Anyway
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Do you have anything in your pocket?” There in the center of the store aisle, I looked down into the face of a little girl. Her face bore the telltale signs of Down syndrome. I was trying to do some long-overdue grocery shopping while a caregiver stayed with my failing husband. But sleep deprivation had me struggling to make sense of where I should head next. Away from answering questions from hospice workers, laundering soiled bed linens, and preparing specialized meals, I felt lost. My knees wanted to buckle, and tears threatened to flow. But I must stay on schedule. “Do you have anything in your pocket?” the child repeated.
Before I could answer, a small, grimy hand dug into the front pocket of my snow-white tunic. “Nope, it’s empty,” she pronounced. “I couldn’t find anything in there. Do you know my grandma?” A middle-aged woman chatting nearby glanced at the child and then winked at me before resuming her conversation. “My grandma’s talking to that lady over there. So, do you know Grandma?” When I shook my head no, the little girl said, “That’s OK for now if you don’t. I love you anyway.” With that, she tenderly laid her smudgy face against my white-tunicked tummy. And for a long, unexpected instant, short, chubby arms did their best to encircle my waist. I literally felt the love while salty tears nearly breached my eyelids before returning to lower tide levels. Have you ever reached out to a stranger, only to realize they did not know Someone who was special to you? I have. And maybe, as with me, their appearance, apparel, aroma, or lifestyle put you off, and your subliminal response toward them revealed it.
I wish instead I had intentionally conveyed in word or gesture a clear “That’s OK for now. I love you anyway.” If I had let them know I loved them anyway, maybe they would have better understood that God does too. That neither death, nor life, nor things present or to come, nor depression or divorce, nor abuse, nor impending widowhood or a changing life landscape could ever separate them from God’s love. Going forward, I will try to be more like that little girl who, on a painful, tearful day in a big-box store, offered assurance that she—and God—loved me anyway.
Carolyn Rathbun Sutton
