All It Takes Is A Little Love

They came from El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras and Mexico. They were not thugs or lazy people intent on taking advantage of American generosity. They were family men who worked hard, sometimes in the middle of the night, to care for their mothers, fathers, siblings, wives, children. They came for jobs that would provide them with enough income to send money to people back home. Their motives for being in the United States were unselfish, focused on hard work and a willingness to do the kind of jobs that most people don’t want. They quietly toiled from day to day, mostly unnoticed, faceless individuals too often imagined to be invaders in the minds of some American citizens, sometimes generically described by even those holding the highest offices in the land as “boogeymen” who were not even people. 

On a night when most of us were slumbering they were on the Francis Scott Key bridge in Baltimore repairing potholes to make the journeys of those who used the bridge a bit smoother.  It was just another long day of work for them. They may have been tired but they had learned to do whatever was needed to insure that they would be able to provide for those they loved. According to those who knew them they were good employees, good people who showed up when needed regardless of the time of day. They had little idea that the routine repair they were doing might be the last one that they ever did. They did not see the danger coming their way. 

At about 1:38 AM on March 26, a container ship slammed into the bridge. Within seconds the entire structure failed and came apart. The men were thrown into the water below. Did they realize what was happening? Did they know how to swim? Were their last thoughts terrifying or did they think of their loved ones as they hurtled into the water? How could something like this have happened? It was supposed to be just another repair, just another night at work. 

In some ways the six men who came to the United States in search of a way to make life better for themselves and their families represent the stories of all people who have come to our country in search of relief from the struggles in faraway lands. My own ancestors arrived here from parts of Great Britain long before colonists broke away from king and country in a revolution that would reverberate around the world. I know little about their lives other than their names. One of them was an indentured servant working her way to freedom. Others simply settled on land that they assumed to be free for the taking even as the native people asserted their own claims to the bounty of those original colonies. 

Much later my mother’s parents would arrive on steamships bound for Galveston, Texas filled with the same hopeful dreams as those six men on the bridge in Boston. My grandparents were from an area of Austria-Hungary that would one day be known as Slovakia. They worked in fields cultivating and harvesting crops. They cleaned buildings in the wee hours of the night and found jobs in bakeries and meat packing plants. They saved their money and purchased a tiny plot of land on which they would slowly build a tiny home where they would raise eight children whom they taught to cherish the opportunities of the United States. They would endure prejudice and abuse with their heads held high and their determination to succeed protecting them from the slings and arrows of misunderstanding.

Those six men on that bridge in Baltimore were part of the ongoing history of our nation, so much like the first people who came across the ocean in hopes of finding better lives. The streams of humanity across our borders were never intended to be invasions, but simply ways to better life. Those who have come here have all been people, humans willing to work and sacrifice to find a tiny plot of land where they might be free to be themselves. They were mostly good people with good intentions and a willingness to work for their privilege of being here. 

Perhaps if we were to begin by assuming the best about those now flooding across our borders rather than branding them with bad intentions we might find more humane ways of dealing with their desires to enjoy the kind of lives that we often take for granted simply because we were born here. The accident of birth came because our own ancestors once traveled here or were forced to be here or were native to this land. We exist in this place and this time as a consequence of people on branches of our family trees. Of course we want to protect our precious nation, but we would be well to appreciate the motives of those begging to join us, to understand their histories as well as our own. It does us no good to see people as faceless members of an invading horde. They are people with names and stories and reasons for risking everything to be with us. While we may find some bad actors among them, most of them will be more akin to those six men who were working hard to repair a bridge in the middle of the night. 

The beauty of the United States lies in generosity and compassion, not in concertina wire or angry insults. Sometimes we have done bad things in the name of progress or in thinking we are protecting each other. We can learn from those moments and strive for fairness and understanding. We can find ways to accommodate those who want to be part of our freedom and opportunity without being cruel. We can name them and listen to them and see them as humans just like we are. Only then will we make the right kind of adjustments to the ever changing flux and flow of the world from which we ourselves have come. A good start for all us will be thinking of those six good people from El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras and Mexico who were on that bridge in the middle of the night.

I tend to be very protective of people. In my career I encountered far too many children who had already been so broken by adults that is was almost impossible to piece them back together. Nonetheless I always attempted to help abused youngsters at least for the time that they were in my care. The stories that I heard about them and from them were heartbreaking and often resulted in sleepless night for me as I worried for their futures. Teaching such lost souls almost always made me grateful for my own good fortune in having loving and generous parents who daily made it clear to me that I was more important to them than anything else. 

I encountered thousands of students over the course of my career. Most of them came from good families that may have been lacking in money but were devoted to their welfare. The children enduring neglect and sometimes even physical and mental abuse are the ones that I remember the most. Their tortured stories still haunt me as I wonder how they are doing and if they managed to overcome the traumas of their childhoods. 

I suppose that I will never fully understand how a grown individual is so selfish that he or she would hurt a child and yet I witnessed so many horror stories. Sometimes I even wonder if there were cases in which children had learned so well how to adapt and present good fronts that I never knew how seriously toxic their lives were. I suspect that there were many who were suffering in silence. It was the ones screaming for help with their horrid behaviors who broke my heart. 

I’ll never forget the young boy threatening to slash open his throat with a pair of scissors while I attempted to talk him out of his suicide plan. With a quick maneuver I managed to outwit him and grab his weapon. He then broke down and melted into my arms. He left for psychiatric help and I learned the true horror of his existence. He had been set on fire by his mother who attempted to kill him when he was only three years old. He came back when he was well and thanked me for helping him and loving him and then he left. I still think of him and wonder if life worked out for him. He would be in his fifties now if he survived. 

There was also the set of twins who lived in a junkyard with a weak mother and a brutal father. Their story was akin to that of Cain and Abel. One brother was a bully who often harmed his sweet sibling. Their mother had no idea how to control the boys because she herself was being brutalized by her husband. Her solution was simply to leave one day while the boys were in school, never to return again or even to tell them goodbye. The bully is presently in prison and I don’t know what became of her meeker brother. I shudder to think of the horrors that they must have seen when they were young and impressionable. Later one of them would emulate the behaviors that he had witnessed from his father. The circle of violence would repeat itself.

There was the little girl whose mother irrationally decided that the innocent child was the source of all of the family’s difficulties. She favored the rest of her daughters but blamed her woes on my student who was in fact quiet and studious, seemingly a model of goodness. She shaved the girl’s head in a pique of anger and made her wear hand me down clothes that did not fit. Somehow the youngster persisted in her determination to learn so that she might one day have the knowledge and skills to leave the situation and make her own way in the world. 

I could fill a book with story after story of a parent or parents abandoning or abusing children. Some of their victims cracked. Some adopted brutal responses of their own. Some went inside themselves. Some created false stories about their situations as though telling a fairytale about who they were would wash away the reality of their hellish lives. Others saw a way out through education, persisting in spite of the horror that was in their homes. 

We worry about so many issues that are actually unimportant while too often ignoring the children who live unloved and abused. It is easier to look the other way when we see the signs that they are in trouble. We are able to make excuses because their behaviors are so audacious and unsavory. We blame them for their reactions to supreme neglect from their parents. We wash our hands in frustration believing that they are already doomed and there is nothing we might do to change that fact. All too often they have given up on themselves as well. 

Only love will turn around a life. Our most basic need is to feel safe and so many children do not know what that means. Kindness is missing in their lives but it does not have to be that way. Instead of being exasperated with their misdeeds we have an opportunity to help them by showing that we truly care about them. I have found that simply letting a child know that he or she is loved changes the trajectory of life.  

I once had a student who was a pain in the neck for all of his teachers. He was haughty, arrogant, exceedingly brilliant but also almost criminally disruptive. I often kept him in my classroom when nobody else wanted him around. I reshaped his behaviors with logic, catering to his intelligence, making him feel truly seen. He was good student when he was in my class. We had a great relationship, but somehow he was unable to transfer his changes to other teachers. The last I heard from him he had dropped out of school and was kicking around from one job to another. 

Years passed and one day when I went to vote in an election a handsome young man came over to address me. He reminded me of who he was and told me that even in his darkest moments he had remembered how I had encouraged him and liked him. He decided to turn his life around, to use the talents that I had pointed out to him. He went back to school first earning a high school diploma then going to college and finally law school. He said that anytime his road became rocky he told himself that he was good and capable. He said he heard my voice in his mind urging him to keep moving forward, to forgive himself when he would backslide for a moment. Then he gave me a big hug.

We never know when something that we do or say will literally save or redirect a life. If we genuinely care about every person that we encounter we are certain to be the change that we wish to see in the world. It may be our smile that makes a difference or maybe just our earnest belief in the possibilities of every human will be enough to lift someone from the junk heap of their experiences. Whatever the case, we must all try. The future should belong to everyone and it begins with the children, even the ones who appear to be impossibly bad. 

I remember tagging along with my father to a hardware store back in the days before big box home improvement centers. My senses came alive on those Saturday morning adventures. The smell of lumber and oil permeated the ambiance of the place. Instead of plastic boxes holding nails and screws there were open bins of all kinds of fasteners that one might purchase one at a time or in bulk. There were tools lining the walls and strange machines that fascinated me as I tagged along behind my daddy who seemed to know exactly what he needed for his current project. Of course just as he did with everything, he instructed me on the importance of finding the right tools for each job. 

I loved those places. They were usually much darker than the stores of today. They looked as though they had always been there like a shrine to the art and science of building. They were peopled by taciturn men with rough hewn hands who nodded to one another but moved on quickly in their quest to get back to whatever projects were planned for the day. It was a very different kind of shopping excursion than going with my father to a bookstore. He and the other men were on missions to accomplish tasks. There was a quiet bustle about the place that spoke to the business of getting things done. Conversations were quick and to the point with a few nods speaking volumes. 

To this day I get a kick out of walking through a hardware store, particularly if it is mostly like the ones of long ago. I tend to find them and gravitate toward them on our camping trips in small towns where Lowe’s and Home Depot have yet to come. The people working inside them seem to know all about what to do in any situation. They are able to instantly find whatever we may need. It feels as though they were born and raised inside those little stores cutting their teeth on sawdust and nails. 

We have an Ace Hardware store near where I live that comes mighty close to being like the stores of old. The aisles are wider and the lighting is much improved but there are still rows and rows of bins holding treasures that only the well informed know how to properly use. It’s a good place to visit to get really fine information on how to do things or whom to call to provide a competent repair. 

I can spend hours walking through a good almost old fashioned hardware store. I’m fascinated by the tools and products and often willing to give them a try inside my home. My own skills rarely get past hiding holes in the wall or gluing things together, but I often purchase things just because they seem like items that might one day be useful. My husband is the person who is handy when it comes to keeping the house in working order. He learned almost everything he knows from his Uncle Bob, a long time electrician whose garage was almost as well stocked as one of those old time hardware stores. 

Uncle Bob taught my husband well. He can accomplish almost any needed repair with the exception of those have anything to do with plumbing. He tried that a few times with disastrous results. After a total fiasco on one occasion he vowed to leave plumbing to the experts and he never looked back. Nonetheless he has a fairly good idea of how to do most home repairs or improvements and over the years I have accompanied him to hardware stores many times. Being in such places never fails to fill me with a sense of joy. 

Our garage is filled with handy tools that my husband inherited from his uncle. Some of his screws and fasteners are older than he is but still perfectly good for emergency jobs. My husband carefully stores everything in labeled drawers and bins that allow him to access whatever he needs quickly. He’s become a kind of “Bob Vila” of the neighborhood. Everyone knows that he has the supplies and the expertise to keep a home in good working order all of the time. He may have been a banker by trade but his passion has always been learning how things work and keeping them fine tuned. We often laugh when we realize that he might have been a happier as an Electrical Engineer or even an electrician like his Uncle Bob. Somehow the urge to build and fix things is baked into his DNA just as it was for my father and my grandfather. 

I’m excited because we plan to visit a hardware store in a small neighboring town today. I’ve never been there before so I intend to take my time perusing the offerings. Visiting a hardware store is always an adventure for me that evokes Saturday mornings when I awoke early like my father and tagged quietly along while he selected his supplies for the day’s project. I never picked up his skills but I certainly learned to appreciate them just as I do those of my husband. I enjoy learning from him just as I did with my father. Mostly I appreciate the remarkable skills of all people who know how to make something wonderful from a bit of this and that. The builders of the world fascinate me and make me smile. They may not be erecting cathedrals or skyscrapers but the work they do is fascinating and often starts with a visit to a hardware store.  

I have always been in awe of the stars and planets that lie beyond the confines of the earth. I remember lying on my back on summer evenings gazing up at the heavens. I tried to imagine the immensity of the space beyond my reach. I marveled at the effects of the daily rotation of the earth on its axis and the seasonal tilt that creates winter and summer, fall and spring. I thought of the beautiful precision of the earth’s annual revolution around the sun. The mathematical beauty of it all filled me with wonder.

When I was a fourteen year old freshman in high school my physical science teacher set up his telescope on the football field one evening and invited all of his students to come take a gander at the stars and planets. I’ll never forget adjusting my eyes and suddenly seeing Saturn with its rings looking as though it was close enough for me to reach out and touch it. I can still see that image in my mind and feel the excitement that consumed me in that moment. 

Later the teacher focused the telescope on the moon. I saw its craters and stony surface. I thought of my eighth grade teacher who assured us that one day there would be a human walking on the moon. I would be twenty years old when that amazing feat actually took place. I was in awe and even a bit jealous of the men who had traveled to the moon. I imagined that one day humans might take for granted the process of traveling back and forth to celestial places. I felt both a spiritual and intellectual connection with the incredible brilliance of human capabilities. Somehow we seem to have always been ultimately destined to explore the universe. 

I suppose that I will not live to see humans conquering and uncovering the secrets of the universe. I still imagine a day when we learn of other living creatures like ourselves. It seems logical to me that within the vastness of space there most certainly will be other beings with minds as creative as our own. I predict that the time will come when earthlings use all of the greatest minds to finally connect with whatever life is out there just waiting for us. 

More than anything I am fascinated by the workings of the universe and the ways in which each planet and star follows a set of rules that determines where it will be relative to every other object carrying out its destiny in the vastness of the heavens. I suppose that humans have always looked upward with wonder and made attempts to understand how it is possible for the reoccurrence of the phases of the moon and the demarcations between day and night. Even ancient cultures attempted to learn the secrets of how it all works. 

There are haunting places like Chaco Canyon in New Mexico where the Anasazi Native American tribe appears to have studied the heavens and made its movements part of religious ceremonies. With only basic tools and observations they were able to predict the solstices and the positions of the earth relative to the sun and the moon. I feel a kind of reverence whenever I visit there. I sense that the movements of the heavens have inspired humans throughout history to believe that there are forces almost beyond our comprehension that created such a wondrous system. Different cultures in different times and places have always believed that only a God would be capable of such creation. 

For me faith comes naturally whenever I gaze at the heavens. I may not believe all of the rules and traditions created by human beings, but I definitely sense that there is someone or something bigger than any of us who somehow came as the universe began. Scientists tell us that it all started with a big bang, but who and what made that big bang? There has to be a starting point. Nothing comes from nothing so what was the magic that made everything that we witness today? 

When I think of how small I am in relation to the millions of years that have led to this very moment I am filled with a sense of awe and even joy. It is all so incredible and I don’t ever want to take this beautiful earth where I live for granted. I truly believe that each of us has a duty to work together to keep the magnificence of our planet moving forward, not standing still or looking backward. The evolution of life has spanned more time than any of us are capable of imagining. It is now up to us to keep that forward movement going. We came into a garden of eden but we have not always treated it well. Our selfish tendencies have made so many of our fellow creatures and humans sick. It would be a grave sin to waste the glory of this place where we live. 

I do not think that there is any more important issue on this earth than unselfishly joining together to keep our beautiful place in the universe working as it was meant to be. It is our duty to overcome the sins of those who came before us who looted and destroyed the land and its creatures and people. We can be happy and comfortable if we simply honor the great gifts that make it possible for us to live peacefully and bountifully on this blue orb that seems to have a very special place in the grand scheme of the universe. The God in whom I believe has told us over and over again how to live. His/Her message is quite clear. We must honor God, ourselves and each other. That means caring for the place that was intended to keep us all living without want. We have a job to do. It’s time to get busy and to demonstrate our gratitude for the creation called Earth.

I admittedly fear death, not my own, but the death of people that I love. I have no doubt that this obsession comes from the unexpected death of my father during my childhood. I tend to dwell on thoughts of losing someone, especially as I myself grow older. No matter the circumstances it is always tough to say goodbye to someone who has been part of our own lives, but now and again we hear of an instance when death was a beautiful and spiritual experience. 

Everyone of us knows that death is inevitable. Nobody gets out of this world alive. We are reminded again and again that each of us have a limited lifespan, some more so than others. We watch a loved one suffering at the end of life and our grief is punctuated in knowing how difficult the last moments were for them. Sometimes individuals take charge of the situation much like a lovely woman who quite recently died. 

She was a lively individual who was sassy and joyful. She was the kind of person who made everyone in a room feel welcomed and loved. Somehow this lady made an indelible impression on me even though I had only been around her a few times. Her charisma and energy drew me to her and when we talked it felt as though we had been the best of friends for years. Time and distance kept us apart but I often thought about her with great pleasure. We exchanged Christmas cards and I heard stories about her from those who had first introduced me to her. 

This incredible woman was as lively as can be while reaching her mid nineties. Without warning she found herself in need of gallbladder surgery. The surgery was a success but the anesthetic left its mark on her kidneys. She could have undertaken months and even years of medical treatments but instead she chose to let nature take its course. She had been blessed in life and saw no need to extend it any more than necessary. As she grew nearer to death she was able to visit with all of her loved ones and she remained as wonderfully delightful as ever. They gathered around her and witnessed the peacefulness of her heart and her faith that God had been with her all along her journey. There was no suffering, only the happy expectation of joining her husband and her daughter in heaven. 

I think that this is the way most of us would like to spend our final days. We don’t always get that kind of choice but when we do it is a kind of blessing. Many among us choose to accept the inevitable on our own terms rather than attempting to elongate our lives with endless treatments and visits to doctors who are telling us that all it will buy is weeks or months. 

My mother chose to forego treatments that would have extended her life only a matter of weeks. She too passed from the world surrounded by family and in a state of elation. There was literally a glow about her when she smiled. She had made peace with her destiny and gave each of us the gift of knowing that she was happy in those final moments. 

I read a rather controversial editorial in a past issue of The Atlantic after hearing about it from my primary care physician. It was written by Ezekiel Emanuel, a doctor and the brother of Rahm Emanuel. In the essay he said that once he reached a certain age he would no longer take extreme measures to extend his life. As a physician he had noted that those who do so tend to suffer more in a quest to keep living than those who face the inevitable truth that their bodies are slowly shutting down. He did not suggest that younger people avoid such treatments or even older folks whose diagnoses of better health are fairly certain. He was talking about last ditch efforts with very limited promises. 

I have a friend who agrees with Dr. Emanuel. She is in her late seventies and is refusing all but the most basic medical services. A cousin of mine did the same after his diagnosis of heart failure had exhausted every possible surgery and treatment that might have given him years rather than weeks or months. Not long ago an uncle turned down surgery for the same reasons. These people chose to die naturally rather than attached to tubes and wires. 

I’m not sure how I will feel if and when such a day comes. For now I have few health issues other than arthritis and osteoporosis. I take medication for heartburn but my actual heart is working like a champ. I may live a very long time with or without extra efforts like my grandfather did. It’s not something that I worry about unless it involves someone I love. Then I find myself wanting to try anything to keep them alive just a bit longer. I suppose that maybe I should just let them decide how they want it to be. Instead of worry about their deaths I should spend more time enjoying their lives. None of us know when that last breath will come. Being afraid of it is not the answer, but getting the most out of each breath we take is.