As a child, what I remember most about Labor Day weekend is watching the Jerry Lewis Muscular Dystrophy Association (MDA) Telethon. While I enjoyed watching the entertainment segments, what I was most drawn to were the segments on fundraising (particularly by the firefighters and Harley Davidson riders) and the footage of the kids at their annual summer camp. Inexplicably (at the time), the more I watched each year the more I felt that one day I would somehow be actively involved in helping those kids. Little did I know at the time how blessed I would become from working with Jerry's kids.
It was over 10 years ago when I first took action to put what I felt called to do into practice. I was living in Kansas City, KS at the time and I remember, vividly, my very first phone call to the local MDA office. To put it mildly, I was so darn excited that I "jumped in with both feet" and did everything from fundraising to volunteering at the MDA summer camp as a camp counselor to working the phones at the local MDA Labor Day Telethon. I was hooked.
To this day I continue to be an active MDA volunteer. Last year I was both a camp counselor to a camper and a cabin coordinator (responsible for the mentoring of three first-year counselors and the care they gave to their campers). Until you care for a child with a neuromuscular disease one-on-one, day-in and day-out, you cannot possibly understand their incredible spirit, courage, and zest for life.
The most humbling experience, thus far, came for me one night at summer camp last year as I was tucking my camper into bed. Every night we had a routine of me asking him "what do you want to be?" and he would say something like "a cupcake", etc. So, I would describe him as a cupcake with all the chocolate layers, frosting, etc. - - the whole time I'd be working the covers up from his feet to his head and making all sorts of crazy noises. On the night he actually wanted to be a cupcake, when I got done, after he finished laughing, he asked me to lean over close to his face (because he couldn't roll over to look at me). And then he whispered to me "I wish you'd been my counselor last year....I trust you to take care of me."
In that moment, I felt so honored that he, a true hero and fighter, would entrust himself to my care. And I felt so humbled that he'd given back to me the importance of ending each day by spending time with those closest to us, doing simple, even silly little things. For what greater gift is there than those we care for who can laugh (or cry) with us?
It was over 10 years ago when I first took action to put what I felt called to do into practice. I was living in Kansas City, KS at the time and I remember, vividly, my very first phone call to the local MDA office. To put it mildly, I was so darn excited that I "jumped in with both feet" and did everything from fundraising to volunteering at the MDA summer camp as a camp counselor to working the phones at the local MDA Labor Day Telethon. I was hooked.
To this day I continue to be an active MDA volunteer. Last year I was both a camp counselor to a camper and a cabin coordinator (responsible for the mentoring of three first-year counselors and the care they gave to their campers). Until you care for a child with a neuromuscular disease one-on-one, day-in and day-out, you cannot possibly understand their incredible spirit, courage, and zest for life.
The most humbling experience, thus far, came for me one night at summer camp last year as I was tucking my camper into bed. Every night we had a routine of me asking him "what do you want to be?" and he would say something like "a cupcake", etc. So, I would describe him as a cupcake with all the chocolate layers, frosting, etc. - - the whole time I'd be working the covers up from his feet to his head and making all sorts of crazy noises. On the night he actually wanted to be a cupcake, when I got done, after he finished laughing, he asked me to lean over close to his face (because he couldn't roll over to look at me). And then he whispered to me "I wish you'd been my counselor last year....I trust you to take care of me."
In that moment, I felt so honored that he, a true hero and fighter, would entrust himself to my care. And I felt so humbled that he'd given back to me the importance of ending each day by spending time with those closest to us, doing simple, even silly little things. For what greater gift is there than those we care for who can laugh (or cry) with us?
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