MY TURN IN THE GAME OF LIFE

By Yitta Honig

Courtesy of Family First Magazine

So my turn had come. Shock.

I glanced at my baby. The tears began. And wouldn’t let up.

As an owl hooted in the distance and the sun welcomed the world to another day. I drew water from that inner well. And I smiled. I’ve been smiling ever since.

      My new job in a special-needs school was a dream. How can I describe the love I felt toward those children, who struggled and struggled? And then struggled some more. Teaching those babies and children tools for life was infinitely satisfying.

      Though satisfaction fills one’s heart, it doesn’t fill one’s pocket. But the fulfillment was the oxygen that fueled me on. I developed a close relationship with many of the mothers and often found myself giving them comfort.

      “You’ll yet see much  nachas from your Yanky!”

      “Your Yael is the light of our room.”

      And yes, the parents derived so much energy from these small remarks. I was like the wellspring gushing forth with life-giving water, and they would come to me to draw from my depths. I loved those children and hoped that whatever I said entered the hearts of their tired mothers. I wanted to put a smile on their wan faces, and light a little flame of hope inside. In their dark moments, they could dig for it and bask in its light.

      They would discuss their children with me and I’d hear the raw pain in their voices, pain that their friends and neighbors were often oblivious to. And I would nod in understanding. They would speak of dashed dreams, and I’d shed a tear for them.

      “I understand; it must be so hard.” I would say.

      Now, in retrospect, I laugh at myself. Each day after work, I left the building; I left it with all that it entailed. I spoke to those parents from my safe perch on the other side of the water. Close enough to dangle my feet above the stream, yet high enough that I remained dry.

      A year and a half later my daughter was born. Soon after birth, the doctor entered my room and with a lowered head informed me of my child’s condition. Down syndrome.

      I was thrust deep, deep into the water.  And almost drowned in despair. The shock my husband and I experienced was so strong that neither of us could be a supporting wall for the other. We were both on the brink of crumbling. Who knew more  than I the rocky path that awaited us?

      And then , bubbling inside me., I felt those waters rise. Waters from the well that so many others had drawn strength from. And I dared myself to take a small sip.

      I thought of those children. I thought of their parents. And I thought of myself. I was one of them now. I thought of the light on their faces and of their struggles. Of the small milestones, and the big disappointments. Of the love and of the anguish coexisting every day.

      And that tiny candle that I had lit for those tired mothers glimmered before me. As that candle flickered in the wind of my emotions, the force of the initial shock slowly abated. I knew that amid the difficulties that awaited me there would be miracles, there would be happiness, and there would be hope. I had seen it. I buried my pain as I wiped my eyes. And I smiled.

      We named our daughter Ora. The light of our life. Until now we served him when all was glowing. And now we would glorify him and sing our song of thanks through the seemingly long night.

      Our Ora’s path is long and twisted. When it gets really difficult, I lower the bucket and dip into those waters.

      It’s this game we’ve all been playing. Sometimes it’s our turn our name gets called out. We flip the card and gasp. But if we dig deep, we may yet all find that fountain, bubbling with hope beneath the surface.