Halo of Curls

At the park this morning, I met the disabled man who is, along with me, one of the regulars on the measured path. He had his family out with him - his wife, daughter, and one set of grandparents. I learned his name, C_. I did not feel I had the right, on the basis of such a casual meeting, to ask questions about C_'s disability; so I must continue to write about him in this uninformed, third-person manner. His family is friendly, personable, polite, and nice - as he is. The surprise is his daughter. She is, I am guessing, five years old. She is shy and beautiful. The family does not have a dog at home. She is afraid of Bear-Bear.  I endeavor to keep Bear away from people, by playing retrieve-the-ball over a hundred yards from them. Today, nonetheless, Bear took the ball and ran across the softball diamond, past the bleachers, across the cooking area, around picnic tables, past the children's sandbox and play area, and dropped herself at the feet of the child. The girl was startled and afraid. Her father, C_, who has met Bear often, tried to reassure the little girl. Her mother and grandparents were not afraid. They understood that Bear's tail-wagging, wiggling, and surrender signalled friendliness. Eventually, out of breath, I caught up to Bear. By this time, she had wandered away from the family in search of bits of Easter eggs remaining hidden in the grass from Easter Sunday egg hunts at the park. I snapped the leash on her and took her over to the little girl. Bear loves children. The girl slowly realized this. The introduction, restrained and proper, of Bear and child allowed me to meet the little girl close up. She was wearing a hooded gray sweatshirt and hugging her mother. C_ was hovering next to her, telling her that Bear was friendly. The hood slipped off his daughter's head, revealing a blooming glory of large dark brown curls. My breath was taken away. God redeems the misshapen and hobbled infirmity in all of us with the Springtime gift - the promise and the hope - of a beautiful child.