It is when you give from the heart that you truly give. --Khalil Gibran
I juggled the large, square box on top of a bag of groceries, perched like a dizzy eagle tipping out of the nest of my double stroller. I wore a backpack loaded with groceries, pushing the stroller that carried my three-year old daughter, J. The eagle would face a new obstacle at the corner, where a flimsy plastic bus shelter braced against the bitter cold wind, so notorious in Minnesota. Just when my packages seemed so carefully managed, I would have to fold the stroller (carry it in one hand), carry the bag of groceries in my other hand (not to mention the weight on groceries in my backpack) while rounding up a rambunctious three-year old who was dancing around the bus shelter. The square box rattled in the transition, I was afraid I broke something but anxious to see what was inside. The box was from my dear friend, Karen, who had offered encouragement throughout the time my family was homeless; her letters were a lifeline to hope: what my family could be when we had a home, when we felt safe again.
When I finally got home, the loaf of bread I purchased was flat as a tortilla. J was still dancing, and jumping over the bags of groceries. My whole body ached from the trip, I was sure I had accomplished a work out that would make Richard Simmons proud. Then I noticed the box from Karen again--flat, and square, with a pretty label on the corner. I carried the box to the bedroom, and curled up on my big, gray pillow. J jumped on the bed, the box rattled in her wake, limbs flailing, her body flopping onto the pillow. The gray pillow is a necessity for my illness, Crohn's Disease--I have inflammation in the top of my digestive system, which causes nausea/vomiting and reflux, worse at night. I used the pillow to prop my head up, and lessen the symptoms. When looking at the pillow, I can't shake off the memory of my ex--who is so vicious that he tried to steal the pillow after kicking the children and I out of the house. That he wanted me to suffer, in any way he could think of--even to steal the pillow that offered some measure of comfort from the burning in my chest, the hot as fire stomach contents rising in the night, causing me to wretch and gag. I had to demand that pillow back--while my ex fought me, and yelled that I was "cleaning him out". Some memories are so hard to shake, even now that I have shelter, it seems I have to find shelter within, peace from the memories that haunt me.
J tore at the box, ready to rip it open with her teeth if necessary. I grabbed a scissors from a desk and carefully cut. In a blur, the sides flew open. J was squealing with delight at all the treasures Karen had sent us: toys, stickers, coffee cups, handmade beaded bookmarks, jewelry...and then a pack of tooth brushes. Of all the things, those toothbrushes would leave the strongest impression on me. In the pack Karen sent, were five toothbrushes, a rainbow of colors. I began to cry. J, not understanding what was happening, held up a teddy bear Karen sent and pressed it into my palm.
About a year ago, April 2005, I was doing research for Liberty and Justice and came across the site of Operation AC. One of the articles posted on Operation AC included information about a soldier in Afghanistan who was collecting supplies for an orphanage. I didn't have much money, in fact I had none. My abusive ex controlled all the money in the house, and had me brainwashed to believe we were desperately poor (which was my fault). I know it sounds crazy, but I really believed we were on the brink of financial disaster even while my ex gambled away thousands of dollars in poker rooms, and spent just as much on his cell phone. My ex had a signature poker move--he boasted that he would be famous for it, when he won the World Series of Poker. He would bet heavy on junk cards, on a ridiculous hand just to loose. Losing meant hundreds, even thousands of dollars (he lost his retirement and then the mortgage to gambling). My ex thought that once the players at table believed he was a bad player (he really is and is just in denial thinking otherwise) that when he had a good hand, the players would chase the bet, and loose, thinking his hand was weak. All the players had to do was watch my ex chew on that ratty toothpick in his mouth to know what kind of hand he had--his tell couldn't be more obvious watching him gnaw away, like a demented beaver. The only real poker face my ex had was the one he portrayed to the world, while hiding secrets behind his smile. He made me chase a dream that was not there while he was cashing in on the misery of our broken family.
I vividly recall April 2005 when my son D (my ex would tell him that poker superstar Doyle Brunson began playing poker at age 5, if you could just learn your numbers, you could play too...), my daughter J and I huddled on our bed, on the same gray pillow, looking over a pile of "treasures". I used the last of my money, and what nice things I could find in the house to put together a gift box for Operation AC. D was especially excited to help the other boys and girls, wondering what their school was like and what kind of games they played. He put in toys, even a few favorites, he thought the children would like. J always the organzier, helped pack the items in the box. She really liked to make things look nice, and was so gentle in placing each item in. The last item to go in the box was the tooth brushes. I sent lots of tooth brushes, similar to the package Karen sent me. I dug through the change in the house to get the money to ship the box then drove to the post office. D was so proud to carry the box in by himself, even though he wobbled under the weight. D was full of questions, and I promised to show him the Operation AC site so he could see for himself. J was skipping behind, happy to be part of the festivity. I used the last money I had to send that box--a handful of loose change. When the money was gone, there was a fear of what would come next, how to avoid the yelling and fighting. At the moment those thoughts were far from my mind. I saw an opportunity to help, and I hoped that children who suffered so much would be given a chance to enjoy their childhood, to play and laugh.
When I sent the box to Operation AC, I did it because I care. I never expected anything back. Somehow it seems, when I was in need, I did get something back, from Karen and all those who support me during this difficult time. The rainbow toothbrushes Karen sent brought back the memory of packing the box for Operation AC...and something more...I saw that through the struggles, the fear, the uncertainty one thing is true--you get back what you give. It seems that those who give from the heart, unselfishly and with true compassion for others, don't expect anything in return; the irony is that these people are called to serve exactly those who will later awaken them, the circle of giving continues until each person is uplifted.
Lynn F, November 2006
Links:
Operation AC - HOME
Afghan Orphanage, Col. Gebelein has supported in Afghanistan: http://operationac.com/images/ophanage/slides/DROP-2.html
National Domestic Violence Hotline:
National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233 or 1-800-787-3224 (TTY) - Break the silence, make the call.
Aardvarc: An Abuse, Rape and Domestic Violence Aid and Resource Collection
AARDVARC.org - An Abuse, Rape and Domestic Violence Aid and Resource Collection
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Ayanye: Karen and Bobby, J and D
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