From Dust Thou Art...

I know that for many people, the onset of dementia changes their personalities drastically. A co-worker of mine described how her children could not believe that their angry grandmother had truly been a kind and patient mother until the confusion of Alzheimer's altered her.

My husband's grandfather, though, is a different case study. "Grandfather Kirk" was a missionary in Brazil for 40 years. He and his wife raised four children, all of whom continue in their faith and remain married to their original spouses. Now, I don't think Grandfather was perfect in his early days. By most accounts, he was a bit hapless and depended heavily on the common sense of his wife to keep things rolling along. He was, however, steady and faithful in the things he believed and I don't think he's leaving his kids with any excessive emotional baggage. (Oh, if such an epitaph could be applied to me...)

Grandfather's dementia has progressed now to the point that he does not know his children, grandchildren, or great-grandchildren. He does remember his Portuguese, and his Bible, and his manners. He is unfailingly polite. He welcomes us kindly and hospitably when we visit, and is obviously delighted that these kind people have come to see him. The fact that he is not exactly sure who we are does not seem to bother him a bit. He hosts us with aplomb.

His connection is most clear and sweet, however, with Emma Kate. She turned "two in September" ( that's her age, if you ask her), and she, too, is not real clear about who Grandfather Kirk is or why we're visiting him, but she's delighted to see him nonetheless. He makes funny animal noises, and he has some stuffed animals in his room, and that's all the raw material they need to start a wonderful conversation. It is, to those of us on the outside of their world, hilariously stream-of-consciousness and non-sensical interaction. But Grandfather is taken with her chubby, clear-eyed sweetness, those blond curls, her willingness to trust him, her approach, her chatter, her arms flung around his neck. She brings him books and they look at the pictures together, talking earnestly of the adventures of Corduroy. He asks her, repeatedly, how old she is, and she never tires of answering, with delight, even, that she is "two in September." As her older siblings hover shyly nearby, more aware of the loss of Grandfather's faculties, Emma Kate is aware of no loss, only of the presence interesting and engaging person who seems to like her.

And in their interaction, two human beings are connecting in some essential way that often gets obscured by pesky considerations like remembering someone's name or what day of the week it is. She loves him, because he's there, and he loves her. And he loves her, because, even in the depths of dementia, her sweetness and openness and vulnerability call forth the love that still resides in him, which, by God's grace, has not been lost along with so many of his gifts and capacities and memories.

Those two are living their lives at opposite margins-- one at the beginnings of awareness and one at the end of it. There is some incredible clarity in those outer margins, some things they know that we wise and able and "with-it" people who are in the middle of the journey can't see. For a few minutes in a small nursing home room today, the most powerful force on the planet was unleashed between two of the most unlikely people. By day's end, the conscious memory of that moment is likely erased from their minds. But I was there, and I remember, at least for now.

Another One From the Back Seat

Driving home from a weekend in Charlotte, Alex and I were eavesdropping on a very earnest conversation coming from the way-back. Zoe was complaining that a friend who sometimes plays at our house, an older boy whose style of play is a little rougher than her preference for, well, the everyone-does-only-what-she-says kind of play...this friend, apparently, has been "shooting" her while they play, and she is not happy with the situation.

Z: "Davis, Joe keeps shooting me. I don't like it."

D: "Did you ask him to stop?"

Z: (with indignation) "Yes, and he didn't stop."

D: "Did you tell Mommy?"

Z: "He's just not going to stop no matter what."

D: (authoritatively) "OK, Zo, here's what you should do next time. First, tell him to stop. Then if he doesn't, come find me, and I'll figure out what to do. "

From the Back Seat

Little Mama-Sister in the back seat: "Hey Davis, remember when you fell and hurt your arm and had a lot of blood dripping at soccer practice?"

Big Brother from the middle seat: (pause) "Yes"

Little Sister: "Well, try not to do that again."

Z at 3

Zoe. It means "life" in Greek. Life with a capital "L," as in "I have come to give you Life, and Life to the full." We call you Zoe-belle. And sometimes just Bella. Or Bella-boo. Your little sister says your name with great confidence: "Weezy." And so we all call you Weezy now as well. You seem to enjoy your various nicknames and hear them with the affection with which they are said.

I'm afraid you have aquired a bit of a reputation as being "strong-willed." It is true that you have pitched some fantastic fits in your first 3 1/2 years. You hold the distinction of being the only one of my three who I had to carry out of Target, screaming, under one arm. When you are worn out, you get ornery, by which I mean you scream a lot and you become irrational and pretty much impossible to calm down. The car seems to bring out particular frustration for you; strapped in, unable to retrieve things, and stuck is not your best scenario. I have a lot of memories of stressful car rides.

But Weezy, my dear and beautiful girl, this side of you, while memorable, is not Who you are. You are sensitive and observant. You watch and watch and watch some more, so that you know the names of all of your friends and their siblings and parents and your siblings' friends and their siblings and parents and Davis's classmates and whose turn it is to bring snack in Davis's class. You are cautious initially, slow to engage, but you love from a distance even as you watch. When you do engage, you are kind and thoughtful, allowing a friend the first turn, the better seat, the requested marker. I am so proud of your kindness toward others, including your brother and sister. You love to talk about your friends: Ann Elizabeth, Lindsey, Audrey, Haley and the "Big Girls," Elissa and Julia.

Your are affectionate. Your favorite phrase of late: "Mama, I have not had a hug all morning!" And whether the last hug was actually five minutes or several hours prior, nothing but nothing beats a true Zoe hug, sweet and strong. You and Davis sometimes get cuddly with each other as well, nuzzling cheeks and snuggling to read a story.

Oh, and your reading. You do love books, always have. The same stories, again and again until they are memorized. You are swift to correct us when we miss or modify a word. You know your numbers and letters and can write many of them, including your whole name, with the Z perfectly reversed. I love it.

You say you love pink and princesses and Dora. What you really love is to color. And to read. And to play outside. To talk. To pretend. Often at dinnertime, when we're sharing our favorite part of the day, your answer is "When we were all home together as a family."

Love your imagination, playing pretend in your room at rest time. Love your swinging these days- pumping those legs high and flying through the air! Taking showers. Brave at the lake with your face in the water. Just about potty trained, though still using a diaper at rest time...you say you'll probably be ready to poop in the potty when you're five. No more paci. That was a hard, hard transition for a couple of weeks, but now it's like you never had it.

Your mind is strong. "Mama, did you know that Jesus is God?" "Mama, Eliza died." "I know what plus two plus two (two plus two) is!" The words of the Lord's prayer, the doxology, numerous hymns, memory verses.

My Zoe-girl is getting bigger, and I have to say that my love for you grows bigger and fiercer every day. I'm so proud of the little person you are. You make me laugh, you make me smile, and I really enjoy being with you. There's a lot of Life in you, Weezy. I love you so very much.

More on My Big Guy

As we pass the empty lot, my five year old asks me what the big, complicated sign says.

"That lot is for sale," I answer. "Someone can buy it and build a store or a house in that space."

"Maybe the homeless people could buy it!" he suggests.

"Well, perhaps..." I begin to answer, not sure where to go with this conversation.

"Yes," he adds, growing more excited about his unfolding plans. "And then they could build a house and get married and have children and be happy."

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Last night, the children were safely tucked into bed and the garden needed water. I snuck out to enjoy the cool evening air and took great pleasure in caring for my thirsty plants. Upon entering the house, I noticed that Davis's light was on and his room was empty. His sisters' door was a ajar. I pushed it open to find Davis sitting in the dark on Zoe's bed. "Mama," he explained, "Zoe was sad, and I knew you were outside, so I just came to sit with her until you came back."

My Toothless Wonder

On the occasion of your first missing tooth, I find myself astonished at the person you have become at 5 1/2, Mr. D.

You choose to shower now. Shower! As in, you come home from soccer practice, take a shower, and eat your dinner. That's not toddler stuff.

And bless your heart, as our first born and Mama's first baby, you constantly have to prompt us, your clueless parents, that it's time to move on to the next thing. I'm ready to shower. I'd like to eat with a regular fork, please. I can go get the mail. I don't need help with this, or that, or the other thing anymore, Mama. Right. You are, after all, 5 1/2, and you really don't need that kind of help anymore. If you didn't remind me of that, I'd still have you eating in the high chair, I think.

You hold on to your sweetness, though. You love your sisters with such a nurturing presence, such willingness to help them, such kindness and appreciation of them. You love your friends and share freely and gladly. You love your family, all your grandparents especially, and Mommy and Daddy, with whom you are unabashedly affectionate.

Last night, you called me back in after lights-out. I was expecting the traditional litany of "I'm hungry, I'm thirsty, I'm not tired." But last night, you called me because you had a question. How, exactly, do they capture sharks from the ocean and transport them to an aquarium? Without the sharks biting people? How, exactly, not in baby-general terms? So we discussed some of my guesses and agreed that we'd go on-line the next day do some research. I went downstairs shaking my head, amazed and grateful for all that goes on in your mind.

Speaking of your mind, it is a joy to watch you gravitate with intensity toward letters and numbers. You're learning to read, all on your own. You're doing math all the time, when you skip-count in basketball and quiz me with math facts and count your enormous car collection or the number of times you can hit the ball before it drops to the ground. It is all joy to you, these symbols that hold ever-increasing meaning in your world. It is a joy to me to watch you figure it all out.

And no reflection on my 5 1/2 year old boy could fail to mention how you love your sports. Hours of basketball in the driveway, made even better when Mommy or Daddy is soundly schooled by your accurate shot. Tennis. Soccer. Cheering on your Tarheels. When a game is going, whether you are playing or watching, your attention is fully focused.

Sweet D, we love you. It is with some sadness that we let go of your baby teeth and your baby days, but with even more joy, we love watching you grow. So bring on the tooth fairy. We're ready. I think.