Tag Archives: Compassion

The Dementia Dossier: Poor Bank

Returning from an errand to the post office, I was explaining to my mother some aspects of my new work as an immigration attorney.  After leaving a 32-year career as a municipal government attorney, the director of the non-profit No More A Stranger Foundation (NOMAS) asked if I would consider starting a new career and working for her as an immigration attorney.  (I had volunteered there for a couple of years.)  NOMAS helps people with their immigration applications to legalize their status, at no charge to the clients.  The work would be part-time and paid “low-bono” (not quite pro-bono, but nearly).  I help prepare applications for naturalization, green cards, work permits, asylum, human trafficking visas, crime victim visas, student visas, and many others.  I am having to learn immigration law from scratch, and the Administration’s frequent policy changes aren’t making the learning easy.  Immigrants, whether in the U.S. lawfully or not, face real financial and social hardships.  They contribute to the economy and community, but often have the lowest-paying jobs and suffer discrimination, bigotry, and isolation.  NOMAS attorneys (a few) and volunteers (many) do what we can to legalize the status of immigrants so they can have improved quality of life.  As a sidebar story, our local Wells Fargo branch closed.  Mom and I knew the manager, bankers, and tellers, and were sad to see them leave, and sad to see our convenient banking location shuttered.  Coming home from the post office, we sat in our car at a red light as I explained immigrant hardships.  Mom did not respond or react at all to my narrative.  But upon seeing the closed bank building, she sighed, “Poor bank.”  I thought Wells Fargo was anything but poor.  And I thought my immigrants were much more deserving of her sympathy.  But Mom felt what she felt, and understandably related more with and sympathized more with what she knew than with what she did not.  And the universe of what she knows is shrinking.  (If anyone would like to support the work of the No More A Stranger Foundation, or are looking for a worthy Giving Tuesday or year-end charity, you may make a donation at the NOMAS website.)

My Child

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When small children are feeling hurt–on the inside or on the outside–they need to know that they can turn to someone for comfort, acceptance, and love.  They need to know that there is someone they can trust.  With our big-person problems, it can be challenging to find patience for a little child’s hurt.  But we must.  We must show our children that they can trust us and that we will be here for them when need us.  Otherwise they turn to others, often less trustworthy, or attempt to bury their pain deep inside, where it festers.  I wrote the poem “My Child” when Erin first went to a church nursery class at 18 months old.  I sat on the floor in the corner of room, keeping as low a profile as possible while she interacted with the other children and adults.  Erin came to me a time or two when her anxiety overcame her tranquility.  When she felt safe, she ventured off to play again.  She has now ventured off into the wide world, though she checks in once in awhile.

MY CHILD

Small child
clinging to me.
Soft cheek against my roughness,
delicate arms draped over my drooping shoulders.
Soothe your fears.
Let your tears fall and
wet my sleeve.
Let your love flow and
seep into my craggy heart.

Soon healed, your troubles forgotten,
release and turn away to play,
a smile on your small-child face,
a greater love in me.

Chapter 32: Snow Angel

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–Sweetness: that which induces a slow rolling of the tongue, a gentle closing of the eyes,
and an escape from the lips of a sensuous, sighing, “ahh.”–

Two young girls rode their bicycles down Church Road coming from the direction of Rabbit Lane.  Working in the yard, I looked up just as one bicycle, ridden by the younger girl, slid on a gravelly patch, and she fell face forward onto the asphalt.  I ran toward the crying girl, about six years old, with my concerned children following close behind.  Blood oozed from abrasions on the girl’s knee and elbow and cheek, and a tooth was broken. Continue reading

Chapter 24: Remembering the Day

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What I like best is being with you.

The hour was 10 p.m., long after the children’s bed times.  I had come home late from city council meeting, and had settled into the sofa with cookies and cold milk, Grandma Lucille’s crocheted afghan over my lap, and a book of Sherlock Holmes mysteries in my hand.  Finally, it was time for a little quiet enjoyment. Continue reading