They say
”
a picture is worth a thousand words.
”
I figure mine is worth at least 725!
First, I know that
– thanks to a hug named Jacob – everyone is worth much more than
their words or their appearance.
They say “a picture is worth a thousand words.” I figure mine is worth at least 725!
First, I know that – thanks to a hug named Jacob – everyone is worth much more than their words or their appearance.
That said … I’ve taken some ribbing from readers about the pictures that have appeared with my columns. Both were taken years ago and, as many of you have so nicely pointed out, “don’t look anything like me.” (Big sigh.)
The talk and the teasing reminded me why the Dispatch had that old debut photo on file in the first place …
In ’96, the Dispatch needed a mug shot of me to go with a “Making a Difference” column.
I begged off. I had just finished my sixth cycle of chemotherapy, was pretty much bald and had the swollen moon face that comes from massive doses of steroids.
The editor graciously agreed to use a previously shot black and white. Whew! Off the hook temporarily.
During those same hairless hard times, someone else extended me some much needed grace. His name was Jacob and he was a kindergartener at El Roble School where I subbed often.
Months after my last chemotherapy treatment, my hair had only grown one inch. (Yes, I measured it. Once a day. With a ruler.)
And, no matter how much goo or hair spray I used, cowlicks kept the dark fuzz going any which way but nice. I was miserable under my puffy blonde wig – the stubble itched and acted as insulation – but I couldn’t stand myself without it.
Come June, during one triple digit week of heat, I was scheduled to return to Jacob’s class. I knew it was way too hot to wear a wig to work and that it was time to go au natural.
Looking at my crew cut in the mirror before I opened the classroom door, I braced myself for the honesty of kindergartners.
“Mrs. Evans looks ri-diiiiiiiii-cu-lous!” one little girl whispered loudly to her friend. I smiled and nodded – all too true.
After calendar, I gave instructions for making Father’s day cards and then walked around to help.
“Mrs. Evans, you got your hair cut,” Jacob said when I got to his table.
“Yes, Jacob,” I lied with a smile.
“Ya know, it’s very short.” he said as he cut out a polka dot tie.
“Yes, it’s very, Very, VERY short,” I answered.
“Ya know”, he stopped cutting to look up at me, “ya kinda look like a boy.”
I smiled into his worried face. “I know, Jacob, but it’ll grow.”
Reaching up and pretending to pull on the ends of my dark stubble, I said, “Every night before I got to bed I tell it to pleeeeeeeease grow before morning. But when I wake up, it still looks like this.”
The children looked up, giggled at my pantomime and then returned to their work.
Jacob was the last to finish.
“I’m glad you took your time printing,” I complimented him, “and I love the picture of you and your dad playing catch!”
Beaming, he put the card in his cubby and started toward some children building a house out of wooden blocks.
All of a sudden, he stopped and turned to look at me. I could feel a pair of wise brown eyes in a little boy face probing carefully beneath my practiced smile. After a couple of seconds, they seemed to spot a need that was just his size.
Without a word, he came and threw both arms around my knees and squeezed long and hard – with every ounce of strength a 5-year-old could muster.
Then, he let go and went to play. The incident lasted less than a minute, yet that act of kindness left its fingerprints on my heart forever.
I had many more good and bad days in the following wigless weeks. Eventually I stopped measuring my hair and explaining why I had none.
When my inner strength failed, I’d take a deep breath and remember how it felt to have Jacob’s hug wrapped around my weak knees. A child had seen beneath the surface and affirmed what lay beneath. How could I do anything less?
I hope you know he was right. We’re more than hair-do’s, wrinkles or words. Hugs are a simple way to make sure we know.
