Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Ron Gold

Sept 22, 2006

A PA A PARADISE WHERE ROSES BLOOM

By Ron Gold

            Four pink tea roses and a sprig of baby’s breath brighten

and freshen the sad white hospital room where four adults

huddle over a child’s high bar crib.

The very first day of this new year is also the last

happy hurrah for the undersized bed-ridden eight-year-old boy.

Medical monitors hum softly in the background and the

Rose Bowl football game telecast trickles in from an adjoining

room.

The small mute boy treasures every word and every sound

he hears from the stands, the broadcast booth, the field

and his mind.

            “There’s thirty-seconds left to play in this exciting

Rose Bowl Game.  Michigan leads USC by four points. Trojan

quarterback Tim Harden is still laying on the turf, holding

his right leg.  The USC trainers are running onto the field to

attend to him. 

“In comes backup quarterback Randy Lyndhurst.  What a

spot for this big six-four, two-hundred-fifteen pound raw-

boned freshman.  It’s fourth down and he has less than one

minute to move the ball fifty yards to pay dirt through the

Wolverines’ number one rated defense.

            “The clock starts. Lyndhurst takes the snap from center. 

He fades back and throws a pass into the right flat to wide

receiver Sam Foley.  Foley catches it at the five-yard line,

where he’s knocked out of bounds.  A fine throw and a great

catch!  Now Lyndhurst breaks his huddle. He barks signals, 

drops back, fakes a hand-off to his running back, runs right,

breaks two tackles and powers in to score!  Touchdown! 

Touchdown!   What a play!  What a game!

“The USC fans are going wild here at the Rose Bowl.  And

down on the field, Lyndhurst is mobbed by his teammates, who

carry him off on their shoulders. What a glorious day for this

young athlete!”

            The frail lad would smile now--even cheer--if he could,

but tiny Randy Lyndhurst can barely move his tired,

underdeveloped body in the hospital crib that has been

his only home since his birth.

But his mind soared, carrying him to places beyond the

hospital and among crowds of adoring fans and friends--people

he would never really see, hear or talk with.

            His parents, Carol and Max Lyndhurst, his physician, Dr.

Raymond Stephens, his nurse, Joanne Turner, and Pastor Joseph

Allen stare somberly at the atrophied boy. A pincushion for

tubes and breathing aids, the feeble youngster gasps — his

body goes limp.  His blinking stops, his breathing ceases and

the now-shrill-voiced medical monitor sounds its fatal

flatline.

            Dr. Stephens nods at Nurse Turner, who shuts off the

monitor and covers Randy with his bed sheet. “Carol, Max,

Reverend,” Dr. Stephens said. “It’s over. He’s gone. I’m

sorry. Now he’s with God.”

            Max Lyndhurst’s red-eyed stare slices its way through the

pediatrician.  “No, Ray,” he said.  “Randy was always with

God.” 

            They join hands, swallow hard and pray as they weep.

Carol reaches into the crib, uncovers and delicately

lifts her son to her bosom.  It is the very first time she

has held her precious baby boy.   Her first pregnancy, ten

years earlier, ended in a miscarriage.

At Randy’s church funeral, a crowd of darkly dressed

mourners visually overpower the tiny white casket blanketed

only by multi-colored reflections from two large stained glass

windows.

            In his eulogy, Pastor Allen recalled how he had baptized

Randy in his crib.

“The hospital was the only home his body ever knew,” he

said solemnly.  “He was born there and he died there. Randy

was never able to stand and he would never go home.  He lay in

his crib quietly.  He could cry but he could not speak.  He

communicated by smiling and by blinking his tiny tired brown

eyes.  Yet I felt he understood more than he could show.” 

Pastor Allen scanned his congregation, making quick but

solid eye contacts. “I believe Randy knew he was loved.  His

parents loved him.  His doctors and nurses loved him. And I

loved him.  And he had a God who loved him then and loves him

now.

            “Many people feel that a child with so many handicaps – a

child who often required a ventilator to breathe … a little

boy unable to say, ‘I love you, Mommy,’ and ‘I love you,

Daddy,’ – is a burden, a horrendous responsibility.” 

Reverend Allen turned to face the red-eyed Lyndhursts.

“But not Carol and Max.  They loved Randy.  He was more than

their responsibility; he was their only living child.  They

showered him with returned love and un-returned kisses.  They

held crib-side birthday parties for him.  They read stories to

a son who never spoke.”

            Pastor Allen scanned his parishioners: “many well-meaning

people offered sympathy, empathy, pity and honest concern.

They felt Randy was better off dead.  ‘Let him go with God

now,‘ they said. ‘Save his parents the heartaches of a life-

long wake.’”

The minister again faced Carol and Max. “Not the

Lyndhursts.  And not their pastor. We shared eight hard but

blessed years with the young soul in that crib.

“His parents and I fully believe that Randy possessed an

innocence we all have lost—an innocence some of us cannot even

remember.  Randy maintained the sweetness of a newborn and an

imagination that brought him serenity.  While his body was his

jail, his mind was his paradise, taking him beyond the reality

of his crib into a brighter, happier private world. 

Joseph Allen gazed at the entire congregation.

“Randy is now with his Creator–in His paradise.  Let us

pray.”

            Max Lyndhurst bowed his head and anchored an arm around

his tear-spotted wife, who placed a delicate long-stemmed

white rose atop the diminutive coffin. They sobbed

unashamedly.

            Then four large men elevated Randy to glory on their

shoulders.

            When the spirit of Randy Lyndhurst entered heaven, the

gatekeeper said, “Rise, Randy.  Stand.  And prepare to speak

with God Almighty.”

            “I have spoken to Him many times,” the child said

clearly.  “But I never knew He heard me.”

Ron Gold

outthinkresumes@aol.com