A Scrap of Courage

If good fences make good neighbors¹ then our little subdivision was the perfect setting for neighborliness to grow.  The streets were lined with rows of 70s-era ranch-style houses. The small back yards were bordered by the type of chain-link fences Texans call cyclone. These open-weave steel fences are strong, economical and practical. The gusty western winds usually blow right through them.  Bright sunlight has no shady barrier and the climbing tendrils of jessamine and morning glories… and tennis-shoe clad children’s feet… have the perfect toe-holds.  One thing those fences don’t provide, however, is privacy.  Living in the middle of the block as we did, three other yards adjoined our little patch of green. Hang your sheets on the clothes line? Everyone knew it was laundry day. Send the children out to play on the swing set? Soon doors would slam and kids would climb over the fence or scoot around through the gates to join them.  Plant some Double Delight roses in the new flower bed?  There was always a neighbor to give advice or admire your handiwork.  Need the proverbial cup of sugar?  One of your back-yard neighbors was sure to oblige. As we leaned against the fences, swapped stories and commented on the daily news, strong bonds formed.  And thus I met our neighbors Sheila and Sam and their curly haired four-year-old, Thomas.  I first saw Thomas one summer afternoon not long after we excitedly moved into our very first house. The yard next door was shaded by a huge mulberry tree, and Thomas spent hours outside, jumping and running, driving big Tonka trucks through the dirt, or pedaling his Big Wheel round and round on the patio.  It wasn’t long before Thomas and I were regular fence visitors. Thomas was what we adults describe as precocious.  His vocabulary was large and his curiosity insatiable.  Many days when I headed outdoors to tend the flower garden, play with the dog or sweep the patio, Thomas would soon appear.  Our friendship grew to include the rest of the family, and his mother Sheila and I became close.  About a year later, as Thomas turned five, our own little boy arrived. Thomas was quick to welcome him as he curiously peered over the fence at my blanket-wrapped newborn. 

Thomas was tall and strong and well-coordinated.  His flashing brown eyes, quick smile and kind heart made him a favorite of kids and grown-ups alike.  As that summer faded into fall, however, Thomas was a little less buoyant and carefree.  His anxiety started at the Roundup, a kindergarten welcome/orientation held at the nearby elementary school.   It was a time for eating cookies, playing with future schoolmates, and meeting teachers. You might expect that Thomas would be thrilled with his upcoming transition to “big school”.  He was a prime example of the ready-for kindergarten-kid: mature for his age; a great communicator; interested in reading; congenial and confident—but Thomas had other ideas.  As the days marched forward to late August and the start of school, Thomas’ anxiety grew.  Sheila tried lots of antidotes for Thomas’ fears: She took him on a shopping trip for new clothes; she invited a future classmate to play; she talked enthusiastically about the books he would read and the pictures he would paint.  Still the worry continued and the tears were quick to fall. Inexplicably, kindergarten and Thomas were not destined to be a good match.  The only thing that seemed to comfort Thomas was his ragged old blankie, his faithful companion for daily naps and evening bedtimes.  That old blanket was a familiar sight. It sometimes took rides in Thomas’ wagon, or was wrapped around one of his stuffed animals.  The cartoon character Linus would have been proud of Thomas and the place of honor he gave to his blanket.  If the blanket was there, Thomas’ world settled into security. 

Across the back yard fence, I listened to Sheila as she worried and wondered how Thomas would handle his changing world.  I watched Thomas as his outdoor play became a little less enthusiastic and his bright smile began to fade. Thomas, of course, knew his blankie would help; it always had. His mother agreed, but feared that if Thomas took it to kindergarten, he would be the subject of teasing or bullying. Sheila’s dilemma was painful, as painful as Thomas’.  But Thomas was not the only member of the household who was creative and inventive.  Sheila had her own plans for that first day of school.

As Thomas and Sheila drove off to school one hot August morning, my prayers and concerns went with him.  Imagine my surprise as he bounded out the door later on that afternoon, rushing over to the fence, bursting with stories about his day. I celebrated with him even though I was puzzled by his change of heart.  As we talked, he shyly rolled down his sock.  Tucked into the top edge was a faded piece of cloth: a zigzagged-edged square of his beloved blanket.  Sheila had cut off a small piece of his blanket.  That morning as he dressed for school in those new clothes and slipped on his shoes, he carefully placed a piece of blanket inside his sock.  That little scrap of blanket was Thomas’ little scrap of courage.  There was nothing magic about that tiny piece of material, nor of the larger blanket that had comforted Thomas for so long. That small piece of cloth somehow transmitted courage as he headed out into the unknown, scary place called kindergarten.  With the magical wisdom of a child, Thomas knew that he needed something he could cling to for protection as he walked through the school doors and into a new world.

Thomas’ fear was the fear of all of us:  the fear of the unknown, of unfamiliar surroundings and of an uncertain future.  In Kindergarten, a lot of strangers would be telling him what to do. His freedom would be curtailed.  He might face rejection or feel inadequate.  Given a choice, he would have gladly stayed where he was, playing in his backyard or snuggling up with his blankie.  He had to go, but as he went, he took something with him to ease the loneliness and assuage the fear. He didn’t take an idea or a “good thought” or an inspirational quotation.  He brought along something real and tangible.  Something that he could see and touch whenever he needed it.   The comforting words and reassurances of his beloved mother could not quite convince him he would be all right.  Only a little piece of blanket could. 

How I wish my own faltering courage could be solved by something as simple and direct as a small piece of a blanket I could tuck into the top of my sock!  It is not easy to be brave.  Courage is what I need.  Courage for the uncertain weeks to come.  Courage to do hard, hard things that are not my choice.  Courage to go some places that as a resident of the world neighborhood, I have never been before.  Like Thomas, I look for something plain and practical and familiar.  I’m not relying on encouraging words from my friends, though those are helpful.  Not counting on a new Crowdcast on positive thinking or an online prayer chain to bolster me, though those are things that I rely upon.  Not opening up the video apps on my phone or computer, the sources of much-needed human contact.  Not even savoring the inspirational words of my current devotional book despite its insight and comfort.  I’d gladly turn back the clock or leap forward, but that is not a choice. Instead, I’m following Thomas’ lead and looking for something I can touch and feel.  My attention is caught by an old gray knitted prayer shawl laying there beside my chair.  A friend made it for me over 15 years ago. It has moved with me across the country and back again.  I haven’t used it much lately.  The yarn is pilling and shedding.  It has a large hole in the middle where the stiches have pulled apart.   But… there is something I see there among the well-worn stitches. A prayer shawl is not just a thoughtful hand-made gift.  It is a tangible reminder of care and faith… and courage. Sometimes you need to put your hands on courage and feel it wrap around you and today this old shawl is my courage-giver.  As I wrap it snugly around me, I feel bravery begin to seep into my spirit.  This shawl is cut from the larger cloth of Divine security and safety. This shawl is made of the strong, brave fabric of the many. I feel a little frayed and threadbare, but as I sink into the soft fabric, I feel courage rising.

I imagine myself leaning over that old fence, chatting with Thomas as I immerse myself in the memory of those long-ago summer days. I see his grin as he proudly shows me his wise mother’s simple antidote for fear. I am thankful for Thomas and his innocent belief in the power of the real to combat the imagined. I bless the hands that created this shawl, this piece of courage more precious than any political banner or warrior’s shield.  I cut a few strands off the edges of my blankie and tuck them into my sock as I shake off sadness and start on my self-appointed work of sewing face masks and writing letters.  The power of the real to combat the imagined… maybe there is an inspirational thought for the day after all.

I don’t know how long Thomas continued to tuck that scrap of courage into his sock.  I don’t know how long I’ll need a real-life symbol to feed my courage as something to cling to without self-consciousness or shame.  There are a lot of scary unknowns ahead of me. I reach down and feel those bits of yarn. Just a tiny scrap of courage will do.   

As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you.  Isaiah 66:13.

¹ From the poem Mending Wall (1914) by Robert Frost

Photo by Lina Verovaya on Unsplash