Mending The Invisible
Mending the Invisible
By: Melissa Kistler (my sister)
I’m walking into a local department store with my one-year-old son, Toby, on one hip and his three-year-old brother, Jack, at my side. It’s a hazy, gray November day and Jack decides that the drizzle is sufficient for him to require his “invisible” (read: imaginary) umbrella. It’s a new game he plays, and every time there is the slightest hint of a chance for rain – out it comes. So, he carefully opens it up over his head and grips it tightly in his little fists.
We’re in the crosswalk to the entrance when Jack notices an armored truck idling in front of the store. Because he has been warned to the point of stark terror that moving vehicles are a danger, he stops dead and points – screaming – at this perceived immediate threat. Of course, this means he doesn’t notice the actual danger of the ’86 Lincoln Town Car barreling down on us.
I grab his arm and unceremoniously drag him out of the road and up onto the curb. In the process, Jack informs me with a wail, that I have somehow managed to totally destroy his imaginary, er “invisible” umbrella. He is broken hearted and deadly serious, and melts into a heaving puddle on the sidewalk.
I hesitate for a moment. It’s cold, it’s wet, and my adrenaline is still racing from our near miss. In a split second, I weigh my options. I am exasperated, and ready to chastise him for stopping in the middle of a traffic area… but we have had a tough week. Make that a tough year. Life has been on an up-and-down roller coaster for a good long while, including my own battle with postpartum depression after Toby’s birth. Jack has had to cope with more than his fair share of uncertainty, and this vivid imagination of his is something I can relate to. It’s something I treasure in him, and I have always promised myself I would nurture it along and
encourage it.
I stand there in the rain, with an ever-heavier baby on my hip, and look into those weepy brown eyes. In that moment I know I have to connect with my son, to let him know that I am here for him and that everything is going to be okay.
Luckily for me, I happen to have packed my Invisible Umbrella Repair Kit (for just such an emergency). I shift Toby to my other hip, reach into my pocket, and pull out the necessary “invisible” tools.
A few flicks of the wrist, a quick turn or two, a flourish…, and the umbrella is as good as, er, new. Jack beams at me, suitably impressed with my prowess. Then he solemnly accepts his mended treasure, and we venture on into the wild jungles of commerce with nary a care in the
world.
Some days you just need someone to pause, take a moment, and help you fix your umbrella. Even when it’s “invisible.” Even when they have their own pressing matters to attend to. Even if they don’t understand the significance, the gesture alone may be enough to ward off the loneliness that can creep in when we’re going through difficulties that others cannot completely understand.
As a mom, I want to learn to take more of those opportunities, especially while my kids are young. Their hurts will not always be so easily mended, and the day will come when a few moments of my time and a little creative ingenuity will not be enough to repair the damage inflicted on their tender hearts by an often uncaring world. It’s up to me to show them now, while they are learning to build trusting relationships, that I will always be here to help put the pieces back together—no matter how big or small the hurt, or how “invisible.”
Love,
Shannon
By: Melissa Kistler (my sister)
I’m walking into a local department store with my one-year-old son, Toby, on one hip and his three-year-old brother, Jack, at my side. It’s a hazy, gray November day and Jack decides that the drizzle is sufficient for him to require his “invisible” (read: imaginary) umbrella. It’s a new game he plays, and every time there is the slightest hint of a chance for rain – out it comes. So, he carefully opens it up over his head and grips it tightly in his little fists.
We’re in the crosswalk to the entrance when Jack notices an armored truck idling in front of the store. Because he has been warned to the point of stark terror that moving vehicles are a danger, he stops dead and points – screaming – at this perceived immediate threat. Of course, this means he doesn’t notice the actual danger of the ’86 Lincoln Town Car barreling down on us.
I grab his arm and unceremoniously drag him out of the road and up onto the curb. In the process, Jack informs me with a wail, that I have somehow managed to totally destroy his imaginary, er “invisible” umbrella. He is broken hearted and deadly serious, and melts into a heaving puddle on the sidewalk.
I hesitate for a moment. It’s cold, it’s wet, and my adrenaline is still racing from our near miss. In a split second, I weigh my options. I am exasperated, and ready to chastise him for stopping in the middle of a traffic area… but we have had a tough week. Make that a tough year. Life has been on an up-and-down roller coaster for a good long while, including my own battle with postpartum depression after Toby’s birth. Jack has had to cope with more than his fair share of uncertainty, and this vivid imagination of his is something I can relate to. It’s something I treasure in him, and I have always promised myself I would nurture it along and
encourage it.
I stand there in the rain, with an ever-heavier baby on my hip, and look into those weepy brown eyes. In that moment I know I have to connect with my son, to let him know that I am here for him and that everything is going to be okay.
Luckily for me, I happen to have packed my Invisible Umbrella Repair Kit (for just such an emergency). I shift Toby to my other hip, reach into my pocket, and pull out the necessary “invisible” tools.
A few flicks of the wrist, a quick turn or two, a flourish…, and the umbrella is as good as, er, new. Jack beams at me, suitably impressed with my prowess. Then he solemnly accepts his mended treasure, and we venture on into the wild jungles of commerce with nary a care in the
world.
Some days you just need someone to pause, take a moment, and help you fix your umbrella. Even when it’s “invisible.” Even when they have their own pressing matters to attend to. Even if they don’t understand the significance, the gesture alone may be enough to ward off the loneliness that can creep in when we’re going through difficulties that others cannot completely understand.
As a mom, I want to learn to take more of those opportunities, especially while my kids are young. Their hurts will not always be so easily mended, and the day will come when a few moments of my time and a little creative ingenuity will not be enough to repair the damage inflicted on their tender hearts by an often uncaring world. It’s up to me to show them now, while they are learning to build trusting relationships, that I will always be here to help put the pieces back together—no matter how big or small the hurt, or how “invisible.”
Love,
Shannon
