Donna Judge Malarsky
Donna Judge Malarsky is employed at a Christian school in Sherwood Park, Alberta, Canada. She grew up in an extremely small town, Small Point, Newfoundland. She moved to Edmonton in 1991, and married the love of her life in 2003. She has two grown children and three grandchildren, whom she loves dearly.
An Angel Among Us
Instill the love of you into the world, for a good character is what is remembered.
The Teaching for Merikare
All teachers remember that one student who reaches into the depths of their hearts and touches their souls. Jackie was mine. She had lived most of her nine years in and out of hospitals and homebound classrooms by the time she arrived at mine. I joined the platoon of all who taught and cared for Jackie, astounded by her amazing spirit, as we witnessed her bravely fighting the dreaded disease that was maliciously robbing her body of its ability to survive. Having spent so much of her short life being poked with needles and fighting to breathe, Jackie did not totally trust anybody, always keeping her distance. Only her mother was allowed close enough to hug Jackie and give her the love and affection we all wanted to share.
Most of my students that year were little rough-and-tumble boys who avowed often that they had absolutely no use for girls. However, they had not reckoned with Jackie. With her curious combination of an adorable sense of humor and understandable caution, she drew each of us into her web and made us her protectors. I would often hear “You know, she’s just like one of the guys,” and “Jackie’s here73” coming from my little guys’ mouths.
Two days before Jackie’s last hospitalization, her mother brought her to my classroom late one afternoon after the dismissal of all the school’s students. Collecting her belongings on that final day, Jackie finally succumbed to the world around her—and my prayers—and let someone besides her mother get close enough to her to kneel down and give her a long hug, a show of long overdue affection. I shall forever be grateful to the God I worship that I was that person. As her mother snapped a picture of the two of us, I could feel the fragile bones of Jackie’s body and was sadly aware of just how pitifully and painfully ill Jackie truly was.
As the three of us walked down the school corridor together, I knew I would never see Jackie again, that this would be her last hospital stay. I could feel the tears rolling down my cheeks, and an intense sadness cover me with a shimmering and shivering fog. Jackie turned at the end of the hall, clutching her Barney, and waved a final and somewhat shy good-bye. Jackie’s mother gave a wavering smile that I knew was overflowing with her immense bravery and sadness.
Three weeks later, I heard a quiet knock at my classroom door. One of my closest teacher friends stood before me with tear-filled eyes, holding a slender newspaper clipping in her shaking hands. “What is it?” I asked, so afraid of the answer. She quietly handed me Jackie’s obituary and gently hugged me as I cried profuse tears of loss. I was finally able to return to my classroom to give the hardest and saddest news I had ever had to share with a class. We gathered together as I told the children of Jackie’s death and the disease that had taken her from us. We cried and hugged and spent a special moment in time, remembering a little girl who had meant so much to us all.
One of the quietest little boys said what we all felt, “She always was an angel, and now she is one.” At the students’ suggestion, we dedicated a bulletin board to Jackie. I watched through my own sadness and tears as the class produced pictures and stories in honor and memory of their special friend. I now knew, as those little boys showed, an angel had indeed been in our midst. But still I grieved with intense pain and the empty feeling of a terrible loss.
Several weeks after Jackie’s funeral, I heard a soft knock at my door and was overjoyed to see Jackie’s mother standing before me. “I’m so sorry” were the first words out of my mouth. As we hugged and cried together, she told me quietly, “Thank you so much for loving my child.” Very timidly, she handed me an envelope. Inside was the picture of Jackie and me in that one last hug. “Oh, thank you,” I said, knowing I would treasure that picture always, as a memory of someone too special to ever truly be lost or forgotten. “Thank you for lending Jackie to us.”
I invited her into the classroom. At first she declined, but I told her I had something special to show her. I introduced her to the class, and a hush settled. One of my shyest students walked up to Jackie’s mother, silently took her hand, and led her to Jackie’s bulletin board. She read each letter and stared at every picture, including Jackie’s obituary, touching each lovingly. As she turned to look at us with tears of sadness streaming down her face, a tiny quaking voice said, “We want you to have our pictures of Jackie.”
While taking them down, I watched Jackie’s mother walk from child to child and give each a shy kiss. She said her good-byes to the students, and we walked down the school hallway together, both knowing it would be the last time we would meet and talk. We stopped to hug, and then I watched her walk out of my life just as I had watched her little angel do. As she turned to wave goodbye in the same way as her child, I noticed her clutching the pictures and letters to her breast, as if hoping to keep Jackie close. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I realized I was holding Jackie’s picture in the same way.
Margaret Prator
Margaret Prator, a “born” teacher of twenty-five years’ duration, with concentration on children with disabilities, has also been a freelance writer for as long. Several of her nostalgia pieces have been published in regional publications. Her column, STATION K-I-D-Z, narrated by Church Mouse, appears in her church’s newsletter. Please e-mail her at
[email protected] 6
SIBLING
REVELRY
Brothers and sisters are as close as hands and feet.
Vietnamese Proverb
Something About Benny
A brother is a friend given by nature.
Jean Baptiste Legouve
There is something about Benny that is strange. My little brother Benny doesn’t look strange, but sometimes he acts like he is from a different planet. He thinks he is a dinosaur, and roars in restaurants and growls in the grocery store. My mom tells him not to growl so loudly, but he doesn’t always listen.
There is something about Benny that is different from other little boys. Most little boys want to grow up to be firemen or astronauts. Not Benny. He wants to grow up and be a building. He likes to hold up the walls at the school and stare at the bricks very closely. I think he can see right through them, but he never tells me what he sees.
There is something about Benny that is magical. He can make a whole room of people disappear just by closing his eyes really tight and saying, “Go away!” Poof! They’re gone. When he wants them to come back again, he just opens his eyes. Sometimes I wish I could do that magic trick, too.
There is something about Benny that is smart. He never forgets where he puts his toys, shoes, books, coat, or chocolate-chip cookie. He has memorized all of his favorite movies, from beginning to end. He can say them line for line and not miss a word. He knows all of his colors and the alphabet and the bones of the tyrannosaurus rex, but he won’t always tell you.
There is something about Benny that is unique. He doesn’t care what the other kids are wearing to school or what the weather is like outside. Last summer, when the sun was melting ice-cream cones faster than we could lick them, he wore a blue snowsuit and a green knitted cap every day. In the winter, when the ice cracked beneath our feet on the driveway, he wore his swimsuit and his favorite short-sleeved T-shirt. My mom told him he couldn’t wear it outside, so he laid down flat and closed his eyes and made her go away.
There are lots of things about Benny that are funny. He makes silly faces and rolls his eyes and giggles to himself. He hides in the bushes and thinks he really is a tyrannosaurus rex. He wants to eat leaves, because that is, of course, what dinosaurs do. But my mom won’t let him. She makes him eat chicken.
There is something about Benn
y that is athletic. He climbs trees and walls and doorways, and makes it look so easy. He can hike farther than any of my friends, and he can ride his bike for miles and miles without even breathing hard. He can also swim for hours and never get tired.
There is something about Benny that is tender. He loves babies, and wants to touch their eyes and nose and mouth. He wants to hold them and feed them a bottle. He loves animals, too, and pets their soft fur and feathers.
There is something about Benny that makes me sad. Kids say, “What’s wrong with you, kid?” and “Why do you talk so funny?” Benny just ignores them, but it makes me sad inside.
There is something about Benny that makes me mad. Sometimes I get mad because I have a brother who screams and yells and acts so strange. Sometimes I get embarrassed and wish that he had a different brain, a typical brain like mine.
But then he wouldn’t be Benny.
There is something about Benny that is out of this world. When he babbles and banters and barks to himself, I don’t call it nonsense. I pretend he is speaking with angels.
There is something about Benny that many people don’t see. They see a five-year-old boy saying silly sentences and parroting protests. They see a child whose body never seems to stop moving. Sometimes they get mad and sometimes they just stare, but sometimes they say mean things to him or my mommy. But they don’t see what I see.
There is something about Benny that is just like you and me. He wants to feel loved and needed and special. He wants to be included in the playground games. He wants to have a best friend. He wants to help others.
There is something about Benny that makes me want to reach out to those who are different from me. Sometimes I see people’s differences on the outside. Sometimes I see people who don’t look any different on the outside, but I know they are different on the inside. I can see it in their eyes and feel it in my heart.
I know that Benny is here to teach me to be patient and kind and forgiving and compassionate.
There’s something about Benny that makes me thankful that I have a brother who speaks to angels.
Kimberly Jensen
Kimberly Jensen graduated with a B.A. in communication from the University of Utah in 1991. She is the mother of three children and writes children’s books focusing on loving children with disabilities since her youngest was diagnosed with autism in 2001. Please e-mail her at
[email protected] “Sharon doesn’t say much,
but she communicates well with animals.”
Reprinted by permission of Stephanie Piro. ©2007 Stephanie Piro.
Believe
Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.
Calvin Coolidge
Little did I know that Emily’s unconditional belief in her little brother’s can-do ability would someday help her recover from a devastating car accident.
When life as we know it shatters and dreams evaporate too soon, we lose our ability to believe that goodness can come from tragedy, that overwhelming grief can lead to future healing.
I was so young, and I knew so little in 1985 when our second baby, Mark, was born. I had survived a tempestuous childhood of enormous sadness and loss, and my only dream was to be a kind and loving mother to the happy, healthy babies God would surely bless us with.
But babies didn’t come quickly, and we spent years visiting fertility specialists. When Emily was born with bright light in her eyes and a joie de vivre that filled our home with wondrous energy, I believed she was a miraculous answer to years of prayer.
I selfishly wanted more for us and for Emily; I wanted another baby to share our blessings. Years passed, with more tests and several miscarriages. And then, on one of the prettiest spring days I’ve ever seen, my husband Russ and I celebrated the birth of our son Mark. God had blessed us once again, we merrily told friends and family, near and far, with a rich man’s family—a girl and a boy!
Mark was a sweet baby, quiet and undemanding, sleepy and content. Pretty, too, with his older sister’s dark brown hair and hazel eyes. But the morning after his birth, the pediatricians told us that Mark had one microscopic flaw that changed our lives forever—an extra chromosome, or Down syndrome.
Mark’s diagnosis shattered me deeply and gravely, but I had to keep living, to go through the motions for our four-year-old daughter. Somehow, I gathered enough composure and grace to show Emily her baby brother without sobbing through the visit. She loved him immediately, glowing as she held “her baby.” She was never jealous of him, never complained about all the medical appointments and therapists and emergencies that consumed the next year of our lives.
She adored Mark. She even angrily told me one day when I had let him cry too long that he didn’t want me anyway. “He wants me to be his mommy, not you! He’s my baby!”
The years passed, and Mark flourished. Milestones were significantly delayed, but he eventually reached them. The light in his eyes grew brighter as a magical little boy emerged from the shadows of doctors’ first gloomy predictions of “He can’t . . .” and “He’ll never . . .” I began to see that Mark was a happy, loving child who worked incredibly hard to do all the things his therapists and teachers asked of him, slowly but surely learning and doing so much more than I ever believed he would.
Emily was his favorite teacher. She didn’t know that other baby brothers and sisters didn’t have speech, physical, and occupational therapists coming into their homes several times a week. She didn’t know that all babies don’t begin school when they are three weeks old to learn how to track with their eyes, to hold up their heads, or to roll over. On days when I just couldn’t do all the infant-stimulation exercises with Mark at home, Emily would excitedly “play” with him, holding bright, musical toys for him to see, hear, and reach for. She always cheered his every move! He crawled to her before he ever crawled to anyone else, racing—at his own speed—for a hug from his big sister. I’m quite sure his very first smile was for Emily.
Before she was five, she had given Mark everything I struggled to give him—unconditional love and unconditional belief in his abilities. She taught me how to be Mark’s mom.
Little did I know that Emily’s unconditional belief in Mark’s can-do ability would someday save her.
On a Sunday afternoon in December 1998, when Mark was thirteen and Emily was seventeen, I was waiting for Emily to come home after an overnight with Melanie, her best friend. Mark, his little sister Carolyn, ten, and little brother David, eight, and I were home baking Christmas cookies and singing carols with friends and their kids. I was conscious of how happy I felt, how blessed I was to be surrounded with so much love.
The phone rang. Melanie was sobbing. A car had broad-sided them, and Emily, in the passenger seat, wouldn’t wake up. They were less than a mile from our front door. Life was shattered again.
As I choked out what had happened, Mark dropped to his knees and prayed, “Please, God, Emily can’t die; she’s my sister. Please help her.”
Emily had suffered a traumatic brain injury, broken pelvis, broken back, broken ribs, and massive internal injuries. She remained in a coma for three weeks. The doctors gave her less than a 40 percent chance of survival. If she did survive, they warned us, “She’ll never be the same and may have to spend the rest of her life in a nursing home.”
Therapists had given Mark so much so many years ago. Physical therapists, speech pathologists, and occupational therapists had taught Mark things his pediatrician thought were impossible. Emily’s unconditional love and belief in Mark’s ability had once been his greatest motivation. Now Mark’s lessons would help Emily relearn everything— words and their meanings, names of her friends and relatives, how to drink from a cup, hold a fork and a pen, how to stand and then walk, understand what she read,
and believe in herself again.
“You can do it, sis,” Mark would encourage Emily as she tried to walk five feet down the hall using a walker. And she’d take a few more steps just for him.
She’d snarl at me when I’d make her use the right word instead of “thing” or “it.” But for Mark, she’d show off her latest mastery of the names of various fruits.
Head-injury patients are often angry and lash out at everyone around them. We all bore her wrath many times—all of us except Mark. She never screamed at him, or pushed him away, or slammed the door in his face. She always smiled for him, held his hand, and tried just a little harder to do a little more whenever he was with her.
Her recovery was miraculous. After just twelve weeks of intense rehabilitation, she returned to high school to finish her senior year. Many days were overwhelmingly hard; as she recovered, she became more aware of what she had lost. Some friends treated her differently, and a few teachers just sent her to a desk in the back of the room to work “independently.” Facts accumulated over years of education had to be relearned, math skills and formulas rememorized, and metaphors and similes reunderstood.
“I just have one thing to say, Em. Believe in yourself,” Mark counseled.
Now, I wonder as I look back: Could we have encouraged Emily with the resolute belief that she could, indeed, relearn everything without all we’d learned from Mark’s intense early-intervention programs? Would Emily have graduated from college in just four years, run a half-marathon, and mentored thousands of high-school students as buddies to special-education students if Mark had not been her little brother?