Face time

"Find her face, Austin"

Austin is five years old and in kindergarten as at an early childhood school for the visually impaired where I volunteer. Austin is an albino, and has some sight, and he is taught to "use" his sight. It can be easy for a visually impaired person to rely on their other senses and not develop what limited sight they do have. One of the things they teach the visually impaired children is to find the face of the person they are speaking with. It helps for identity purposes, and helps strengthen the vision they do have.

"Find her face." I wonder how often I speak with someone without really looking at their face; seeing their features, the feelings, the experiences that are displayed. Am I so caught up in my own world that I don't take the time to really "see" the person with whom I am talking. Could it be that me, a fully-sighted person, "sees" less than the visually-impaired child who is being taught to find the face of the person speaking to them?

Find her face, Katie

Blog Voyeur

I find myself utterly fascinated by the blogs of other I do not know. Obviously, one's blog is out there for the world to see, but I wonder how many people follow blogs without ever acknowledging to the author that they have become a fan. Probably millions. I have persons whom I have never met, and likely never will, but whom I feel like I know from my visits to their blog.

It's a curious thing, this blogging.

Bedtime

The sun has set . . . gone to another part of the world, they liked to say. It wasn't moonlight glowing through the slats of the blinds covering the windows . . . though, it was more fun to think that than acknowledge the less poetic reality of the over-illuminating pulsations of the street lamp streaming into his bedroom.

The dinner-time giggles had subsided. It had been an especially engaging evening meal. With dancing jazz notes skipping around the room, they broke bread. Mom, can I be finished, he said, satisfied and exhibiting the tell-tale signs of boredom once what one moment was entertaining, the next moment was no longer.

Bathtime was followed by stories . . . the Daddy-kind of stories, each dragon, each dinosaur with a different voice. A yawn . . . then another . . . his head buried in his pillow. Day is done.

It was her turn now. The soft dim of the night-stand lamp let her know he was asleep . . . though his restlessness let her know he had not yet arrived in the Land of Nod.

As she snuggled in next to him . . . only for a brief wish good night . . . a small kiss is followed by a blessing . . . Lord, keep him safe and healthy.

As her lips lovingly brush his cheek, his eyes flutter and he turns toward her. A smile lights up his face. Even in slumber he seems to know she's there . . . that indescribable connection between mother and son.

Her heart swells as his smile penetrates her being. Life . . . work . . . the conflicts often torture her mind. Yet, it is the inherent response in the dusk of a day from a small boy to the love of his mother that is her tonic. Her peaceful resolve. Basked in the slatted glow of the street lamp, she acknowledges all is good.