A Different Dream for My Child

This evening, I will witness my older child achieving what, for most parents, is an important but minimal dream: graduation from high school. While I'm proud of her and her accomplishments and I'm thankful that she has taken great advantage of her educational opportunities this far, graduating from high school has become a very achievable goal for most young people--more so than in the past, even in my grandparents' days--and you don't hear many parents saying, "I'll just be thrilled when he/she graduates from high school." Many parents are hoping for more than a high school diploma for their children, me among them.

What happens, though, when that common, ordinary dream is unachievable for some reason? Perhaps a child has a disability, a disease--or even a terminal illness? What, then, can a parent hope for?

I've become most aware through my friend Alicia, whose son was born with Down syndrome and other serious health problems, that for some parents, dreams have to be adjusted. Perhaps the dream becomes that a child will live long enough to graduate from high school; learn to sit up; go for more than six months without a hospitalization. The achievement of these dreams may result in just as much happiness for these parents as those of us with "normal" kids experience when we see them with that high school diploma.

This is the subject of a book that DHP is publishing, to be released sometime late summer or early fall. It's entitled A Different Dream for My Child: Meditations for Parents of Critically or Chronically Ill Children, and the author is Jolene Philo, whose son was born with esophageal defects that required several surgeries during his childhood and into his teens. He was airlifted to a hospital several hours away from home just a few hours after his birth, and Jolene writes from a heart of compassion molded by personal experience. I had the great opportunity of proofreading this title, and the following passage is one of my favorites. It's rare that the meditations are humorous as this one is, yet all offer hope and understanding. This will be one of those books you can give to someone going through a difficult time with a child when you're not sure what else to do. I'll try to remember to alert you when it's available. It's a great read even if you have healthy kids, and it will help you understand (a little) what life is like for those who live with this trial.

The Shirt off Her Back

Every desirable and beneficial gift comes out of heaven. The gifts are rivers of light cascading down from the Father of Light.

James 1:17


I was too shocked to thank the elderly woman who gave me an unforgettable gift during Allen’s first hospital stay. The woman and her middle-aged son lived near the hospital. In those pre-Ronald McDonald House days, they rented rooms to parents like us. She was short and slight, with thin, papery skin stretched over birdlike bones. Her son looked like Tim Conway, but lacked the comedian’s sense of humor.

Our landlady nodded when we left each morning and asked about our baby when we returned each evening. Her son, on the other hand, wasn’t a big conversationalist. On the morning Hiram told him we’d locked our keys in the car, the wordless gentleman grabbed a coat hanger and walked to the side of the street where we had parked. His mom tagged along.

Cars whizzed by as the pinch-faced landlord hunted for a place to slip the bent hanger through and pull up the lock button. But the large windows were shut tight. The fly window on the front passenger door was open a crack, but he couldn’t generate enough upward pull to lift the lock button.

Hiram pushed the small window open as far as possible, stuck his hand in, and strained toward the button. But his arm, too wide for the opening, wouldn’t quite reach. Our imitation Tim Conway, smaller than my husband, gave it a try. No go. Hiram turned to me. “Think you can reach it?” I tried, but even my arm was too wide. Right about then I succumbed to my inner panic, certain we would have to pay some locksmith to retrieve the keys, certain the breast milk I’d just pumped would go sour before it got to the hospital, certain I wouldn’t see my baby that day.

Then our elderly landlady elbowed past me. “My arms are skinny. Let me try.” She slid her arm through the window slot until her fingers were within millimeters of the lock button. Then she withdrew her wrinkled arm. “My shirt is in the way. I’ll just take it off.”

Before we could say a word, she whipped off her shirt, handed it to her son, and stuck a bare arm through the fly window. “But, Ma!” he protested. “Ma, put your shirt on. Ma!” He flapped his arms and turned in a circle.

His mother crammed her torso, clad only in a dingy brassier with elastic straps so old they fought a losing battle with gravity, against the car and reached for the button. Her fingertips brushed against it, but couldn’t close around it.

“Ma!” Her son continued to turn in circles. “Put your shirt on, Ma.”

“But I’ve almost got it.”

“No, please,” Hiram interrupted, his face flaming red. “Your son’s right. Put on your shirt.”

Finally she did put her shirt on, and her son took her by the arm. “One more try and I would have gotten it,” I heard her say as her son pushed her across the lawn.

I don’t remember how Hiram got the car unlocked. I was too shocked by the gift I received from an elderly mother who sensed my panic, my need to be with my son. In my shock, I forgot to tell her thank you. But I’m sure she knew I was grateful, because her son had been a baby once, too. That’s why she gave me the shirt off her back.

Somewhere in your lonely hospital world, someone who understands your hurt is willing to give you the shirt off her back. And when the offer comes, I hope you recognize the source of such a sacrificial gift. It comes from the Father of Lights. He also has a Son—a Son who was a baby once, too.




If you want to read more about Jolene, her life, and her books, visit her blog here.