Hands Free Life

by Rachel Macy Stafford

  Apparently, my response was sufficient. Natalie grabbed a notecard, jotted a message, inserted her dollar, and stuck the notecard in an envelope. After addressing it to Amanda with the information I provided, she carried it out to the mailbox.

  A few weeks passed before we heard anything about the dollar donation. Surprisingly, Amanda posted the following message and photo of Natalie’s handwritten note on a social media site:

  I received a sweet letter from a child I used to babysit. It said, “I hope that this helps adopt the child,” and there was $1 included. It still brings tears to my eyes thinking about the compassion in sweet Natalie’s heart! If she only knew the difference she was making in people’s lives! Because of her sweet gift, I want to see how many people would participate in Natalie’s Dollar Challenge to “help adopt the child.”

  Extremely touched by Amanda’s idea, I shared her photo with my friends and within just a few hours, Amanda wrote to inform me that $300 dollars had been raised. I printed Amanda’s message and showed it to Natalie the next morning. “Remember when you asked if a dollar could make a difference?” I asked. “Take a look,” I said, handing her the note.

  As Natalie read Amanda’s words, the most radiant smile appeared on her face. “Amanda is now three hundred steps closer to holding her baby in her arms,” she said excitedly. As I watched my growing girl happily imagining a mother being united with her child, I suddenly felt an overwhelming peace about a worry that had haunted me for almost a decade.

  When Natalie was six months old, one of her favorite activities was to be danced around the room by her daddy. Through her enthusiastic hand gestures, we learned that “Calling All Angels” by Train was her preferred dance song. When Scott would make angel wing motions with her little arms, Natalie would laugh hysterically. This, in turn, would make Scott and I laugh until we cried. Although I never spoke my true feelings aloud, inside I was dying. The lyrics of the song touched on every fear I was feeling as a new parent. The birth of Natalie had triggered an intense anguish within me about the state of the world. It seemed like the evening news was more disturbing than ever. It seemed like there were more child abductions, more bombings, more killings, more sadness, and more despair from the moment she arrived. This is no place to raise a child, I thought to myself several times a day — to the point that I wondered what kind of world Scott and I had brought our child into. As I held my sleeping baby, I often wondered if there would be any hope left in this world when she was an adult. I prayed that God would send angels to surround her with goodness as she grew.

  And now, ten years later, I saw that he had. Standing in front of me was the hope I’d been looking for — I’d just been looking at it all wrong.

  Angels were not divinely perfect beings dressed in billowy white gowns spreading goodwill just above our heads. Angels were imperfect human beings who lost their shoes several times a day, overindulged on chocolate milk, and got cranky when they didn’t get enough sleep. Angels were freckle-faced darlings who dipped their steak in ketchup and absentmindedly left the car door open when they came home from swim practice. And if societal influences didn’t get to them first, these pint-sized angels gave to others with no reservations and no inhibitions. If they saw someone who needed help, they helped. If they saw someone facing a mountainous challenge, they didn’t see the impossible; they saw steps. And these earthly angels were willing to take the first one — even if it seemed small and insignificant.

  The disheveled angel standing before me knew hope didn’t come in the form of six-figure checks or expensive packages with gold bows. She knew hope came in handwritten notes with misplaced commas and poor penmanship. She knew hope came in the form of small, loving gestures that inspired others to act in kind. In one definitive moment, ten years’ worth of fear subsided, and my hope for the future swelled. All at once, the world didn’t look so bleak for my child who looked more and more like she needed me less and less. As long as a child’s single dollar bill could bring a loving couple three hundred steps closer to bringing their baby home, there was hope. I gathered my living, breathing angel into my arms and recited a prayer. It went something like this:

  Dear God,

  Let me not get caught up in the dangers of the world that are beyond my control. Let me refuse to believe there is nothing I can do to bring goodness to a troubled and complicated world. Let me reject societal influences that try to influence how much I give, what I give, or whom I give it to. If in this sometimes dark and hurting world a ten-year-old child with skinned knees and overgrown toenails can be an angel, then there is hope for us all. Let me give as my child gives. Let me remember nothing is too small. Let me not give up the good fight. Amen.

  Within six short months of Natalie placing a dollar in an envelope, a little boy was brought home from a Ugandan orphanage. Like Natalie, there were others who believed a dollar could make a difference, and they put that belief into action by sending their own dollar bills to a couple longing for a child to call their own. As a result, a little boy named Jac who had never smiled much during the first two years of his life came to smile nearly all the time, especially when he looked at his mother, Miss Amanda. I cannot be certain, but whenever Jac says, “I ov wu, Mama,” I believe that is when the angels sing — from the back of the school bus or with a hairbrush in front of the bathroom mirror. Every time I hear those angelic voices drifting through my home, I am reminded that love can transform broken hearts and transcend dismal situations when one person, big or small, believes that it can.

  HANDS FREE LIFE DAILY DECLARATION

  There will come a day when my loved ones have to brave the world. I do not want to send them into uncharted territory without preparing and equipping them for what they may face. Therefore, my daily vow is to give my loved ones many pieces of protective armor that will help them carry on, make sound decisions, and guard their heart. This internal armor shall come from daily offerings of presence, wisdom, faith, and unconditional love. I shall not worry about worldly harm that is beyond my control. I shall focus on what I can control — contributing peace, hope, and stability to the world by loving the people with whom I share my life.

  HANDS FREE LIFE HABIT BUILDER 9

  Change Someone’s Story with the Six-Second Challenge

  In 6 seconds you can kiss someone like you mean it.

  In 6 seconds you can hold open a door.

  In 6 seconds you can wait for a little straggler to catch up. “I’ll wait for you,” you can even say.

  In 6 seconds you can take a deep breath.

  In 6 seconds you can let it go. “It’s not worth it,” you can say.

  In 6 seconds you can tuck a note in a lunch box or in a pocket. It takes 2 seconds to draw a heart.

  In 6 seconds you can say you’re sorry.

  In 6 seconds you can cut yourself some slack.

  In 6 seconds you can throw away that picture, that pair of pants, that inner bully that keeps you from loving this day, this you.

  In 6 seconds you can feel the sunshine.

  In 6 seconds you can decide it’s time to stop looking back.

  In 6 seconds you can whisper, “It’s gonna be okay” to yourself or someone who’s scared.

  In 6 seconds you can drop a dollar in a hat.

  In 6 seconds you can pick up that old guitar.

  In 6 seconds you can look into someone’s eyes and say, “My life is better because of you.”

  I used to sound like a broken record. “I don’t have time,” I would always say.

  But then I discovered what could happen in a mere 6 seconds.

  It’s enough to make a bad day good . . .

  It’s enough to bring life back to your weary bones . . .

  It’s enough to remember what really matters in the midst of so much that doesn’t . . .

  It’s enough to change someone’s story

  and send a ripple of unending kindness and love out into the world.

&nbs
p; It doesn’t take much to change someone’s story. In fact, six seconds will do. I wrote “The Six-Second Challenge” while waiting for Banjo the cat at the emergency vet clinic. A few days before, I’d accidentally discovered it took six seconds for Banjo to start purring whenever I picked him up. This discovery inspired me to look for other ways I could offer love to other living beings or myself in a mere six seconds. Much to my surprise, there were countless ways to impact someone’s day, yet the impact of that action lasted far longer. What can you do in six seconds to change someone’s story or at least make it a little brighter? I guarantee that just trying to find out will bring you joy and make the world a better place for everyone.

  CONCLUSION

  May you live all the days of your life.

  Jonathan Swift

  I DUG AROUND IN my purse until I found the bright orange paper containing directions to a local retirement home. As I read the steps out loud to Scott while he drove, I felt a sense of peace about where we were heading. The list of project sites for the Magic City Miracle community service day had been extensive, but the decision to visit the elderly had been a unanimous decision for our family. I did have one regret, though. I wished I’d thought to bring one of my pocket-size writing notebooks that I typically carried in case something happened that I didn’t want to forget.

  I didn’t have my notebook that day, but I managed to mentally collect more than a dozen poignant moments that began on the car ride to the facility and ended as I pulled the covers up to my daughter’s chin. Like the deep crevices that lined the worn hands we held that day, these moments are engrained in my mind indefinitely.

  I won’t forget how, on the way to the retirement home, Natalie told Avery that she googled what to say to senior citizens. From the backseat I heard, “A safe question is ‘What is your favorite memory?’ But don’t ask, ‘How old are you?’ ”

  I won’t forget how my daughters stared out the car windows clutching bags of handmade cards, their hopeful faces indicating they were eager to distribute messages of love. “Breathe in blue sky, breathe out gray sky,” said one card in the most delicate font I’d seen written by a child.

  I won’t forget how neither an ominous security system nor a strong medicinal odor deterred the children from eagerly walking through the double doors to meet those eagerly waiting on the other side.

  I won’t forget how my daughters and their friends walked right up to the wheelchair bound, refusing to allow bulky walkers to impede their ability to get close to those who needed closeness.

  I won’t forget how the mere sight of smiley, disheveled children made dull eyes light up and lowly hung heads rise.

  I won’t forget the woman in the lavender sweater. Her words were so soft and so shaky that I struggled to understand. Yet Natalie walked up and began nodding her head as if she understood every word.

  I won’t forget watching Avery read her homemade card to a silver-haired woman in a tattered sweater. I won’t forget how despite having severely hunched shoulders and being nonverbal, the woman leaned forward gracefully and kissed Avery on the forehead. I won’t forget how Avery’s face brightened, as if blessed by a royal queen.

  I won’t forget how Avery summoned me into a resident’s room. “Mama, you just have to come see,” she whispered. And when I entered, I gasped at the dismal sight of a bone-thin woman in sheer pajamas lying in a bed with an oxygen mask hooked to her face. I won’t forget how I recoiled, thinking of my grandma in her darkest days. I won’t forget how my feet wouldn’t move, but Avery’s hand reached for mine. “C’mon, Mama,” she coaxed. “Meet my friend. She’s very nice.”

  I won’t forget how Natalie broke the silence of a somber hallway with lightning-fast feet and celebratory words. “You’ve got to come to Mrs. Bonnie’s room. She’s one hundred! She’s one hundred!” Natalie exclaimed as she motioned me forward.

  I won’t forget how a group of children had gathered around a beautiful lady wearing a bright yellow sweater and a shy smile. Mrs. Bonnie had recently turned one hundred years old, but she was as spry as someone half her age. I won’t forget how Bonnie’s eighty-eight-year-old roommate called Bonnie “Mom” and how the two held hands for a picture.

  I won’t forget how the residents cried when it was time for us to go.

  I won’t forget how the children hugged their white-haired friends and said, “We’ll be back soon. Next time, we’ll bring candy!”

  I won’t forget how the woman in pink called out, “I hope I’m still here.”

  I won’t forget how I wanted to blurt out the same exact words, but with one added detail. “I hope I’m still here too,” I wanted to rejoice at the top of my lungs. “I hope to live a very long time! I’m keeping track of life, you know!”

  No one would’ve known what I was talking about, except maybe Avery. She’d given me that term, keeping track of life, which helped me distinguish which numbers, efforts, achievements, commitments, and opinions mattered from the ones that didn’t. Being in the nursing home that day must have triggered the same thoughts of dying, living, and keeping track of life in Avery’s mind as it did in mine. As I was tucking her into bed that night, Avery asked when we’d be going back to the retirement home to see the people in “wheely chairs.”

  I told Avery that the director of the nursing home had given me her contact information and suggested we come back for the holidays. Then I crawled into the bed to read to her like I did every night. Except this time, Avery felt like talking.

  “What do you think you would be doing right now if you didn’t start being a Hands Free mama?”

  The question stunned me. I could not find any words. I attempted to swallow the emotion welling up inside my throat.

  “Well, I know,” she volunteered. “You wouldn’t be here with me. You would be too busy to spend time with me and Natalie. You would not laugh very much. And you wouldn’t be you.”

  I reached out and held her. There was really no more to say even if I could speak. I would not be me. Someday, when Avery could fully understand, I would tell her how true that statement was. I would not be. . .

  that squeaky violin player,

  that sandy-footed starfish rescuer,

  that notebook-filling author,

  that peaceful graveyard visitor,

  that observant Noticer-in-training,

  that open-armed giver,

  that patient encourager,

  that two-handed hugger.

  that authentically messy, lovingly flawed lover of life.

  In my pursuit of a Hands Free Life, I’d found beloved parts of myself that I’d thought were gone and even some parts I didn’t know existed. What parts of me were yet to be discovered, cultivated, and set free? The possibilities made me want to jump for joy and continue living Hands Free till the ripe old age of one hundred like Mrs. Bonnie. Perhaps someday kind people would visit me in the nursing home and be enamored by the twinkle in my eye.

  “Did you see her sparkle? I wonder where it came from,” I could imagine the visitors whispering as they left me for my afternoon nap. I would smile from my plush recliner, wishing that everyone knew the secret to the sparkle was really no secret at all. It was merely evidence of a life well lived:

  I made someone smile.

  I gave a tender kiss.

  I hugged and wasn’t the first to let go.

  I encouraged.

  I laughed.

  I believed.

  I lifted.

  I kneeled.

  I forgave.

  I loved.

  I kept track of life.

  And in doing so, I found that the most important things in life are not measured but are felt through the hands, heart, and soul of each life we touch.

  But most importantly, I hoped everyone knew, as it is written in this book, a life well lived began with a minute, an hour, a single day well lived.

  So let us begin right now.

  Let us feed our sparkle and light up our life.

&nbs
p; THE ULTIMATE HANDS FREE LIFE HABIT BUILDER

  If I Live to Be 100

  If I live to be 100, it won’t be because I tidied up the house before I left each day.

  It will be because of the glorious mess I made while I was living life.

  If I live to be 100, it won’t be because I kept every hair in place.

  It will be because I rolled down the windows, turned up the radio, and let the wind blow every glorious strand out of place.

  If I live to be 100, it will not be because I logged endless hours at the office.

  It will be because I clocked countless hours laughing in good company.

  If I live to be 100, it will not be because I maintained a full bank account.

  It will be because I gave of my heart and filled my own emptiness.

  If I live to be 100, it will not be because of quarterly financial investments into my bank account.

  It will be because of daily emotional investments into my most sacred relationships.

  If I live to be 100, it will not be because I separated myself from the sick and the weak.

  It will be because I walked right up to suffering and lovingly reached out my hand.

  If I live to be 100, it will not be because I could accomplish more in one day than most could in a week.

  It will be because I took time to gaze at stars, sip hot chocolate, and walk beside my children, not ahead of them.

  If I live to be 100, it will not be because I earned prestigious degrees that lined my walls.

  It will be because I pursued the passions of my heart and decorated my soul.

  If I live to be 100, it will not be because I used expensive efforts to prevent aging.

  It will be because I embraced my wrinkles, took walks, and left all regrets in the past.

  If I live to be 100, it will be because

  I listened more than I spoke,

  I leaned in for kisses,

  I cried with those who cried,

  I recognized my blessings,