Queen Kelley

September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, so I decided to stop by the blog (it’s been a while) and list significant statistics related to kids with cancer. (I’m grateful to Janice, mother of Holly and Mimi, for this list, which I took from her Caring Bridge page. Also, I took the image from jayshope.org.)

1. Number of children who will get cancer: 1 in every 300.
2. Number who will not survive: 1 in 5.
3. Number of children diagnosed with cancer each school day: 46.
4. Number of children who die of cancer every school day: 7.
5. Number of children currently fighting cancer: 35,000.
6. Number of new drugs developed for childhood cancer in the past 25 years: One.
7. Percentage of cancer research money spent on childhood cancers: 3%.

We all have causes that are close to our hearts. This is mine. You can click on my tab “Childhood Cancer” and read more about why it matters to me. This month, you may see gold ribbons on people’s shirts and cars. We have these ribbons to remind us of the many kids battling cancer and of the ones who are with God now. When you see them, I hope you’ll think about these kids and their families. Go Gold!

September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, a month set aside to inform the general public that childhood cancer is a serious disease in our country (CureSearch says it’s “the most common disease-related cause of death for ages one to twenty”). At any given moment, parents and their children face the ever-present nightmare of pain, tests, treatments, separation, isolation, fear, and uncertainty. At any given moment, parents and other loved ones deeply miss a child whom cancer took from them.

I often mention my friend Jenny, whose daughter Catie died of brain tumor complications at age 4. There are hundreds and even thousands of others. Joshua passed away a few weeks ago. Kate is 5, just a little older than my Butterfly, and endures terrible stomach pain from brain tumor treatment. JB, age 8, and his mother live at St. Jude miles away from the rest of their family while he undergoes cancer treatment. (Click on the links to read about them.) These children should run, play, attend school, and have fun. In most cases, they can’t.

No one likes to think about childhood cancer. I certainly don’t. But I do. I am ever mindful that life can change in a moment. If you wish, see Curesearch.org for information on the Virtual Walk for 12,500. You can contribute money. You can give your time at Ronald McDonald Houses and similar places around the country. You can pray for peace, direction, and comfort as families cling to hope, doctors treat these children, and researchers work tirelessly for a cure. I am always hoping for a brighter future for these families and little ones.

I like lists, both making them and reading them. When I get to the end, I feel like I’ve accomplished something. For today’s list, I thought about sharing what with you. Then I figured why is a lot more interesting. So here’s my list of why, part 1.

1. Why I prefer reading and writing children’s literature. By children’s, I mean anything from picture books to teen fiction. I’ll admit I haven’t read much adult fiction, so my opinion is definitely biased. From the few pieces I’ve read, though, I have to say that children’s literature seems to offer more imagination, hope, and freedom to dream. Whether it’s fantasy, coming-of-age, or some other kind of tale, I’m completely pulled into books about or directed toward young people. In the best of these books, the characters are palpable, the life lessons subtle, the humor abundant, and the endings nearly always hopeful, if not necessarily happy. I enjoy writing for this age group for similar reasons. I’ve found that I don’t need explicit descriptions of sexual encounters to sense passion between individuals. I don’t need long, drawn-out, brutal death scenes to appreciate depth of loss. I don’t need excessive profanity to understand the fire behind a character’s words. The bottom line is that I simply think children’s literature is more fun and fulfilling to read. With limited reading time, I go with what I love.

2. Why Harry Potter is an obsession of mine. My infatuation with all things Harry Potter ebbs and flows with the book and movie releases. Recently, I’ve rewatched movies 3 and 4 and will soon watch 5 to get ready for the release of 6 next month. Of course, the books trump the movies any day, but time constraints don’t allow me to reread them in the way I’d like. As for Harry, there’s something incredibly moving about witnessing him transform from a small, awkward, and unaware young wizard into a force that defeats the wizarding world’s greatest enemy. Perhaps most fascinating is that he doesn’t actually evolve all that much. While his perspective on life and death and good and evil greatly matures, he is still Harry at the end of the series—awkward, slightly unsure, not at all self-glorifying. There are things to complain about regarding some of Rowling’s logic and lack of editing, but overall the series is powerful, captivating, and enduring. I look forward to reading the books with my kids in a few years. (As for the religious controversy over the books, I say it all comes back to Glenda’s question in The Wizard of Oz: “Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?” Clearly, Harry is good, as hard as it is to be good in a world where evil is so tantalizing.)

3. Why I put my kids to bed at 8:00 every night. Plain and simple, they need the sleep, and the King and I need the time to ourselves. Additionally, my children wake up by 6:30 nearly every morning, regardless of when they go to bed, so why not get them down early and extend the night for everyone? Although you can never be certain of a family’s reasoning, I still cringe when I’m at a grocery store at 9:00 pm and see small children gallivanting around with their parents. Put them to bed already!

4. Why I believe in God. Science intrigues me. The more I learn about our amazing universe, the more I feel certain that there is a Higher Power behind it all. I simply can’t accept the fact that everything, from the enormity of the sun that sustains our life to the tiniest particles that make up our cells, randomly exploded into being. As for the particulars of how, when, why, and exactly what, most days I’m content to discover those things as God chooses to reveal them. I know many intelligent, logical, reasonable people disagree with this belief in a Supreme Force. But I believe. I’ve found that I can’t do otherwise.

5. Why I’m a Baptist. I’d like to say it’s because I admire Baptist principles like freedom of interpretation, separation of church and state, priesthood of the believer, autonomy of the local church, etc. Those are indeed lofty principles when applied to the way one worships God. To be honest, though, I’m a Baptist because I was born into it. Who knows how it would be otherwise. I might just as easily be a Methodist, Presbyterian, Episcopalian, Catholic, some other religion, or not a believer at all. I’d like to think I’d be attracted to the Baptist faith as an outsider, but my particular denomination of Christianity has a poor reputation these days. However, being mature enough now to explore other groups, I choose to remain a Baptist mostly because of the historic principles listed above.

6. Why I give money to childhood cancer research/support organizations. Everyone needs a cause—a place to direct his or her money, time, and passion. For the King and me, it’s childhood cancer groups. Our main inspiration appears occasionally on my blog. A little girl with a big story, Catie Marie Wilkins battled medulloblastoma (aggressive brain tumor) for nearly four years. She passed on at age four in January 2007, just a week before her younger sister’s birth. I still follow the family’s journey, which Catie’s mother Jenny writes beautifully on her blog. What these children face is beyond horrifying. What their parents endure is unimaginable. The strength they all exhibit is breathtaking. The King and I are committed to caring for these kids and their families as much as we can, and hopefully we can increase our support and involvement as our own children mature.

7. Why symmetry drives me crazy. My husband is an engineer. For his work, symmetry is essential and even at times a life-and-death matter. However, he brings this into the home. The rugs must be completely straight, the pictures perfectly aligned, the colors mirror images of each other. We laugh about it because my instinct is to bump things slightly askew, to scatter the colors, to break the reflection. It makes life more interesting and unpredictable. Of course, John would say just the opposite.

8. Why I wear my seatbelt and switch off lights. It’s my dad. From the time we were small, he insisted that we buckle up while riding, and this was before seatbelt use was the law or even popular. Luckily, the habit stuck with me even through my teen years, when many of my friends considered seatbelts annoying and uncool. Now I have the law on my side, so I will accept no excuses from my own kids. As a Georgia Power engineer, my dad also nagged about us leaving lights on in unused rooms. At this point, I probably use more energy than I conserve because I flip off the lights even when I leave a room only for a few minutes. Thanks, Daddy. (:

9. Why I care about the Earth. I have a hard time understanding why anyone, especially those who believe in God, think caring for the Earth is some liberal, new age way to live. For me, it merely makes sense. When I think about the technological advances that have consumed our world in the past century, our progress blows my mind. Accompanying our advances in America is, unfortunately, a tendency to produce more waste that takes years to decompose (if it ever does), to collect material possessions in excess of anything anyone would ever need, to use our resources as if they are limitless (they’re not), and to disregard the fact that people across the sea still can’t count on clean water, much less electricity to power their lives. Why any Christian would think it’s not important to care for the Earth is totally beyond me. I can’t do it all, but I’ll do my best to recycle, reuse, and choose my food and products carefully in this little corner where I live.

10. Why I take a break from reading to read. The King simply shakes his head at me when, after a couple of hours of nightly editing, I crawl into bed to open a book and read for a few minutes. Let me assure you that there is an enormous difference in reading  someone’s writing in order to correct it and reading someone’s writing in order to enter another world. There is nothing—not movies, not vacations, sometimes not even time with friends—like sneaking away into the world created by a fiction author. I’m so thankful for books and only wish I had more time to read them.

To be continued….

I had planned to write an eloquent plea for donations to Catie’s Cure Classic, a golf tournament organized by my friend Jenny and her husband Tre’. They do it in memory of their sweet Catie, who died at age four from complications of medulloblastoma, a cancerous brain tumor. The tournament raises funds for CURE Childhood Cancer, an organization that helps finance research for innovative treatments and also directly supports families in emergency situations involving their sick children.

I’ve no need to write an eloquent plea, though, because my dear King did it for me. Please read his post, “Dragons that Won’t Fade,” and consider supporting this cause, even with a few dollars. Or, as the King says, if you aren’t already, get involved in caring for children in some way. It makes the world a much better place.

The girls and I enjoyed a quickly planned visit today from members of the “G” family (see their blog in my links list). Cheryl and her two boys spent the morning and lunch with us while husband and father Fadi did some work in a nearby town.

Cheryl’s little man, who just celebrated his first birthday, bounced from one item to another, curiously exploring his new surroundings. Fearless and enthusiastic, he boldly toddled down the steps from our kitchen to the den, tasted every object he picked up, and entertained us with his babbles. All the while, his precious big brother slept either in his stroller or snuggled on the sofa. If you read the family’s blog, you’ll learn that their first son was born with brain abnormalities. Now, at age 3, he functions on an infant level and, sadly, can neither hear nor see.

It’s a journey I don’t know, a path I haven’t walked, a trial I can’t fathom. But Cheryl handles it with such grace. Since the beginning, she and her husband have struggled with the “why” questions and learned how to tame them, faced curiosity from strangers who wonder about their boy, and advocated for their sweet son’s health and quality of life. Through it all, at least by my own observance, they’ve managed to maintain a strong marriage and demonstrate both deep love for each member of their family and a steady faith in God.

It was great to spend time with part of this family today, to laugh at the baby’s antics as he followed my Ladybug around, to run my fingers through big brother’s beautiful dark curls and touch his smooth skin, to talk to Cheryl about everything from the difficulty of parents finding time for friendship to the results of her oldest son’s latest surgery.

For me, it was a time to be with a friend. It was also a time to reflect on the many different journeys we take as parents. Some parents travel down roads that seem so haunting to me. It doesn’t make sense that we can’t all travel the sunlit path. Though this path still has its storms, at least they’re predictable. I suppose the hardest thing about living in this world is encountering the unpredictable. Truthfully, none of us ever know what side roads our journeys will take. For me, this is why faith in a Higher Power, in God, is essential. I don’t know about everyone else, but it’s reassuring to know there’s something constant in a world of unknowns.

To people like Cheryl and Jenny (mother to a cancer angel) who sometimes stop by and read what I write, I say thank you for letting me into your lives. I’m an outsider, and there’s no way for me to comprehend your journeys as a parent. And to be honest, I don’t want to be an insider. Even so, I’m grateful that you share your lives with me. It’s a reminder of what I have and a conviction of what I need to do. God has shown me much through you.

[This response is directed toward Richard Warren, who commented on my post “A Different Perspective” with the words “Your [sic] a religious NUT! Childhood Cancer is virtual proof of the God Delusion. If God existed he/she would have to be a sadistic MONSTER!” I respect and appreciate Richard’s opinion and agree that I am quite the nut some days. I thought that publishing my response to him might result in a meaningful discussion among my readers. I simply request that you be respectful in what you say. I reserve the right to remove comments I consider inappropriate. Such is the privilege of being Queen Kelley!]

Richard, I don’t know how you found my blog, but thank you for reading and for sharing your—albeit blatant—opinion about my religious beliefs. I’ll say that if you really knew me and my personal thoughts and struggles with this being I’ve called God since childhood, you likely wouldn’t classify me as a “nut.” In my humble opinion, there are many others out there who are much “nuttier” about their beliefs. But that’s beside the point.

I think the bottom line with us folks of faith is this: most of us have doubts and questions and confusions and wonderings. It’s likely that many of us have walked the path of unbelief. I know I have, and the issue of childhood cancer/illness/poverty is probably the most difficult for me to couple with the existence of God. But here’s the other part of that bottom line: for some reason, one I can’t lay out to you in words, a part of me is drawn to and clings to and has undying hope in the presence of this Other. Jenny, my friend and a cancer mom (who also commented on the post “A Different Perspective”) would tell you this, as would hundreds of thousands of other people who believe in a power higher than themselves.

I’m a fairly rational thinker myself, and I like arguments toward proof of whether something is true or not. Even so, it is my opinion that you can argue about God with believers until you’re blue in the face, and many of your arguments will make complete sense, but there is nothing you can do or say to change the reality that we have experienced personally. I will never feel threatened by someone who thinks my beliefs are ridiculous and jaded and idiotic. The truth is, I argue more with myself about God than I do with anyone else. Graham Greene said, “The believer will fight another believer over a shade of difference: the doubter fights only with himself.” We Christians do argue way too much about intricacies of our faith that, honestly, we can’t possibly know. I’d rather see us settle on the great questions—God’s revelation through Jesus Christ and what that means for us—and get on with serving others in humility. That rarely happens, I know.

The last part of Greene’s statement has been uncomfortably true for me. I’m a believer, and yet I’ve been a doubter more often than I care to admit. And the fight, ultimately, is with myself. Even with all the inconsistencies, outrageous claims, and far-fetched statements connected with my faith, something deep within me keeps insisting that my God is real. Maybe that makes me a complete fool in your eyes, but it is something with which no one can argue and that no one can take away.

Richard, I don’t know what you cling to in your darkest times. I don’t know what gives you great joy or lasting peace. I don’t know what you think happens to us after our bodies die. But I can tell you’ve battled with this crazy notion of a higher power, and maybe you’ve arrived at your personal conclusion. I’m glad you felt free to share it on my blog. Maybe you’ll be back, maybe not. If you do return, perhaps you’ll read some of my other posts about the gifts my children and spouse are to me, about the books I enjoy or the films I’ve seen, and about other observations I make on life, even if they are totally insignificant in the grand scheme of things. You may find other fools like me mentioned in the posts or commenting after them. Again, I appreciate your response and respect your position.

Catie. Max. Jay. Rayley. Hanna. Hayley. Carter. Ben. Jacob. Shelby. Maddy. Ethan.

Each name belongs to a parent’s precious child who passed away from cancer or complications from cancer treatment. Each symbolizes a grief I cannot fathom, a heroic spirit I could only hope to attain, and a desperate reason why funding is needed for childhood cancer research.

I don’t talk about this often on my blog. But for years, I have been drawn to families whose children are fighting a battle against cancer. These families, like Catie’s, chronicle their journeys in blogs and photos, and reading entries is like being a part of their lives. Their stories have made me a better mom.

There are many ways to minister to these families—volunteering at places like the Ronald McDonald House, praying for hope and peace and healing, posting encouraging comments on their websites, contributing to various funds in honor or memory of a specific child, buying an elf this Christmas, and more.

One way to honor Childhood Cancer Awareness Month is to donate to the CureSearch “Virtual Walk for 12,500.” Please see their website, curesearch.org, for details.

If you need convincing that this is an important cause, think of the names above and know that they are only a fraction of the children lost to the various forms of the disease we call cancer. There are thousands more who endure each day treatments that destroy their little bodies in a desperate attempt to rid them of disease. And know this too: even one lost to cancer is too many.

I resolve not to continue to lurk in the depths of despair in my posts, but I’d be lying if I said Maria’s death hasn’t been on my mind. There simply cannot be greater pain than that caused by the loss of a child. I would never minimize the deep sorrow felt by those grieving any lost loved one, but there’s something unique about the death of a child. It goes completely against our natural expectations of the order of things. We’re born, we grow up, we marry, and we either have children or we love someone else’s children. We take pride in watching them grow up, achieve, possibly marry and have their own children. Eventually, we die. Then, much later, they die. This is the cycle of life we trust and expect. When something happens to rip us from this perfect, right pattern, it shatters our spirits.

As I think of the Chapmans’ five-year-old Maria, who died suddenly in a tragic accident, I think also of the Wilkins’s four-year-old Catie, who died of cancer complications after a battle with disease that lasted more than three years. Whether sudden and completely shocking or drawn out and perhaps inevitable, death has a way of upending our lives–and even more so when it takes a child.

My human tendency to ask why is never greater than when I hear stories like these. It’s difficult, to say the least, to comprehend why a God I’ve come to know as loving and compassionate does not always (or even frequently) intervene in the way we so desperately want. Does that make God nonexistent? I don’t think so. Otherwise, I wouldn’t feel so hurt and angry with Him. And I wouldn’t feel, deep within, that mystical “peace that passes understanding” (Phil 4:7). It sounds dismissive, like saying such words smoothes it all out and makes everything better. As a struggling, doubting, often unbelieving “Christian,” I’m here to tell you it doesn’t. And maybe if I didn’t question so much, my intense pain over this issue would eventually dissolve. But I don’t think so. 

God created us to feel deeply, to love fully, and to give our all to the people around us. When we do that, we are bound to hurt with grief beyond words. However, we are also bound to experience joy beyond measure, laughter without restriction, and hope above explanation. In such a time as this, when my heart is heavy and my thoughts inevitably fall on my own two priceless daughters, I pray that I will live the abundant life I’m created to live (John 10:10)—focusing not so much on the dozens of items on my to-do list, which constantly run through my brain, but on living in this moment.

I’ll close with these lyrics from Steven Curtis Chapman (from “Miracle of the Moment”), which bear repeating on my blog:

‘Cause we are who and where and what we are for now
And this is the only moment we can do anything about

So breathe it in and breathe it out
Listen to your heartbeat
There’s a wonder in the here and now
It’s right there in front of you
And I don’t want you to miss the miracle of the moment….

And if it brings you tears
Then taste them as they fall
Let them soften your heart

And if it brings you laughter
Then throw your head back
And let it go….

I’ve blogged about Catie Wilkins, a four-year-old who lost her battle with a cancerous brain tumor this past January. Her sweet family misses her like crazy, and the holidays bring both joyful memories and even heavier heartache than normal. To honor their little girl and help other children suffering through cancer, I urge you to go to Host an Elf.com. Click on “Host an Elf,” and scroll down until you see a picture of Catie holding her mischievous elf. If you click on Catie’s button, the company will send an elf to a child with cancer and will donate 30 percent of the proceeds from your purchase to Cure Childhood Cancer. If you need more of a reason to donate an elf, please read Jenny’s blog entry about the way this idea evolved (scroll down to the “Silly Old Elf” post).

Just now, I ordered one for my girls ($25, plus shipping) and three for children with cancer ($20 each, no shipping charges). Please consider this as you buy Christmas gifts!

There are many significant causes in this world. The King and I desire to contribute in ways that will ease suffering, support the positive efforts of others, and encourage healthy change.

For various reasons, we have chosen to contribute to causes related to childhood cancer–to organizations like CureSearch, the Ronald McDonald House , the Brain Tumor Foundation for Children, Lighthouse Family Retreat, and Quiet Heroes. One of our reasons for contributing is the inspiration of a little girl named Catie, who passed away in January 2007. She would have turned five years old today.

Of course, I hope that I never have to face such horrific trials involving my own children. We all hope the same thing. But the truth remains that this disease targets 2 classrooms full of children every day. That’s way too many! Turning away in fear or refusing to get involved are not acceptable responses for the King and me.

So, on Catie’s birthday, we pray for her parents and baby sister. We know that Catie is having the best birthday bash ever in heaven, but we can only begin to imagine the longing her parents feel to have her here. We keep donating to causes in Catie’s name, and we pledge not to forget the battle she fought, or the battles too many children are still fighting.

Happy birthday, Catie!

THE BIG “WHY?”
Why do little children suffer?
Perhaps of all questions this is the hardest.
The little ones of Vietnam,
Who do not know the meaning of the conflict,
But who know it all too well.
The little ones who have neither bread nor heat
And without blame suffer inside and out.
The little ones who are dreadfully sick
Who cry out in hurt and pain.
The little ones just old enough to know enough
To endure heroically, and to fight back manfully.
For adults who have shared in sin,
And here and there have failed to do
What they should have done,
And who perhaps each one carries within himself
Some reason for blame or punishment—
For them to suffer is to some degree understandable,
But why? Why, God, should wonderful, little
Innocent, helpless children suffer?
Why?
Let one who has stood beside
His own dear child and daily
Watched him endure in his body
Pain and suffering—
Let such a one talk, and
I will try to listen.
But, please, no glib answer from one
Who has not entered a child’s suffering.
Perhaps for me, this is the largest of questions.
Perhaps only God can answer this question,
Because perhaps only God knows.

—From Getting Beyond Tragedy, by James Phillips Noble (written in 1968 when Dr. Noble’s son, Scott, lost his battle with childhood leukemia)

Perhaps for me, too, this is the largest of questions. Why should children suffer? For several years now, I have kept track of numerous families whose children have either suffered and died or are still struggling with an illness/disability. Their parents, who exhibit a strength beyond my comprehension, write the children’s stories in blogs and journals, detailing events as simple as creating something from playdough or as complex as enduring a chemo treatment. For a while, the families stayed at a distance, separated from me by miles and the fact that I did not know them personally.

Then the suffering struck closer. My blogroll links to “Midgets and Moonpies,” the blog of a woman I knew in college. More than 10 years ago, she served as the assistant to my professor for a freshman experience class. Together, our class read books, then wrote about them and discussed various themes and topics. Jenny was a friendly face and an encouraging support in a world that felt new and rather frightening at times. Who knew that I’d get back in touch with Jenny long after graduation when I learned about her immense trial?

Diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor on her first birthday…her FIRST birthday…Jenny’s daughter fought courageously for more than three years before complications of necessary treatment took her life this past January. I cannot even begin to imagine the range of emotions Jenny and her husband experienced as they let go of a daughter one week and welcomed a newborn daughter the next.

Many of the children I have followed are no longer with their families. Many still fight, some experiencing treatment side effects to rival the gruesomeness of a horror film. Every now and then, for the briefest of moments, I allow myself to imagine one of my children slipping away from me. The mere thought is unbearable and causes an ache deep within me unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I’m ever mindful, especially when reading posts like Jenny’s, that many families don’t have the luxury of imagining. For them, this is real, and it is part of their everyday lives.

Yes, this has become my largest of questions regarding God’s role in the world (and on some occasions, I must admit, regarding whether God even exists). Why do little children suffer? I’m nearly convinced that there is no why. There is only the fact that our world is fallen, that sometimes horrible things happen to the best (and most innocent) of people, and that sometimes, no matter how fervently or faithfully we pray, our prayers will not be answered in the way we desire so deeply.

Recently, however, I’ve gained a different perspective. In Between the Gates, Chuck Poole writes,

Sometimes prayer changes our lives, and sometimes life changes our prayers. Sometimes prayer changes the direction in which life is going, but sometimes prayer can only keep moving in an effort to catch up to life. Sooner or later we all find ourselves in Gethsemane. We start out praying for everything to be fine, and we end up coming to terms with what we must face, accepting realities we cannot change; adjusting, adjusting, adjusting.

…All of that is clear-eyed realism, and it is all true. But there is more to life than clear-eyed realism; there is also wide-eyed hope. After all, remember what happened to Jesus after he left Gethsemane. The bitter cup he dreaded turned out to be every bit as bad as he feared. His pain was awful. His suffering was terrible. And he died. But tragedy and death did not have the last word. The last word belonged to God. When God raised Jesus from the grave, God brought unimaginable joy, goodness, and triumph from unspeakable pain, sorrow, and loss.

And ever since, whenever anything has looked like a total loss and a terrible end, people have had to adjust their thinking to make room for hope.

Hope is what I read in Jenny’s writing, even as she shares her raw grief. Where would any of us be without hope?

I have a friend who, after his father died, said he’d never hoped more that there was a heaven than he did right then. Hope. Emily Dickinson wrote that it’s a “thing with feathers.” I’ve always identified with that image.

I don’t live each day in fear that some dark shadow hangs above me and my family, just waiting to engulf us when we least expect it. That’s no way to live. But I do keep checking in with families like Jenny’s because I need to remember that these things do happen and that people manage to continue living even after enduring great suffering. It also makes me a much better mom and wife. Finally, it emphasizes the essential quality of hope.

HOPE is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
—Emily Dickinson