Mercy

He is small for his age, but carries himself with the stature of a man. He's got a fun spirit, but it's tempered with an elder's gravity.
Several years ago, his mom died. Slowly. Cancer. He nearly lost his dad in the grief aftermath.
When he was little, he would come to my room and sit on my lap and cry. Not just my lap--any lap. Sometimes, I'd find him tucked into a corner. Where he'd ball up and cry. He was like a broken baby bird--that's all I know to say.
That's been years ago. He's 9 now. He doesn't cry much anymore. He's healthy, and reasonably happy, and well-mannered, and cute as a button. But sometimes he still withdraws to a place I can't find. I'm not invited. Neither is anyone else.
It's not that he eschews company....but when you're trying to hold yourself together, it's not always possible to reach outward toward anyone else.

We've been working on an art project, and today he asked if he could come to my room during his recess and my planning to paint. I let him, turned on some music, and worked in companionable silence with him.

At the end of our time together, my student in the wheelchair came for our afternoon walk/exercises. Sometimes we do floor exercises. We pretend that we're gymnasts getting ready for the Olympics. Sometimes we walk. We talk about the day when we'll dance. Sometimes we take it easy and just stretch our legs.

My young old one hovered after he'd been dismissed. "Show me," he whispered.

"What?"

"I want to know. What do you do for her? What can I do? I want to help her get better."

He was serious. She nodded, and so we showed him. First, always be sure the wheelchair is locked. If it's not, she falls. Next, be sure there's room between her feet and the walker. If they get twisted underneath, she falls.
While we walk, we keep the wheelchair handy, just in case she gets fatigued. Her feet are too small, you see, and the muscles aren't developed. She showed him each step, while I explained.
He saw.
He took charge of the wheelchair. "I got this," he softly asserted.
He encouraged.
Softly, at first. Then, as the sweat beaded on her lip, he began to cheer in earnest for her. "You can DO this, friend. You can DO IT."
She smiled and worked harder.

He was the perfect attendant. He got her a drink. He smoothed her hair from her face when it stuck in sweaty strands. He made her smile. He joined me in the "Miss America" song, even though he's not a singer.
She walked farther than she's ever walked today.

He did it on his own. Not initiated by me. It was so beautiful, it made my heart ache and goosebumps rise on the back of my neck. He was coming out of his shell, in order to draw her out of hers.

I used to think mercy was an adult trait--one that had to be cultivated in a person for years. It's not natural, that's for sure.
Now I'm wondering if maybe it's a trait that underlies a common suffering, irrespective of age. It was more than just being kind for him today. He GOT it. Something. Something that we try really hard to teach in a classroom during character-building lessons, but that we all know doesn't grow in earnest until much later.

Right? That is right, isn't it?

Because I could've sworn I saw it today. IT. That thing we all need.

This is going to be some year.