average of three hours to vacuum three bedrooms, a living room, and a dining/family room. But nobody did it better.

And, to the surprise of all of us, Tom had a phenomenal memory. He knew every team in the American and National baseball leagues, knew most of the players, remembered most of their stats, and became the family expert. If he were at our house visiting (back in the days before computers), we could ask Tom who was the next batter up, how many hits, runs, and outs the player had had for the whole season, etc.! Baseball hats with team logos were his preferred gift. Tom was also the only member of our extended family who knew every single member’s birthday and provided it on request.

Plus, Tom never got lost. When he was little, my grandmother worried constantly about keeping him safe. Once on a picnic in a nearby national forest, Tom wandered away. He was less than five years old–I can’t remember exactly–(unlike Tom, who, once he learned something, never forgot it!). As soon as we realized he was gone, we formed a search party. After an hour, we alerted the park rangers. Nearby picnickers joined the hunt. Three hours later, Tom walked back into our campsite. He couldn’t tell us where he’d been. He just said he went walking. When he got tired, he came back. Over a lifetime, it never seemed to matter—whether shopping mall, school, church, even visiting places he’d never been—Tom always found his way home.

By the time I was an adult and had children of my own, my love for Tom was deep, but his love for me was even deeper. No matter how long it had been since he’d seen me (sometimes as much as a couple of years), his face would light up, he’d throw his arms around me, and he’d remind me of how long it was before my birthday. He’d tell me how his favorite ball team was doing (in detail). Then he’d ask about my parents, my siblings, and all of our children. He never forgot a single one.

Sometimes now, when I get irritated at my husband or my colleagues or even the folks in my neighborhood, I think about my grandparents who, in the years of their lives when most people had empty nests, chose to dedicate the rest of their days to Tom’s care and happiness. My grandmother lived to be 98. She was still helping him cut his meat until only a few months before she died. Though I never heard either my grandpa or my grandma say it out loud, surely the sacrifice Tom’s maintenance required must have been overwhelming. How did they always choose love?

Then one day, sadly not very long ago, I realized that instead of spending all their emotional energy lamenting reality as I too often do, my grandparents preferred a lifetime of just loving exactly who was there right in front of them—a profound message for all of us.