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"For of Such . . ."
(The following letter is an excerpt for a booklet of the above title. It is an account of the first four years of the short lifespan of Gregory Neil Gentry, son of Mildred "Tookie" Shuler and Paul Murphy Gentry. Gregory died, a victim of cerebral palsy, at age 7 years and 4 months on the 8th of April, 1959. He was born December 9, 1951. It will serve as a frontis page for this story, "The Whippoorwill Song.")
My darling son,
You are only 4 years old as I write this.
The purpose of this letter: so that as you grow older and wax strong in body and spirit, you will have these things written so that it will bring all things to your remembrance.
It will serve two purposes:
(1) To show you the great difficulties you will have overcome.
(2) To enable me, your mother, to win the battle that is being constantly waged--sometimes faithfully and sometimes ashamedly, faithlessly.
I hope, as you grow older, that when you read these things you will come to know me better. Your ultimate recovery is my dearest wish. You have been my greatest teacher. You have taught me to know the full measure of compassion. I love my fellow man more sincerely because of you. You have taught me the true way to obtain happiness. You taught me this by my observing how happy anyone else being happy makes you. You enjoy your happiness through others and so you have taught me an object lesson in selflessness.
For you, my life has been richer--fuller than I might ever have been permitted to experience without you.
And, at times I have thought that your and my experience was more than I could bear, I found solace in the words of the Apostle Paul: II Corinthians 12:7-10.
7 And lest I should be exalted above measure through the abundance of the revelations, there was given to me a thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I should be exalted above measure.
8 For this thing I besought the Lord thrice, that it might depart from me.
9 And He said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee; for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.
10 Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distressses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then I am strong.
Read this, my son, when you are in need of comfort. This, my son, is for you. And for anyone else whom it might, in any small way, help. If perchance another mother who reads this and is either encouraged or helped, then I feel that it is a story worthy of being told.
Your loving mother,
Mildred "Tookie" Shuler Gentry
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The Whippoorwill Song
By Mildred "Tookie" Shuler Gentry
(Mrs. Paul Murphy Gentry)
The clear, piercing, yet mellow notes of thie whippoorwill's song rang out through the pre-dawn darkness. The mother lay motionless, stopped momentarily from her restless tossing and turning. She waited, raising her head slightly, straining forward as if to hear it better. Emotions flooded her heart and mind as memories flowed forth in a torrent, cascading and falling in ragged patches, bringing with it suppressed longings and desires.
There! The lilting call rang out again and she lighly and quickly drew in her breath as the bird's call rang clearly in the early April skies.
"It's happened again," she told herself in a soft whispered voice. In eighteen years, to her certain knowledge, it always happened within the first week of April--more times than not, as today, on the eighth of April. In a rush of emotion, tears welled in her sleepless eyes and flowed onto her tightly-clutched pillow. Loneliness and a deeply pervading longing and emptiness filled her being. Her arms felt suddenly empty and ached in the old familiar way, weighted with a strange, terrible emptiness and uselessness. The old defeating feeling of having lost one's "need to be needed" washed over her. Once she had known how very much she was needed. Yes, even further, that she was almost indispensable and--she strongly felt--irreplaceable.
The tears flowed more swiftly as she momentarily allowed her spirit to explore and to delve into the deep longing and self-pity she experienced--but only momentarily. She would not indulge herself long in such emotions.
"There, you silly ole goose! What do you mean, not needed? The mother of thirteen children not needed? Hah! Not needed, indeed," she chided herself. "Dry your silly ole tears before you wake him up."
She raised herself up onto her bended elbow and peered closely into her husband's face as he slept peacefully unaware in the moonlit room.
"That's a laugh," she smiled to herself in the midst of her tears. "It'd take more than a few silent tears to wake him until it's time to get up for the day's work! There have never been sleepless nights for him, for that is not his nature. That's your specialty," she reminded herself.
The whippoorwill sang out again and its mate answered in the same clear, syllabled ringing a little further down in the field. The mother sank back into her pillow with a deep sigh. Her eyes absently followed the shadowy beams overhead as her mind traced the sharp, clear memories the birds' calls evoked. Almost ashamedly she wiped the tears from her eyes with the corner of the sheet.
"The little mutt," she thought. "He always loved it when we called the whippoorwill his bird." She could see in her mind's eye his special little smile when the whippoorwill called, and he would suddenly "freeze" in a listening attitude, every muscle waiting for the response he had come to expect from his mother. He would quickly look toward her and mutely question with those intelligent, sharp eyes if she, too, had heard his bird.
"Greg, I wish you'd tell your ole bird to hush up," she'd say next., at which his little head would turn, his little legs churning, and his beautiful open-mouthed smile would light his face. That smile! His one and only real ability--and how he used it! He showered it upon everyone. He had a sort of "sidewise" smile if he was uncertain of one's intentions, and a slow, tight-lipped, light-up-your-eyes smile if he was teasing and testing. But he saved his open-mouthed, smile-all-over-his-body kind of smile for specials. This one his mother called his "mockin' bird" smile. This one was ofttimes reserved for just the two of them--when they shared thoughts alone and with an uncanny rapport knew what the other thought and meant. AS, for instance, when the whippoorwill sounded and he breathlessly waited for her words, she withholding them until he could bear it no longer. Then, eyes meeting, they would both burst out in a fit of laughter. She would then rush to him, scooping up his tiny body close to hers, and they would roll over and over the floor with whoops of laughter.
[Father in Heaven, is it wrong to miss someone so much? I know it's been eighteen years, but Father, it is so clear and sharp in my memory and thoughts and I am too human. It's not that I would call him back, Father, even if you'd allow it, but may I long to touch and feed and care for him at least on this particular day? And, oh yes, Father, I will not oppress others with my thoughts and needs. I will not be maudlin or inflict upon others my memories, but thou knowest a mother's love and needs.]
The bird, closer now, called out its questioning notes three times in rapid succession--Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill!--garbling one into the other as though through terror or warning. This prompted the mother to gather her vagrant thoughts. "The first time! Oh yes, I well remember how the whippoorwill became Greg's bird."
The mother shifted on her bed, settling her tired and sleepless body to a more restful and better position and remembered how the bird became Greg's own, and how any whippoorwill's calling immediately became "Greg's bird."
"He was about two years old, then," she reminisced, "and he was such a beautiful child. I was always so glad of that."
[Father, was that alright? To be glad for something so trivial and unimportant? For your prophet Isaiah told us your Son would not be comely. I was not glad in a vain way, Father, but I felt that because he was so pleasant to look upon that it made him more acceptable to others. It did seem to me to soften the expressions of pity and, too often, that of revulsion that strangers--and even family too, Father--showed when they first realized that he was severely afflicted by cerebral palsy, this terrible and terrifying malady that robs each victim in various ways as it damages vital centers in the brain, leaving some blind, mute, deaf. Some, as our son Greg, are left with sight and hearing unimpaired, yet their ability to speak or use any part of their body at will has been destroyed. I'm grateful to thee, Heavenly Father, for sparing him the grimace, the droolings and contortions of facial features that so often accompany this brain-damaging malady. I hope that was not wrong! For even if he had not been spared this, I would have loved him still. I also thank thee, Father, for sparing his mind. I know how quick and bright his mind was, even if the doctors doubted. AFter all, a mother can tell that he understood the things we talked of, even if all the talk was one-sided. He did speak to me with those dark brown and shining eyes and with his quick, open-mouthed "mockin' bird" smile, and with his sad, down-turned mouth when cross words were spoken.]
The bird had flown to a different and closer spot, and now its clear, fluting voice rang more loudly in the early morning air. This jogged the mother's divergent thoughts and she mentally groped for her original thought. The first time. Yes! She remembered it so very clearly.
[It was such a little thing, Father, but it was a vital turning point for our lives.]
She had been feeding him his evening meal--or trying to. "'Trying' is a good word," she thought, "for it most certainly was that--trying." Because of his inability to swallow at will, mealtimes became one of the hardest obstacles the mother had ever been called upon to master. The more the child liked a thing, the more uncontrollably and violently his spastic muscles would react. Instead of eagerly accepting the proffered morsel, his reactions were to push away in the opposite direction all the harder. His neck turned his head cruelly against the mother's body, his body would twist, feet scissoring and churning, arms extended with fists tightly closed. Rigidly, his teeth clenched tightly together. Soon, both mother and son would be drenched in perspiration as they battled together to get his mouth open and the food deposited. To get even a small amount into his tiny body required well over an hour of physical and even greater spiritual labor.
In the midst of this ordeal on this very special day, the mother's eyes filled with tears of frustration and helplessness and unconsciously she plead with heaven to inspire her with the needed abilities to know how to cope. The answer came in a very unexpected manner.
Suddenly, in the twilight evening, right beneath the kitchen window where they sat--"Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill!" quickly, close together and in such a volume as to seem deafening by its nearness and unexpectedness.
The child, startled, ceased his fearful twisting and pushing, then lay unusually still, listening intently. His eyes, bright with questioning and some fright, searched first his mother's face for an explanation and then he cast a worried glance toward the open window. His mouth lay open and receptive and she quickly deposited the spoonful of food into his waiting mouth, at which he began chewing motions and swallowed it quite naturally. His eyes returned to his mother's face, his mouth agape. She seized this unexpected opportunity and filled his mouth again. He swallowed again and turned his eyes once more to the window. The bird, as if on cue, repeated its previous performance and so amazed was the child, that he, too, repeated his. A miracle! The mother realized that herein was the answer to her prayer: to divert his attention so that his spastic muscles could obey. She began to talk in a low voice about "Greg's bird" and how it would like to come in and eat Greg's dinner. And so the meal was finished. Each time his attention turned from the bird, the mother in a conspiratorial voice would half-whisper, "Listen, Greg. Listen to your bird!"
"That's the way it began--Greg's bird," she smiled to herself. No one had to tell the mother that this was inspiration--heavenly inspiration. She never doubted it.
[Father, the task was very difficult, so much so that in my weaker times I despaired. And, had it not been for a stubborn streak within me that disallows defeat, and had it not been that you made me cleverer than I by nature had ever been before or since, I know it never would have been possible for me to meet so great a challenge, at times. I do so thank thee for Greg and the challenges that a special child brings to a home.
Now, Father, thou knowest I would never have chosen so great a challenge, for I am weak, but I can know now that it was the thing that has taught me, that has enlarged and enriched my life beyond any other task life brings.
Did you know, Heavenly Father, that I may never have noticed the really important things in life? That I may have taken common blessings for granted, such as how intricate and wondrous our minds and bodies are? Do other mothers of only normal children see or get the great thrill that I do when I see a baby learn to crawl, to sit up, and to see the first step? When tiny hands reach up to touch, and fingers work together to hold or pick up an object? Do their throats constrict with unshed tears of delight when an untidy sleeve wipes an unruly nose? Do they praise thee when their child holds his head erect?]
I thought my first two normal, into-everything children were wondrous, but I never would have known how wondrous except through our little Greg. After Greg, never again with all our other healthy, normal children would I take for granted the workings of a normal body and mind! Every act is so magnified--tying a shoelace a mind-boggling accomplishment!
[Oh, I do so thank thee, Father, for singling us out for the blessings of a special child!]
Now the mother turned restlessly upon her bed, her thoughts shattered by a different "song." She had become so engrossed in her memories, she had through familiarity failed to notice, as she listened to the whippoorwill's song, the preliminary rumblings emanating from her sleeping spouse which were but the prelude of louder snores to come. They came in mounting crescendos until, at the peak of volume, it seemed to her now tattered and weary nerves, that something surely would have to break or tear. She, again as countless times before, cupped his shoulder with her hand and with a combined shake and a pushing motion said, "Turn over, honey," in an absentminded, familiar and mechanical way. He, in his own familiar and repetitous way, looked up with sleep clouding his kind face and good-naturedly asked, "Huh? Which way?" at which he promptly settled back down on his back without turning either way. She wondered, as she always did, why he always asked for directions, and--as she always did--resigned herself to listening as he began his preliminary rumblings that would in the end begin the whole process of "Turn over, honey." "Huh? Which way?" once more.
"What a delight he has been," thought the mother.
[Of course, Father, Greg's condition would have been unbearable except for this choice companion thou hast given me.]
Yes, God had given him to her, for hadn't she prayed for him to happen? And hadn't she pleaded with him to find her a suitable companion? And hadn't she, at age 17, left her home and family to travel to a distant city to find her a good , Mormon husband? After all, she had reasoned, when one lives in the South and the only Mormons in the school are yourself and two sisters, then one must make sacrifices--and opportunities--for a proper marriage.
[Well, I did take a beauty course while I was searching, Father, but you and I both know I really went to find him. Thank you, Father, thank you! Thank you! My nonmember friends say their marriages were made in heaven. I always say mine was sealed in heaven. Oh, please help me to be worthy for this to be!]
The mother pulled the bedcovers over her shoulders and moved closer to her sleeping husband. He slipped his arm around her waist, drawing her closer and in a half-asleep voice said, "Greg's bird is back again." She lay quietly beside him, enjoying the warmth and nearness of his strong body.
"It's a good thing he's so strong," she thought. "He works so hard for our large brood with never a murmur." After thirty-one years of marriage, he never ceased to amaze her with his love and gentleness--his innate goodness. Of course, the children adored him.
[But none as much as Greg did, Father. And he loved Greg with a depth of love that was beautiful to watch. Greg loved so much to be in his daddy's strong arms. He carried him everywhere! Oh, how Greg loved to watch his daddy play ball on the town team. All of our children were so small then. I would have a young baby in my arms, and the one I was pregnant with, and several more runnin' around, one in tow, and then--then would come Greg and his dad. What a sight we must have been! How excited Greg would get when his dad was up to bat. I can see him now, standing--with braces on within his barrel we made from an oil drum, padded all about. That was an inspiration, too, Father. Thank you for helping us to be clever--to build things to help Greg be happy.]
"He would be 25 years old now," the mother thought, and she tried to imagine how he would look. "All thirteen have looked so alike."
[Seven years and four months is not very old, Father, is it? Your Son was only 33! Not very old, either, but each lived long enough to serve out his mission, didn't they? Our sons were alike--are alike--in so many ways, Father. Yours was a sinless one, and mine too--free from the power of Satan because of your Son, for Greg had not yet reached his years of accountability. They both will inherit the celestial kingdom and reign with you there. Your Son's mission was to assure our resurrection. My son's was to give us, his family, the will to try and live lives to merit a glorious resurrection so that we can dwell with our families and Christ and Thee in the celestial kingdom. Please help me, Father, to become worthy of thy Son's sacrifice.]
The mother enjoyed and was comforted by the running soliloquy she conducted with her Maker, the Father of us all. It ran through the fabric of her life and was a sure fact in her life: that her Heavenly Parent lived, heard her prayers and answered them in a practical and dependable way that He was always there to comfort and bless.
"I'm glad others can't read your thoughts or they would sure think me daft. Worse yet, they'd probably put me away," she concluded with a pleased and anything-but-repentant apology for this peccadillo. It pleased her to know that those things she considered private and that she kept carefully hidden and guarded from others--both her good side and her bad--could be paraded in all candor before a loving, knowledgeable, and understanding and forgiving Heavenly Parent and discuss freely with Him, all day and all night, no matter the hour. She felt free to ask for or explain or just "talk-out" to her satisfaction those things she thought and felt. Others may not understand, but He always did. Others may not approve, but He, if disapproving, loved her anyway and prompted her to alter her ways for her betterment. Others rarely understood her true intent, while He always knew. And so she talked and discussed many things, both vocally and in her heart, with Him. But she was too prone to not (except rarely) explain or discuss her deepest emotions with those she loved. "Another peccadillo," she thought.
She shook, fluffed, and softly punched her pillow to her liking and peered over her sleeping husband's shoulder to see the luminous clock face. She sank back down into her pillow dispiritedly.
"I've done it again," she muttered, thoroughly disgusted at herself. "Time to get up almost and still no sleep. I promised myself I wouldn't do this this time. It's all in your mind," she chastised herself. "This day is no different from the other 364. Why must you act this way every April the 8th?"
She pushed her head determinedly deeper into her tortured pillow and muttered something about how she'd turn off her thoughts and at least grab a few minutes' sleep before time to begin her busy work-a-day morning: Getting the nine remaining-at-home children to their different schools--grammar, high, and college--and some, as with her husband, to work. And she must prepare for her art exhibit of her paintings, plus meals to prepare and the cleaning. Also, don't forget it's visiting teaching day and I must babysit the grandchildren for my Primary President daughter for her daddy-daughter banquet.
[I wonder if Greg looks like our grown sons, Father? The twelfth one looks just like Greg did so I'm sure that at his age now, Greg would have looked like he does. It's almost as if you sent him in Greg's almost exact image so that I could watch them both grow up. I thank thee for our children, Father.]
The bird whistled its identifying notes and now, this time, it seemed in a commanding tone. From the direction of its call she realized that it was now singing from the special spot that the parents had chosen as a waiting place to house their little son's frail body. His death had been so sudden--contributed to by his birth brain-damaged condition that had made it impossible to withstand the pneumonia that assailed his little body. The mother and her daddy had chosen the spot--halfway between their two homes. It was a shady spot on a slight hill and the air was filled with the soughing of the tall pines that stood as sentinels, and the rustling of the many jack oak trees that grew so abundantly on the west Florida countryside. Others had joined him on this beautiful hillside in the years since: two beloved aunts and a newborn nephew. An empty vault lay beside Greg's small grave waiting for his grandfather or his mother, "whichever is first," with lots of empty spaces for all the rest who would come in the years to follow. This had become a favored spot to visit if a bit of privacy was needed, to rest on a hot summer day as the children ran down to the trail to grandpa's house to swim in the beautiful natural springs there, a place to commune and to reach important decisions, a place of great joy and hope, not one of mourning.
With a pang the mother remembered what her daddy had said when she had returned from the hospital that day eighteen years ago today. It still rang within her soul each time the unbidden tears of loneliness overwhelmed her. The shock of coming home empty-armed . . .
[For Greg was in my arms most of his life, Father. Is that why my arms hurt and ache? Not with a physical pain, but one of spiritual need?]
The too-new-to-be-accepted fact that never again in this life would she be able to hold, caress, or care for this exceptional child was too much to accept. Her daddy was at her home, waiting. She rushed up to him and buried her grief-stricken face upon his shoulder and began to weep the tears that lay so near the surface, washing her burdened soul.
"Now, are you crying because now your son can run?" he asked compassionately, though a little briskly. "Do you dare cry because never again must he suffer?"
[Is that why you were able to allow your Son to suffer for us, Father? I think I can tell now, through Greg, a little of what you probably felt, for it is so very hard to see your children suffer. Even when one understands that suffering is sometimes needed for our soul growth, it is still hard to accept. But then, Father, I know the school of life is ofttimes difficult, but, properly studied, it will bring soul growth and great rewards. I know and accept thy plan of progression for us, Father. This knowledge is what enables me to find life a most joyous experience even in the midst of sorrows. I thank thee, Heavenly Father, for thy wondrous gospel plan of happiness.
I thank thee, too, Father, to be able to understand and patiently wait for the future great resurrection day when we will all come forth from the grave. Ofttimes I wonder what, if I prove worthy, it will feel like when I again see my little Greg and, instead of holding him in my arms, he will stand and proudly put me within his arms and loudly say, "Mother!"
Will the whippoorwill sing just as loudly there, Father?]
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