I am currently editing a lovely book for Loving Healing Press, in which a mother and a gifted music teacher give their account of a Down syndrome boy who puts the gift of love in everyone’s heart.

Synchronicity? I have a story about a little girl who does the same, as part of my coming anthology, REAL Human Nature.

I didn’t write this story, but merely recorded it for Maudie’s mother. Being an electronic person, she is unable to do the actual key-press-to-text conversion. So, the style and language are hers, not mine.

The little darling of my heart is not pretty, no. I have read about Dr Down’s work, and he calls her kind Mongoloid, but I went to the library and found pictures of Mongolian people, and actually she doesn’t look like them.

Although she is seven years old, she cannot speak, and I have not been able to toilet train her, but neither of these matter. She is pure joy in my life, and my life wraps around her, though I do wonder what will happen to her when she is grown and I am gone.

Craig ran off as soon as he found out he had a handicapped child, and now has a couple of tantrum-throwing, bickering sons with that Jane floosy, and serve him right. He hasn’t paid me a penny since, but at least the house is mine, and his parents do help, and told me they shall leave me what they have when they die. And as a seamstress, I can earn a living from home. When I have no orders for ball- or wedding-dresses, I take in mending.

Today being a fine, sunny day, mid-morning I tied a bonnet on Maudie’s head, and one on mine, and took her on a stroll to the park. I do need to keep a tight hold of her hand because she has no more sense of safety than a puppy. Once, she let go of my hand and ran right under a horse! The animal reared, nearly upsetting the carriage, and it was only the grace of God that saved my Maudie from being trampled.

But today, the busy road was safe from her impulsiveness. We arrived at the park without mishap, but there a bearded man stood with a lead in his hand, and a dog running around. It was of the breed I believe is called a bull mastiff. Upon seeing us, his owner whistled, but instead of going to him, the dog approached us, tail wagging. Maudie sprang forward and hugged the beast around the neck and my heart near-stopped from fright, but the only untoward reaction was a big, pink tongue licking her ear. Heaven be praised, a wash will correct the effects.

Also looking relieved, the man smiled at me and strode over to the duo. He gently stroked Maudie’s hair, and she looked up at him with a serious gaze, then she surprised me once more. She held her arms up to him as she frequently does to me. He bent with grace and lifted her into a hug. Never have I known her to do this to a stranger; indeed she tends to be shy, and no wonder with all the disdain directed upon her.

Over her dark hair, he smiled at me. “Ma’am,” he said, “your little daughter has a certain genius.”

“Kind of you, sir, but fate has been unkind to her with regard to intelligence. She has not even mastered the ability to speak.”

“Yes, but she has the genius of love. She can clearly sense the inner, hidden emotions and responds to them with the directness of instinct. Oh, I’d better introduce myself. I am Tavis McPherson.”

“I am Kate Wiley, and your new friend is Maudie Wiley.”

“And my friend, and sadly, only companion is Conan. Six months ago, my wife died in childbirth.” Though his face stayed calm, though he continued to hold my little girl with affection, I saw he was close to crying. Also, it was remarkable and against custom for him to disclose his tragedy to a complete stranger.

He put Maudie down, took a small ball from a pocket and threw it. Conan raced to fetch it back, and, giggling, Maudie ran after him.

He turned back to me. “Mrs Wiley, I don’t believe in coincidence. The four of us are here in this park, with no others, because we were meant to meet.”

Conan was back in a flash, but dropped the ball in front of Maudie rather than his owner. When she looked on without comprehension, Mr McPherson picked up the ball, put it in her hand and threw it with her. While it only went a short distance and the dog fetched it back immediately, they repeated the action several times. Then, to my amazement, Maudie threw the ball unsupported.

Mr McPherson turned to me. “You see, Mrs Wiley, she is capable of learning. Perhaps we can teach her to speak after all, although surely you and your husband have tried many methods.” Then he looked at my face. “Oh. I see. You alone.”

What an exceptional man! I was struck for words, but could do no more than smile at him.

“Ma’am,” he said, “I feel sorry for the fellow, for he has deprived himself of the opportunity to benefit from Maudie’s inexhaustible fount of love, and… if I may say so, of the company of a lovely wife.”

I felt my face flush. When I look in the mirror, the woman I see is not at all lovely.

Seeing no further action, Conan curled up at his owner’s feet. Maudie hugged him once more. Mr McPherson looked down, then gently stirred the dog with a foot. “Hey, we’re here to provide you with exercise,” he said as he bent, then threw the ball again. “I find a great deal of consolation from the love of Jesus, for I am in His service, the humble minister of New Hope, just around the corner.”

I knew the church to be Presbyterian. Though I was raised in the Church of England, I have not attended services since Craig’s departure. Maudie was typically not well received by many in the congregation, and I had no one locally I would trust to mind her. I explained this to Mr McPherson.

“Oh, ma’am, you have just provided the inspiration for my sermon next Sunday,” he said. “Would you be so kind as to bring Maudie to the service at 10 o’clock? I guarantee kindness from all.”

So, on Sunday morning, I ensured Maudie smelt sweet and both of us looked neat, and with some trepidation walked to church. As I entered the relative darkness of the alcove, a grandmotherly woman approached. “You must be Mrs Wiley,” she said with a smile. “The reverend appointed me to welcome you and care for your little daughter’s welfare. I am Mrs Hosberger.”

“Thank you, ma’am, you’re most kind.”

Looking down on Maudie, she said, “My first child was also… very different. He died at only fifteen years of age, but has taught me the lesson of compassion for all.”

She escorted me to a large room full of people chatting in groups, holding small plates of food and steaming cups. Maudie was instantly terrified of course, and hugged my leg, pushing her face against me. I managed to gently prise her loose and lifted her, so it was against my shoulder that she hid.

Mrs Hosberger took me first to a wide table at the end of the room, and used sweetmeats to induce Maudie to lose her terror. Then we went from group to group. She introduced me, though it was impossible for me to remember the many names. Her invariable statement was, “Allow me to introduce Mrs Wiley and her darling daughter, whom God has sent along for us to cherish.”

Many indeed responded with a genuine smile, and the others at least hid their disdain.

A bell rang, and everyone proceeded into the church proper. Mrs Hosberger directed us to sit in the front row, and would not allow otherwise.

The service was not too different from my memory of it. Mr McPherson chose St Paul’s beautiful words on Love in Corinthians 13, and then expanded upon it.

“This, my friends, is central to Jesus’ message. Does He not say in Matthew 5:44 that we should love even those who do us harm? It is easy to love those who love you, to care for those who care for you, to do good to those who do you good. It is even a sort of a selfishness. But to love all of God’s creations, without limit, without regard to what they do or fail to do, requires a kind of a genius. Oh, all of us need to try, to remember to replace hate and fear with love. But for some exceptional people, this comes naturally. This past week, it has been my pleasure to meet such a genius of love. Mrs Wiley, would you be so kind as to bring Maudie here?”

Flustered, I was unable to move for a moment, but Mrs Hosberger gave me a little, friendly nudge. I stood with Maudie still in my arms, and advanced to stand beside Mr McPherson.

“This little child was born into a body most consider to be damaged, faulty, to be shunned and hidden away. But she has also been blessed with this genius of love I have mentioned. Instinctively, without having been taught, she senses love, and returns it without limit. Watch.” He gently took hold of Maudie’s head, naturally pressed against my shoulder, and turned her to look at him.

Their eyes locked, then she turned, and as in the park, she held out her arms to him, leaning away from me.

I passed her over, and she hugged his neck, to a susurration of comment from the congregation.

The minister looked at them over her head. “All living beings are God’s creations. All have God’s love, and spreading that love to all is performing God’s command. This little child is our teacher.” With a smile he handed Maudie back to me, and signalled with his eyes for me to return to my seat.

A little later, as the ceremony drew to a close, I asked Mrs Hosberger, “Since his personal tragedy, how does Mr McPherson cope with the tasks of everyday life?”

While standing up, she replied, “We have a roster of families who invite him to luncheon and dinner, and look after other domestic tasks. Being the kind of person he is, he continues to complain, saying he doesn’t wish to be a load on others, but…”

“I should think it a privilege rather than a load,” I said, standing also. “It would be my great pleasure to join in. Being a seamstress, perhaps I can care for his clothes?”

We joined the line waiting to exit. She said, “That would be most appreciated, and as I understand it, you are without a husband, so it would not very well be proper to have him visit you for meals.”

I could smell the need to clean Maudie up, and upon my request, Mrs Hosberger directed me to a side room, which was an indoor privy, with a bucket of water for washing one’s hands. I managed to fix the problem in a few minutes, then returned to the foyer. Most people were gone, but Mrs Hosberger waited for me with three other ladies. She had informed them of my profession, and we arranged that a Mrs Bartley would take me to the Manse Monday morning so I could inspect the reverend’s clothing and take away any needing repair. Another lady, Mrs Strand, said, “Oh, my daughter has just become betrothed. Do you have any samples of wedding gowns?”

So, while of course we could not transact business on the Sunday, I was confident that my drawings, and four copies of photographic pictures from appreciative past clients, would gain her approval.

When Maudie and I arrived at the Manse on Monday, Mrs Bartley and Mrs Hosberger awaited us. “I wish to try what the reverend showed us,” Mrs Hosberger said. She squatted and held her arms out. Maudie looked at her with serious eyes for a long moment—then ran forward into a hug. The lady stood, holding her.

Amazing, truly.

Within half an hour, we collected a basketful of mending, which I took home, Maudie walking between the two women, each holding one of her hands. Then Mrs Bartley left us.

Mrs Hosberger said, “I shall try on Maudie what worked with my poor Jeremy.” She picked Maudie up and sat, settling Maudie on her lap so they were face to face. She tickled the child’s nose with a finger, saying “Nose.” Maudie of course laughed without comprehension. Mrs Hosberger then touched her own nose, repeating, “Nose,” and alternated the two actions over and over while I busied myself replacing the reverend’s missing buttons and darning his socks. After many repetitions, the lady took Maudie’s hand, and used her tiny finger for the nose pointings.

I needed to go into another room to use my Singer sewing machine to repair a loose seam. When I returned, Mrs Hosberger handed Maudie to me.

A slim finger touched my nose, and Maudie clearly said, “Nose!” the first word of the seven years of her life.

***

Where did this story come from?

My novel, Hit and Run, is about Chuck, a fourteen-year-old boy who is so traumatised that he wants to die, but kill as many people in the process as he can. So, he drives over seven little children and the crossing supervisor, narrowly missing 84-year-old Sylvia. The entire book is Sylvia’s journal of nine months, during which she leads Chuck to become the kind of boy you wouldn’t mind dating your daughter.

Her tool was the same unconditional love this story is about. Early in the book, we learn that in a past life, Sylvia was a man who owned a dog that saved his life, and that dog was Chuck. And late in the book, Sylvia dreams of being the mother of a Down’s syndrome girl who it not toilet trained. And Chuck has a past-life recall of having been Maudie…

So, Maudie was the first human life of a Spirit that used to be a loving, loyal dog. She carried on that canine personality, and no doubt Conan sensed this. As a stranger to being human, she chose a body with a simple mind.

But for the second human life, the Spirit needed to learn other lessons, those only early childhood trauma can teach—and returned as Chuck.

Next time you encounter a handicapped child, or a juvenile criminal, or anyone else you may feel like judging harshly, remember Maudie and Chuck. This Person can be your teacher, too.