The Strength of Small Things

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

Robert Frost

Son #5 took a half hour nap during his AP Calculus test. He still passed the exam. Not unusual behavior for Son #5. He endured a good deal of ribbing from his older siblings about that nap, and by extension, his often cheerfully lackadaisical behavior. (He once took the place of his wife when she had to drop out of competing in a 10K because she discovered she was pregnant. During the race, without any formal training and running beside his brother-in-law, a sister, and a sister-in-law, Son #5 decided he was hot and a little bored, so he cruised into a 7-11 along the race route and grabbed a Big Gulp. Then jumped back in to finish the race!)

Eventually, Son #5 decided he owed his AP math teacher a ‘thank you’ for his remarkably lucid class instruction. At the time Mr. Walker, his teacher, was dying of cancer. It was a sweet reunion. A legend at our house, most of my children took calculus from Mr. Walker, and all of them learned to love math. (I hope wherever Mr. Walker is resting in Heaven, he understands the scope of his legacy.)

The other day Son #5’s wife posted a photo of my son at their kitchen table with a couple of their teen-age daughter’s friends. Son #5 has become their math tutor. Over the years, Son #5 has earned some pretty big bucks–by my standards, at least–but the picture in the kitchen may be telling the story that matters.

Son #1 called me Monday to tell me his father-in-law had died only a few minutes before. He was struggling to avoid weeping. Son #1 is not a particularly emotional type, but last winter his father-in-law had a massive heart attack, a by-pass surgery, and then a stroke which left him bed-ridden and unable to care for even the smallest of his own needs. Because Son #1’s mother-in-law is elderly and her youngest son is a special needs adult, Son #1 and his wife decided to sell their house and move a couple of blocks away to a larger home which would accommodate both families. For the last several months, they have cared for the bed-ridden patient, his wife, and his son. Not a single day has been easy, but there was no doubt that love flooded my son’s voice.

Yesterday, Daughter #2 told me she “ugly cried” at work. She’s a school nurse. Usually she and her colleagues spend their days working with students who suffer from diabetes or cystic fibrosis or the myriad of illnesses and injuries that pop up daily among every student group. Now those nurses are averaging 12 to 14 hour days (including weekends) contact tracing around students diagnosed with COVID. Along with the administrators with whom she works, Daughter #2 identifies students who were exposed, notifies parents and teachers that their students are quarantined at home for up to two weeks, delivers public health information, and then begins again with the next case. The “ugly cry” was exhaustion.

She is not alone. Many teachers report working until the wee hours every night trying to meet the learning needs of their students both in person and online. Educators all around Daughter #2 and her associates are living with the kind of hyper-alert stress usually reserved for those exposed to the ravages of alcoholism, drug addiction, or family abuse.

Ironically, we are still embroiled in the results of several hotly contested elections across the country. There has been a good deal of name-calling, demeaning, labeling, and belittling on the part of one candidate to another—the four pillars of corrosion which undermine trust, compassion, and relationships–according to my therapist father. Seldom have I heard any rhetoric from a politician which reflects an empathy for or an understanding of the challenges and choices members of their communities face on a daily basis. The stories that count are behind the doors of families across our nation.

In the end, it is the consistent daily acts of millions ordinary people which are the bedrock of a successful society. It’s neighbors checking on each other to be sure no one goes without in a time of need, friends who provide birthday cakes or unexpected bouquets of flowers, volunteers who spend a Saturday afternoon raking up the leaves in the yard of an elderly woman down the block, the prayers of a local church congregation in behalf of a member with cancer. The measure of a life well-lived is the work, not the policy or the wealth or the power. Good people matter, however small or large their contributions may seem—and through them, we are all blessed.