barrykind
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The Day I Finally Cried
By Meg Hill
I didn't cry when I learned I was the parent of a mentally handicapped
child. I just sat still and didn't say anything while my husband and I
were informed that two- year-old Kristi was - as we suspected -
retarded. "Go ahead and cry," the doctor advised kindly. "Helps prevent
serious emotional difficulties." Serious difficulties notwithstanding, I
couldn't cry then nor during the months that followed. When Kristi was
old enough to attend school, we enrolled her in our neighborhood
school's kindergarten at age seven.
It would have been comforting to cry the day I left her in that room
full of self-assured, eager, alert five- year-olds. Kristi had spent
hour upon hour playing by herself, but this moment, when she was the
"different" child among twenty, was probably the loneliest she had ever
known.
However, positive things began to happen to Kristi in her school, and to
her schoolmates, too. When boasting of their own accomplishments,
Kristi's classmates always took pains to praise her as well: "Kristi got
all her spelling words right today." No one bothered to add that her
spelling list was easier than anyone else's. During Kristi's second year
in school, she faced a very traumatic experience. The big public event
of the term was a competition based on a culmination of the year's music
and physical education activities. Kristi was way behind in both music
and motor coordination. My husband and I dreaded the day as well.
On the day of the program, Kristi pretended to be sick. Desperately I
wanted to keep her home. Why let Kristi fail in a gymnasium filled with
parents, students and teachers? What a simple solution it would be just
to let my child stay home. Surely missing one program couldn't matter.
But my conscience wouldn't let me off that easily. So I practically
shoved a pale, reluctant Kristi onto the school bus and proceeded to be
sick myself. Just as I had forced my daughter to go to school, now I
forced myself to go to the program. It seemed that it would never be
time for Kristi's group to perform. When at last they did, I knew why
Kristi had been worried. Her class was divided into relay teams. With
her limp and slow, clumsy reactions, she would surely hold up her team.
The performance went surprisingly well, though, until it was time for
the gunnysack race. Now each child had to climb into a sack from a
standing position, hop to a goal line, return and climb out of the sack.
I watched Kristi standing near the end of her line of players, looking
frantic. But as Kristi's turn to participate neared, a change took
place in her team. The tallest boy in the line stepped behind Kristi and
placed his hands on her waist. Two other boys stood a little ahead of
her. The moment the player in front of Kristi stepped from the sack,
those two boys grabbed the sack and held it open while the tall boy
lifted Kristi and dropped her neatly into it. A girl in front of Kristi
took her hand and supported her briefly until Kristi gained her balance.
Then off she hopped, smiling and proud.
Amid the cheers of teachers, schoolmates and parents, I crept off by
myself to thank God for the warm, understanding people in life who make
it possible for my disabled daughter to be like her fellow human beings.
Then I finally cried.
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The HEART of the issue is truly the issue of the HEART!
John 3:3;Mark 8:34-38;James 1:27
Posts: 3529 | From: Orange, Texas | Registered: Jun 2002
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