Sailing with Saylor

Brian Rogers

West Bountiful, UT

2/2011

I have a grand niece. Her name is Saylor. She is only seven years old. But she is an eternity ahead of me when it comes to being a child of God.

I am struggling to find the words to describe what I am thinking, what I feel about this tiny angel. You see, Saylor was born with spina bifida. Her legs do not work for her. She has other complications which endanger her mortal existence, wounds which she so softly carries, and that endears her to the very core of my soul. And I have spent less than five hours of my life with her I am ashamed to admit. I am not worthy of the honor of having her as my niece. Her parents, Nate and Audie, certainly are worthy of having her as their daughter.

I remember learning of Saylor’s health shortly after she came to grace her family and by extension, mine. I remember feeling somewhat singed, sorrowful that anyone one, any parent would be burdened with the care of a child that does not arrive to the world in what we mere mortals call normal. To my shame, I was momentarily thankful that none of my children were thus and I moved on with my life. Saylor was out of sight, out of mind and far away.

I visited Nate and Audie a couple of times over the next few years, each time with my father and then only for an hour or so. Probably not even that long. Then, my older sister Shauna attempted to renew a family tradition of annual a Christmas party that my grandfather had begun more than half a century ago. As I travel much, too much, my attendance at these annual festivals has been limited, which only continued for a couple of years.

Two years ago, I was home for the holidays and was able to attend. I wanted to be there. I was looking forward to it. My sister has some granddaughters that I thoroughly enjoy tormenting in every way I can think of. We banter, tease, and chase each other around the house, interrupting whatever else is going on, much to the chagrin and chastisement from my cautioning wife among others.

Saylor was there, watching it all. Her little legs prevented her from joining, from laughing, from chasing and being chased. Finally, in my arrogant, stupid hubris, I realized that Saylor was not part of the fun. I stopped and attempted, very feebly, to enjoin her.

We, the other children and I, had been doing what I called the family smash. It is a game I have played with my own children as they were growing up. It consists of the oldest person in the group sitting on the floor, legs spread wide apart. The next oldest (or largest) then sits between the legs of the first person, back to chest as close as possible, spreading their legs as far apart as possible. The next joins in, and the next, as many as is safe. Each person then wraps their arms around as many people in front of them as possible, building an interlocking chain of humanity, with the smallest, youngest at the furthest end, with no one to hold on to. Then, the largest person leans back until they lie on the floor, lifting everyone in the line upward, until all are stacked one on the other, facing upwards. The family smash! The object is to stay erect as long as possible. Of course the children are laughing, wiggling and wailing in anticipation of what is about to transpire. The stack is impossible to hold and soon all tumble to whatever side, giggling with each other. The game is repeated until a parent says to stop before someone gets hurt, ruining all the fun. At moments like these, I am not a parent. I am a child on the floor with the other children.

 I invited Saylor to join the stack. I was confident I could protect her, but I desperately wanted her to feel part of the group, a member of the family with her cousins. But, in a still, small, sweet voice, she gracefully declined. She merely said, “I’ll watch.”

My heart broke. To this very day, long after it occured, I remember her voice, the sound of it, the tone, the humility, the acceptance of her condition. I am not worthy of this, patient, loving,  mortal goddess.

Recently, Saylor has undergone some very painful surgeries, correcting some complications she has been living with every day of her life. I cannot imagine her suffering. If your heart has compassion, or if your heart needs compassion, please, read about it here. Scroll down to June 2, 2009 and find a box of tissues. http://hollandrocks.blogspot.com/2009_06_01_archive.html

So what does all of this mean? That is for you to decide. I know what it means to me.

The rest of my life, whatever remaining days God has granted me until I go to be with my fathers, I will never meet a human being as sacred as Saylor. I will never be able to sail life’s waters as well as she and I look forward to the time when, in the eternities, I will witness her sail free from the burden she carries for me.