terrypetersen

Forever is composed of nows.  Emily Dickinson

Our granddaughter Ella may be in her pack-and-play for a nap, but that doesn’t mean she has any intention of succumbing to sleep. Fortunately she isn’t putting up an ugly protest. This time of day is relegated to rest and our little one knows it. She doesn’t cry without a good reason.

As I work at the computer Ella babbles. She could be talking to a stuffed animal, an imaginary friend, or her guardian angel. Our granddaughter’s language hasn’t developed enough for us to know. Down syndrome has delayed her speech, but has elevated her understanding of the now, a place to be embraced—even if Grandma could be hogging all the fun Curious George games and Sesame Street videos.

I hear a cackle, perhaps the punch line to some joke only she understands. I shake my head and swallow a laugh. Apparently her run through Lowe’s didn’t wear her out this morning. It took two adults to keep one three-year-old girl from rearranging a huge hardware store. While I picked out an area rug for the computer/toy room, Grandpa followed our blonde tornado through the store. Ella made friends along the way, too. She always does, with her magnet-blue eyes and innocent smile. Her beauty and personality reach beyond the limitations of Down syndrome. She makes people feel chosen by her love. It relays an angel’s touch.

Perhaps an angel is teaching her the tricks of the trade—right now. And I don’t know a thing about the lesson. I can’t see or hear her life teachers. I may not have been born with the competition gene, but that doesn’t mean I don’t compare myself to folk who achieve a lot more. I also grow restless when time steals moments I feel are rightfully mine.

No day belongs to me. It is a gift, just as Ella is a gift.

Eventually the noise and rustling stop and I hear two voices in the bedroom. Grandpa and Ella laugh. It is post-rest time. Let the blessings continue. After all, I have a lot to learn.