It was Thanksgiving night, and eight year old me was sorely uncomfortable, standing in the basement of someone's house that I didn't know very well. We were visiting old friends of mom and dad, and I was dragged along, because where else was the eight year old supposed to go? My older sisters were all socializing with the other kids, friends of theirs as well. And since drama has been a strong trait my whole life, I began feeling very sorry for myself. Where I was probably being a brat, and pouting about being in a stranger's home, for whatever reason he took pity on me. The family's youngest son, almost five years my senior, was one of the kids who had a bad reaction to a vaccination shot, and it left him severely mentally handicapped. He has a gift of tenderness, and is forever hugging people from whom he gets a sad feeling. So there I was, pouting and carrying on, and he comes over, big as a teenager but awkward and fumbling, and hugs me. He stood there hugging me, until he felt like I was ready to be let go. What was probably only five or so minutes felt like an eternity, being hugged not just by someone I didn't know, but by someone who was distinctly different from myself. The memory is burned into my mind, etched forever into my memory- the smells, the movements. I can clearly see over his shoulder, watching his older sister decorate their Christmas tree. I can see the table of food to our left. There is hardly a detail from that moment that I don't remember. I will be eternally grateful for him, because even at so young an age, he was a tool used by the Father to instill in me a love for those with different abilities.
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Fast forward 8 years, I'm now a sixteen year old, sitting on a plane headed for Purdy, Missouri. (In fact, it was on this day six years ago I got home!) The destination was a camp that tells kids who are typically told "you can't", "here, you can". The whole of the camp is designed to be wheelchair accessible, with the needed equipment at every normal camp activity to make it possible for kids to participate. Each camper is paired with a camp volunteer, and they are cared for almost exclusively by their volunteer. My camper got to ride a horse, canoe, swim, do archery. She had the whole "camp" experience for an entire week, even though she was non-verbal, legally blind, bound to a wheelchair, and essentially only about 6 months old mentally.
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Yesterday I went to a beloved local park with the youth from my church. Roughly twenty or so 6-12 graders meandered through the park, enjoying the wildlife and gardens and probably being generally too loud. One 6th grader, however, tugged at my heart. He carried a little stuffed animal, which I found odd for his age. But as the day wore on, it became increasingly evident there was perhaps autism or other special abilities at play in his personality. I found myself drawn to asking him questions and trying to be his friend as he was fairly overlooked by the other students. I wanted him to feel loved, safe, and welcome. His imagination was beautifully vivid as he described in detail how his stuffed pig and he would fight giant shrimp with lasers. (yes, shrimp)
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I'm not a parent of children with different abilities, but I truly believe the Lord has given me a heart for kids who are different from others. My heart aches to love the kids who require someone to show interest in their unique day dreams, or will feed them through a G-tube, or will let them hug you for five minutes straight, because it's how they can express themselves. I will forever be thankful for the day when the Father began opening a tender spot in my heart, standing in the basement of that house that Thanksgiving night. I don't know how He will use it, but I have no doubt there is something more to be done with this love.
How have you seen the Father instill a love into your heart, and then see it come to fruition? Search your heart, its there ;-)
Xo,
M
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