One Small Light

"Thousands of candles can be lit from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened.  Happiness never decreases by being shared." -- Buddha

Tonight was a dark and stormy night.  I didn't want to go.  I wanted to put on my jammies, snuggle up with Patrick and Caroline and call it a day.  But, instead I got into my cold car, alone, drove through the pelting rain and walked into a chapel.  Mary Kate was on the first night of a four day retreat and her high school asked that the parents attend an evening prayer service on their behalf.  Other rain-soaked parents drifted in.  Some were alone, like me.  Some were together as a couple.  It was obviously uncomfortable for some and painful for others -- another reminder of past sorrows. The evening began like all good Catholic ceremonies: with a prayer and a song. The irony of the opening song was not lost on me: Come Down To The Water...really, the water had come to us...I wasn't feeling the need to come down to it...but I sang it in my head and looked down for fear of rolling my eyes to anyone nearby.

Kairos is a Greek word.  It means "time".  But not the measured time that we are used to.  It mean's God's time...the unencumbered luxury of time without measure or limit.  This retreat was to allow busy high school girls a chance to breathe and take note of "God's time".  I can't say much more than that...there's a mystery surrounding Kairos.  A surprise element that holds the imaginations of those that haven't gone yet. That needs to stay sacred and whole.

What I can tell you is that in the dark, on a rainy night, next to parents that I didn't know in an unfamiliar chapel I lit the very first candle and thought of my daughter.  We were asked to think of small graces that we could hope for our daughters.  We were asked to hold those close as we lit the flame.  I thought of friendship and peace, a chance to feel God's holy presence, an opportunity to break down walls and open up hearts.  I watched that tiny flame and felt its glow.  I watched 58 other candles get lit one at a time.  Some parents came up together, some alone.  Some of us were tired, wet and bedraggled.  Others looked professional and business casual.  Some had tattoos.  Others had younger children in tow.  We were parents with a daughter the same age, in the same location, at the same time but that was it.  Yet we all felt the need to take the time and make our way in the rain through the dark of night to light a candle and sing a song.

I thought of the many, many times we have been up in the night with our daughters: as newborns needing a night-time feeding and change, with a feverish toddler, with croup, with the stomach flu or nightmares.  If only we could have seen the other candles and known who was alongside us in the journey.  Later on, we've been up with the same girls with worries over friendships, boys, tests, the uncertainties of life, social media, midnight texts, or waiting up for the drive home from some adventure 

-- a dance, a party, a football game.

Where was our candle light to guide us?  Where was our kinship?  

Parenting is hard stuff.  We blow it all the time and still we have to get back at it.  Pick up the pieces, mend the broken hearts and find the strength to light the candle.  

Just one tiny light on a rainy night.

That warm, cozy glow at first lulled me into wanting to take a short nap...but then it refueled me.  I looked up and smiled at strangers.  I bathed in the gift of getting a chance to stop and pause and consider my daughter: this amazing, incredible teen-age girl on the cusp of being a woman.  How had so much time passed?  How had she grown so much? 

Tonight, I relished in the beauty of unmeasured time and a line of candles glowing brighter because of each other.  

For the rest of this week, we are supposed to light the candle.  

I think I just found a new favorite hobby. :)

A Little Something Extra

“The difference between ordinary and extra-ordinary is so often just simply that little word - extra."

                                                               -- Bear Grylls


Today is March 21st.  That makes it World Down Syndrome Day -- hooray!  Yes, believe it or not, people from Arizona to Zimbabwe, from Nepal to Nicaragua, from India to Iceland are celebrating a little bit extra, the 47th chromosome on someone they love.  Here is my little bit extra:

Patrick at the top of a hill he climbed at camp.

Almost thirteen years ago a little bit extra graced my life.  I call him my violet living in a daisy world. This is not my analogy it is this mom's:  Violets and Daisies  (However, ever since Patrick has been tiny I have been using this to explain how we view Patrick.  And actually, our kids now spot "violets" all over and cheerfully yell out: "I see a violet!")  


Let's think of it this way, daisies (AKA you and me) grow easily.  We are beautiful.  We don't need all that much care.  If you are over-watered, get too much sunshine or have to be transplanted it all seems to happen without too much trouble.  People like Patrick are violets -- they need a bit more care.  Too much sunshine can definitely be a problem.  Over-watering can cause their flowers to fall off.  Transplantation can be deadly. With all this extra care comes something special: violets are rare and with their velvety beauty remind us of the fragile gift of life.  Besides, violets are known for their wicked sense of humor. :)

Violets are most definitely NOT disabled daisies!

However, our violet is surrounded by daisies and must learn to be a part of the daisy world.  He does so with excitement and purpose.  He likes daisies!  And it turns out, the daisies like him. It can be tough to be different...tough to be unusual...tough to be the first child with Down Syndrome in your school, sports team or theater production.  However, when acceptance and welcome are part of that newness it can also be amazing.  

I like to say that Patrick cracked my heart open.  Although my heart was wide open from loving two other children, Patrick opened my eyes and showed me the loveliness of violets.  Until his presence, I'm sad to say that I was blind to anybody else in my garden and only saw the beauty in daisies.  The uncommon was uncomfortable.  The violets of the world needed to get out of my way -- they easily could be trampled. I was in a hurry.  

Patrick slowed me down.  Watching Patrick bloom has been like watching a flower unfold in slow motion.  It's been truly breath-taking.  Learning to live with an unhurried sense of time...to linger and cherish has been one of Patrick's greatest gifts to me.  I'm no longer trying to trample anything.  I notice the details and the beauty in uncommon velvety goodness.

I remember walking through Disneyland when Patrick was two and having a boy in a wheelchair reach his arm out to me.  The old me would have brushed him aside and hurried on.  I would barely have noticed.  However, with new eyes and a new heart so fresh from mothering Patrick I stopped...in a middle of a crowd, in the middle of pushing and hurrying Disney-goers.  I stopped my stroller, held that boys hand and looked him in the eye.  In that moment, I could see his violet beauty, soak it in and make a connection.  I still remember his smile and his mother's apology.  I wanted to shout and tell her how blessed I was by her son's interaction with me but I simply smiled.  That moment was just between me and a small boy.  I grabbed it...Disneyland got a bit brighter for me that day.

Once you notice violets, your heart begins to notice all sorts of other forgotten bits of beauty.  Homeless people, people who talk to themselves, the elderly, the outsiders who live on the fringe all hold a beauty for me that I know can be revealed.  I am a lot less scared of differences and a lot more tolerant and forgiving.  Loving Patrick has allowed me to love the disabled parts of myself and to recognize the emotional disabilities in many others.  We are all slow to learn in so many ways.  We all have something of value and something to contribute.  We all matter.

Our world values speed and intellect.  I'm here to tell you that when you rush around being smart you might miss the lesson.  There's a whole lot of wisdom in slowing down and noticing the beauty of violets.  I am forever grateful that my garden has a violet.  Cheers to you Patrick, my little bit extra!

The Struggle

"I remember one morning when I discovered a cocoon in the bark of a tree just as a butterfly was making a hole in its case and preparing to come out.  I waited awhile, but it was too long appearing and I was impatient.  I bent over it and breathed on it to warm it. I warmed it as quickly as I could and the miracle began to happen before my eyes, faster than life. The case opened; the butterfly started slowly crawling out, and I shall never forget my horror when I saw how its wings were folded back and crumpled; the wretched butterfly tried with its whole trembling body to unfold them. Bending over it, I tried to help it with my breath, in vain. 

It needed to be hatched out patiently and the unfolding of the wings should be a gradual process in the sun. Now it was too late. My breath had forced the butterfly to appear all crumpled, before its time. It struggled desperately and, a few seconds later, died in the palm of my hand.

That little body is, I do believe, the greatest weight I have on my conscience. For I realize today that it is a mortal sin to violate the great laws of nature. We should not hurry, we should not be impatient, but we should confidently obey the external rhythm.

I sat on a rock to absorb this New Year's thought.  Ah, if only that little butterfly could always flutter before me to show me the way." -- Zorba the Greek by Nikos Kazantzakis

Today I sat in a coffee shop watching a nine month old attempt to stand.  In his footed pajamas his legs wobbled.  He bit the dust almost every time.  His patient grandfather repeatedly held him up underneath his arms and then reluctantly let go.  The little guy leaned sideways over the table, precariously.  He smiled and every onlooker knew what was coming next...another fall. This time it looked especially painful and we all grimaced but that little toddler sat for only a moment before he attempted the impossible again.  We all knew he was on his way.  He'd be walking in a matter of days or weeks.

For the past two weeks I've been watching my student teachers bust out of their cocoons, dry their wings and attempt to fly solo in their classroom.  Some days the attempt seems easy and things unfold smoothly but most of the time it's a struggle.  How do I get control of a classroom of kids?  When will they listen?  What happens when they don't understand?  Why must Joe constantly be out of his seat? Two kids are fighting on the playground, now what?  What these teachers are attempting is just as hard as the toddler.  There are a whole lot of falls, bruises and doubts that creep in.  There's shame, embarrassment and fatigue.  I marvel at the difference between the one year old and my adults.  Why does the one year old never give up?  Why does the adult immediately doubt himself and consider quitting?

The answer lies in our willingness to struggle.

Once you're an adult, you get pretty good at avoiding the struggle.  We avoid algebra, foreign languages, running the mile in PE and any other thing that doesn't make us feel confident and comfy. We "know our limits" and are satisfied with them.  We no longer have to attempt the impossible...unless we become parents, get married, start a business, write a book or go after a dream.  In short, we get used to feeling comfortable.  We forget that many, many times the learning and the growth is in the struggle. Somehow since becoming an adult we have forgotten that life is a struggle...a struggle for understanding, for meaning, for connection, for acceptance, and yes, for competence in new undertakings.  

The good stuff is in the struggle.  There you will find all that you have been looking for: meaning, acceptance, competence, balance, understanding.  Waiting for the sun to dry our wings, struggling out of the cocoon comes beauty and strength.  We can't rush the process or wish it were different.  Well, we can...but look what happens when we do...we lose the opportunity and the lesson.

Yesterday one of my student teachers looked at me and said something so wise that we both just let it soak in: "Beth, I used some of your ideas today and it was better than yesterday. I could see it being a little better -- just a little.  I guess it's going to be like that...just a a little better each day."  After the pause, I reminded her that there would be days when it wasn't going to be any better and in fact may be worse but that most of the time it does go like that...incrementally better bit by bit.  That's what the struggle is about.

Recently, I've been wrestling with a court decision that just happened in Oregon.  You can read about it here: Wrongful Birth Court Case  In it, the Oregon state court had a jury agree with parents who had a prenatal test called CVS that showed their child did not have Down Syndrome (when in fact she did), and held that both the hospital and the testing lab were at fault.  The parents (unbelievably) testified in court  (for all three of their children to hear, not to mention the world) that had they known their daughter would have Down Syndrome they would have aborted her. Their daughter is almost five now.  Five years of knowing her and still they say this.  How she could be allowed to stay within this family and not part of Child Protective Services I have no idea.  The parents wanted money to compensate them for the "burden" they must now deal with and they were awarded $2.9 million.

So...let's get this straight: according to the court system in Oregon, children with Down Syndrome are a burden; children with Down Syndrome are understandably optional and barely deserve life.  In fact, if you manage to "sneak" through the prenatal search and destroy mission in place within the health care system and survive, your parents can complain bitterly and be financially rewarded in court.  The sad statistics right now for prenatal diagnosis of babies with Down Syndrome are startling: 90% of them are aborted.

Why?

It all comes back to struggle.  The outside world perceives that people with Down Syndrome struggle throughout their lives.  This might be an understandable notion since people with Down Syndrome take longer to learn basic skills like walking and talking, reading and writing, swimming and riding a bike.  They are more likely to get leukemia, have a heart defect, have gastro-intestinal difficulties and live a shorter life span.  There's no denying that those things are not something we would hope for any child so why would we allow a child with these difficulties to be born?  Why would we tolerate the struggle when we can so easily put them out of their misery and erase the whole difficult situation.

Here's the secret: people with Down Syndrome may have to take longer than the average person to achieve basic skills but they don't suffer or struggle through it.  Like anybody, they are proud of their achievements, excited about learning new things and eager to try.  They learn things at a slower rate...what is the struggle in that?  Who is that a struggle for?  The parents?  The onlooker? The classroom teacher?  It doesn't matter to the child...they are busy learning, not looking around making comparisons.

If you asked Patrick on this day if he was happy, he would tell you emphatically: "Yes!"  His older brother is home from college, he got to see his cousins and grandparents yesterday, and he is playing with his little sister this minute. Everyday life for Patrick is pretty glorious.  He is fully included in his class of 6th graders and has had the opportunity and the good fortune to make good friends.  He has a school and teachers who believe in his ability to learn and challenge him. He lives in a town that accepts him and has allowed him any opportunity he has asked to try.  His struggles are frankly few.  If only I could tell that to a court in Oregon.

                   By far, Patrick's biggest struggle is in the way the world perceives him.  

Expectations are immediately lowered for him.  When he is older typical women with 46 chromosomes will never consider having a romantic relationship with Patrick.  It's a rarity for someone to consider him a true peer and ask for his advice or expertise, although it should be noted he has quite a lot to offer. Restrictive biases and prejudices are something he has to deal with simply because he has an extra chromosome. The world pities him and considers him a burden.  And now, thanks to the Oregon court system that misconception is reinforced. There lies the struggle.

Someone forgot to give the memo to those parents in Oregon: life is a struggle.  There is no avoiding it, even if you have 2.9 million dollars. And, here's where the irony of life comes laughing in -- the one person that I know who suffers or struggles the least is Patrick.  "Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional."  Patrick intuitively knows this and lives his life that way, every day.  He celebrates the little things --which it turns out are the big things.  He loves without limits or conditions.

If only those parents in Oregon could learn from him.

On this day, I'm going to try to remember the lesson: It is a mortal sin to violate the great laws of nature. We should not hurry, we should not be impatient, but we should confidently obey the external rhythm.


I'm going to let my butterfly struggle, watch his wings unfold at the perfect moment and cherish the flight.  He deserves that chance.  We all do.

A Letter to My 16 Year Old Daughter

**Note: I went on retreat last week with Mary Kate and we were asked to write a letter to each other.  Of course, I wrote and wrote but my paper and my time were limited...so for a week, I've continued the letter in my head.  It needed to become this.  Thanks for your patience and understanding.**

 "A daughter is a day brightener and a heart warmer." -- Author Unknown

Mary Kate's famous Strawberry Country Cake!

To my sweet, sweet daughter, Mary Kate,

I love you.  Please know that down to your core. Always know I love you, think about you, hope for you and wish for you joy, love and contentment in your life.  

There is nothing that can happen that will diminish my love and joy in you. You do not need to earn it, prove your worthiness or show how great you are, or how accomplished or successful.  I love you simply because you are you.

I loved you the moment I met you (at your least accomplished, most vulnerable, most needy moment) and my love has only grown stronger so please trust me when I say this: you are loved exactly as you are in this moment.

I credit you for teaching me one of life's most important lessons...when I was only a mother to Jack, I wondered if it was possible to love any other child with the depth and intensity and ferociousness that I felt for him.  I couldn't imagine it. But when you were born my world got a little bit brighter, my heart cracked open a bit more and my point-of-view shifted dramatically.

How childish of me to think of love as a pie -- with only a few slices in it that could possibly be all used up.  How juvenile to think of love as finite and limited! It took your presence in my life to show me the wisdom that love is limitless, infinite and well beyond our narrow understanding.  

Love is no pie.

Rather, it is a bubbling spring with a never-ending source.  It is the closest we get to God.  It has no end and our ability to love deeply, ferociously, intensely has no constraints or boundaries...we can do it over and over and over again.  It is miraculous.

I am so grateful for you, Mary Kate.  You are amazing and one-of-a-kind.  You are hilarious, passionate, filled with a strong sense of right and wrong and very caring.  

You are also way too hard on yourself.

I want you to carefully listen to what your mind tells you.  If it tells you that you don't measure up, that you aren't good enough or that you are blowing it --  it is lying to you.  Listen a little deeper...blow away the harsh words and listen for the acceptance and love that is in there.  Offer it to everyone but offer it to yourself first. Remind yourself that you can do anything.  You are strong and powerful and incredible.  Know it...really know it.

My hope for you is that you will trust the world and live with your arms wide open.  I hope you let yourself open up to others, put yourself out of your comfort zone and let yourself feel deeply.  Even if you get hurt or rejected, it is worth it...every friendship and relationship helps you to become the person you are supposed to be.  And even though it might hurt, that is what life is all about.

Beautiful Mary Kate...cherish your body.  Look at it and know beauty, health and strength.  When you look in the mirror, be grateful for your vision...notice the sun-kissed freckles of so many happy outdoor memories. When you hear someone call your name, feel the strength of the multitude of amazing women named Mary that are part of your family; hold within you the grace of Mary, the mother of all saints, and smile at that little bit extra we added to it: Katherine.  Your name holds faith and family and fun all within it. It's the first gift we gave to you.  We cloaked you in those three important threads of life hoping they would take root in your heart and be a guide.

Being a woman is a gift.  You are blessed by your feminine side...a sensitivity to the outsider, to the isolated, to the lonely.  You are a nurturer. You have a softness and a tenderness but it is shielded by an outward strength.  Be aware and generous in letting others know that soft and tender core.

One of your greatest attributes is your ability to "go for it".  You put on the tap shoes, pick up the lacrosse stick, belt out a song at an audition, bake an apple crustata and seize the day. I cannot tell you how much that humbles me...over and over again.  You do not hold back when you think there is an opportunity or something that intrigues you.  Transfer that uuumph to people too.  There are so many fantastic people that will cross your path and influence you if only you let them.  Give them a chance.

Give second chances.  Forgive people's mistakes or oversights.  Forgive your own.  We all blow it...almost every day.  That's my favorite part about going to sleep -- the gift of a new day.  We get to start over.  Every, single day.  Cherish the fresh start, the blank page and the new chapter.

Enjoy today.  Don't live for the future and don't steep in past mistakes.  All you have is today.  All that matters is now.  Whoever crosses your path today is who matters.  Stop and notice. Don't bank on seeing the person tomorrow. We never know. That is both the blessing and the curse of life. Enjoy today.

And now here is my final pearl on your very long necklace of advice I have beaded for you: attitude is everything.  You cannot change the circumstance.  You cannot change the hardship and trust me, you will have hardship.  Adversity will knock on your door and you will have no choice -- you must answer it.  How you greet that moment will define the path you take.  One of my favorite quotes is this: "Pain is inevitable.  Suffering is optional." Will you suffer?  Will you sink?  Will you succumb to the heartbreak?  You don't have to.  The choice is entirely up to you.  You decide the direction.  Do you choose hope?  Love?  Kindness?  All of those opportunities are present in any moment of difficulty. Notice the blessings.  Create your reality -- attitude is everything.

I know, I know...you've had enough.  But, I never have!  I could talk to you forever...and who knows, maybe with my blog I will. :)  I love you...

My Golden Thread

"A sister is a gift to the heart, a friend to the spirit, a golden thread to the meaning of life."  

~Isadora James

I remember very clearly my parents taking my brother (aged 9) and me (aged 11) aside and sitting us down.  They told us they had something big to tell us and that we had 20 questions to figure it out.  My brother, Brian, and I were desperate for a dog so we narrowed our questions down in this way:

1) Was it alive? Yes.     (check, excellent...keep going.)

2) Was it breathing? Yes.  (check, really good...next move.)

3) Did it have fur? Sort of.  (huh? what?  what does that mean?)

4) (excitedly, jumping out of chairs, up and down) Is it a dog?

   No.  It's a baby!

Our reaction couldn't have been more classic.  Together, Brian and I ran screaming from the room.  Crying. Sobbing. Heart-broken.

A baby???  Why?  Who wants a baby?

It took several long months to choke down the idea of  an anchor a cute baby and wrap our heads around the concept that someone tiny was coming to stay.

My mom's due date was March 2nd, 1976.  I was in 6th grade, my brother in 3rd.  I waited and waited mostly in competition with my brother.  Who was going to get the match?  He was convinced it was a boy.  I was hoping for a sister.  Not for any glorious, noble,  or kind reason.  No, my hopes were based solely on the idea that I would beat my brother.

March 2nd came and went but on March 5th I woke up to my dad telling me I would have to make my own lunch, my mom had had the baby and it was -- a GIRL!!! 

I won.

I had no idea what I had won.  No clue that this baby would be a lifeline for me, a joy like no other, a precious, precious sister.

My sister is 11 years younger than me.  To an outsider that might seem like a huge distance.  It might be questionable that we would even interact or have a relationship. But ever since that little pink bundle came through the doors of our house she's had a piece of me.

Her room was next door to mine and my parents' room was upstairs so it was natural that any late night scary dream would come my way.  Mary Claire would routinely slide into my bed in the middle of the night and I would just roll over and let her in. She cuddled on my lap as I sobbed through Love Story and at the perfect moment peed on it.  It's a testament to just how smitten I was by that little cherub that all I could think to do was laugh out loud, let us both be wet and continue crying until the movie's tragic end.


She was my baby.  I dressed her up, braided her hair or curled her pigtails and paraded around town with her.  I cried heaving mother's sobs at her college graduation and watched in astonishment as she became a talented teacher, a mindful wife and the most amazing mother around.  Whenever I confided in her, she surprised me with her often funny, keep-it-real, astute observations.  She's smart, this little sister of mine.  She's hilarious.  She's irreverent and honest.  Best of all, she's always on my side.


I will never, ever forget the countless acts of grace that have accompanied her love.  She came to my house as I braced myself for Patrick's open heart surgery and lotioned my feet and painted my toes.  She couldn't fix Patrick's heart but she sure could work on mine.  


She sat on the other end of the phone as I sobbed and wondered out loud how I could allow poisons to course through Patrick's body in the name of healing after his leukemia diagnosis.  How was I going to tell my bigger kids?  How could I possibly do this? Somehow she could be calm and make sense of things that made no sense to me.


Together we were silent on the phone in wonderment that our worlds were going to collide: in 2006 we were both pregnant...found out on the same day...and all we could do was be stunned.  I was convinced that I would miscarry at my ripe old age but miraculously the universe conspired to have my last baby and her first baby born four weeks to the day apart.  Our girls share the same middle name, Claire, after our mom Linda Claire.  They are stunning and amazing and connected in a cosmic way, the very best of friends.  

Caroline Claire and Elizabeth Claire

Like some sort of sustenance, Caroline can only go a few weeks without requesting Lizzy's physical presence.  Thankfully, Lizzy only lives about an hour and a half away. So, when it gets bad, we meet halfway or find a way to get together.  Seeing them together is magical.  They are like two brightly colored legoes...they just fit.  There is never any catch up time.  Never any real discord.  Both of these big personalities can somehow take a backseat when needed.  They compromise, share and find a way to balance things in a remarkable way.

Five years into this journey and still I can't believe I get to share it with my sister.  

I am so grateful for my sister.  Grateful for her wisdom. For her love.  For her ability to make me laugh second only to my little brother, Brian, and John.  Grateful for her unabashed love for my kids and her care and kindness in the moments when I couldn't even breathe let alone think straight.  She is the gift that keeps on giving and I know it.

If you have a sister...get out there and love her.  Crap happens.  Bad words or actions might be said.  Mistakes made.  It doesn't matter. The universe wrapped up a package and sent it your way. Find a way to remove the wrapping and treasure it.  Trust me, I do.

The Waterfall of Blessings

  "That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet." 
                                                                 -- Emily Dickinson

Some days it just feels like a waterfall flowing...a series of blessings from the very first moment of the day until the very last minute when sleep makes its steady way and releases you from that leash of conscious thought.  Today was one of those precious, precious days.  I slept deeply and soundly last night -- such a gift -- and I woke up to my sweet five year old running up to my bed with a work of art:

Caroline and I having a picnic!

For some reason, this picture with our smiling faces, the checkered picnic blanket, the grapes in the basket and our names for all to know and remember touched my heart deeply.  I know that the era of hourly "I Love You" pictures will someday come to an end...it will be slow like a dripping faucet but it will surely stop, and I'll pause one day cooking dinner or finding a marker without a lid and realize that it has been a few months since I last had a picture drawn for me and I'll know that sweet time of emerging literacy rolled up in a cinnamon topping of pure love and adoration has shifted yet again ever so slightly.  I'll have a more mature artist or a die-hard lego girl or (heaven, please!) a voracious reader and away we will go down that new path.  So today, I cherish my Picnic Picture.

An hour or two later I had the delicious gift of reading our Sunday paper leisurely, getting a hot shower and beginning the process of herding the crew to church. Some Sundays this is a downright chore but today it happened rather easily and we all walked down in the sunshine to gather with our faith community.  Our delightful priest, Father Richard, finally explained poor Job's long and difficult journey and wove a tale linking all of us together.  Like the person who breathes deeply onto the burning embers and gives them a sudden burst of fuel, Father Richard gave me a ray of understanding and compassion and I looked at the people next to me in a new way.  He reminded us that we all will have our own Job moments and will believe with our whole hearts "I shall never know happiness again" only to be surprised much further down the road, that happiness has once again shown herself to be on our doorstep waiting and ready for our shared joy.

After church, I laughed in the winter sunshine with friends outside of church.  I introduced two great ladies to each other and enjoyed the energy of new connections, funny stories, and kids all around. 

I came home and folded a boat load of laundry to the tunes of High School Musical and watched my husband prepare his yearly Superbowl feast. We watched the game.  We critiqued the half-time show.  We hung out together -- simply and comfortably -- just enjoying time together.

Later, as the game was winding down, Caroline asked to go for a bike ride.  She thought she was ready to take her training wheels off and instead of thinking it through, I just got out the wrench and took them off.  We walked the bike down to our street and I held her handlebar.  I have done this before.  I know what this looks like.  For some kids, it's a start and stop process but for Caroline I knew it would take only a minute or two and she would find her balance and ride easily.  Her body works like that: strong, coordinated, quick.  After watching Patrick take (and I'm not exaggerating) years to learn this skill, I wrestled with which is sweeter: watching Patrick finally learn after such a long time or seeing the miracle of putting a complex skill together so effortlessly.  I surprised myself by calling it a draw.  Neither is sweeter...it is simply the journey each of us is on...our own path.  Each path is beautiful. Every step a blessing.  The ease of our journey doesn't make it better.  We will all have Job moments. Caroline's wasn't today.

We came in exhilarated and excited...triumphant and smiling.  I gave Caroline a bath, listened to Patrick sing in the shower and came out to a delicious dinner John had made.  I looked at my (mostly) full table and felt that waterfall of gratitude and love that had baptized me in the morning.  We were together and that's all that mattered. 

I read stories to Caroline and snuggled her into bed.  Kissed a sleepy Patrick goodnight.  I talked to Mary Kate about lacrosse try-outs and got to Skype with Jack and catch up with college life for him.  I made some lunches.  I wrote a blog.  I say good-bye to this beautiful day with a full heart.  I still have chores to do, messes to clean up, clothes to put away and one lost cell phone I'd love to relocate.  Who cares?  I wish I could hold this feeling of wonder and treasure all night...I'm praying I can.  Sweet dreams.

Forever Free

"Once you learn to read, you will be forever free." 

-- Frederick Douglass

I remember learning to write.  I was given a string of phonetic symbols for every sound in the English language and for that reason I could write anything.  I felt so powerful.  Spelling wasn't a problem.  All I needed was time.  However, I don't remember learning to read at all.  I must have breezed through that because I can never remember not knowing what all of those letters meant. I remember getting a prize in first grade for reading the most books and I still have my prize: a book, of course.  

I have always loved to read.  So many books and words of wisdom from writers have touched my heart throughout my lifetime.  I remember crying in my blue room in Illinois over the heartbreak of Old Yeller.  I fondly hold a collection of over 50 Nancy Drew yellow and black hardbacks, beginning with one of my favorites: The Secret of the Old Clock.  I was right alongside the young girl in Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret wondering where my boobs were. As an adolescent, I triumphed with Scarlett O'Hara and detested passive and perfect Melanie in Gone with the Wind.  I snuck books into virtually all of my classes in high school.  My reading was insatiable.  In college, it was destiny that I would gravitate to an English major.  Writing and reading as homework??? Perfect.  I sat in awe as my English professor recited John Milton's Paradise Lost from memory and made those densely woven words sensible through his passion alone.  I had the privilege of reading Langston Hughes, William Carlos Williams, Thoreau, Emerson, and, of course, Shakespeare.  

Throughout any difficulty in my life, I have found a book that has soothed my soul.  Martha Beck's book Expecting Adam became my mantra about having a child with Down Syndrome.  Where is God When It Hurts? helped me to make sense of leukemia and fear.  Maya Angelou helped in so many ways on so many days.  

It was only natural that when I had kids the reading would take on a new richer, more amazing dimension.  Sitting with a child on your lap, laughing at Dr. Seuss, wondering with Roald Dahl, rhyming with Margaret Wise Brown makes any day pure magic.  I remember riding bikes with Jack the summer of third grade down to grab the newest Harry Potter, number three -- The Prisoner of Azkaban -- and oohing and aaahing over the hardback book, all 435 pages.  The warmth of the sunshine, the gift of another epic installment about Harry and Hermione and Ron, the joy of watching Jack enthralled made that moment one of my sweetest memories.  We had the thrill of waiting up until midnight for the subsequent Harry Potters, dressing up, cheering with the crowds and devouring the books within days of their release. I am forever grateful to JK Rowling and her imagination!  Her books lit a fire within Mary Kate as well, along with Junie B. Jones, Judy Moody and our tear-inducing favorite Charlotte's Web.

One of the first things that I read after Patrick was born was that the French school system did not believe it was possible to teach a person with Down Syndrome to read.  They actually stated that any evidence of someone with Down Syndrome reading was equivalent to training a monkey!! It was a trick, not reality.  I remember getting my momma bear claws out and chiding whoever wrote that crap in my head: "Oh yeah, maybe that's true for all the French kids but look out -- my kid's no monkey!  Get out of my way.  My kid is going to read."

In preschool and kindergarten he focused on letter sounds and sight words and in first grade he was given a scientist of reading for a teacher, Mrs. Thompson.  I had complete faith in her ability to teach Patrick, along with 34 other first graders, how to break that code.  Two weeks into school I had a meeting with her.  I'm sure she doesn't remember the exchange at all, but to me, Patrick's literacy hung in the balance.  I asked her if he was going to be a good fit in her classroom.  Did she think he could learn in there.  With no hesitation, she assured me he could be there and that he would learn to read.  Five years later, almost every night Patrick reads to me and almost every night I sit in awe as I hear his voice wrap around the words in print.  Some nights, I can't help it and silent tears just come streaming down.  My boy can read!

That might not seem like much when you've never had a memory of not knowing what those crazy scratches on paper meant but I'm reading a book right now called Life is So Good.  It is the true story of George Dawson, a black man who did not learn to read until he was 98! Listening to the times he was in a restaurant and couldn't order off of a menu, feeling the times he knew he was cheated because someone realized he couldn't read, and knowing how many posters, newspapers, books, magazines, billboards, tickets, medicine bottles, doctors orders, cards, letters and life opportunities just passed him by  like leaves blowing off of a tree makes me cringe.  It's impossible to imagine being so cut off...so left out...so isolated and ashamed.

As I listen to a little voice sound out children's books beside me and feel that familiar curl of coziness as Caroline climbs aboard for another adventure I think of George.  There is so much grace in shared stories, the written words of people from past ages sharing their observations and the beauty of letters coming together in a way that hasn't happened before.  Reading is a comfort and sense of belonging to all of humanity; it's a highlighter pen for places to visit or people to meet, a spark that lights a fire, and a salve for the deepest wounds.

Today I'm grateful that I was given an opportunity to learn to read and know the love and power that comes from being able to seek information for yourself.  I'm grateful for the educational opportunities that my children have been given -- for the schools and the teachers that believed in them.  I'm grateful to live in a place where ALL children are educated and I'm profoundly moved that I can continue the circle of education with beginning teachers.  Today, I'm going to appreciate print and the immeasurable joy reading has given me my entire life and I'm going to finally find out who taught George to read..