Summer is for Picnics
A couple of weekends ago, Mark and I hosted a picnic at a local park for area families of children with Down syndrome. It's been something on our hearts since early spring, and we finally pulled it off.
We were a little nervous about the turnout--only a few families RSVP'd at first--but the day of the event six families gathered to share food, games, and good conversation. We stayed two and a half hours getting to know each others' stories and children, and we made promises to meet again soon. We need each other. We need community--our kids need it--while we raise our families.
There was a time when seeing other children with Down syndrome struck a strange fear in my heart. I think it was because I was still processing my own feelings about Kaleb, and being confronted with Ds head-on in other contexts was more than I could absorb. Maybe that makes sense to you, maybe it doesn't. I'm not even sure if it makes sense to me.
On that particular June afternoon, there was not one cloud in the sky, its deep blue dappled with the greens of trees made a canopy overhead. Well-shaded and warm, we couldn't have asked for better weather.
I looked around at all of our families, drawn together by one extra copy of one chromosome--something so minute, microscopic, and yet still so significant to each of us. Our stories were similar and different, our children shared a common bond and yet they were still their own unique individuals.
In my writer's brain, I tried to imagine what other visitors to the park saw when they looked our way, but I quickly switched to what my own reaction would have been pre-Kaleb. Before Kaleb was born, I might have felt pity in my heart for that group of families over there with kids who have special needs; I might also have felt admiration for the way they all seemed to be enjoying themselves, enjoying their children. From my outsider's view I would definitely have missed the details.
While I was busy generalizing, I would have missed the way Kelly snuggled her eight month old son against her and the way he responded with the slightest little grin that quickly spread over his whole face and eyes. I would have missed the way C's older brother adored him and announced first thing to the rest of us that "C is the best baby brother!" Later, he took a concerned tone with his mom, asking if he was going to have to tell everyone about C. "Am I going to have to do it? Or are you going to tell everyone here?" he asked. "Tell them what?" she asked innocently. Big brother never noticed that other children present shared the same "secret"as his baby brother. "Don't you love that?" Kelly asked smiling big. "He doesn't realize. They're all just kids to him."
I would have missed the way M snuggled with her day school teacher and signed "Jesus," in answer to "Who loves you best of all, M?"
I would have missed the way that characteristic lunging walk--hands slightly out to the sides for balance was so sweet and determined all at once. I would have missed the way every step was born of hard work and big love.
I would have missed the way four-month old K who was still so new, so little, reminded me of Kaleb when he was newborn. I would have missed the way her mother and father still seemed a little shell-shocked among us--how I recognized that intense love mixed with the realization that this new life is still a mystery, a puzzle that only time and love can put together.
In my moment of charitable onlooker's pity and thank goodness it's not me, I would have missed all that nuance and meaning and color. It's like having seen the world in black and white your whole life, never knowing how layered and complex it is, how beautiful in multicolor. I might have gone on thinking black and white were the only colors worth seeing, but I would have been wrong. So very wrong.
When Mark asked me later if I thought the afternoon was a success, I didn't have to think twice before answering, "Definitely. I hope we do this again..." and thought, ...for many years to come.
And so, I think, we will.
We were a little nervous about the turnout--only a few families RSVP'd at first--but the day of the event six families gathered to share food, games, and good conversation. We stayed two and a half hours getting to know each others' stories and children, and we made promises to meet again soon. We need each other. We need community--our kids need it--while we raise our families.
There was a time when seeing other children with Down syndrome struck a strange fear in my heart. I think it was because I was still processing my own feelings about Kaleb, and being confronted with Ds head-on in other contexts was more than I could absorb. Maybe that makes sense to you, maybe it doesn't. I'm not even sure if it makes sense to me.
On that particular June afternoon, there was not one cloud in the sky, its deep blue dappled with the greens of trees made a canopy overhead. Well-shaded and warm, we couldn't have asked for better weather.
I looked around at all of our families, drawn together by one extra copy of one chromosome--something so minute, microscopic, and yet still so significant to each of us. Our stories were similar and different, our children shared a common bond and yet they were still their own unique individuals.
In my writer's brain, I tried to imagine what other visitors to the park saw when they looked our way, but I quickly switched to what my own reaction would have been pre-Kaleb. Before Kaleb was born, I might have felt pity in my heart for that group of families over there with kids who have special needs; I might also have felt admiration for the way they all seemed to be enjoying themselves, enjoying their children. From my outsider's view I would definitely have missed the details.
While I was busy generalizing, I would have missed the way Kelly snuggled her eight month old son against her and the way he responded with the slightest little grin that quickly spread over his whole face and eyes. I would have missed the way C's older brother adored him and announced first thing to the rest of us that "C is the best baby brother!" Later, he took a concerned tone with his mom, asking if he was going to have to tell everyone about C. "Am I going to have to do it? Or are you going to tell everyone here?" he asked. "Tell them what?" she asked innocently. Big brother never noticed that other children present shared the same "secret"as his baby brother. "Don't you love that?" Kelly asked smiling big. "He doesn't realize. They're all just kids to him."
I would have missed the way M snuggled with her day school teacher and signed "Jesus," in answer to "Who loves you best of all, M?"
I would have missed the way that characteristic lunging walk--hands slightly out to the sides for balance was so sweet and determined all at once. I would have missed the way every step was born of hard work and big love.
I would have missed the way four-month old K who was still so new, so little, reminded me of Kaleb when he was newborn. I would have missed the way her mother and father still seemed a little shell-shocked among us--how I recognized that intense love mixed with the realization that this new life is still a mystery, a puzzle that only time and love can put together.
In my moment of charitable onlooker's pity and thank goodness it's not me, I would have missed all that nuance and meaning and color. It's like having seen the world in black and white your whole life, never knowing how layered and complex it is, how beautiful in multicolor. I might have gone on thinking black and white were the only colors worth seeing, but I would have been wrong. So very wrong.
When Mark asked me later if I thought the afternoon was a success, I didn't have to think twice before answering, "Definitely. I hope we do this again..." and thought, ...for many years to come.
And so, I think, we will.
What a beautiful post Sara. I must tell you, after reading this, I am reminded that you have SUCH a gift of hospitality...I was thinking the other day about when we first met and you FIRST invited Scott and I over to dinner...that dinner was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. So thank you for that...and keep embracing that inkling to bring people together...to soak in the beauty of the colorful details. Love you guys!
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