when he stands

"Hard things can be good things.." I whisper it in his ears. His arms are locked tight around my neck and he screams, fighting me at every touch. I coax his stiff, bent legs and attempt to strap his feet into the grooves of the smooth wood beneath his toes. Sweat trickles between my shoulderblades. His brow is furrowed furious, those brown eyes wide with bewilderment and terror. His stander. 

We make it 4 minutes that first day. His posture is improper and we have such a ways to go. But it's 4 minutes. It gives me hope. 

He shakes when I pull him out and bring him upstairs. We put on his favorite music (Sleep At Last) as slowly he calms. I hold him tight as he catches his breath. I tell him he did so good. He cries at me. I tell him I know it hurts. He sighs heavy. I tell him I'm sorry. He puts his head against my chest.

Hard things can be good things. 

I realize I came back for this very moment. His two legs strapped into that stander as he screams relentlessly. That night I toss and turn, overcome with the emotion of it all. He will stand. If only because I am too stubborn to cease praying for it. 

The what-if game tempts me to play. There are nights I do, knowing full well that I am destined to lose. "If only you had more time… If only you came sooner… If only you had actual training… If only you weren't leaving…" If-only will run you ragged if you let it. 

For days I think on how he fights. He fights me. He fights the stander. He fights nutritious food. He fights the cup of water I hold to his dry lips. He fights sleep. He fights medicine. He fights everything good.

I am not so unlike this boy as I sometimes like to imagine I am. 

Again and again I will take him, for as many days as I have left, and I will beg him to see… hard things can be good things. My hands have inflicted pain, but only with great love. I'll cry over every shove and push and scream he throws my way. I whisper it quiet in his little ears, "I know you need to fight. Nothing about this feels nice or natural. So fight if you must, but do so with a trust that I love you." I will remember-- from his vantage point, he cannot see the way I can. What he perceives as great harm is actually appointed mercy. 

As the days pass, I watch him (ever-so slowly) learn to love his stander and it's closer than the humid air stuck to my skin-- this hope that one day he will walk. I dream big. I hope for things seemingly unattainable. Headfirst, I dive "all in". Sometimes the price I pay in heartache is dear. But watching this small boy, with his striped overalls and love for spaghetti, stand taller and taller with each passing day, I know it: every ounce of sweat and tears are well beyond worth it. 

Working with Michael's stander during my final days here in Limbe are a most precious gift. And my knees will bow in reverence to the One who made it all possible. Who am I, that I get to be a small part of the grand story the Lord is writing on this little boy's life? The thought leaves me breathless, forever grateful.

You are good, Lord. You are so good. 

One day he will walk. And the steps he endured to get there will make it all the sweeter. I choose to believe that one day I will hear the shuffle of his footsteps across cemented floors and the both of us will know: the hard things are always good things.

a letter to a small boy

Every day I pray you know how precious you are. Hear me loud and hear me clear: you have been fearfully and wonderfully made. Your Creator made no mistake when he shaped your infectious giggle, created that mischievous, knowing look in your big brown eyes, and formed your delicate fingers that weave themselves between my own. If you believe nothing else, believe this: you are a gift. Knowing you has been the greatest honor. 

You are amazing. In three months you taught me more than any university or college degree ever could've. Every toy grasped, every spin on your mats, every afternoon spent balancing on that yoga ball, all the times you practiced standing tall, I saw your strength and determination (and stubbornness too). They run deep. Those moments I will cherish forever.

Did you know I fell head-over-heels in love with you? How could I not, with your charming smile and sweet heart? You had me wrapped about your fingers from the very start, and I've since to become untangled. Thank you for letting me enter your little world and for allowing me to love you so.

From you I learned so many things. You taught me success is not measured in tasks accomplished or goals completed. From you I learned a person's a person, no matter how small. Because of you I believe each and every life holds significance. You taught me to laugh, if only because it is a most beautiful sound. You taught me to start looking up -way above the treetops- a whole lot more. Through you I learned all things wonderful will take time, a lot of work, and often many tears. Because of you I now know giving up is never an option, even when 3 weeks in shows no progress. You taught me the worthiest of things call for incredible vulnerability. I also learned there's no shame in loving only 2 kinds of food. 

Perhaps the greatest lesson you've taught me is that I should believe more, because I serve a great and mighty God.

You made me feel inadequate on so many levels. You're the reason I stayed up late, pouring over massage therapy and sensory play books. I didn't know how to love you, or reach you, or do best by you. You made me aware, again and again, of the complete desperate and helpless mess I am when I'm on my own. And it led me to where I have always belong-- grappling at the feet of my Savior. Thank you for always leading me there.

Your culture has and will continue to label you many things. Sweet Michael, this is important: don't believe a single word their voices throw at you. The labels are ones that break my heart, because they are given out of such ignorance. How I wish they could see what I see. You are filled with such greatness, if only they would stop to really see you. Because you, dear one, are amazing. 

I have been forever ruined by you in a most beautiful way. I don't think you realize the depth of your impact on me. You see, because of you, I have been inspired to pursue an utterly crazy dream. Because of you, I now have plans. Plans to help little boys and little girls just like you, doing my part to be an advocate for the voiceless and a defender of their sweet innocence. It's an exciting mess of confusion and fear, and a lot of unknowns about the future. But when those moments rush like the incoming tide, I remember you… your tattered red overalls, those perfectly crooked teeth, that heart-melter of a smile, and the fears hush. You are my inspiration. 

The weak made strong, the voiceless defended, the oft-outcast finally understood, the hurt hearts healed, the weary ones given rest… can't you just see it, love? With every fiber of my being I long to do my part (whatever and wherever it may be) to make such a vision possible. 

Leaving you is shattering my heart into a thousand pieces; it will never be whole again. But the ache reminds me our days were real, and hold great significance. I know if your lips would speak, they would tell of how you want this too. So know that, while my feet may be leaving, my heart remains with you. And I refuse to believe this is the end for us.

I'm praying to see you stand. Two legs, strong and tall, unsupported. This is my dream. I cannot wait to see that day. And the day you run. Whether it's 5 months, 5 years, or an eternity from now, my heart eagerly anticipates it. And while the statistics and early intervention books and all logic scream no, I will choose to whisper yes. I will believe, for you and for me. And one day, we will stand tall. 

All my love, 
Anna

Meet Michael
otherwise entitled: the other half of my heart

Two steps forward, one step back. Working with a child with special needs, this has become the mantra we march to on most of our days. Every day this small boys steals more and more of my heart. I've become quite attached, it would seem. He's my smile in the morning before school, and one of my last cuddles before leaving the compound at 5:30 in the evenings. 

More often than not, he can be found chilling in his pac 'n' play-- entertaining himself by looking in his little crib mirror, gazing at the flickering light and spinning ceiling fan, or stripping himself stark naked. haha. His favorite food is spaghetti, the little picky eater. And heaven forbid you try to feed him blueberry flaxseed oatmeal (talk about one of the most distraught, upset looks). He loves Sleeping At Last's song "Saturn" and has yet to fall in love with the complicated melodies of Thomas Newman's pieces. Often his hands flick beneath his chin, as though contemplating deep, deep thoughts. He loves to stare at lightbulbs and the sunshine that filters through the mango trees in the backyard. He'll spin and scooch himself off his colorful foam mats until his feet rest upon the smooth, cool cement floor. Right beneath his ears (near the crook of his neck) you'll find a never-fail tickle spot. There's a 50-50 shot at peek-a-boo making him giggle, or entirely overwhelming him. Humming his little melodies and sounds back to him will make him keep up the charade for a few minutes. And he has the best laugh. 

For the first three weeks, I banged a toy rattle on the ground. Desperate to get his attention, I tried just about everything I knew while we sat on the multicolored mats for an hour. I spent late night hours google-searchig and highlighting books, searching for answers. I longed to see that somewhere in those oft vacant-looking eyes there was still a small boy who could be reached, who could interaction and connection and engage. And I cried. Because three weeks in and there was absolutely nothing to show for all our efforts. And yet, no sooner had the tears blurred my vision when he grasped for the toy, threw it over his head, and roared with laughter. Over and over again, we played this game. He spun and patted and found his toy, a mess of giggles all the while. Such utter bliss. 

Most days, I still feel like I'm grasping at straws to help him connect and engage this beautiful world around him. What he does one day, he won't show any interest in the next. Few things are consistent-- other than his spaghetti breakfasts, overalls being the one thing he can't wriggle out of, and the way I love him so. 

Until you know them, it's easy to look upon the special needs child with a sense of pity. We tend to fail to see the potential because sometimes what one can't do overshadows what wonderful things they are capable of doing. The joy is infinite, and the milestones all that sweeter. We celebrate the small victories... the way he pats my face and pulls for my arms, and how he is finding his voice in that he cries if you try to sit down and hold him at the same time, how his legs fully extend and relax, his scooting off the mats and finding his toy bag, that small bit of weight he'll bear on his half-bent legs. When I see his face, I do not see a child with a disability, labeled by the world as 'different'. The cultures that label such dears ones as 'invaluable' miss. so. much. What he can't do, the ways in which he isn't 'normal' so-to-speak, I hardly even recognize. Because to me he is simply Mikey. I have seen who he is as a person-- fearfully and wonderfully made in the hands of his loving Creator who makes all things good and perfect and beautiful. 

Special needs has become a huge part of my heart as the years go on. Two years ago I boarded a plane absolutely terrified.. because special needs?? I wasn't experienced or qualified for that. Little did I know, oh-so little did I know the joy those 6 months would hold. And somewhere along the way, I've become the girl that now prays to see him stand. I whisper it in his ears and pray it as I still his shaking legs with joint compressions... I believe these legs will one day stand. Call it foolish, overzealous, vain. Certainly I have had moments where I feel so naive. But I believe he is fearfully and wonderfully made, I believe in that little heart there's great strength and sheer determination, and I believe in a God who does the seemingly impossible. 

Until then, we grasp for toys and track water cups. We lay face-to-face on the dirty foam mats and revel in the joy of the ordinary. I roll the ball and he shows no interest and that's okay. Watching his personality emerge during those afternoon balcony chill-out's has been a most precious treasure. Because in the end it's not about toys grasped or things accomplished. It's believing in being fearfully and wonderfully made, finding the beloved, and reveling in Him calling us so.