Adults, unfortunately, can often be seen as scary—especially when they are uncomfortable or nervous when suddenly found in the presence of a severely challenged child. This is a hard balance. But it seems the child will trust you more when they realize that you are capable of being a child yourself. It seems to come down to trust and understanding.
Thursday, February 20, 2020
Silly and Strong
In our classroom environment, adults need to show that they can have fun . . . and even be silly. At the same time, they must also show that they can be protective and strong: the teacher that acts funny, goofy and odd . . . can also stand up for you and protect you against strangers and other frightening elements of life.
Adults, unfortunately, can often be seen as scary—especially when they are uncomfortable or nervous when suddenly found in the presence of a severely challenged child. This is a hard balance. But it seems the child will trust you more when they realize that you are capable of being a child yourself. It seems to come down to trust and understanding.
Adults, unfortunately, can often be seen as scary—especially when they are uncomfortable or nervous when suddenly found in the presence of a severely challenged child. This is a hard balance. But it seems the child will trust you more when they realize that you are capable of being a child yourself. It seems to come down to trust and understanding.
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
Legacy
How we educate and care for the severely and profoundly challenged will be our hallmark legacy; and for this reason, we (as a society) are being closely watched.
All the answers to our earthly existence are wrapped up in the care and well-being of the severely and profoundly challenged; the answers to all of life's hard questions are there.
Most of the time, however, we look elsewhere--microscopically inward and telescopically outward to distant worlds and galaxies--for answers to the meaning and reason for our very existence. While all along, everything we need to know to live with purpose, direction, and dignity, is right before us.
All the answers to our earthly existence are wrapped up in the care and well-being of the severely and profoundly challenged; the answers to all of life's hard questions are there.
Most of the time, however, we look elsewhere--microscopically inward and telescopically outward to distant worlds and galaxies--for answers to the meaning and reason for our very existence. While all along, everything we need to know to live with purpose, direction, and dignity, is right before us.
Wednesday, February 12, 2020
Dancing with the Queen
You could say, I'm an amateur throne builder. In our classroom, properly positioning students in large beanbags is an art and requires practice and patience. For many years, as a Special Education teacher, I've attempted to build the perfect beanbag throne. One little girl, in particular, has often challenged my throne building skills the most.
Seeing her tip and lean after sneezing, I rush to her side, gently nudging her back into alignment; Queens are adorable when they sit up straight, tall, and majestic--no leaning, no tipping. I see majesty in her eyes.
Sometimes I believe she sneezes on purpose, only to lean far to the right, sabotaging her throne's structure and perfection. She likes the attention; and so do I.
As she sneezes and smiles, I come to realize that God has a unique sense of humor. I see Heaven in her smile as she leans and dips, watching me run to her side. I am here, my Queen. Ask me for anything. Shall we dance? Your smile makes me happy; let's dance my Queen; you are beautiful beyond compare. Tomorrow I will build you a new throne; bright yellow and perfect. We can dance until then; a different kind of tipping and leaning.
My Queen smiles as I lift her far above her yellow throne; she smiles again as we waltz across the room.
I am a throne builder. Some day I will build the perfect beanbag throne. Until that day I will dance with my Queen.
In my eyes, she is a Queen and always smiles after sneezing; however, after sneezing, her beanbag throne begins to lose its royal luster as the bright yellow base begins to slide and shift. Her sneezing does not go unnoticed.
Seeing her tip and lean after sneezing, I rush to her side, gently nudging her back into alignment; Queens are adorable when they sit up straight, tall, and majestic--no leaning, no tipping. I see majesty in her eyes.
Sometimes I believe she sneezes on purpose, only to lean far to the right, sabotaging her throne's structure and perfection. She likes the attention; and so do I.
As she sneezes and smiles, I come to realize that God has a unique sense of humor. I see Heaven in her smile as she leans and dips, watching me run to her side. I am here, my Queen. Ask me for anything. Shall we dance? Your smile makes me happy; let's dance my Queen; you are beautiful beyond compare. Tomorrow I will build you a new throne; bright yellow and perfect. We can dance until then; a different kind of tipping and leaning.
My Queen smiles as I lift her far above her yellow throne; she smiles again as we waltz across the room.
I am a throne builder. Some day I will build the perfect beanbag throne. Until that day I will dance with my Queen.
Sunday, February 9, 2020
With Awe and Wonder
When in the presence of babies or toddlers, Kevin would constantly ask for his wheelchair to be turned so he could follow every movement and action that a child would make; he didn't want to miss anything. He understood the progression of development and the celebration of each step along the way. He was fascinated by the very things--physically--he could never do on his own.
While watching babies and toddlers Kevin was in continuous awe and wonder of the crucial passing of milestones--crawling, standing, walking, talking--things that he wasn't physically capable of accomplishing. He wasn't bitter and never reflected a sense that life was unfair. For as long as I knew him (over 20 years) Kevin always carried a sense that he was uniquely and wonderfully made, even if he himself lacked the physical ability to crawl, walk, or stand.
Kevin was always fully absorbed while watching (and celebrating) the milestones of others; during these moments of joyful observation, Kevin seemed to completely forget about himself.
Throughout his life, Kevin was a highly focused observer, especially of others.
While watching babies and toddlers Kevin was in continuous awe and wonder of the crucial passing of milestones--crawling, standing, walking, talking--things that he wasn't physically capable of accomplishing. He wasn't bitter and never reflected a sense that life was unfair. For as long as I knew him (over 20 years) Kevin always carried a sense that he was uniquely and wonderfully made, even if he himself lacked the physical ability to crawl, walk, or stand.
Kevin was always fully absorbed while watching (and celebrating) the milestones of others; during these moments of joyful observation, Kevin seemed to completely forget about himself.
Throughout his life, Kevin was a highly focused observer, especially of others.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)