Origins and Inspiration

Sleigh bells. Candy canes. Angels. Manger scenes. Stockings. Santa Claus. Reindeer. All the trappings for a perfect holiday season. Except at our house we needed something more.

Last Christmas the kids came home from school with the typical array of decorations and colored pages. Then Aiden presented me with a delicious surprise. At first glance I saw a standard reindeer with handprint antlers. Another clever use of kindergarten-sized mitts. Then I noticed the reindeer’s expression. Rather than a jolly, “merry Christmas” style grin, I was faced with severe eyebrows, a down-turned mouth, and rather ferocious teeth. It fairly growled at me.

I laughed. “Why is your reindeer so angry?” I asked.

Aiden looked at it and said, “He’s evil.” No further explanation.

But now I had an evil reindeer on my hands. I couldn’t have imagined a more thorough contradiction to everything Christmas represents. I guess if you think about it, a reindeer could have plenty to be angry about during this time of year. I’d be pretty grumpy, too, if I had a worldwide trip ahead of me with no allowances for nasty weather and nothing to keep my toes warm on snowy rooftops.

I doubt Aiden put that much thought into the “why” of his angry reindeer, but the mere contradiction completely hit my funny bone. The evil, angry reindeer promptly found a spot on the refrigerator door, where it remained long after the other Christmas decorations had returned to their boxes. I just didn’t have the heart to take it down because it came to represent several things for me. It served as a reminder of how my kids brighten my days. How their views of the world make me smile. How each member of our family is individual and creative and inspiring. How I can find joy in the smallest moments. How love can grow sometimes imperceptibly and sometimes by leaps and bounds so my heart feels like it will burst.

Eventually I did remove the angry reindeer from its place of honor on the refrigerator. Mostly I was afraid it would get ruined if left there too long. It needed to be preserved in the safety of the filing cabinet. But every so often I will open the reindeer’s secluded drawer just to put that smile back on my face, to remember that life can be unexpected and inexplicable and maybe even a little bit wicked but wonderful just the same.

Fly

I pulled into my driveway a recent sunny morning and saw on my lawn a couple of birds in search of their breakfast. One, I quickly noticed, had a strange rhythm to its hop. Looking closer I could see one leg severely twisted, its foot facing an unnatural direction. The little bird couldn't support much weight on the leg, but it wobbled undeterred and energetic in its quest for food. Before long it found what it was searching for and, in a burst of surprising power, lifted toward the sky.

I watched until the bird disappeared and sat pondering the inevitable metaphors found in this quiet scene. The most resonant for me right now relates to one of the jobs I've had this past school year. After I agreed to do recess duty, the secretary told me they had a need for someone to work as a part time aide for a handicapped third grade boy. He already had a full time aide, but because of certain policy changes, she could only work a set number of hours and another person was needed to cover the remaining hours of the school day.

The job description essentially requires me to be his hands. His condition is some big long word that starts with an a which affected his development in utero. He has very little muscle in his arms and legs. Much like the little bird's foot, his hands are misshapen, the fingers basically unusable. So while he is in a mainstream classroom - Spanish immersion at that - he needs a wheelchair to get around and can't hold a pencil in his hands.

But enough of what he can't do. Here's what has been a marvelous, surprising, uplifting revelation to me. He was telling me something one day and mentioned just as naturally as could be how he was "differently-abled" and then carried on with the rest of his story. Of course, I'd heard the term used before, but now I was witnessing on a fairly intimate level the truth of the phrase. Undoubtedly there are some things he will never do as well or as easily as his peers. But he can do many things and remarkably well. He uses his mouth for most things we use our hands -- writing, turning pages, even folding paper. I dare anyone to challenge him to a spit wad contest. He uses his arm to drive and steer his wheelchair, which he can maneuver forward and backward with impressive accuracy. He participates in soccer and dodge ball and tag games without hesitation. He's enthusiastic about physical therapy. He had a surgery a few months ago to remove some hardware from his legs placed there during an unsuccessful operation last summer. He came back to school excited about the new braces he would wear that would help support his knees enough that he can stand with minimal support and even walk, aided, around the school. He is not ashamed of his differences and has rallied many other children around him. They cheer his successes and are true friends.

I had a moment during one of his physical therapy sessions watching while the therapist held his body so he could stand straight and tall. Usually, because of the lack of muscle to support his frame, he leans far forward and has little balance. But as he stood there that day, I envisioned him whole and strong. I thought of how his mother and father must see him, not just as a condition requiring 24 hour assistance, but as a child of God with unlimited potential. It's easy to quickly see the defects and disabilities, just as I could easily spot the broken foot on the little bird. But with a change of perspective, an expanded vision, I began to witness the power with which and the heights to which he can and will fly.