This Is Forgiveness

Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?”

Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.

Matthew 18:21-22 (NIV)

The other day, I read something so profoundly full of grace and forgiveness, it brought instant tears to these feel-like-I've-seen-everything eyes. I was cruising through Facebook, skimming through the words and stopping briefly at the pictures. This particular picture caught my eye.

If you know me at all, you know that I have a daughter who is proud to tell anyone and everyone, that she has Down syndrome. That she is a young woman with Down syndrome. She doesn't lack for self-esteem. And she doesn't lack for compassion, or empathy, or friendliness, or helpfulness, and sometimes, just, plain stubbornness. Which can sometimes make me crazy. But that's not the sum total of who she is.

She's the girl who texted the wrong Uncle Jerry (my sister's husband) to tell him happy birthday - because she saw my happy birthday message to MY Uncle Jerry on Facebook (her great-uncle -- thus, the confusion). She's the one who tells my husband about his birthday present within five minutes of telling me that it's a secret. She just can't keep good news to herself. She's the one who showed me a series of texts to my sister:

My daughter: love you
My sister: I love you, too! So much!
My daughter: love you now let me work

So, this picture caught my eye, and I just HAD to click on the MORE. I had to read the whole story.

Well, it wasn't a story, really, it was a letter. The letter was to a young woman, quite pretty, a news reporter in fact. Apparently this news reporter described President Obama as a 'retard' in a tweet, and the letter was written in response.

True story. It actually happened in 2012, during the Presidential debates.

For me, hearing the word 'retard' feels like a punch in the stomach. It wasn't too awfully long ago when my daughter was in fifth grade at the school where I was teaching. Fifth grade. My classroom sat beside her classroom - two portables along the fire road behind the main school building, right next to the playground. We used to call them our little cabins in the woods. Our classes had recess together, the teachers taking turns to monitor.

One day, during my partner's turn at recess, a couple of girls from her class came to see me. Upset and fidgety, they told me about an on-going incident involving my daughter and one of the boys from my class. Apparently he had told my daughter that his name was JackAss. My daughter is really good with names. Just last weekend she kept all 38 of our relatives straight during our visit to Indiana. It's one of her superpowers. So this boy told her this name and then proceeded to follow her around the playground asking her his name. When she said what he told her, he laughed at her, and called her a retard.

I could barely thank the girls for letting me know what was going on.

I. Was. Furious.

Did you know that God can calm a storm? Thankfully, I said a little prayer before calling the boy to me - to hear his side.

Long story short, my classes, from that time on, were educated on the word 'retard'. They were educated about it's history -- how it used to be used to describe the mental capabilities of people with delayed cognitive abilities -- how it had slowly evolved into an insult -- how using that word as an insult, meant that they considered people like my daughter to be insults.

Not too long ago, I wrote an article about the word, very much like my classroom lecture. You are welcome to read it on page 10 of the July, 2014 Christian Journal.

But now this true story. This beautiful, grace-filled letter by a young man with Down syndrome. I don't know if he had help - the writing is leagues beyond anything my daughter is capable of. The forgiveness may be leagues beyond anything I feel I'm capable of.

See, he asks the pretty reporter why she uses 'retard' as an insult. He explains that, as a man with Down syndrome, he struggles to break public perception that intellectual disability means being dumb or shallow. Then he gives examples of the kinds of people she could have possibly meant to link to President Obama by calling him retarded. The people he describes are victims who rose above the bullying they received in school, or people who have to consider what they say, people who don't jump on the quick-comeback-snarky-soundbite bandwagon. He asks if she is perhaps linking President Obama to people with intellectual disabilities who live in low-rent housing, with state-provided health care who STILL, in the midst of poverty, manage to see life as a precious gift.

I've seen these people, friends of my daughter's, friends of mine. They participate in Special Olympics, supporting each other with encouragement and enthusiasm. They worship at churches and help with missions. They participate in meetings about living conditions, and jobs; they show up and sometimes even speak up at rallies and forums. They work. They play. They argue. They gossip. They forgive.

They forgive.

That's what made me cry when I read this letter. The young man was very clear and concise about how the word 'retarded' is used as an insult. He was very clear and concise about the link between a population of people and that insult. If you don't read the whole letter - then here are the final seven sentences...

After I saw your tweet, I realized you just wanted to belittle the President by linking him to people like me. You assumed that people would understand and accept that being linked to someone like me is an insult and you assumed you could get away with it and still appear on TV. I have to wonder if you considered other hateful words but recoiled from the backlash. Well, Ms ___, you, and society, need to learn that being compared to people like me should be considered a badge of honor. No one overcomes more than we do and still loves life so much. Come join us someday at Special Olympics. See if you can walk away with your heart unchanged.

A friend you haven't made yet,

John Franklin Stephens 

Global Messenger Special Olympics Virginia 

... A friend you haven't made yet....

"YET..." This is hope. This is forgiveness.

Linking with Three-Word Wednesday, TellHisStory, Coffee For Your Heart

You are Here

It's Five-Minute Friday, where I join a community of writers on a one-word prompt. Five minutes. Just five minutes to write, and in that writing, to incorporate the one word. No editing, no rewriting, no going back. The prompt this week is: here.

You are here
Like at the mall
And I'm looking at the shop directory
The map with the yellow star
Just past the Food Court
Fragrance of Cinnabuns
Like fine perfume
I have to find the restroom

You are here
I watch the blue dot
On my phone
Move along a black thread
Untangled from back roads
Hay bundles litter the fields
Furred checkers
On a titan gameboard
Fresh breath of clean

You are here
The U-haul orange
Almost hits the eaves
Ramp clanks
Dolley-wheels squeak
Garage door rumbles open
Empty house
Soon-to-be filled
Smells like emptiness

You are here
My finger points to the number
Chapter and verse
My daughter's bible
On her lap in church
Next to the journal
Where she copies holy words
Of grace and love
I inhale her innocence and
Exhale prayers for her safety

You are here.
On this journey
In this place
Wrapped in His arms
Peace to you

You are here.

A Thank-You Card to Jesus

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.

Hebrews 13:8

Nobody writes much about where you grew up, your home, your clothes, your shoes, your school.  I mean, we don’t even know very much about your childhood at all, except for the time you talked to the rabbis in the temple – when your parents thought they’d lost you. So I guess most of it really wasn’t worth mentioning.  I mean, it was probably all kind of ordinary back in those times. 

But one day, you started calling people to you.  Disciples.  They were ordinary men, but you saw something special in them, didn’t you?  You saw who they were going to be.  You had big plans for them. 

Then you started teaching.  And Jesus, this is the best part.  You used stories about ordinary people and ordinary lives to teach your extraordinary message of love, of forgiveness, of the Kingdom of Heaven.   

Thank you.  Even if I don’t count the miracles of healing and transformation, even if I don’t count your resurrection, even if I don’t count all of the supernatural, God-parts of your life – you showed me something.  You showed me how very extra-ordinary life can be.  You showed me the holy in the every day.  You showed me God in the ordinary.  You showed me grace.  Amazing grace.

But I can’t discount your God-side.  Because you are.  The Way.  The Truth.  The Life.  So you didn’t have to do what you did.  You didn’t have to live, walk, breathe, eat, sleep, laugh, and cry.  You didn’t have to suffer the punishment and death of an ordinary criminal.  But you did.  For us.  For me.  And that made everything extraordinary.

Jesus, thank you.

Linking with Lisa at Five-Minute Friday

#TellHisStory: Nothing More

Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost.

Isaiah 55:1

Once, an old man in a village had weak eyesight.  Much as he tried, he couldn't see the details of the world around him.  This state of affairs had been going on for so long, that he was beginning to forget that details existed.  His world was getting smaller, and plainer - every year a little bit smaller, a little bit plainer.  Finally, he stopped looking at objects or people as individual and unique.  He just went through his days fulfilling his obligations.  Nothing more.

In the same village, lived a woman who was losing her hearing gradually.  First high-pitched birdsong and whistles.  Then the low, gravelly speech of the village elder.  Season by season, year by year, she missed more and more of the sounds of the village.  Until she finally rose in the morning, worked in the day, and went to sleep at night in a blur of muted noises.  She could no longer distinguish the sounds that used to annoy her:  the rise and fall of her neighbors arguing; her husband's nightly snores; the noises of the village children.  She could no longer differentiate music, or laughter.  It was all the same - a background tapestry of subdued sound.  She just went through her days fulfilling her obligations.  Nothing more.

There was a beggar in the village - a simple-minded young man with a raggedy coat and a crutch to help with his limp.  Day after day he sat and wandered, sat and wandered, looking for scraps and leftovers from the people of the village.  He slept in the village stable in exchange for cleaning out the stalls.  He smiled and he laughed as he went through his days fulfilling his obligations.  He didn't know a better life; it was good enough.

One day, a stranger came to the village.  He was dressed in an ordinary manner.  But the villagers didn't find him to be an ordinary man.  No, indeed.  Wherever he walked, wherever he strode, it seemed he took light along him.  Colors became more vivid in his wake.  Hard lines softened - what was dull, sharpened, what was dim, brightened.  When he spoke, the words came out like music, like poetry; just the sound of his voice caused a stir.  When he smiled, the sun shone.  When he laughed, the air seemed to chuckle as well.  He moved with the gracefulness and gentleness of grass in a breeze.  Strong, resilient, fluid.

No one knew what his business was - why he had come to their small hamlet.  Curiosity reigned.  There was a familiarity about him; recognizable.  Something about him resonated within the village.  First it was the children, then mothers and wives, the old, and finally the men - who began to follow the stranger.  Walk with him.  Drink in his words - the music from his lips.

But there were three who were unable to join the crowds - the blind man, the deaf woman, and the beggar.

So the stranger went to them.

"What do you see?" He asked the old man with weak eyesight.

The man looked out to the fields beyond the road.  "I see the blue of the sky and the green of the grass."

"What do you see?"  The stranger asked again.

The man looked at the crowd that had gathered - his old eyes swimming with the effort to focus through the fog of his vision.  "I see a sea of faces floating on an ocean of cloaks - some darker, some lighter, some smaller, some large."

"What do you see?"  The visitor took the old man's face in his hand, and turned him so that he gazed upon the stranger.

The atmosphere around them, around the two as well as the following crowd had curiously changed.  It felt like a wind a blown, yet no cloak or hair had moved.  Arms were tingling, goosebumps forming.

The old man stared.  And was silent.  The crowd held their breath.  The old man squinted, then relaxed his eyes and stared again.  And again, remained silent.  The crowd inched forward.  The old man opened his eyes wide.  He focused on the face of the stranger before him.  And he started to smile.

"I see you, Lord."  He whispered.  "I see you."  A low murmur went through the crowd.  He sees, they remarked, he sees... And from that day on, the old man saw.

The stranger went next to the woman who had lost her hearing.  He took her hands in his.  They stood for a moment, as if alone, the visitor welcoming her into his peculiar light-filled presence.  Then he took her in an embrace and put his mouth next to her ear.  None could hear what he said.  None knew the words.  All saw the result.  When he released the woman, the joy on her face shone like a full-moon night - lighting the darkness of the crowd.  She began to sing.  Her clear, pure voice floated above them; it twined between them, like a vine, growing and reaching. The melody of it filled their ears with music.  It was the sound of healing.  And it was good.

The last to be seen by the stranger was the beggar.  They sat together in the dirt, by the stable where he worked, where he slept.  The boy smiled at his visitor.  Trusting.  Simple.  Pure.  The stranger gazed back, the light around him encompassing them both.  He turned to the crowd.

"Leave us."  He commanded, softly.

Disappointed, for they wanted more, the people turned and made their way back to their homes, to their families, to their obligations.  However, the village never quite returned to it's ordinary self.  The light seemed just a little brighter.  The air seemed a little clearer.  There were fewer arguments, and more music.  More smiles.  The villagers set about to prepare a feast for the stranger, a celebration when he returned for all he'd done.  The old man and the woman - the two made whole by the stranger also left - their gratitude immeasurable.

The stranger took the boy's hand in his.  At his touch, the boy began to laugh.  He laughed as they walked, hand in hand out of the village.  They laughed together.  Nothing more.

Heavenly Father, thank you for grace.

Linking with Tell His Story

Kicking and Screaming

He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.

Micah 6:8

God has a funny sense of humor.  Well, I guess that kind of goes without saying...  If you think of us as created in God's image... and we have some pretty good comedians... then God must be a pretty good comedian.  This Christianity thing, though, oh-my-goodness-is-it-ever-so-serious sometimes.  And it doesn't have to be.  I think God likes to laugh.  I think we'd better learn to laugh with him because he certainly laughs with some of our antics.  We might as well enjoy the fun.... 

Yes, I believe.  Yes, I try to obey - operative word is try...  Yes, I believe I am being changed, grown, cultivated, into a stronger, better, more Christ-like person.  And yes, I do it willingly. 

But it wasn't always that way.  Once upon awhile ago, even after a blessed childhood in a good, Christian home, I left the faith.  I denied God and in the process I denied Jesus.  It hurts to even write about it - so, no - this isn't the funny part.  Yet.  After a good decade of nothing very important, I decided I was going to look into the Christianity thing again;  I decided it was time to find out what the faith club was all about; I finally decided it was time to fill that God-shaped hole in my being.  It's easier to write it in shorthand than to go through all the reasons - because the story isn't in the decision itself.  The story is in the process.  Read:  My Journey Toward the Christian Life, by Janet.

God literally pulled me into Christian living kicking and screaming.  First, I went to the classes.  They met once a week at the local church I had sporadically attended.  I liked the music and some of my friends went there.  The very first class convinced me that my oh-so-logical viewpoint of Christ was wrong.  He was, in fact, not only a good man (which I knew by his actions), but he was the Son of God (which he told everyone who would listen).  He was really the Son of God because, a. he wasn't crazy-deluded, and b. he wasn't an evil villain out to pull a world-changing charade.  He was who he said he was which meant my carefully-crafted theology of non-belief was wrong.  Dead wrong.  If he was the Son of God, than there was a God.  Uh-oh.  I was in trouble!

Yes, you can start to chuckle at the frantic scrambling.  Of course I was now obligated to attend every single one of those classes.  The ones that explain the whys and wherefores of Christianity.   Kicking and screaming.  I had to make room in my schedule of teaching and a second job in order to attend.  I had to stay up later than my normal bedtime (losing beauty sleep...).

Then I was told that reading Scripture was part of the Christian life.  Huh?  I have to attend classes, and now I have to read the bible?  Oh, and by the way, we should really read Scripture daily.  Every day!  Daily as in every day??  So, hang on, I have to keep up with my family and work, go to these weekly religion classes, AND read my bible every day?

Scramble scramble.

Next, came the praying part.  Of course daily-every-day.  And no, reading the scripture is not praying, and praying is not reading the scripture, and even though you're doing both during class once a week, you really need to be praying and reading God's word daily.  At least daily.  Maybe even more than once a day.  Someone snuck in a more-than-once-a-day when I wasn't looking!  Because I was so busy trying to be a good Christian...

Scramble scramble.

I actually started to complain in the classes when they brought up journaling.  Kicking and screaming - it was the last straw.  Either the leaders of my small group thought I was totally nuts and were placating my schizoid behavior, or they'd seen it all before and knew I'd eventually come around.  They calmly went on with the discussion.  Kind of like ignoring the tantrum of a two-year old.  Even my husband was keeping his distance from this crazy wife who was trying to fit a new life into an old one; I was trying to stick a square peg into a round hole.  God was up in heaven just cracking up.

Scramble scramble.

Have you figured it out?  What was so funny?  Why God was laughing?  Here's where we are:  Weekly classes, plus I started to sing in the choir, so a service and a half on Sunday, reading the bible daily, praying - a LOT, keeping a prayer journal to track asked-for prayers, and answered prayers, and yes, even taking notes on my scripture reading - drawing diagrams and organizing tables - comparing and contrasting.

Scramble scramble.

God, am I doing ok, yet?  Do you love me yet?  And the whole time, the Holy Spirit was in me, working His magic.  Transforming.  Square peg slowly rounding up...Certain words and verses started to stick out in my reading.  Forgiveness, grace, unearned.  Undeserved.  Me.

Yet...yet... Do you hear him?  God laughing?   Not at me, never at me.  With me.  All that scrambling, all that kicking and screaming - trying to deserve, to earn - when all I had to do was accept.  Yes.  God chuckling now, it was a good one...now I get it.  Somewhere I had missed the point.  Not through works, but by His grace.  Thank God for grace!  He wants us to walk with him, to talk with him.  How else but through His Word?  (Oh!  the bible AND the Son!  See how the holy spirit works...)  How else but through conversation in prayer?  It's not a scramble scramble thing.  It's not a kicking and screaming thing.  It's an open-your-heart-and-learn-the-language thing.  It's not work - it's I want to.  Because I know I can't live without Him, not one day, not one hour, not one second longer than I did when I denied him.  And He already forgave me for that.  He just wants me to be wholly His.  And sometimes, we just have to laugh together at how He made it happen.

Heavenly Father, thank you for all the silly kicking and screaming; thank you for the memories of my scramble-scramble to be yours when all I ever had to do was accept You.  You.  Are.  Wonderful. 
 Help me to walk humbly with you. 

I love you.

God has graciously placed me in a full-time position at a school as a long-term sub for a woman who is battling a life-changing, life-threatening illness.  Except for the fact that my writing time has dwindled down to nothing, it is a good fit.  I pulled this from the archives - wanted to share.  I miss my blogging community.

This week I'm linking with Beth at Three Word Wednesday, and Emily at Imperfect Prose.

#TellHisStory: Even at Lunch

When the king of Israel saw them, he asked Elisha, "Shall I kill them, my father? Shall I kill them?" "Do not kill them," he answered. "Would you kill men you have captured with your own sword or bow? Set food and water before them so that they may eat and drink and then go back to their master." So he prepared a great feast for them, and after they had finished eating and drinking, he sent them away, and they returned to their master. So the bands from Aram stopped raiding Israel's territory.

2 Kings 6:21-23

"I could never be a Christian," she said, with that I-really-want-you-to-understand-me stare, a look of pleading, entreaty.  We weren't alone.  We were in the teacher's lounge - eating lunch - as we did daily. Regular circumstances, not-so-regular topic.  Sure, some of us went to the same church in town.  Sure, sometimes conversation included church stuff.  But not salvation.  Never something as deep as actual belief.

"I just can't get past the saving part," she confided, "the part where if you say you believe in Jesus, you go to heaven."  I was a brand-new Christian myself.  That saving part was a precious gift in my mind. Grace.   That saving part was a miracle to me.  A miracle that I had finally claimed - desperately.  And now that I had invited Jesus into my life, I knew I would never let Him go.  So, here I was.  In the teacher's lounge.  Listening.  

"Is it true," she asked, "that once you accept Jesus, you go to heaven?  He is the only way to heaven?"  I nodded, she had opened that tiny little door to one of my own issues.  The only way.  Every day I prayed a little prayer to cover my own issues.  God, I believe.  Help my unbelief.   The only way - surely good people, moral people, saintly people would have a way.  It sounded so exclusive - so Manifest Destiny-ish.  My inner turmoil...not now...spinning a web in my head....not now.  God, I believe.  Help me overcome my unbelief.

I listened.  She was so intent, so intense; her face hardened.  "My father became a Christian.  According to Christianity, he's going to heaven."  She looked away for an instant, her hand unconsciously clenched on the table.  Then unclenched as her eyes turned back to mine.  "He abused us, my sister and me.  Years ago.  He doesn't deserve to go to heaven."  She stared through me, laser focus to a time and place only she could see.  "He deserves to rot in hell."  Her lunch was half-eaten, napkin neatly laid out, yogurt cup opened, plastic spoon ready.  We were in the teacher's lounge - eating - as we did daily.  Regular circumstances, not-so-regular topic.

She wasn't a hugger.  My natural reaction was to give her a hug - of reassurance, acceptance, understanding.  She wasn't a hugger.  

What do you do with that?  What do you say?  How do you comfort?  Words weren't enough.  "I'm sorry," I said.  "I'm sorry that you had to go through that."  Oh God, help me.  Help her.  I see you, knocking.  Like you did with me.  Surround her with people who know you, help her to continue to seek You.  Let this not be about her father, but about You.  God, help me to know what to do...

God isn't easy, sometimes.  He is awesome.  He is terrible.  He is all-powerful and all-knowing.  He has high expectations of and for us.  That lunchtime was difficult for me.  I wanted to help, to share, to rejoice about Christ in my life.  It was not a time for words - and neither were the next six months at that school.  Not directly.  To her.  But...it was a time for action.  Our actions speak for us - louder, more eloquently, more consistently than our words.  I was changed - working to glorify God in my life - which affected the lives of those around me.  Not always successful, but lifted through my failures by grace.  Working, even at school.  Even at lunch.  Through action.  

Thousands of years ago, a prophet of God told the King of Israel to show mercy to the soldiers of a rival king.  Not only mercy, but generosity.  So he set out a feast for the captured soldiers.  And released them.  The story could end here - with the obedience of the King of Israel.  But God went a step further.  Cause and effect.  Because the King did as he was told, his subjects, the Israelites were kept safe from further raids by those released troops.  Cause and effect.

I continue to pray for my friend.  I pray that she is shown God's love and God's grace in her life.  I pray that she open the door to Jesus, so He can strengthen her, teach her, help her - to forgive, to love.  I pray that He lead her to peace.  Her questions will be answered - He is the Truth.

God, I believe.  Help my belief.

Linking with TellHisStory

Fingers Pointing to God

I will make you into a great nation,

and I will bless you;

I will make your name great,

and you will be a blessing.

I will bless those who bless you,

and whoever curses you I will curse;

and all peoples on earth

will be blessed through you.

Genesis 12:2-3

Once upon a long time ago, altars were built of rocks.  Rocks piled up in high places like fingers pointing to God.  Altars of sacrifice and worship.  Abraham built the first we know of after his blessing by God - when he was traveling through the land of Canaan from his home in Ur.  He piled up a lot of rocks...was even told to sacrifice his son - Isaac-which-means-laughter.  Told by God to make an altar to sacrifice his only son, his joy, the one named laughter.

But God was only checking out Abraham's faith.  Testing him.  Seeing if he was truly worthy of the role He had planned.  See, Abraham was to be the father of God's chosen people.  All the people on earth would be blessed through him.  He sure piled up a lot of stones.  Not to earn those blessings.  It wasn't like clearing a field for planting.  He piled up rocks to build something out of the earth - something God-worthy.

Rocks - bending my back

Loading up a ton of sin

Altar of darkness

Much later, came another.  Out of Abraham, out of Isaac.  Another man, referred to as Simon.  A man Jesus called.  He said Simon was his rock.  He renamed him Peter.  Rock.  He said you can't build a good foundation on shifting sand; floods will come and wash it away.  Destroy it.  A good foundation is built deep, is dug down, to rock.  Solid.  Strong.  Peter would be the rock for His church.

"Forgive me!"  I cry

On my knees in prayer to Him

Jesus.  Amazing.

So, I'm thinking about rocks today.  Our sins, our mistakes, our bad choices are like rocks.  We can choose to pile them up so they weigh us down with guilt, with despair, with sorrow.  Or we can choose to ask for forgiveness -  to clear them away like rocks in the field - for our sanctification, for our growth.  Sins can be used - been there, done that, won't do it again.  Those rocks, those burdens can be used to build a foundation in us - a foundation based on experience, a foundation of wisdom, a foundation for our future choices.

A gift undeserved

Grace.  Freedom.  Burden lifted.

Go and sin no more

Jesus forgives.  He died so we could be made new.  He can take those sins from us, those rocks, the very ones that bend us in half under their weight - and make altars from them.  Castaway stones, littering the ground.  Discarded sin, forgiven sin - hope for the future, faith and grace.  Piled up in high places.  Fingers pointing to God.

Oh God, thank you for taking away my sin, my burden of rocks - thank you for helping me to build an altar of faith and grace.  You.  Are. 

Joy

Look at the joy in that face; she wasn't even close to winning...

Splendor and majesty are before Him; strength and joy in His dwelling place.

1 Chronicles 16:27

Joy has become an interesting word.  It is all over the internet:  Choose Joy, Surprised by Joy, even Finding Joy in an Ordinary World....  Once upon a time, I thought happiness and joy were synonymous.  I thought of them like twin events with balloons and streamers, ice cream and cake - kind of like birthday parties.  Kind of like the way birthday parties and Christmas made me feel as a child.  Full of anticipation, receiving gifts, time off from school, good food, family get togethers....  Smiles and laughter all around.

My vision of joy was event-oriented.  It came at certain times, when conditions were just right.  The feeling wasn't part of me - it was part of my surroundings.  It was the atmosphere, the circumstance, the company I kept.  It was transient and ever-changing.  It was happiness - based out of happenstance.

Joy is different.  Where happiness comes in bits and pieces, joy is complete.  

My daughter taught me about joy.  It is easy, when you meet her, to think of her life as simple and single-dimensional.  It has been written that she suffers from Down Syndrome.  I disagree.  I used to think that she was blessed with Down Syndrome, but that's not true either.  I don't believe she would have chosen to be differently abled, so, to her, Down's is probably not a blessing.  But I do believe she has chosen joy in her life and has chosen joy in her different ability.  

She is neither simple or single-dimensional.  True, she sees the world through a lens of in-the-moment and here-and-now.  It is difficult, if not impossible for her to grasp and understand many of the abstracts in the world around her.  To my daughter, the world is entirely what-you-see-is-what-you-get.  But, her vision is colored by the turmoil and flow of emotions that touch her life.  She reads the feelings of those around her.  She lives out loud in purity of spirit; she doesn't hide her feelings; she doesn't comprehend sarcasm.  She wouldn't understand enmity.  But she senses it.

Sierra has experienced rejection,  yet she reaches out to everyone she meets - with a smile and a hug.  She doesn't always win at games, yet she encourages her opponents.  She isn't usually picked to be on a winning team or in a group, yet she congratulates those who are.  I have seen her fight back tears, yet hold the hand of the one who caused them.  She, unlike typical kids, doesn't know what to expect in rehearsals, classes, or youth meetings, but she bravely forges her way into new social situations and conquers the unknown.  She doesn't judge; she finds the good in those around her.  Watching her grow up has given me the opportunity to see that these acts I once thought came from her inability to understand the events around her, were actually choices she has made because she feels the emotions.  Imagine.  Joy is that choice you make to see the positive in a negative world.  Joy is the attitude adopted in the face of difficulty - the conscious effort to see light in darkness.  It takes strength to choose joy.  Strength and grace.  I see those in my girl, strength and grace.

Thank you, God, for the blessing of my daughter, who is full of your strength and joy.