If we did start a home, wouldn’t we only take mongoloids like Melissa?” That was Steve.
“And we sure don’t want the old ones---right, Dad? Or the real crazy ones? You know what I mean?”
The children all were full of questions about this great new venture. Would we live in the same house with the retarded children? Who would do all the cooking? (I hoped they weren’t thinking of me.) Would Daddy stop working? Who would pay the college tuition? Unnamed fears skulking in the attics of our adult minds were given flesh and bone by our children’s young and open minds. How would we get enough money together to buy a bigger house? And who would help us?
Some of our church friends thought that we were beginning to dabble in social problems and intimated that perhaps we had better leave this kind of burden to the liberal Christians. After all. the” liberals” thought their good works would transport them straight into the heavenly kingdom, and we “Evangelicals” knew better than that.
James had put it rather succinctly” Even so faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone.”
Then one dear man asked whether or not we were planning to “evangelize” the mentally retarded? And, if so, why bother?
Didn’t we realize that these ”holy innocents” were safe under the atonement anyway?
Didn’t we realize that these ”holy innocents” were safe under the atonement anyway?
Why waste our time and talents in this way? And round and round it went, and whether it would have won out-----had we been guided solely by our saintly advisers------I do not know.
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“You know what I wonder, Dad?”
“No telling!”
David was on his back on the living room floor, all six feet and two inches of him. Melissa was sprawled on his tummy, contentedly sucking her thumb. Paul was trying to finish the newspaper-----always a struggle in our busy household. I was idly producing an organ background for their conversation or, to be perfectly accurate, I was playing softly so I wouldn’t miss anything.
“I wonder how come there aren’t more Christian homes for retarded kids? Actually, Christians are the ones who should care more than anybody else.”
“You’re right. But most Christians shy away from activity that isn’t strictly church-oriented.”
“Yeah, but how come? Jesus didn’t do like that.”
“He sure didn’t. He even warned against seeing your brother naked, cold or hungry and saying to him, ‘Depart in peace, be warmed and filled.’”
“Then why?”
“ Well, perhaps some church people purposely avoid any involvement in social problems and de-emphasize good works so as not to muddy up their theologically correct position that man is save by grace, through faith, and not of himself, lest any man should boast.”
“ But, that isn’t the total picture, is it, Dad?”
“No, we have overreacted and let the pendulum swing too far in the other direction by stressing faith alone and forgetting about works completely.”
“So, in a sense, both views are off-balance. We need to demonstrate our faith in God by our good works. Right?”
“Right! But, don’t forget, Dave, that many of our very first hospitals here in America, and other charitable agencies such as orphanage and homes for the aged were founded by dedicated Christians.
Christians who actually did put their faith to work.”
“But that’s no excuse now for us to hide behind.” I interrupted , able to keep quiet no longer. “I mean, when we are faced with a need we should try to help.”
“Yes, but let’s be honest. We wouldn’t be talking about starting up a home for retarded children if God hadn’t given us our Melissa.” Paul quietly folded up his newspaper.
“But, somewhere,” I objected, “there must be other Christian parents with ‘Melissa problems’ too. What are they doing?”
Well, I certainly do not think that God is leading every parent of every retarded child to open up a home.”
“It’s a good thing.” I laughed. “We’d be out of business before we opened our front doors.”
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The month after Christmas we decided to take the first big step.
We set about recruiting four men to serve with us on our board of directors. Each one who consented to help filled a special need. We found Charles, a doctor to interview and screen admissions and advise us medically; “By,” a lawyer to keep us legally untangled; Ben, well-qualified in the field of special education; and Walter, a former president of a church-sponsored group of nursing homes.
Then came the big day, February 2, 1965, when we met in Philadelphia in our lawyer’s office and went through all the business intricacies that are necessary for the formation of a nonprofit, tax-exempt corporation. And we officially recorded for all the world to see, the name that had been on our tongues and in our minds for the past few weeks. We took the “Mel” for Melissa and the “mar” from baby Martha and used the “K” from our last name. It added up to “Melmark”, and the more we said it the more it sounded just right.
“Now what?”
“We raise some money.”
“But how?”
“We’ll begin by telling all our friends what we are planning to do, and maybe, just maybe, they will help us to get started.”
Paul’s voice trailed off and we started running down a list of friends and acquaintances. How many had “hidden treasure” that they might share with us?
We mailed fifty letter to fifty of our friends. They proved that they cared, too, by contributing over $7,000 in crumbled dollar bills and checks of various denominations. We were ecstatic! Now, at least we had a modest downpayment.
Then we started house-hunting. We wanted a large old mansion that would house fifty or so special children. Day after day, I scouted with various and sundry realtors, looking for suitable properties that we could afford. And day after day ended in frustration! Either litigation, staggering asking prices, or zoning were the names of the stumbling blocks.
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That May, Paul and I took a breather! We headed west for Phoenix, Arizona, to attend the National Lime Convention. It was fairyland. Golf, swimming a sight-seeing soon erased all worries from our minds.
Relaxing in the sun and sharing our project with the wives of Pau’s colleagues., I was amazed at their worried concern. “You mean, at your age, you’re about to throw all your security overboard and run this tremendous financial risk?”
Well, perhaps it appeared foolhardy from the outside looking in. To us , it was quite simple. Melmark was ours to do. No burden, nothing noble about it, no sacrifice--it was just”our thing”!
Even after our return, suntanned and rested, we noted a peculiar lull in Melmark’s forward motion. The money trickled in painfully slow, no suitable house seemed within reach and suddenly quite abruptly, there was not even a recognizable”maybe.......if” on our horizon. We were somewhat in a state of despair.
I was well onto ten o’clock one fall evening when I gingerly opened to door into Melissa’s room. She sat huddled in the dark, head pressed against the crib slats, sucking her thumb, and kicking her legs listlessly against the sides.
The moment she heard me, she uttered a delighted gasp and scrambled to her feet. I laughed and swooped her high in the air, kissing her again and again.
I am so fiercely in love with this child of my heart, like none that went before. What savage passion reaches out to protect her---to shield her?
Nothing would suffice but a rock together in the old maple rocker with Melissa cuddled in my arms.
I sang, but there were no words. Just a tune that roamed at will. Her low-keyed monotone joined mine and together we hummed-off-key and sadly dissonant.
The flesh of her arm is firm and hard. I wonder, is she indeed so far from normal? Is there such a big difference after all?
A passing train whistled in the distance and the sound of a quick autumn rain splattered noisily on the old green lawn umbrella down on the patio underneath the window. I whispered little funnies in her ear to make the giggles come, and then, for no reason at all, a tear raced down my nose to drop on Melissa’s upturned face. She stretched a plump had up to touch my cheek.
“It’s been too long, baby, since we’ve rocked like this slowlike, taking all the time in the world! Mommy and Daddy get so busy! I’ll bet sometimes you wonder where their strong arms are. But listen, my love, here is a secret for you; Wait and see and we will show you something--something---just for you!”
************************************************************
During this time of feeble beginnings, a most astonishing thing happened. We had gone to pick up a chair we had purchased from friends who were moving to Florida when out of the blue, they announced that they would like to donated the entire contents of their ten-room house--Beds, chairs, mattresses , tables, draperies, TV sets, piano ---to help us get started. We were overwhelmed. This was a giant step forward.
During the next two weeks there was another offer of a lovely couch for Melmark.
“How thoughtful of you to think of us,” I murmured, wondering where to put three couches, but unwilling to turn away any offer of help for our home.
*************************************************************
Another phone call came from our helpful dry-cleaning man who had cleaned and stored all the drapes and curtains that had been given to Melmark. He now needed this storage space and wondered if we could give him any idea how soon we could pick them up. He would be glad to deliver them just about anywhere.
“Could I call you back in a few day?” I hedged. Shuffling aimlessly through the correspondence on my desk, I noted with dismay that a bridal shower to which I had been invited (RSVP) had been over and done with a week before. I picked up the phone, dialed the number, and began to apologize profusely. To explain my scatterbrained condition, I briefly mentioned my curtain dilemma.
Whereupon, my friend’s spacious third-floor storage was proffered without hesitation.
Like, what can I say, God?
And there was other encouraging news, too.
We now had receive our official Tax Exemption Certificate from the IRS.
It was then that we thought about seeking financial aid from foundations.
“You’ll be lucky if you get one answer from one hundred appeals.”
“You have to know someone on their board.”
“They receive thousands of letters from projects just as worthy as yours.” These were the comments people were tossing about.
We went to work, however, and sent out eighty letters to eighty different foundations all over the United States. The names and addresses were there in on big directory. It seemed somewhat like an Aladdin’s lamp to us. There were the names of the directors, the trustees, their assets----who could ask for anything more? Now, God all You have to do is to touch their hearts when they read our letter.
One of the women we had met through my Good Housekeeping article and also the mother of a mongoloid child, typed all eighty letters for us. When we sent them on their way, it was with fear and trembling an a great deal of faith.
Two days later, our telephone rang. It was the director of a local foundation. She asked all kinds of questions. Before she hung up an hour later she promised us $10,000 as soon as we signed a purchase agreement on a piece of property. This was tremendous! “Why, they’ll be pounding on our door soon!” I told Paul elatedly.
Well, it didn’t happen quite that way. But, we did discover how many wonderful people there are in the most unlikely places who are really searching for ways to help others. We were especially touched by letters received from directors of three separate foundations. Each rejected our appeal as far as their organizations were concerned because of geographical location, but each director enclose his own personal check “ just to help out a little.” There were three checks and each check was for $100.
Although progress seemed turtle-slow to us ( in the area of fund-raising), we followed every lead given us, wrote letter, and then waited for the indomitable mailman. And waiting was a virtue foreign to both of us.
I decided to invest a little time in learning something about mental retardation. A newspaper announcement had whetted my appetite. A two-week workshop in mental retardation was offered to professionals and nonprofessionals at a nearby school for handicapped children. I decided I was a professional ( well-almost) since I was going to help run a home for mentally handicapped children.
I copied everything down in my little notebook, whether or not I completely understood it. By the end of ten days , I felt like an expert. At long last I could list all the categories and classifications of the subjects of which I was ignorant either totally or partially.
Had it no been for the help of Elizabeth who commuted each day from Philadelphia, mothering, cooking, and cleaning right along with me, I would not have had a minute to spare to do any of these things. I will ever be grateful to her faithfulness and good cooking.
