Something Profoundly Right

I have an unorthodox ending—a love poem to my son Benjamin. Because, after all, that’s what this is really about, someone profoundly right:

In the beginning before the word,
there was God, and the word was with God.

I lean into you (unzipping the canopy of your hospital bed).
You sleep well.
Your face doesn’t react when I kiss your ear, nuzzle your neck.
I feel embraced by your presence, like I have a thousand times before.
I was sad; you comforted.
I hungered; you fed.
Just your skin, your essence, rises like prayer.

People say, "How do you do it, day in and day out like that?"
And they don’t even know that’s a rude question.
I am surrounded by the radiance of someone pure and beautiful, as nourishing as a peach.
I am tempted at times to return with the question,
"How do you do without one?"
There I almost said it, "angel." The only word that fits.
I try to avoid the controversial words. I don’t want to offend anyone.
"Angel" connotes God, which can lead to religion.
You see how it goes.

There is another spring storm overhead—the kind that rips across the prairie in the afternoon.
Usually about the time schools send children gushing forth from giant iron doors.
Thunder cracks the great green sky, ripping through clouds.
Torrents of rain pummel small scholars running with book bags on their heads.

My boy, you sleep undisturbed.
Brought forth on this prairie, you aren’t bothered by the storms.
Your breathing stays even, telling me this too shall pass.
Words and weather move over us.

The storms all head East—
self-importantly, massively,
to New England, New York.
Always new, always better.

The words group up like raindrops and fall on ivory towers.
Life.
Rights.
God.
Government.
Artificial.
Conception.
Terminate.
Imperfect.
Fetus.
Supreme.
Authority.
Feeding Tubes…
the storms riot, crash and thunder.

Again, I kiss my son, sweetly sleeping, alive and well in the heartland, where we are grateful for two things:

1. Storms move east in the late afternoon, leaving us clean and calm.
2. Love is soft; not weak.


		Something Profoundly Right Spring 2005 by Lucy Langdon, Contributing writer
	Our second son Benjamin is five years old. He is incredible. Before I knew there was anything wrong with him, I could tell there was something profoundly right. I remember holding him when he was first born and feeling something indescribably wonderful. I love all my kids, but Benjamin felt different from birth. Benjamin failed to thrive, and we struggled mightily from his birth to keep him with us. We struggled to get him through his baby milestones. Although he had a wonderful social smile by six weeks and sat up, crawled and walked before he was two, we were still waiting on all the other milestones. Objectively, Benjamin is in the severely mentally retarded range and has a serious epileptic disorder. I remember some time ago a relative talking about the times her four boys sent her to the emergency room. I remember thinking I wasn’t sure I was up for all the blood and broken bones that came with the job of parenting (at that time I had one baby boy!). We have spent a lifetime, my husband and I, in the ER, thanks to Benjamin’s seizures and falls. I haven’t always been up for it, which brings us to faith. In the beginning, I had very little, now I have an abundance of faith. These things challenge us to grow. How we respond to stress is a real indicator of what Level of Happiness we are living for. I converted to Catholicism the year before Benjamin was born. I was very depressed after Benjamin’s birth. My self-preoccupation involved delving back into pre-catholic methods. I vacillated between anger at God for letting me hurt, and feeling depression about a bleak future of caring for a severely disabled person. I lived with a Happiness Level 1 attitude. I found people hard to be around. I often compared my child to other "normal" children his same age. I felt self-conscious in my new role as a Catholic mother. A Happiness Level 2 self-preoccupation and the comparison game left crippling effects on my attitude. Over time, things shifted, subtly and profoundly to a Happiness Level 3 and 4 perspective. Caring for someone like Benjamin makes you think less often about yourself and more about the other person. I shifted from needing to be comforted (Happiness Level 1 and 2) to needing to comfort (Happiness Level 3). Best of all, I have great guidance. There are a number of holy examples around me. I learned to let go of what I wanted and to embrace life as it is. I now interpret life from a Happiness Level 4 perspective. Whatever comes, God makes all things work for good for those who believe in Him. I live more each day for Him, spend more time in contemplative prayer, and rely much more heavily on the Sacraments. In my pain, I found comfort around me. I marvel at God’s design: At the time when things got the hardest, He surrounded my family and me with everything we needed—faithful followers of his church, but most of all, Himself! What more could you hope for? This past lent, I read Father Spitzer’s book, Healing the Culture, and co-founded a support group for families of children who are medically involved and/or disabled. Father Spitzer’s book helped me to see how suffering can be efficacious. The section on suffering helped me to interpret life. My faith coupled with personal tragedy helped me to grow spiritually. A friend and I felt called by God to share Life Principles with other families of children with special situations. We call our group FOCUS US/CL. (Families Offering Christ United Suffering for the Uplifting of Souls and the Celebration of Life). The title is meant to communicate how suffering can be meaningful, and how as Catholics, we have everything we need to suffer well. We have recourse to the sacraments, praying the rosary daily, and the support of the culture of life. All of this affirms the value of children in a world which makes it harder and harder to be anything less than perfect. *From left to right: Jeremy (then 5), Wally (then 4 months), and Benjamin (then 2 1/2)* I have an unorthodox ending—a love poem to my son Benjamin. Because, after all, that’s what this is really about, someone profoundly right: In the beginning before the word, there was God, and the word was with God. I lean into you (unzipping the canopy of your hospital bed). You sleep well. Your face doesn’t react when I kiss your ear, nuzzle your neck. I feel embraced by your presence, like I have a thousand times before. I was sad; you comforted. I hungered; you fed. Just your skin, your essence, rises like prayer. People say, "How do you do it, day in and day out like that?" And they don’t even know that’s a rude question. I am surrounded by the radiance of someone pure and beautiful, as nourishing as a peach. I am tempted at times to return with the question, "How do you do without one?" There I almost said it, "angel." The only word that fits. I try to avoid the controversial words. I don’t want to offend anyone. "Angel" connotes God, which can lead to religion. You see how it goes. There is another spring storm overhead—the kind that rips across the prairie in the afternoon. Usually about the time schools send children gushing forth from giant iron doors. Thunder cracks the great green sky, ripping through clouds. Torrents of rain pummel small scholars running with book bags on their heads. My boy, you sleep undisturbed. Brought forth on this prairie, you aren’t bothered by the storms. Your breathing stays even, telling me this too shall pass. Words and weather move over us. The storms all head East— self-importantly, massively, to New England, New York. Always new, always better. The words group up like raindrops and fall on ivory towers. Life. Rights. God. Government. Artificial. Conception. Terminate. Imperfect. Fetus. Supreme. Authority. Feeding Tubes… the storms riot, crash and thunder. Again, I kiss my son, sweetly sleeping, alive and well in the heartland, where we are grateful for two things: 1. Storms move east in the late afternoon, leaving us clean and calm. 2. Love is soft; not weak. Life Principles Reflections is a quarterly Email commentary developed to give reflections on life issues. Every three months articles are published online featuring a staff or a guest writer. Reflections Archive




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