Ryan’s parents passed away when he was only eight. Since then, his grandma raised him alone and tried her best to provide him with everything he needed.

When Ryan was 15, his grandma retired. In order to save enough money for Ryan’s college education, she took on a part-time job and worked as a cleaning lady at a nearby park. However, Ryan disliked his grandma’s part-time job, because he was afraid that his classmates would see her.

One day, Ryan was chosen to act the lead role in a school play that was scheduled for next month. Most of the students acting in the play invited their families to the performance, but Ryan was too ashamed to invite his grandma. Unfortunately, his grandma saw the posters of the play on the walls of the school. One night when they were having dinner, his grandma mentioned that she would love to see him perform.

“You won’t be permitted to see the performance, Grandma,” he lied. “No family member was invited.”

His grandma was shocked and tried very gently to know why Ryan lied to her.

“It’s because I don’t want my friends to find out you’re a cleaning lady!” Ryan broke down finally.

Little did Ryan know that his grandma kept working just because of him. If she had the choice, she would rather stay at home and enjoy her retirement. However, she knew that she had to make extra money so that she could give Ryan a comfortable life and send him to college.

Although his grandma was sad about Ryan’s behavior, she continued working. However, one Sunday morning, her back hurt so much that she could not get up and had to ask Ryan to look for the painkillers that she had been taking in secret. Soon, Ryan found the pills but they did not work.

Ryan was really frightened and rushed his grandma to the hospital.

Realizing what his grandma had done for him, Ryan decided to say sorry to her.

A Son’s Love

Our church congregation in Toronto has a way of assisting those who have financial difficulties without making the recipient feel shame or guilt. Money is dropped into an offering box with only the name of the recipient on the envelope. The envelopes are then distributed to those members without them knowing the name of the giver.

There came a time when my husband and I were among those in need. We did not talk about our financial difficulty with anyone. The only reason our children knew was because we had to cut back on many things. Still, we hoped they were not aware of the extent of our need, nor of how much their father and I were suffering because of it. We did not want to burden them with a problem they could do nothing to solve.

Our situation wasn’t improving, and my husband and I knew that we would have to look for outside help. Just as we reached the point of despair, our church gave us a gift envelope that had been left in the offering box. We were overjoyed to receive a very substantial amount of money, enough to bring us through that desperate time. We couldn’t help but wonder who had given such a generous gift. We were extremely relieved and enormously grateful.

A year later, our seventeen-year-old son was applying for a student loan so he could attend university. It was then we discovered that his savings account was almost empty. His father and I were very disturbed by this. We had trusted him to put part of his wages from his part-time job into the bank towards his education. From the time he was nine years old he had been a paper carrier for The Toronto Star, and he had worked very hard for his small earnings.

Anxious, I asked him repeatedly to tell me where the money had gone.

Finally, in tears, and with great reluctance, my son told us the truth.

My mouth felt dry as I followed my mother into the doctor’s private office and sank into a padded chair next to hers. This doctor examined me and said, “I’m sorry to tell you this, Mrs. Dow, but Peter has dyslexia(诵读困难). A fairly severe case.”

I swallowed and tried to breathe. The doctor went on. “He’ll never read above the 4th-grade level. Since he won’t be able to complete high school requirements, I suggest you enroll him in a trade school where he can learn to work with his hands.”

I didn’t want to go to trade school. My eyes filled with tears, but I forced them back. A 12-year-old was too big to cry.

We drove home without saying much. I felt numb. Dyslexia? I’d never heard the word until last week. Sure, I was always the slowest kid in my class. During break I had a special hiding place behind a bush. There I would cry because I couldn’t do my lessons no matter how hard I tried.

Of course, I never told my mom about that part of school. I was too ashamed. I didn’t want to worry her, either. She had enough on her mind with teaching school full-time and taking care of dad, my two brothers, my sister and me.

Mom and I arrived home before the rest of the family. Mom looked into my eyes with tears running down her cheeks. Before I knew what was happening, I was in her arms crying like a big baby. A few minutes later, she led me into the living room to the couch.

“Sit down, honey. I want to talk to you.”

I rubbed my eyes with my sleeve and waited, plucking at the crease in my trousers. “You heard what the doctor said about your not finishing school. I don’t believe him.”

I stopped sniffling and looked at her.

The next 6 years were an endurance run for both of us.