For almost everyone in attendance, it would have been nothing very remarkable. One child, just one of thirty or so on the stage, singing, ringing his bell, and making hand motions with all the other kids as they sang along to "O Come All Ye Faithful" during the Christmas program at the county Christian school.
But remarkable, it was. To those who had seen him the year before stand with his back to the crowd the entire time, not moving or saying a word. And the year before that had watched him put his hands over his face and cast his head downward, again not uttering a sound.
There I sat, in the audience, more teary-eyed than any parent or grandparent who was there. Because I knew how far he had come. I had been through the days of not being able to understand what he was saying even though he was trying so hard.
To watch a child struggle, to speak or to do any other seemingly simple task, melts away whatever hardness might be inside you. It puts life in perspective in a way only a few things can.
I thought of his mother. She who repeatedly told doctors something wasn't right until they finally listened. She who still spends hours on the phone fighting with the insurance company as they try to deny coverage of his therapy. And she who makes the 90-minute round-trip three times a week so that he can receive what she believes is the best-available help for his apraxia.
I looked over at her, sitting in the next section, her 5-foot-1 frame having to strain to see over the people in front of her. She had a smile as wide as the building. It's the smile she always has when she is trying not to cry.
She had struggled with whether to put him in public school, eventually deciding against it. She started him here in hopes that he would get more attention. It was a hard decision. We were public school kids. But if there were still any doubt, this night was absolute validation she had made the right choice.
A little later we listened as one of the older kids, a young man who had overcome autism, stood in front of the audience and read the Christmas story.
When the program ended, I high-fived my nephew and told him how proud I was of him. He seemed rather unimpressed by it all. I thought of his great aunt, a wonderful and kind southern woman he would never really get a chance to know, lying in rest twenty minutes away.
A couple of days before, she had slipped from this realm of sickness and dying. Her visitation was the same night of his program.
His uncle and her nephew, I managed to make it to both.
Life was beautiful. And sad.
"Some of it's magic / Some of it's tragic / But I had a good life all the way..."
But remarkable, it was. To those who had seen him the year before stand with his back to the crowd the entire time, not moving or saying a word. And the year before that had watched him put his hands over his face and cast his head downward, again not uttering a sound.
There I sat, in the audience, more teary-eyed than any parent or grandparent who was there. Because I knew how far he had come. I had been through the days of not being able to understand what he was saying even though he was trying so hard.
To watch a child struggle, to speak or to do any other seemingly simple task, melts away whatever hardness might be inside you. It puts life in perspective in a way only a few things can.
I thought of his mother. She who repeatedly told doctors something wasn't right until they finally listened. She who still spends hours on the phone fighting with the insurance company as they try to deny coverage of his therapy. And she who makes the 90-minute round-trip three times a week so that he can receive what she believes is the best-available help for his apraxia.
I looked over at her, sitting in the next section, her 5-foot-1 frame having to strain to see over the people in front of her. She had a smile as wide as the building. It's the smile she always has when she is trying not to cry.
She had struggled with whether to put him in public school, eventually deciding against it. She started him here in hopes that he would get more attention. It was a hard decision. We were public school kids. But if there were still any doubt, this night was absolute validation she had made the right choice.
A little later we listened as one of the older kids, a young man who had overcome autism, stood in front of the audience and read the Christmas story.
When the program ended, I high-fived my nephew and told him how proud I was of him. He seemed rather unimpressed by it all. I thought of his great aunt, a wonderful and kind southern woman he would never really get a chance to know, lying in rest twenty minutes away.
A couple of days before, she had slipped from this realm of sickness and dying. Her visitation was the same night of his program.
His uncle and her nephew, I managed to make it to both.
Life was beautiful. And sad.
"Some of it's magic / Some of it's tragic / But I had a good life all the way..."
