A Life in a Pile of T-Shirts

This morning, as I was looking for a shirt in my closet, a stack on a shelf caught my eye. The many shirts stored there represent years of fundraisers for my wife’s school, but something felt different when I looked at them today.

For decades, each spring, Valley Haven School in rural Alabama has hosted multiple fundraisers to keep its programs for developmentally disabled adults and children up and running. My wife has been a part of it for the past 20 years, working the job she started a couple of years after her graduation from Auburn University.

Our lives turn on the slightest of chances, and it’s no different for her. Initially, she worked at a small group home for developmentally disabled adults in need of special care. There she met a man named Neal McCurdy, who informed her of a job that would not only be far safer but would also eliminate the need for her to work overnight. She went from working from midnight until daylight to working a normal schedule. Little did she (or I) know that she would still be doing that 20 years later. To this day, we say we owe Neal so much for making her aware of what would become a lifelong job. It turns out the smallest kindnesses move our lives in amazing ways too.

The spring fundraisers at Valley Haven are vital to keeping the school going, playing a key role not only in supporting students but also in maintaining a sense of normality for families. The school provides a caring environment and classes such as self-care and socialization. It is a nurturing, supportive place with a dedicated staff that cares for students while the families work. And it’s a school in many ways. I’ll never forget the first time I attended a basketball game with their brilliant cheerleaders on the sidelines. It was a scene of sheer joy and happiness, with both staff and families cheering the athletes on the court.

When my wife walked into the school in 2006, they had no idea what an amazing decision they had made hiring her, and she had no idea how perfectly she was built for the programs there, especially early intervention.

We moved into an apartment adjacent to the school a couple of years later, and Jennifer walked to school the day Conor was born. As I said, he’s been there since birth.

This morning I stood in the closet for a few minutes thinking about everything I have just described.

I thought of all the times at grocery stores, county fairs, or fundraising rodeos when people would come up to us, thank Jennifer, give her a hug, and tell me what a godsend she was for their child with developmental delays. If it had been a few years since they had talked, there might be tears. Many of the families still maintain their connection to her through social media, and, because of that, she has told me more than a couple of times, “I get to watch my babies grow up.”

She has also, sadly, had to say goodbye more than a few times. And sometimes they were goodbyes from our family as a whole. When Conor was six, he was friends with one of Jen’s “babies”, a child who suffered from a condition where he could barely move and couldn’t speak. Conor would lie on the floor beside him to talk and watch movies, and his friend could communicate through a tablet. “He’s so much smarter than anyone knows,” Conor would tell us.

He lost that friend months later.

It has led to a lot of tough parenting moments for sure, but nowhere near as tough as dealing with the loss of a child. It was certainly harder for Jennifer, who had spent years in their homes, often playing on the floor with the children, as she worked with them and their team of therapists.

Within the past few years, Jennifer has been named to the Governor of Alabama’s Council on Early Intervention and is widely respected in her field. She’d say it’s no big deal, but I’ve gotten to have a front-row seat watching someone perfectly built for their career, who does the work with what can only be described as happiness. She found her calling when many never do. It’s a very big deal.

She still takes on extra work to help other agencies in a state where resources are few and getting fewer. She’s like the high school principal who does whatever it takes to keep programs moving, even the work that isn’t technically her responsibility. Because that’s what someone does when they want the best for their programming, and those of others. And especially when it benefits the many children in Alabama who need early intervention services.

A quilt now hangs on the wall in the lobby of her school. It is made from T-shirts from the many years of previous fundraisers. I have always thought it was a sweet gesture and a lovely piece of art that reminds people of how much love has gone into the school through the staff’s work. But now it represents even more to me. I understand what someone who has been around the school for years sees when they look at it.

This year is the 50th anniversary of the Hike Bike Run event. It’s wild to think Jen has been there since year thirty.

Ten years ago, Jen started volunteering to coach a Miracle League team. The Miracle League gives children and adults with disabilities the chance to play baseball in an environment designed for them, with adaptive fields, volunteer buddies, and rules that ensure everyone gets to participate. It is what happens when a community decides that belonging matters more than competition. I describe it as injecting pure joy right into your heart. You cannot spend time volunteering with the Miracle League and be anything other than joyful. It is impossible.

My work keeps me from the fields in the spring, but when I have made it, I keep my front-row seat to watch someone exactly where they need to be. My wife is like a battery with only a positive charge that infects everyone around her. It is in those times I am reminded how incredibly fortunate I am that the universe somehow found a way to bring us together. She and her families resonate on a beautiful frequency together. I am thankful I get to tune in from time to time.

Now I’ve been on stages and have been handed beautiful plaques for the work I do. I am fortunate to have been awarded praise and appreciation for my efforts. I am like Jennifer, though, in that I certainly don’t do the work I do for recognition. Without her, however, I wouldn’t be able to do the work I do. At all. I would never have received the first award. She has been, and remains, my biggest supporter. I won’t let her part go unnoticed or her selfless work go unsung.

This morning, as I sorted through an old pile of T-shirts, I didn’t see “LaFayette Day 2010.” I saw a life well lived. I saw a life I have been so fortunate to be a part of. And I saw a life that has made those around it so much better.

Some people end up as statues that eventually fall into the sand like Ozymandias. Others will see their positive influence on others become what lives far beyond their own years. In a time of self-glorification and power-hungry grifters, we have to remember how many live as the latter, doing selfless work that betters the lives of those around them. Look for those people. Cling tightly to them and remember that’s really who we are.

Thankfully, I don’t have to look far. She’s been in the next room, wondering why all the T-shirts are spread out on our bed.