“Sarah, do you often write to dead people?” you might ask.
“Nope. This
is a first and likely last, but who knows.” (Wink!)
Why did
I do this? Actually, there’s a fairly good reason—at least in my twisted
mind.
Back up
five years—
Our
developmentally disabled son expressed wanting to write his life story, even
though it was far beyond his ability; yet Min held to his conviction adding, “I
want to do this for my birth mother.”
Who
could argue with that? But we cautioned our son. 1) This would challenge him to
the core. 2) He must tell the truth even when it hurts. 3) There’d be no
quitting mid-stream.
He said,
“I’m good with that.”
So, I
offered to be Min’s scribe and Brian technical advisor, but we all needed to bathe
this idea in prayer.
Seven
months later we began.
Prior to
our start date, though, Min’s literary agent called. “You and Brian need to
figure how you’ll handle backstory.”
I didn’t
have a clue, but that set me to thinkin’—and prayin’. Then a few nights later I
awoke saying aloud, “Letters!” I jumped out of bed, shuffled to the living
room, put on a night light, and scrawled notes.
Ideas
flowed.
Next
morning, I filled Brian in on the letters idea to tell backstory, etc. He like
it and added a few more future “recipients” and—ahem—“authors” to the list.
The
completed letters were penned before, during, and after the actual memoir. A
Home for Min Soo—Putting Together the Pieces of My Life now holds ones that
made the cut—some bringing laughter, some tears.
For this
third anniversary of the book’s release, I share with you the letter I penned—yes—to
a dead woman. As you read, maybe you’ll understand why this mom composed it. It
appears here in its unedited form (a portion of which isn’t in the completed
manuscript).
Autumn of 2008
Dear Mrs. Beethoven,
This
letter comes to share the impact your story had on me in relation to our son.
When I mentioned you to him, he asked, “Is she dead?”
“Quite,”
I replied.
“Did
she die before Reagan was President?”
“Way
before. Even a hundred years before Lincoln,” I replied.
“Was
Grandma alive when he was President?”
“Lincoln?”
“No.
Reagan. Lincoln got shot and died. Reagan got shot too, but he didn’t die.”
“Not
then,” I said. “He did later.”
“Before
I was born?”
“After.”
A
jovial voice chimed in from the other room, “Who’s on first?”
“I
don’t know,” I said, “and you’re not helping, Brian Hampshire!”
“I
don’t know is on third,” he shouted back.
“Who
said that?” Min asked.
“Your
Dad,” I answered.
“No.
I mean on TV.”
“Oh.”
I laughed. “Abbott and Costello—their famous baseball routine.”
“Are
they dead?”
I
nodded.
“After
he got shot?” Min asked.
“After
who?”
“President
Reagan. He was a movie star. Did he know Abbott and Costello?”
“I
don’t know,” I said.
“I
don’t know is still on third,” came another interruption from the other room.
Min
always asks if a person is dead. He’s predictable that way.
When
my sister and I were young, our family sponsored a Korean orphan through World
Vision.
Min saw his photo in my
keepsake basket and asked about him, along with an old World Vision Magazine
with the Korean Orphan Choir pictured on front. “They’re wearing hanboks!”
“Yep.
They toured in the United States, and we went to hear them sing.” I remembered
a YouTube video of the orphan choir singing on Art Linkletter’s Hollywood
Talent Scout Show! “Wanna hear them?
“Yeah.” Min wondered aloud if
any might be family.
“On
one tour a deaf girl sang in sign language.”
“Deaf
like Beethoven,” he exclaimed.
“Hmm.
Hadn’t thought of that.”
At
the end, Art Linkletter explained the children were orphaned, like he’d been.
“He
was an orphan too?” Min asked.
“Apparently.”
“Is
he dead?”
Remember, Mrs. Beethoven.
This started with a question about you, a dead woman with a tragic history that
struck a chord with me. How did you—thought of as a sour note by your husband
—overcome your discordant life and turn it into a symphony through your son,
Ludwig?
One
day Min came home from middle school and asked, “What’s a retard?”
I
went wide-eyed. “A not-very-nice way of saying someone has a mental disability.
Did someone call you that?”
“Maybe,”
he said quietly. “Am I a retard?”
I
hesitated. “Retarded, yes.”
Min
looked horrified. “That’s not very nice!”
“You
asked, and we always said we’d be honest, even about hard stuff. The noun
‘retard’ isn’t nice, but the verb ‘retard’ or ‘retarded’ shares another
definition.
Our
son adores dictionaries. He’ll read one over a story any day, so my mentioning
“definition” caught his attention.
“Shall
I explain?” I asked.
Min
nodded and situated himself on the couch.
I
thumbed through our music books, pulled out a concerto, and sat next to
Min—opening it midway and pointing to a word on the page. “Read that.”
“I
can’t read cursive,” he argued. “Is it okay to say cursive since it has ‘curse’
in it?”
“You’re
changing the subject, and it’s not cursive. Just fancy-like.” I tapped my
finger near the word. “Read it.”
“Retard.”
He bobbed his head back in surprise.
“It’s
a musical term. When you asked if you’re retarded and I said yes, that just
means you think slower.”
“Because
of NF?”
“Probably,
or the other undiagnosed genetic something. In music, though, it’s part of the
masterpiece.”
“Oh.
Can I get a snack?”
“Sure.”
Why
write this to you, Mrs. Beethoven? Because our sons hold something in common.
Genius? In a way. For your son? Music, of course. Despite Ludwig’s disability,
he continued his life’s work.
Min’s genius? Perhaps the
fact he hears a song and knows what production’s background music it is (some
of these works composed by your son, by the way).
I
imagine you find this a mockery compared to Ludwig’s gift, but please stick
with me. Recognizing the background music? Likely due to his Asperger’s. But
Min’s true giftedness comes from his heart!
First
his rocks. Nothing special about most of those. He likes small ones best,
fingering them repeatedly.
One
time Min visited our Kentucky neighbor, showed her his rocks, and explained
about them. Brenda listened and realized to Min they held great value.
When
Brenda lost a loved one, Min picked a favorite rock and placed it in her
mailbox.
When she fetched her mail, she knew who’d been there and why. Later she
shared, “That was the sweetest thing a child ever did for me…it filled me with
happiness and love for Min.” And others in our holler who experienced loss also
found rocks in their mailboxes.
Then
this: When visitors were leaving our home, we had to urge Min to come out of
his room, be polite, and say good-bye. Once, though, when his nephews and niece
were heading home, Min came without prompting. He lifted his niece in a tight
embrace.
Our
granddaughter’s face beamed, and she squealed with delight. “Uncle Min hugged
me! He never hugged me before!”
And
then Min’s prayers. He doesn’t articulate beautifully, but God honors his
simple words, answering more times than we could count. Our son recognizes this
and comments, “God must really love me.”
Mrs.
Beethoven, your son continues to be revered worldwide.
Min
will leave his mark too, being remembered by all who received a rock, a hug, or
answer to one of his prayers.
You
see, the music of our son’s heart are his masterpieces. The little rocks? His
Moonlight Sonata. The first hug? His Fur Elise. Those simple prayers? His Ode to
Joy.
What
pride we mothers share as we ponder our sons’ gifts!
With a symphony playing in my heart,
one realizing there’s purpose in her discordant note
And now, please join me in listening (or singing along, if you wish) to a most uplifting hymn—melody selected from Mrs. Beethoven’s son’s 9th Symphony!
Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee
~words by Henry van Dyke, 1907~
~music composed by Ludwig van Beethoven,
1824~
ODE TO JOY-JOYFUL,
JOYFUL, WE ADORE THEE at ROYAL ALBERT HALL,LONDON
#developmentaldisability #Aspergers
#neurofibromatosis #adoption #giftedness #music
#Beethoven
#AHomeforMinSoo #memoir #KimMinSooauthor
Photo Credit:
Mrs. Beethoven—blogspot.com, memoir—Trisha White Priebe, Ludwig van Beethoven—areacorari.com