This past weekend I saw two sons of Shepherdstown—one in a wheelchair, the other in an enduring funk. Each has been through countless rehabs. Each has family and friends pulling for him. One has triumphed over tragedy. The other still struggles.
In a small town you get to see children grow up. We don’t know all the kids, but we know of them all. We see them in school plays. We see them marching in the Christmas parade. We see them sitting on “the Wall.”
We don’t see them every day, but we keep track of them. After all, they’re all our kids. When one is hurt or in trouble, we all feel it.
Mason was one of the most cheerful, delightfully goofy kids that ever came along. I once sat beside him at the junior high’s production of Annie!
I know you, but I can’t recall your name. With a twinkle and a grin he said: You can call me “Jar.” And that’s what I called him thereafter.
And then tragedy struck.
Mason was nearly killed in an auto accident in July 2008. He was medevaced. He underwent multiple surgeries. He lay in a coma. The prognosis was grim. But his parents and friends kept pulling for him. The whole town pulled for him.
His parents battled the insurance company. Requests and appeals were denied again and again. But they persisted. And they finally won.
After four months, Mason woke up. Hi, mom.
Mason spent months in a renowned rehab facility trying to move his fingers, trying to speak—day after day. He persisted. He mustered his will, determined to rebuild something beautiful out of the ruins.
At last, Mason went home. Family and friends celebrated and then got to work. Mason’s transformation had just begun.
Day after day, week after week, year after year, his parents and a stream of friends tended him. Slowly but surely he got his mojo back. He cracked jokes. He sang (sort of!). He took up painting.
This past weekend Paula and I joined others from our village at an exhibition of his paintings. Mason held court from his mobilized wheelchair. We all left blessed.
Meanwhile, the other son—with abundant support, able body, and fluent speech—still struggles with crippling addiction.
One son rebuilt something beautiful out of the ruins. So why can’t the other?
We keep pulling for him. Still.
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To see more of Mason’s paintings, click on the link below.
Thank you. So many mysteries… love & miracles all around. Still resilience & free choice are at play. Wanting to be part of the love & building resilience for our town’s sons & daughters…Mason’s masterpieces & determination are a testament to the love & miracles that are possible when a person sees possibilities; when family & community come together with faith, hope & love.🙏🏼❤️
What can one say? Life is a Strange Journey, every moment is precious (if only we could keep that in mind). Mason is blessed to have such strong, loving parents and family, and community to support him. And Mason is a blessing to all of us as a testament to the strength of Spirit that resides in each of us. What our journey has in store for us, none can say, yet it unfolds with all of its twists and turns, sadness and joy. What is true, however, is that none of us will outrun Time.
Addiction still carries a heavy stygma and is often enshrouded in secrecy. Random violence which injures without reason evokes our sympathy. Addiction is often seen as weakness, or the result of bad choices, rather than a serious disabling illness. The undertow of judgement and failure haunts only one, while the wings of triumph lift the other. Perhaps this is part of the reason one still struggles.
You hit the nail on the head, Rosemary.
Both young men are confronted daily with life’s most harsh lessons, both debilitating lessons. Both deserve perpetual encouragement, support, healing resources, and absence of judgment. Individuals do not possess equal potential for healing, and rarely through fault of theirs alone. Historically, comparing sons’ achievements has led from fractured relationships to tragedy. Given an easier choice ourselves, let’s assume both have souls that have agreed to the terms, and let’s find peace within Mystery.
I am witness to the miracle of the Ellsworths. Humanity at it’s best. Courage. Family. I thank and bless them for their light. I’ve encountered my share of devastated heroes as well; young and old…. often as not they’re the most sensitive of us, acting out their inexpressible rage at the unconscionable.