I awoke promptly at 6am. I whipped up some coffee and pretty soon my laces were tied and I was out on the open road. I knocked out a killer run despite the cold. It just reminded me of indoor track season in high school, which usually involved a lot of outdoor Winter running. I cleaned up and biked down to the Monkey Nest. I sipped some decaf and planned out my day. I spun down the road to a neat thrift store. Ginger, an employee there, remarked: “It’s the best thrift store in Texas”. I found a nice blue sweatshirt and the first chair for my new apartment; no more sitting on the ground.
I biked towards downtown and stopped at the hardware store to grab some rubber bands, some bike lube, a key ring, and a light bulb. Then, I went to Cabo Bob’s burritos. I compliment the gentleman to my left in line’s camo jacket and next thing I knew he pulled out an OG mewtwo pokemon card. I immediately offered him $20 for it which he politefully declined. I had an amazing burrito and then went on my way.
I stopped by a neat vintage clothing store called: “Lofi”. I met someone working there named Soup. We related on many topics and had a deep philosophical conversation. I could have chatted with him for hours. He’s my new favorite rapper. Check out his music here. He recommended I watch Pixar’s Soul. I biked home and did just that. What an incredible movie. It reminded me of a terrific success story shared with me by my old economics teacher and Deacon in a homily he gave a handful of months back. It’s the story of Jermaine Gardner. I found a story written about him in a book about children with special needs and copied it and pasted it below. The main character in Soul is named Joe Gardner and I just thought the coincidence was too uncanny.
Another beautiful day in Austin. Another big day of adventure. I’m thrilled to be here and have this chance to live life to the fullest. Goodnight!
From Chicken soup for the soul: Children with special needs page 13:
During my pregnancy there had been no sign of anything wrong with the baby. I took my vitamins, ate lots of fruits and vegetables, and did my stretching exercises. I expected everything would go as smoothly as they had when my first son was born: an easy delivery and a “perfect” child.
In the delivery room, squeezing my husband’s hand and hearing our baby’s first cry, I was not prepared for what followed. The look on the nurse’s face expressed her alarm as clearly as her words: “Mrs. Gardner, something’s wrong here!” I looked in horror as she pulled back the blanket to show our son’s face: one eye sealed shut; the other a milky mass; no bridge to his nose, and a face that looked crushed. Although I knew I should take him in my arms, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. He was whisked away by the nurse as I was wheeled to the recovery room.
I lay on the hard hospital bed, the tightly pulled curtain shutting out the world. Still, I could hear other new mothers cooing to their babies. I heard one bemoan, “Not another boy!” and I was filled with jealous rage.
I thought of all the dreams I’d had for this child, of cuddling with him, of reading to him from brightly colored picture books, of his singing or painting or playing the piano like his older brother Jamaal—of his eyes, like Jamaal’s, studying the keys.
Instead, my baby was blind and painful to look at.
Slowly, deliberately I walked to the phone and dialed my mom. My agony poured out between sobs: “It’s a boy. His eyes won’t open. His face is deformed. Mom, what am I going to do?”
“You will bring him home. You will bring him home and nurture him,” she replied simply, firmly.
A nurse appeared at my side, led me to a rocker, and placed a small, blanketed bundle in my arms. Taking a deep breath, I looked down at my son. I had hoped he would look different—but he didn’t. His forehead protruded. Under the sealed eyelid, an eyeball was missing, the other was spaced far from it. His bridgeless nose was bent to the side of his face. The doctors called it hypertelorism. I didn’t know what to call it.
As we rocked, my mom’s words echoed in my ears. I began to talk to him. “Hello, Jermaine,” I said. “That’s your name. I am your mommy, and I love you. I’m sorry I waited so long to come to you and to hold you. Please forgive me. You have a big brother and a wonderful father who also love you. I promise to work hard to make your life the best it can be. Your grandpa has a lovely voice, and can play the piano and sing. I can give you music.” Yes, I thought, that I can do. That I will do!
Over the next few months, my husband and I poured our energies into filling up the darkness in Jermaine’s life. One of us carried him in his Snugli or backpack at all times, constantly talking or singing to him. We inundated himwithmusic—mostly classical, some Lionel Richie, some Stevie Wonder. His four-year-old brother was already taking piano lessons, and whenever he practiced, I sat next to him on the piano bench with his little brother on my lap. After a while, I began strapping Jermaine into his high chair next to Jamaal when Jamaal practiced.
However, I seldom took Jermaine out of the house because I couldn’t stand anyone staring at my baby. Since blind infants cannot mimic a smile they cannot see, they often do not smile. It hurt that I got no smiles from Jermaine.
Every day my younger sister, Keetie, called, reminding me that God had a plan for each of us.
One day, Jamaal was practicing the piano, playing “Lightly Row” again and again, his little brother secure in his high chair next to him. Jamaal had just finished practicing and had come downstairs where my husband and I were sitting, when we heard a familiar plink plunk-plunk, plink plunk-plunk floating down the stairs. I looked at my husband, and he looked at me. It couldn’t be Jamaal. He was jumping up and down on our bed. We stared at each other for a second, then tore upstairs!
At the piano, head thrown back, a first-ever smile splitting his face, Jermaine was playing “Lightly Row”! The right keys, the right rhythm, the right everything!
In response to my husband’s immediate and astonished, amazing-news phone calls, the house filled with family and friends within an hour. I sat Jermaine at the piano in his high chair, as we all stood around expectantly.
Nothing.
I hummed “Lightly Row” and played a few notes. Jermaine sat silent, his hands motionless.
“It was just a fluke,” my husband said.
“No,” I replied unabashed. “It couldn’t have been.” I was certain our eight-and-a-half-month-old son had perfectly replicated a tune.
Two weeks later, he did it again, this time playing another piece his older brother had practiced. I ran to the piano and listened as the notes became firmer and the tune melded into its correct form.
From then on, there was no stopping Jermaine. He demanded to be at the piano from morning until bedtime. I often fed him at the piano, wiping strained applesauce off the keys. At first, he only played Jamaal’s practice songs . . . and then he played Lionel Richie’s “Hello” after hearing it on the tape recorder. At eighteen months, he played the left-hand part of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” while my sister played the right-hand part. When he gave his first concert, I crawled under the piano to work the foot pedals his little legs could not possibly reach.
By the time he was out of diapers, I was desperate to find him a good piano teacher. I sought out a teacher at the Maryland School for the Blind and called, explaining that Jermaine was already playing the piano.
“How old is he?” the teacher asked.
“Two and a half,” I replied.
“A child that age is too young to start piano lessons,” he said disapprovingly, just as strains of “Moonlight Sonata” filtered in from the other room.
“By the way, Mrs. Gardner, who is that playing in the background?”
“That’s the two-and-a-half-year-old.”
“Bring him in!” the teacher replied promptly.
Soon, invitations for Jermaine to perform poured in. He appeared on national television. He played at the White House for two first ladies. Stevie Wonder invited him to play with him at his studio in California. A pair of Texas philanthropists who saw Jermaine on TV flew him to Dallas for a special surgery to rebuild his face.
As I reflect on his accomplishments, I think of my sister Keetie’s words when I had despaired: “God has a plan for all of us,” she’d said, and “God has a plan for your son.” Indeed, I believe He did.