The bravest kid I know
When it comes to the stuff of superheroes, capes can be kinda overrated. That’s what Ludick Reuven has been teaching my boys for the last nine years. He has a way of smiling where his lips pull taut, like little elastic bands stretched to full capacity, one millimetre short of flinging right off his face. There’s something in that smile - and there’s something in that piercing blue-eyed glitter behind the glass - that has taught my kids probably more than all Mom’s life lessons combined. They say what happens in the womb is powerful. Maybe that’s why Ludick has such a strong affinity for people. Born with Spinabifida, Hydrocephalus and Chiari II Malformation, he immediately got the message that life is meant to be shared and celebrated together. Why else would an audience of neurosurgeons decide to fly up for the special occasion? The same fervour those specialists had applied to recommending termination all those weeks, they now channeled into their hands - into the knife to cut the back and the tools to seal the leaks. They had warned his parents - “your son is not compatible with life,” they told them. And when life was compatible with him, they warned them again - “you know he will never crawl, don’t you?” And when Ludick was cruising around the carpet, the doctors wanted to be sure his mom didn’t get her hopes up too high. “Your boy will most definitely never walk,” they said. But this kid just kept giggling his way upright. Til his feet stood steady on the ground and his left foot turned outward, completely oblivious to the neural sensation beneath it.
And from that signature stance, Ludick today will launch himself onto any playing field he can find. Cricket, rugby, hockey - basically anything with a ball and some teammates to pass it to. For now he’s happy to be the school mascot, because he knows greatness is bred by small beginnings and he’s going places and Brian Habana has his eye on him and every star Springbok fullback needs to start somewhere, after all... Over the years we’ve raised our pack together. More times than I can count, a cloud of testosterone would blow through the house, turning the air to sand paper and leaving a trail of dissonance and dirty footprints in its wake. And always on the other end of that storm was Ludick - happy, hobbling, determined not to let the storm out of his sight.
Over the years I’ve seen that gap widen. The boys’ legs are growing long and lean, turning seconds of lag time for Ludick into minutes. Occasionally it’s just too much, so he plops down in the grass and lets the sad fog up his spectacles. But it’s only a matter of time before a stick catches his eye, shaped in the form of the perfect rifle, and the opportunity for an epic target practice is just too big to be spoiled on self-pity. And then there are other times that the boys do come back and insist he join the game. Sometimes they’re motivated by Mom’s stern reminders. But other times they just happen - byproducts of the natural rhythms of what brothers just do for one another. Ludick is one of the best gifts my kids have been given. While their shoes just keep upsizing, they’re learning how to move at the pace of his limp. Every time they run ahead and remember to restrain, their selfishness is being chipped away at, crafted into the contours of what makes a real man. And though technically Ludick is the weak one in the bunch, I often wonder whether we’ve got the wrong kind of measuring sticks. He has a way about him that makes you feel like he’s been around and back again. Like he sees right through you, and all he sees is Jesus - beautiful, uncomplicated, absolutely marvellous. When we’re all rocked by indecision and anxiety and self-doubt he’s just getting on with living. Alles is lekker, Mamma, baie lekker, he says. When those unapologetic eyes lock onto yours, you can dig around in that blue forever - but all you’ll ever find is love. The kind of whole, fierce love that stares your broken parts down hard until they’re healing. Sometimes when I watch him sigh, rise, wipe away the tears and have another go, I marvel at this little man and the mountains he’s moving every day. The forgiveness he’s choosing. The ugly in each of us he keeps ruthlessly omitting. It has me asking, looking at my own life,
who’s really the handicapped one here? A couple years ago I tucked my seven-year old into bed and asked the question, who’s your role model? “Easy,” he said, “Ludick. He’s the bravest boy I know.” I could only nod my head and agree: That, my dear, is well said.
At the moment we're fundraising for Ludick to participate in a type of therapy that uses sound frequency to repair cells and regenerate healthy growth. The treatment has given great results. Please consider contributing to our effort at: https://addabit.com/fund/1mNXXnb5LL.