Hey friends, it’s been a super busy week around here. How’s it been for you? I’m so glad the weekend is finally here. Exhale.

Today I’m re-sharing the first post I ever published on this blog because A – most of you haven’t seen it before. And B – because you’ll laugh. I hope.

I actually planned to write a new piece for today, but there’s still a ton of baking to do for homecoming this weekend.

Bake or write. Bake or write. Baking won out. Cupcakes. And if they come out great, trust me, you’ll see them here!

So read on and enjoy this little blast from the past!

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Everytime A Bell Rings

He had an odd, curious look on his face that hot, muggy day. The fan oscillated on high, the windows were open wide. We should’ve shut them hours earlier and turned on the air. Trying to stay cool during the “dog days” of August.

Everyone had shorts on at the dinner table, and I wore a sleeveless linen blouse, trying to beat the heat.

Salad, grilled steak tips and watermelon. That was the menu. And a mountain of icy cold watermelon triangles. We loaded our plates, and I shook the salad dressing.

His eyes weren’t necessarily on me, but intently focused on something nearby. And I recognized that same curious look, the smirk in his eye. And I returned to a day months earlier.

I’d picked him up after school as usual.

“How was second grade?”

“Fine.”

“So what’d you do at school today?”

“Nothing.”

“Surely you did something.”

“What we do at school every day. Learn,” he said, disinterestedly.

“So what did you play at recess?”

“Tag.”

“Was it fun?”

“Not really.”

(Sigh.) “The single biggest problem with communication is the illusion that it has taken place.”

Well, I was under no grand illusion here. I’d run out of questions, and he was obviously out of answers. I settled in for the quiet car ride home.

Halfway home, I checked the rearview mirror and noticed an unusual exercise in progress. His right sleeve was rolled up high, his little arm flexed like a muscle man. His fist pumped furiously back and forth. Simultaneously, his left hand batted at his tricep. He watched intently, quiet glee apparent. It was odd.

“What are you doing honey?”

“Just playing a game.”

“What kind of game,” I persisted. “Does it have a name?”

He stayed focused, flexing and batting. “It’s called Bingo Wings, Mommy.”

Bingo Wings. I’d never heard of a game called Bingo Wings, but I’m not exactly the person to ask. I’m not really a game person. Plus I always lose. I doubted I’d be good at this one either. But I tried connecting anyway.

“So what are the rules? How do you play?”

“Well it’s easier to play if you’re really old. Like forty or a hundred.

First, you put your arm up like this…… and SQUEEEEZE. Make a big fist and turn your wrist back and forth…… just like this.” He demonstrated.

“And THEN…. you watch the hanging skin and fat wiggle and jiggle like jello. See?” He vainly attempted jiggling his taut skin.

“Where’d you learn that?” I asked flatly.

“From Tommy at recess.” (When I was in school we played hopscotch and jumped rope.)

“I don’t think that’s a very nice game,” I said. “And I won’t play.”

Fast forward to the dinner table. He bit a watermelon triangle and stared hard. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. It was written all over his face. Because as I shook the dressing at the table that night, I detected the same curious, gleeful Bingo Wings look. And I just knew.

Well I’m not a hundred years old. (Not yet.) And I’m usually rotten at games. But apparently I’m first rate at Bingo Wings. It’s an effortless game you can play with your eyes closed. There are no game pieces to lose. The rules are “loose”. Play on your own or with a crowd.

It’s gratifying to finally be a winner at the ripe old age of forty-one.

“Look Daddy! Teacher says, Everytime A Bell Rings, an angel gets its wings.”.

It’s a Wonderful Life (Wings aside, it truly is.)

You may also enjoy: Nuts About Her

The post Everytime a bell rings… appeared first on Through Her Looking Glass.

I like to imagine what it was like when our Hudson was born nearly five years ago and the search for his guardian angel began in earnest in the heavenly realms. (If you’re new, Hudson has Down syndrome.)

Maybe God posted an announcement something like this: “We’ve got a new job opening. There’s a precious baby about to be born by the name of Hudson. He’s very special, got an extra chromosome, and it’s gonna take an incredibly kind, focused and attentive angel for this job. One that has infinite patience, understands Hudson’s little fixated ways, idiosyncrasies, mischief. His unpredictability, his curiosity. His sweet, happy nature. His lack of restraint. Only serious, dedicated, focused guardian angels need apply.”

I’m sure the interviews were thorough and the perfect angel for Hudson was chosen. I’m confident of this, because his guardian angel works round the clock protecting Hudson, mostly from himself. We’ve seen his angel in action. Well we haven’t actually SEEN him, just proof of his work.

There’s the time I heard the big crash from Hudson’s room last year. I knew he’d toddled up the stairs, heard him through the baby monitor, happily playing with toys, looking at books. When all of the sudden:

BANG!

CRASH!

And a blood curdling Hudson scream.

I raced up to find him pinned under his bureau. Never before had I seen Hudson touch his dresser, but he obviously did that day. The whole dresser with five drawers jammed full of clothes, the lamp and small book shelf on top crashed down onto him. His head and left arm were still free and I managed to pull the dresser off him with lightning speed. He was crying, scared. But not a scratch. This is how I know Hudson has a guardian angel.

Hudson loves to watch cartoons, and for some unknown reason he’s fixated on angling the TV screen that’s inside our living room armoire. It’s an older flat screen that swivels, and if he pulls on one edge, he can angle it one way or the other. It makes us nervous and he receives frequent instruction about not touching it. We’re always there if he’s watching something anyway. Until that time we weren’t. I was around the corner in the kitchen, heard the crash. He’d somehow pulled the TV down out of the armoire where it crashed onto the floor, hung there by the cords. There’s a big gouge in the wooden floor now, and sometimes we have to fiddle with the TV buttons to make it work. But Hudson? Not a scratch on him. Exhale. Thank God for Hudson’s guardian angel.

So today’s Friday. It’s the morning I try to get out the door for Bible study. You know from past how Friday mornings seem to go for me. (Check out: Murphy’s Law.) It’s early and Jon and the boys are running late, still making lunches before heading out. I dash to get a quick shower, hear crying from the bathroom. I race to the kitchen, find Hudson sitting on the floor. The scene: he’s mad, shaking a lidded plastic peanut butter jar he apparently wants open.

And I don’t think he’s mad about the jelly, that it even phases him. Yeah the jelly.

The jelly and the broken glass surrounding him and what’s left of the big jelly jar, jagged on both ends. Yeah, Jon and the boys had to go, and in the hurry to get out the door on time, leave the lunch stuff out. And Hudson wanders in. Did I mention he likes to grab stuff off the counter? Does he ever. And he’s a southpaw to boot. The rest is history. Just one teeny tiny scratch, drop of blood in the arch of his right foot. That’s all. So thankful, relieved, grateful again for Hudson’s guardian angel.

There are more stories I could tell you. Like the time he hucked his sippy cup during dinner, shattered Jon’s tall drinking glass full of H20. And many more. We’re all doing our best to work consistently with Hudson, teach him better ways. And you can see why he needs a very attentive, focused guardian angel.

Lunchtime arrives today and I explain to Hudson how sad it is that there’s no jelly for his PB & J sandwich. (Ahem.)

 Photo courtesy of www.DesignbyLindaNee.com

Here’s a heartfelt message to Hudson’s guardian angel:

Thank you. We’re so grateful God chose you. Please continue your excellent job protecting our little Hudson. He’s very dear to us and we’re all so very grateful. You deserve a raise. And wings too, if you’re wanting them. (Though I’m guessing you’ve already earned several pairs on Hudson’s watch.)

Related post: Glimpse of Sunshine

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What determines whether a life is a Success or Failure? It’s not what we do or accomplish that makes us successful or valuable. True success and value come for each of us as we faithfully live out who we were created to be. It’s not in the doing, but in the being.

I first read the following touching piece after Hudson was born. Then I read it again. And again. As the truth I already knew seeped from my head to my heart.

My Brother’s Successful and Valuable Life

by Cal Thomas, Tribune Media Services, 2012

“How does one measure whether a life was a success, or a failure?

Some would measure it by recognition, that is, how many knew the person’s name. For others, the measure of a successful life would be the amount of wealth accumulated, or possessions held. Still others would say a life was successful if the person made a major contribution to society – in medicine, sports, politics, or the arts.

By that standard my brother, Marshall Stephen Thomas, who died Jan. 5, was a failure. If, however, your standard for a successful life is how that life positively touched others, then my brother’s life was  a resounding success.

Shortly after he was born in 1950, Marshall was diagnosed with Down syndrome. Some in the medical community referred to the intellectually disabled as “retarded” back then, long before the word became a common epithet. His doctors told our parents he would never amount to anything and advised them to place him in an institution. This was advice too often taken then by parents who were embarrassed about having a disabled child.

Our parents wanted none of that. In the 50’s, many institutions were snake pits where inhumanities were often tolerated and people were warehoused until they died, often in deplorable conditions. While they weren’t wealthy, my parents were committed to seeing that Marshall had the best possible care, no matter how long he lived. Because of their dedication, and thanks to the Kennedy family and their commitment to the rights, causes and issues related to the mentally and physically challenged, Marshall had a longer and better quality of life than might have been expected. He outlived his life expectancy by nearly 40 years. He lived his life dancing and singing and listening to the music he loved.

Yes, it cost our parents a lot of money to give him the care they believed he deserved. They might have taken more vacations, owned a fancier house and driven a luxurious car, but before we valued things more than people, they valued Marshall more than any tangible thing. And that care rubbed off on me and other family members.

The stereotype about people who call themselves conservatives is that we don’t care for the less fortunate. Even if that were true (which it isn’t), Marshall deepened my sensitivity and understanding for the mentally and physically challenged and for those who, like our parents, committed themselves to caring for others who were touched by a malady that could easily have been ours.

I was seven years old when Marshall was born. A year or two later when the diagnosis was made, I bought a popular book written by Dale Evans and gave it to our parents. It was called “Angel Unaware.” The title was taken from a verse in the New Testament which says, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares” (Hebrews 13:2). Evans’ book was about the Down syndrome child she had with her husband, Roy Rogers.

Roy and Dale named their daughter Robin Elizabeth, and their commitment to her (she died at the age of 2) strong influenced our parents’ decision to take care of Marshall, rather than institutionalize him. While it was sometimes difficult for them and later after their death, for me, we never regretted that decision because of the joy Marshall brought to our lives.

At the end of the Christmas classic “It’s a Wonderful Life,” George Bailey reads an inscription in a book given to him by Clarence, his guardian angel: “Remember, no man is a failure who has friends.”

No life is a failure when it causes so many to care for others. At that my brother succeeded magnificently.”

So thank you Mr. Thomas, for helping pave the way so beautifully for my Hudson. And also to your sacrificial parents. And thank you Dale Evans and Roy Rogers for helping change society’s perception of people with Down syndrome at a critical time in history. And thank you Mom and Dad. Your loving sacrifices and courageous choices in our own family have helped create a kinder, gentler, more welcoming world for Hudson and other special needs children today. XO

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