The Flag in the Blanket

I don't remember many church meetings from my youth, but this one I remember. It was one of the few times I've seen my dad cry.

Jim Patterson spoke. He was a World War 2 veteran, a POW, and a survivor of the Bataan Death March. He was a prisoner of war in the Phillipines. While he was taken prisoner, he and his fellow soldiers managed to hide amongst themselves an American flag. The Japanese soldiers were ruthless and killed the POWs for even the smallest infraction.
The risk was great. Knowing they could be killed for posessing the flag, they kept it hidden, rolled up in an old tattered Army blanket. On special occasions, such as Independence Day, the POWs would carefully, secretively, unroll the blanket and look at the flag. Months turned into years and still the flag remained undiscovered. Finally, Jim and the other POWs were released after 3 years of imprisonment.

Jim finished his remarks and stepped to the side of the pulpit. His old body bent over, and with the help of another man, he picked up an old rolled up Army blanket. The men held up the blanket at each end and slowly unrolled it to reveal his old, worn, American flag. A woman sang "God Bless America". Once the flag was completely in view, it was slowly rolled up again into the blanket and disappeared.

His incredible story remains imprinted on my memory and has taught me of the painful sacrifice that so many have made for me. It has also taught me that there can be a love of country and faith so great it is willing to face the threat of certain death, not in the heat of battle, but for posessing that old flag rolled up in a blanket.

Chasing Skirts

It's getting warmer. My long black running pants are getting hotter. Put on shorts, you say? Nay. You see, I was born with certian anatomical properties that produce atomic wedgies in shorts whilst running. My mom considers it an inherited badge of honor. She gushes, "I could always tell which one was you on the starting blocks (high school swim team), even from way up in the stands!". Cheers, mom!

So I take a trip to Salt Lake Running Company. Approached by a friendly employee, he asks how he can help. "Uh, do you have running shorts for, uh, "big girls"? He laughs, in a knowing way, and directs me to the running skirts. Skirts? Is this 1908?

"Trust me," he assures. "They're way cute."

Skeptical, I disappear into the dressing room with half dozen skirts. They are cute. But I haven't worn a skirt this short since 1984. I settle on the "Happy Hour" skirt by SkirtSports. Happy hour? Happy is not the word I'd use. Still nervous, I make the purchase. This running gig is getting pricey.

I run in the skirt and its strangely liberating. I run with that "I'm a Woman" song in my head ("I can bring home the bacon, na na na, fry it up in pan, na, na na...".)

Meanwhile, I'm still reaching for the day that running feels like running and not jogging through water. I look forward to the time where I reach that elusive "runner's high". Until then, if you see a 30-ish gal with alarmingly white legs huffing and puffing through the streets of SLC, do not slap her butt with a yardstick.* Just cheer for her - she's pulling a big load.

There's a rumor that a pack of crazy teenages roam the streets looking for joggers to slap with yardsticks. Really.

Hope and Jane

Developmentally delayed. I hate that word. Delayed. I suppose it implies hope, as in, "Mrs. Cheever, your train will be delayed, but not to worry, it shall arrive momentarily." Well, we can't see Jane's train, but we can hear its distant whisper.

We don't have all the answers, but we discovered a few things these past few weeks. A recent MRI showed the same damage initially seen on her first MRI. That is, scarring in the white matter of the brain that affects vision and vision processing. Initially not thought to be significant, they now think this is the primary source of Jane's issues. This scarring follows a pattern similar to premature babies, although Jane was full term. How the scarring happened is a bit of a mystery, although they think it occurred during pregnancy.

So, here we are with a little more knowledge and a little more hope. The damage is done, and she is moving forward and making great progress. No more seizures. Steps here and there. Small things, like how she quietly folds her arms for prayer, even though she doesn't say the words. A small, imperceptible wave goodbye.

What of her future? She'll set her own course, improving steadily and surely. It is a blessing I shouldn't forget. For my reality check, I sit in the neurology clinic at Primary's and watch the other parents. Some parents breeze in, navigating their wheelchair-bound child effortlessly, and check in with a smile. Whee! Other parents can barely hold it together. I watched parents of a teenage girl who was mentally disabled and they just looked so exhausted.

I don't know what kind of parent I am. I know I won't do therapeutic scarf-dancing. I know I feel guilty for sometimes wishing she were normal. I know I'm scared for her future. I know that I will hunt anyone down that is mean to her and run them over in my white minivan. Most of all, I just love her.

I love her gentleness, even when she "helps me file the papers".

I love her blonde curls and sweet smile.

I love her patient way of figuring things out.

I love her growing strength.

I love her curiosity.

I love her determination.

I love her.