He Had This Way

He had this way of making you forget your troubles – as if the day was a blank page, wide open, and anything was possible. It was a marvel, because he’d had such a difficult life himself. As a child…

… he had contracted Polio when he was young. His father was angry at God, and at Billy for having “created problems in the family” through his ill-health, as if it had been Billy’s fault. His mother and father fought a lot over the challenges that were posed by Billy’s health needs. Billy somehow, miraculously, was not that much affected by the conflicts between his parents and with his sister that were created by his illness. His older sister thought that his illness was all in his head and she never had sympathy for him. She thought that he would certainly grow out of his “desperate need for attention.” How far he had gone, she thought… even to the point of faking some kind of physical feebleness! She despised her own brother for “such pathetic behavior,” as she was accustomed to saying to her friends.

But Billy knew different. God had given Billy not only the gift of illness, but a different spirit. He was kind and he was forgiving. He was also patient and he understood that his very real illness would not go away, and that one day it would dawn on his parents, especially his father, that they were given a great gift. Their gift was Billy and his illness, because his illness caused them to reach out to other families who had children afflicted with the same illness. Of course, Billy did not think of himself as the gift; that would have been prideful, but he did see his own illness as a great gift to himself. He could now understand other kids at school who were experiencing, or had experienced, their own challenges, physical or otherwise.

For example, I met Billy when we were in the fifth grade. I came from a terribly broken family that I thought was normal because that is all I knew; it was all I had experienced in the few years I had lived up to that point. Billy gently let me know that my family was not how most families were. He listened to me and I listened to him. We had lunch together at school.

One day during recess, as I was walking on the tarmac of the school, I saw a little girl sitting alone on a bench. Suddenly, some of the boys at the school ran up to the little girl and grabbed her hair. She screamed and tried to hold on to the wig that she wore. I had seen her but did not know that it was a wig. It was white and cut in a short “bob.” The boys ran off with her wig, leaving her bald and crying on the bench.

Incensed at such cruelty, and without thinking about my own safety, I ran after the boys and was able to get the wig back for the little girl. I brought it to her, sat down next to her, and apologized that this had happened to her. She thanked me and told me that she had cancer and had lost her hair. Not only did we become best friends from that day on, but Billy accepted Lisa, too. I knew he would. If anyone would accept Lisa, it would be Billy. The three of us watched out for each other, but mostly, Billy watched out for Lisa and me. Even as he hobbled around the school grounds on crutches, he still kept a protective eye out for anyone who might try to do something to Lisa or me.

Billy always had a kind word or a funny word or a gorgeous smile for Lisa and me. When he smiled, his hazel-green eyes would sparkle; his whole face smiled, not only his eyes. That is where his light came from: from his eyes. However, with his red hair, freckled face, rotund form, and crutches, he never won a popularity contest. The other kids made fun of him. Despite the mocking, he was polite and respectful to everyone, and a natural protector for those more challenged than he was.

So, when he asked me to go “steady,” I naturally said, “Yes!”

Billy raced go-carts. After asking my mother if we could go and watch Billy race his go-carts, something that his mother supported and encouraged him to do, we met up with Billy at his race track. Lisa came with me to watch Billy. No one else wanted her friendship, but Billy and I certainly did.

He was such a humble young man, always overflowing with the joy of living. I was so proud of him for pressing forward with what he loved doing. His handicap was not something he focused on at all. He never even wanted to talk about it. He wanted to talk about what he was learning, or about go-carts, or about the poodles that my mother was raising.

I miss Billy and wonder how his life went. He certainly must have become a larger version of the caring, humble, protective self that he was at a younger age.

This is to you, Billy. To the warm memories that you left imprinted on my heart.