The lesson in humility I will never forget

Until recently, I had never put much thought into the entire community thing. Growing up I associated the term community with the blasted folks that always ratted me out to mom when I did something I wasn't supposed too. They were the people who tattled when I accidentally but kind of on purpose set the hay bale that burned down the entire field on fire, got in a fight, snuck out of the house. The people that opened their mouths only to result in me having to endure yet another lecture in a long line of lectures. In short, community was that chain around my neck.

It was an annoying connection of people who knew my mother and minded everyone's business but their own. I envisioned a carefree life with no blasted neighbors anywhere in sight to muck up the works and drive me insane. I held on to that dream for quite a while, but somewhere along the way, it just stopped being so all important.

I have no idea when I started seeing community in another light, but I can say with absolute certainty that my preconceived notions of community were summarily destroyed a little over two years ago when my second nephew was born prematurely.

As I have mentioned a million times now, my nephews were both preemies. We still don't know why, but they came too early. It was terrifying. It was heartbreaking. And it was fascinating. I had never had any dealings with a NICU prior to the birth of Alo (Kaia was born in California, so I only vicariously lived through the NICU nightmare with him) and was beyond intimidated when I walked in the first time to see babies no bigger than my hand hooked up to more wires and monitors than I could even count.

And when I saw that my nephew was one of those babies, intimidation didn't even begin to cover what I was feeling. To be honest, even years later I'm not sure I can even describe it. But, I can remember thinking that there was no way I could do it. I wasn't ready to face that, I would never be ready to face that, to be strong for that little baby lying there with tubes down his throat, in his belly button, his arms, his feet fighting to live. How was I supposed to be strong for him when I just wanted to huddled up in a ball on the floor and bawl over how unfair it was to him, to sis, to everyone?

I didn't know what to say, what to do, what to think. And every time the doctor appeared, it was to bring us more bad news. He had spina bifida, his lungs were underdeveloped, he had too much fluid on his brain, his brain stem wasn't placed correctly, his blood gasses weren't good, the oscillator was doing more damage to his lung even while it kept him alive. We lived at the hospital those first days and so didn't have a clue what was going on in the outside world.

We would go home long enough to change clothes, kiss Kaia, fall into bed for a few hours and then we were up and racing the 60 miles back to Alo's bedside. We didn't think, didn't stop to breathe. We just existed, too afraid and overwhelmed to think about anything beyond seeing his chest rise and fall, watching the heart monitor flash and beep. Looking back on it now, I realize that not thinking was how we dealt with it. Had I stopped to think, even for a minute, I would have become that quivering mass of flesh wailing in the middle of the floor. So, I just didn't think.

And then, when he was 2 days old, and reality had taken a firm grip, thought began to return. We had made it through those first hellish nights and he was still with us. We were being prepped to face his first surgery and it was time to sit down and breathe before I hyperventilated.

And when I sat back to breathe, I realized that we weren't alone. Somewhere in those first two days the telephone calls, the visits and the overflowing inbox had occurred. Family and friends had passed the word on to their family and friends who in turn passed the word on further. By the time Alo was transferred to the Children's hospital for his first surgery, people I had never even heard of in towns I had never known existed were emailing to ask what they could do to help. People in India, Pakistan, England, Germany, Italy, Russia, Canada had all sent up prayers to their Gods for us. Alo was on prayer lists in churches and temples across the United States.

And those people I had until then thought of as nosy busybodies where running in circles for us. For him. For that tiny little baby they had never even laid eyes on except in pictures that had been passed around. I took to sending out a single email a day updating everyone on the latest and that email would make the rounds from Arkansas to California to England to Russia to New York and replies would pour in for us to read when we needed to borrow a little strength all because of people in that one poor community in that one part of the state cared enough to try.

Community took on an entirely new meaning then. And in the few years since then, I haven't been able to shake that new meaning. Everyone I look now, I see community as community is meant to be. When my cousin and grandfather were killed last year, everyone rallied for us. Their services and our homes were packed with people that we didn't know but who cared enough to be there to lend a hand, a tissue, or give a hug.

Just yesterday I got a refresher course in community. I blogged a few weeks ago about a school I attended in imminent danger of being closed down. You may recall that the school is located in a poor community in rural Arkansas; that same community that rallied behind us for Alo, for Hunter, for Grandpa. They have until September 24th to raise 2 million dollars or the doors are being closed forever. It's up to the community to raise that money. And I had a chance to visit yesterday and was absolutely amazed at how quickly they have pulled together. In less than a month, they've raised nearly half of that 2 million dollar goal and everyone is getting involved. Signs from one end of the town to another display the S.O.S (Save our School) signal and tally the amount raised to date. There is a new fundraiser nearly every day.

And once again, community has extended beyond the borders of one small town to take on a deeper, more vibrant meaning. Businesses and individuals from all over the state have gotten involved, donating cars, trucks, boats, televisions, trips, equipment, time and energy to saving that single school. And when one of the teachers from that school suffered a brain hemorrhage in the middle of a fundraiser over the weekend, those selfsame people did not hesitate to start keeping her family in their embrace. They merely held their arms a little wider and expanded their purpose a little further.

I have no doubt now that they will save that school. I shouldn’t have doubted it in the first place. I learned 2 years ago just how quickly those people can come together to be there in time of need. They did it for us 2 years ago. And I have no doubts that they’ll continue to do it far into the future. Even now, Alo remains on prayer lists, is asked about, thought about, talked about. That’s just the kind of people they are. And those kinds of people are everywhere if you just care to look.

You will never know just what community means until you realize you walk amongst folks that are willing to rally to a cause, a person, a family to whom they have no ties simply because it’s needed. It's a humbling experience, no matter how often it happens. And it is one that I will remember for the rest of my days.

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