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I’m So Glad It’s Not Her Arms
Gladness of heart is the life of man, and the rejoicing of a man is length of days.
Sirach 30:22
Winter is coming…but not yet. Sitting outside yesterday evening, the fading October sun cast shadows across a perfect day. Only the slightest touch of evening coolness appeared as we enjoyed chips and salsa on a patio in the shade of broad umbrellas amid the familiarity of Mexican music. After nearly two weeks in France, even the unrecognizable Spanish words of the song seemed like home while the burrito and taco salad were comfort food for these blissfully weary travelers. There is glory in the familiar and truly no place like home.
After a day of family photos, made incredibly joyful by our return home, a picture perfect day, and four generations gathered in the moment, we found ourselves in full-throttle leisure, basking in it all as Sally and I shared stories of the day, our recent journey, and broader paths that have made life so profoundly interesting. At one point, our conversation turned to an experience she had during her years as an OB nurse when an expectant mother was given the news that, due to amniotic bands, her baby’s legs would not form below her knees. Hearing the news, the mother paused for a moment, then brightened and replied: “I’m so glad it’s not her arms.”
Sally continued, “She was so grateful that she would be able to hold hands with her little girl. After she delivered, I walked in to see her holding her baby and watched mom lean-in as the little girl moved her hands and fingers over her mother’s face.”
Just a few days ago, we stood in the middle of the American cemetery at Normandy. Nearly 9,000 graves were marked by either a Cross or a Star of David. They seemed to go on endlessly in each direction. At one end of the cemetery was a memorial with a huge bronze statue in the middle – a young man moving skyward with his hand outstretched. The statue is called “Spirit of American Youth Rising From the Waves.” It is a somber, holy place.
Shortly thereafter, we stood on Omaha Beach, the bloody landing place of American solders during D-Day, the beginning of the Allied invasion to liberate France in 1944. Looking at the memorial along the edge of the beach, I noticed the flags of the allies: Britain, America, France, Canada. Then I saw the German flag flying alongside all of the others, a profound symbol of moving forward in an effort of healing. A memorial built in the spirit of unity amid the bitter pain of blood and loss.
Not so many miles, or months, away in Germany, Sally’s grandfather will be the only survivor of a mine explosion that will impact the rest of his, and his family’s lives. Similarly, my great-grandfather will be declared missing in action as his plane disappears in the English Channel on his return to his home in England. Meanwhile, my grandfather, Poppy, will be inviting my grandmother, Nanny, to be his wife and returning to America. Such is the way of pilgrimage: walking the paths of the past to connect to the threads of our greater story.
Returning to the sunlit patio and steady beat of the strange familiarity of the Hispanic music in our American eatery, I wiped a tear away as I considered the profundity of a mother finding the joyful upside of her baby born without legs and that statue rising toward the heavens sitting in a cemetery in the north of France. What is it that enables us to accept and move on? From where did that mother’s gratitude flow and what enabled succeeding generations to forgive the senseless slaughter of their young men?
Gratitude is a special thing. Perhaps its comparative, after all, things could be worse. Or maybe it’s the relief of some kind of closure, thank God it’s over. I see it as a gift of Grace. Something we cannot fabricate or contrive on our own. We cannot “make it happen” or create it in someone else. The grace to go on is a gift, and gratitude the by-product of something beyond us. Coming upon us by no act of our own, it is the necessary start to healing and hopefulness.
Eighty years ago, the beginning of the end of World War II was thrown upon the beaches of Normandy, France, in the blood and toil of young men committed to doing their duty. Gratitude for their sacrifice grips me as I consider the beauty of my day with my family. Miles away from France, and many years, later, a young mother celebrates the life of her crippled child, graced with the opportunity to love and touch and exist in a world formed from the sacrifices on that foreign beach. These are small, grace-filled, threads on that great tapestry of our collective story. For that, I am grateful.
For that, I am glad.
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By Phillip Berry | Orient Yourself
5
55 ratings
Gladness of heart is the life of man, and the rejoicing of a man is length of days.
Sirach 30:22
Winter is coming…but not yet. Sitting outside yesterday evening, the fading October sun cast shadows across a perfect day. Only the slightest touch of evening coolness appeared as we enjoyed chips and salsa on a patio in the shade of broad umbrellas amid the familiarity of Mexican music. After nearly two weeks in France, even the unrecognizable Spanish words of the song seemed like home while the burrito and taco salad were comfort food for these blissfully weary travelers. There is glory in the familiar and truly no place like home.
After a day of family photos, made incredibly joyful by our return home, a picture perfect day, and four generations gathered in the moment, we found ourselves in full-throttle leisure, basking in it all as Sally and I shared stories of the day, our recent journey, and broader paths that have made life so profoundly interesting. At one point, our conversation turned to an experience she had during her years as an OB nurse when an expectant mother was given the news that, due to amniotic bands, her baby’s legs would not form below her knees. Hearing the news, the mother paused for a moment, then brightened and replied: “I’m so glad it’s not her arms.”
Sally continued, “She was so grateful that she would be able to hold hands with her little girl. After she delivered, I walked in to see her holding her baby and watched mom lean-in as the little girl moved her hands and fingers over her mother’s face.”
Just a few days ago, we stood in the middle of the American cemetery at Normandy. Nearly 9,000 graves were marked by either a Cross or a Star of David. They seemed to go on endlessly in each direction. At one end of the cemetery was a memorial with a huge bronze statue in the middle – a young man moving skyward with his hand outstretched. The statue is called “Spirit of American Youth Rising From the Waves.” It is a somber, holy place.
Shortly thereafter, we stood on Omaha Beach, the bloody landing place of American solders during D-Day, the beginning of the Allied invasion to liberate France in 1944. Looking at the memorial along the edge of the beach, I noticed the flags of the allies: Britain, America, France, Canada. Then I saw the German flag flying alongside all of the others, a profound symbol of moving forward in an effort of healing. A memorial built in the spirit of unity amid the bitter pain of blood and loss.
Not so many miles, or months, away in Germany, Sally’s grandfather will be the only survivor of a mine explosion that will impact the rest of his, and his family’s lives. Similarly, my great-grandfather will be declared missing in action as his plane disappears in the English Channel on his return to his home in England. Meanwhile, my grandfather, Poppy, will be inviting my grandmother, Nanny, to be his wife and returning to America. Such is the way of pilgrimage: walking the paths of the past to connect to the threads of our greater story.
Returning to the sunlit patio and steady beat of the strange familiarity of the Hispanic music in our American eatery, I wiped a tear away as I considered the profundity of a mother finding the joyful upside of her baby born without legs and that statue rising toward the heavens sitting in a cemetery in the north of France. What is it that enables us to accept and move on? From where did that mother’s gratitude flow and what enabled succeeding generations to forgive the senseless slaughter of their young men?
Gratitude is a special thing. Perhaps its comparative, after all, things could be worse. Or maybe it’s the relief of some kind of closure, thank God it’s over. I see it as a gift of Grace. Something we cannot fabricate or contrive on our own. We cannot “make it happen” or create it in someone else. The grace to go on is a gift, and gratitude the by-product of something beyond us. Coming upon us by no act of our own, it is the necessary start to healing and hopefulness.
Eighty years ago, the beginning of the end of World War II was thrown upon the beaches of Normandy, France, in the blood and toil of young men committed to doing their duty. Gratitude for their sacrifice grips me as I consider the beauty of my day with my family. Miles away from France, and many years, later, a young mother celebrates the life of her crippled child, graced with the opportunity to love and touch and exist in a world formed from the sacrifices on that foreign beach. These are small, grace-filled, threads on that great tapestry of our collective story. For that, I am grateful.
For that, I am glad.