#24 Gifts
I’ve always known that the opportunity to love is a gift. Loving unconditionally is the biggest perk of parenthood, though it can be obscured by work and worry. I’m seeing that gift these days unadorned—stark in its power and beauty.
You may remember Chino, the young man in Nicaragua who claimed my son as a brother and me, by extension, sight unseen, as his mother. I knew enough to take that claim seriously, and when I met him he was not hard to love. I knew little about his home life—only that it was not happy. Since our common language was my Spanish we couldn’t speak in detail. Intention, body language and tone of voice were as important as words. I would sit outside in the early mornings watching the world go by, he would come over from down the street and I would welcome him to my side.
As I sit here thousands of miles away, remembering those times, I think of how simple and profound a welcome can be—open smile, open heart, open arms. I hadn’t realized how starved a life can be for such a welcome. I hadn’t thought that I was giving a gift.
At the airport, as we were leaving Nicaragua, my attention was mostly for my first born. He was lonely, weighed down by responsibilities, needing places to let down and complain. I did my best to invite Chino to that role, to be a resource for my loved one. His mind was on other things. He asked, rather wistfully, “Vas a regalarme?”, literally, “Are you going to gift me?” I was a little taken aback. I’m not much into presents and I had nothing there to give. When I asked if he wanted anything in particular he mentioned a nose stud, something unavailable in Nicaragua. So my first act as his mother back home was to go the teen rebel part of town, find a body piercing shop and spend good money for strange adornment. The alternative—not gifting him—seemed worse. I sent a loving postcard, included his gift in a letter to my son, and wondered what else I could do. Though I didn’t forget, my life quickly filled back up with all the responsibilities and relationships of home.
Finally a letter came. With my poor Spanish and his poor handwriting and spelling, I wasn’t sure I understood. But I was afraid that I did. He was not happy. He had been drinking, doing bad things. He wondered if his life was worth living. I was the only one he could tell. All of a sudden this situation was transformed, from a sweet cross-cultural claim of connection to the real thing. This young man needed a mother now, seriously, for real—and he had chosen me.
I got help that confirmed my fears of what his letter said, and started wording phrases in Spanish in my mind. Yet how could I—a virtual stranger, at a distance, and with such a blunt and limited instrument— hope to make a difference in this time of exquisitely fragile human need? Thank goodness I got an e-mail from him soon after, offering both reassurance that he was doing a little better and a more direct way to be in touch.
The only thing I had to give was love, so I tried to offer it without limit. I said I loved him more than anything in the world, and with all my heart. When he thought about drinking, could he think instead of drinking in my love? I stayed up late that night, building my sentences, trying to forge our connection and my love into something that he could use.
He was in my mind constantly the next day and the day after. At breaks in a busy work week I thought of other things I might say. I invited him to rewrite history with me, to have me there in his memory, every morning of his unloved childhood and every evening. I used the dictionary, started sentences over when I ran into verb construction I couldn’t handle, prayed that my best would be good enough.
Miraculously, something of what I intended got through. He wrote back, eager, thankful, open. I wrote again, profligate in my love, saying things I would never say to my birth children, where a look or a touch would do. This narrow window of contact required me to offer as big a love as I knew how. Perhaps it was just as well that I couldn’t be subtle in Spanish, and that in its unfamiliarity I could try out a new, more extravagant persona.
We have been exchanging undying professions of love all summer. He says that he has stopped drinking, that I would be proud of him. I feel like I’m living in the middle of a miracle. All the clutter has been stripped away to reveal the simple and unmistakable truth that my love is as nourishing as good food and clean water.
This gift that I’ve received of experiencing love in such a pure form may be rare. I don’t have to interact with all the things that would worry me to death or drive me crazy in this young man’s daily life. And this may be the simplest phase of our relationship. There’s certainly no guarantee of a happy ending (though I don’t believe another person’s happiness can ever be ours to give—and that may be the hardest part of parenting). But the lesson is clear. Our love matters. And we can give all of it away, over and over again, just because it’s there to give. Any way we express it—through our eyes as we do with newborns, through open arms or poor Spanish—makes everybody’s life better. And if we are alert to the possibility of loving in unexpected and dry places, we may get the biggest gifts.
Pamela Haines
8/04
You may remember Chino, the young man in Nicaragua who claimed my son as a brother and me, by extension, sight unseen, as his mother. I knew enough to take that claim seriously, and when I met him he was not hard to love. I knew little about his home life—only that it was not happy. Since our common language was my Spanish we couldn’t speak in detail. Intention, body language and tone of voice were as important as words. I would sit outside in the early mornings watching the world go by, he would come over from down the street and I would welcome him to my side.
As I sit here thousands of miles away, remembering those times, I think of how simple and profound a welcome can be—open smile, open heart, open arms. I hadn’t realized how starved a life can be for such a welcome. I hadn’t thought that I was giving a gift.
At the airport, as we were leaving Nicaragua, my attention was mostly for my first born. He was lonely, weighed down by responsibilities, needing places to let down and complain. I did my best to invite Chino to that role, to be a resource for my loved one. His mind was on other things. He asked, rather wistfully, “Vas a regalarme?”, literally, “Are you going to gift me?” I was a little taken aback. I’m not much into presents and I had nothing there to give. When I asked if he wanted anything in particular he mentioned a nose stud, something unavailable in Nicaragua. So my first act as his mother back home was to go the teen rebel part of town, find a body piercing shop and spend good money for strange adornment. The alternative—not gifting him—seemed worse. I sent a loving postcard, included his gift in a letter to my son, and wondered what else I could do. Though I didn’t forget, my life quickly filled back up with all the responsibilities and relationships of home.
Finally a letter came. With my poor Spanish and his poor handwriting and spelling, I wasn’t sure I understood. But I was afraid that I did. He was not happy. He had been drinking, doing bad things. He wondered if his life was worth living. I was the only one he could tell. All of a sudden this situation was transformed, from a sweet cross-cultural claim of connection to the real thing. This young man needed a mother now, seriously, for real—and he had chosen me.
I got help that confirmed my fears of what his letter said, and started wording phrases in Spanish in my mind. Yet how could I—a virtual stranger, at a distance, and with such a blunt and limited instrument— hope to make a difference in this time of exquisitely fragile human need? Thank goodness I got an e-mail from him soon after, offering both reassurance that he was doing a little better and a more direct way to be in touch.
The only thing I had to give was love, so I tried to offer it without limit. I said I loved him more than anything in the world, and with all my heart. When he thought about drinking, could he think instead of drinking in my love? I stayed up late that night, building my sentences, trying to forge our connection and my love into something that he could use.
He was in my mind constantly the next day and the day after. At breaks in a busy work week I thought of other things I might say. I invited him to rewrite history with me, to have me there in his memory, every morning of his unloved childhood and every evening. I used the dictionary, started sentences over when I ran into verb construction I couldn’t handle, prayed that my best would be good enough.
Miraculously, something of what I intended got through. He wrote back, eager, thankful, open. I wrote again, profligate in my love, saying things I would never say to my birth children, where a look or a touch would do. This narrow window of contact required me to offer as big a love as I knew how. Perhaps it was just as well that I couldn’t be subtle in Spanish, and that in its unfamiliarity I could try out a new, more extravagant persona.
We have been exchanging undying professions of love all summer. He says that he has stopped drinking, that I would be proud of him. I feel like I’m living in the middle of a miracle. All the clutter has been stripped away to reveal the simple and unmistakable truth that my love is as nourishing as good food and clean water.
This gift that I’ve received of experiencing love in such a pure form may be rare. I don’t have to interact with all the things that would worry me to death or drive me crazy in this young man’s daily life. And this may be the simplest phase of our relationship. There’s certainly no guarantee of a happy ending (though I don’t believe another person’s happiness can ever be ours to give—and that may be the hardest part of parenting). But the lesson is clear. Our love matters. And we can give all of it away, over and over again, just because it’s there to give. Any way we express it—through our eyes as we do with newborns, through open arms or poor Spanish—makes everybody’s life better. And if we are alert to the possibility of loving in unexpected and dry places, we may get the biggest gifts.
Pamela Haines
8/04
posted by Pamela Haines | 6:25 PM
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