I remember when my oldest son was born. The moment they placed that baby in my arms and I went from being a woman to being a mother. The transcendent, irrevocable transition into responsibility for another human being. The weight and wonder of motherhood is profound.
Being the mother of a child with a disability is that responsibility, tripled. And I admit, sometimes it overwhelms me. There have been mornings when the sun breaks through my window and I have greeted it with the thought: This is too much. There are too many things to learn, to overcome and fight through—on every front. The battles are many; the allies are few. How will we ever do it? How can I do this day?
In my church we sing a song: “Heavenly Father, are You really there? Do You hear and answer every child’s prayer?”
This weekend at church was something we call the Primary Program—it’s a meeting in which the kids give the sermon—they sing songs and each child recites a line for the congregation. Our Primary is fully inclusive, and Lydia had a line in the program. But Lydia is largely non-verbal, so her line was one word long: “Friends.” She also hates to perform, and refuses to do ANYTHING on command, so the challenge was getting her to say the word on cue—at a mic—in front of hundreds of people. It was MONUMENTAL.
We practiced for weeks and it did not go well. She did not like the mic. She would lick it or make funny noises in it. We bought a fake mic to practice. She did not like being forced to wait in line and climb steps on cue and would cry out. She certainly wouldn’t speak on cue. It looked like we were headed for disaster.
On the Saturday rehearsal before the program, I took five minutes to teach the Primary about Down Syndrome. We discussed the opportunity to cheer each other on in this scary public speaking venture, and to never laugh at anyone when they make mistakes. I explained that Lydia, especially, needed our full support, and that we were all there to be each other’s cheerleaders and friends.
And then it was Sunday. Lydie still had not had a really successful run at the program, and I was full of dread. I SO wanted our congregation to see her succeed and to see her as capable. But regardless they were going to see us try. I rolled over in bed with a giant prayer in my heart, and God whispered back these surprising words:
EXPECT MIRACLES.
He reminded me of this girl of miracles and the many battles we have been through with her—how she always seems to draw the short straw; and yet He helps us come through, anyway. So I took a deep breath, and said, “Okay.”
You can only understand the chaos of the Primary Program if you’ve seen one. Or maybe if you’ve read the Best Christmas Pageant Ever by Barbara Robinson. Lydie is in the youngest class, and when they lined up to say their parts at the mic, she was whining. I took her by the shoulders and pointed to the kids in her class and narrated: “Lydie: walk walk, step step step, ‘Friends.’” – Outlining the procedure. It CLICKED. She started saying “friends” immediately. I prayed that line to move as fast as it could so we wouldn’t lose the moment, and wouldn’t you know, she climbed those steps, grabbed that mic, and said her “Friends” right on cue. My eyes swam with tears. And behind us, the Primary kids, who had been on pins and needles and literally on the edges of their seats peering to see if Lydia would pull through—cheered to each other over her accomplishment.
It was inclusion, it was practice made accomplishment, it was literally unprecedented for that little girl.
“Heavenly Father, are you really there?”
“Expect Miracles.”
