And a Child Shall Lead Them ...

From the moment Stan came into our lives twenty-three years ago, my parents and I have been unwittingly elevated to an unusual level of awareness; trifles that ordinarily go quite unnoticed came unexpectedly into sharp relief. A mental and spiritual acuity gradually began to develop within the three of us, and its focus was the new arrival. This child, as the song goes, came into the world in the usual way. Nevertheless, had the scenario that unfolded over the last two decades been staged within the sacred theatre of Biblical antiquity, this unusual child, like the infant Samuel, would have been dedicated unto the LORD.

Stan was always a happy baby, and to say that he was just another cute little boy, well … more of that later. I mentioned that our level of awareness became keener because of Stan. An especially memorable period was when elderly Aunt Rose came to stay with us for a spell after her husband, our Uncle Angelo, had died. His death was sudden and caused my family and Aunt Rose, in particular, much grief. Stan was about four or five at the time, I believe, and I - the typical, self-absorbed teenager - was in my early teens.

One day, like any other (well, almost), Aunt Rose was staring out the window, which was becoming part of her daily routine. The sadness in the air was especially palpable that afternoon; it was raining a melancholy and indifferent sort of drizzle. A lusty, wind-driven downpour would have been preferable under these distressing circumstances. The old darling’s gloom hung about us like a bad suit of clothes. The stillness was shattered, however, when she, totally out of the blue and without warning, burst into tears and sobbed with abandon. Mom ran into the living room to see what had happened and I stood there like a statue. What does a teenage guy know about comforting the bereaved? I knew some Scripture but hadn’t a clue how to wring any practical comfort from the Good Book.

Mom knelt down by Aunt Rose and talked soothingly to her, and, after a few moments, the old lady appeared to calm down. Mom must have felt satisfied that Aunt Rose was all right, so she headed back to the kitchen to brew my great aunt a pot of restoring tea. While my mother’s aunt was recovering and I was standing in stunned silence at this most awkward of moments, Stan walked into the room and went directly to Aunt Rose. I had the presence of mind to halt this intrusion of her privacy and made for my little brother’s arm. Before I could grab hold and jerk him away, he abruptly turned his head toward me and gave me a look that could kill at twenty paces. I dropped back, utterly speechless. He turned back toward his elderly, great aunt whose attention he had already captured. Her face was the usual blank, only more so, if you get my drift.

My mother returned to the living room, smiling gently in our general direction, carrying a tray crowned with a silver tea service and laden with the home-baked goodies she is locally famous for. As she set down the tray on the coffee table, Stan tugged at the ottoman adjacent to the threadbare, old wingback that Aunt Rose had made her permanent home. Once it was in place before her, the little fellow perched upon it and reached out for her wizened left hand with his right. Young and fresh clasping the ancient and scarcely living. Do you remember the old saying, “Out of the mouths of babes”? Stan subsequently gave it a new meaning, a meaning that changed our lives.

After a few moments looking out the picture window, Stan gazed upward toward Aunt Rose, and, with a look of slight bemusement, she returned a gaze of her own. Mom and I were standing at a "respectful" distance to the side and saw the little guy’s lips begin to move. Given our position relative to this seated odd couple, who were occupying each other’s attention, we couldn’t read Stan’s lips. The reason I mention that is because he was talking to his great aunt so softly that neither my mother nor I had a clue what deal was being clinched. With her hand still firmly in his own, Stan rose and shot a look out the window. It had stopped raining, much to my surprise. I have no idea why I should be surprised or not surprised at such a non-event. Perhaps it was because the clouds were breaking up and the sun was warming up the last shreds of so forlorn a day. My moment of reverie was broken when I realized that the pair was at the front door, yet hand-in-hand. With his left hand Stan grabbed hold of the old brass knob, twisted it and pulled a slightly confused but willing captive through the portal. Aunt Rose was not the only person in this diminutive boy’s thrall.

Aunt Rose and Stan were outside for some time walking about the garden, looking at the saturated yet glistening shrubs that were catching the last rays of a Sol rather belated in arriving. Better late than never. Geese were flying high above the treetops, honking jubilantly at their crepuscular escape through the darkening skies. I seriously believe they were shouting down a riotous salute to Stan, who was waving enthusiastically at them with his free hand. Aunt Rose was looking upward and shielding her eyes against the fading sunlight with her right hand. Mom and I, forgetting totally about time and all practical concerns, were still at the window when that odd couple traipsed through the front door. I’ll never forget what I saw next.

The old lady was somehow transformed: she was actually smiling and had a somewhat girlish gaiety about her. She was chatting away about what a beautiful day it was and, by golly, we’re hungry! Let’s eat! She took off her shoes – they were wet and muddy – and tossed them in the corner with all the other detritus of country living. After pushing back several wisps of unruly gray from her brow, she marched resolutely into the kitchen, grabbed and put on an apron and started fussing about like she owned the place. My mother and I could only look at each other blankly.

Stan had repaired to a corner of the living room and was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his nose in a book ...