I met a little girl who taught me a lesson for life. Her mom said I could tell you about her.
At four years of age, Tina was afflicted with cancer. The bad news was that the kind she had was both rare and aggressive. The good news was that it was located in her right hand instead of her head, where such cancer usually grows, so it was operable and gave her choices of treatment. The bad news was that it meant she had to lose three of the fingers on her hand in order to cut the cancer out and rid her body of it. But the good news was that they could save her thumb and forefinger, and even more, that she could live.
I got to spend regular time with her that year. As doctor visits came and went, and chemo came and went, and hair came and went, I saw her family hold on to her and to God as they felt their way the best they could. From my front row seat, I saw what grit it took Tina to relearn rhythms, skills and habits, only now leading with her left.
Being right-handed myself, as she had been, I decided one day to step into her world for a while. I decided to journal using only my left hand. What a revelation. I invite you to try it some time. Write your shopping list with your non-dominant hand. Or brush your teeth. Or cut with scissors, comb your hair, tie your shoes. Eat. Get dressed. Do it for a while with your non-dominant hand, and I bet it will be as eye-opening for you as it was for me.
My journal entry that day is sprawling, hard to read, messy. I remember the pen felt awkward in my grip; it was maddeningly slow work producing just two pages. My mind was out of sync with my ability, held back by my labored execution. I had to think discretely, letter upon letter, rather than globally, thought upon thought. So tiring! I hadn’t formed letters and words and thoughts with my left hand before — I hadn’t needed to — and it showed.
Writing that way on that day required of me a basic willingness to even make the attempt. There was a lot of blank space to fill and I wasn’t sure I could do it. The prospect looked daunting.
It meant taking all the time I needed to concentrate on the details. What had once been automatic was not now, and the effort tired me more than I had expected. Periodically I needed to rest, to adjust my grip and ease my tensed muscles.
Finally, it meant determination to see it through and complete my thought. It was only through showing up and pressing on that I felt change in me from the first sentence to the last.
Whether we are relearning writing or relearning life, these principles hold true. We need to be willing to start. We need to be willing to take the time we need. And we need to do it again and again, resting and restarting as we see it through.
In the end, I did complete my journal entry. If I had to write left-handed day after day, I imagine I would eventually improve and find a place of ease and strength, provided I kept trying. That’s what my young friend taught me. Though she’d get discouraged and had days of pain, she kept at it, more often than not. Tina eventually reentered life with relearned skill. Nowadays she does it all — including her beloved gymnastics routines — and even grew enough hair recently to donate to Locks of Love.
She’s a living example of what it means to persevere. She got a grip and kept moving at her pace until she got to a place of healing. Day after day, I saw her show up for life and decide to try again. I saw her write her name for the first time left-handed. I saw her press puzzle pieces into place, turn pages, pick up her sandwich, stir cookie batter. All the ordinary activities you and I do automatically she learned to do again, too — left-handed. We sang from Hebrews 12:2: “let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us“ and cheered the smallest of steps. She showed me that being down doesn’t have to mean staying down.
Thanks, Tina. Write on!
