Belonging is our word of the year

 

On Sunday we decided to visit one of my childhood churches, something we try to do now and again and hadn't done in a while because of the pandemic.

We settled into our seats just as worship started and as the service progressed, I could see the kids were tuned in, especially Kaleb. He loves new experiences, and this was no exception. I did wonder how long it would last. Usually when the sermon begins, he gets a little squirrelly. 

A guest preacher gave the last message of a sermon series called Loved. She spoke about the presence of fear in the Christmas story, about Jesus' parents who had to flee to Egypt after the arrival of the magi. God, she said, is present in the most literal sense in the midst of Mary and Joseph's fear for their family. 

Within the story was a story of her own, about the birth of her fourth child. A girl among three boys. She talked about a vulnerable moment of fear when, in a pizza parlor, she witnessed a young woman with an intellectual disability laugh a little too loudly at a sitcom playing on the store TV. She instinctively covered her hands over her belly, as if to protect the unborn child from such a fate, and then felt ashamed of her own prejudice. There were some head nods in the congregation, some hums of affirmation. "Yes, that would be hard," they seemed to agree. I started to sweat. Where was this story going?

And then that fear visited her again, the day after her daughter was born, when a doctor came to her to talk about some of the baby's characteristics, specifically what is called a single palmar crease. She held out her hand and traced an imaginary line across it. I glanced to my left over the heads of our girls at Mark. He was shifting uncomfortably. Then I looked to my right where Kaleb had been (miraculously) quietly sitting during the sermon. Was he picking up on this story about fear and having a baby with Down syndrome? In that moment, I watched him turn his left palm up and trace the line across it with his right index finger. Oh my gosh, he's actually listening. I reached down and cupped his hand in my own. I whispered to him, "Her baby has Down syndrome." 

His face lit up. "Really?"

"Yes, isn't that cool?"

"Like me," he smiled.

"Like you."

Of course, the story had a happy ending. That beautiful daughter is now two. Welcoming her changed everything in the best ways. Just like it did for us.

But the preacher's story momentarily touched my own fear that Kaleb may someday come to understand (and he likely will) that his differences are not welcome everywhere. My terror only increased at the prospect of this happening in a faith community. Of all places where he might discover this failure of imagination, may it not be in a community of faith. Of course, I knew no mother of a child with Down syndrome would end the story of her daughter's birth as a tragedy. But I worried that Kaleb would pick up on an association or suggestion of any kind that having a baby with Down syndrome could be a negative thing.

He listened attentively to the rest of the sermon and seemed perfectly pleased that he had a connection to it. Internally, I gently reminded myself of another truth: Mark and I were once afraid, too. 

After the service, Kaleb ran to get in line behind the handful of congregants who were pausing to meet the guest preacher. "Oh," she said to Kaleb when she recognized the shape of his eyes above his mask, "I am so glad to meet you." Though we talked briefly, it was clear that meeting him was a gift to her as much as receiving her message that first Sunday of the year was a gift to us. 

We hopped in the car and headed for our second stop of the day--the new Bitty and Beau's franchise in Melrose, a coffee shop that exists to create pathways of meaningful employment for people with developmental and intellectual disabilities. As we opened the door to the shop, we were immediately greeted by an employee, "Welcome to Bitty and Beau's!" he said walking toward us and planting himself in our path. He pointed to his name tag.

"Hi, Michael!" I replied.

As we placed our order and sat down to wait, we were greeted at least once by every employee. Dan presented Kaleb with a future employee pin. Brady chatted with us from behind the counter about books and his job while we waited for our drinks. The owner introduced herself and thanked us for coming in. Every direction we turned presented a new moment of connection. It was like no other coffee shop I've ever visited, but exactly what it claimed to be: a place where all people belong. 

When I asked the owner what made her decide to open a franchise, she said, "Because you always leave happier than when you came in."

This is true. That was probably the longest coffee shop stop we've ever made or likely ever will make.

This morning as I woke up to the advent of a new week and the rigor of our daily schedule, I wondered why yesterday had left me feeling so happy.

The truth is, lately, life feels a bit heavy. But yesterday, though the skies hung low with rain and fog like they had every day of the past week, something felt different. Lighter. The different was this:

We had spent the day in the presence of a come as you are kind of welcome. It was perfectly fine to show up to church in a plaid shirt and rainbow striped tie and to stop to chat to a guest minister who didn't try too hard to be winning, but instead was genuinely pleased to see you. We didn't walk into a coffee shop and work hard to corral Kaleb's boundless energy into something publicly acceptable, because the workers who greeted us were as unencumbered by the need to give us personal space as Kaleb typically is with friends and strangers alike. We just took up space the way we needed to and no one expected us to do otherwise.

At our house, we treat advocacy as a privilege, as a special thing our family gets to do, even as we acknowledge that it is sometimes hard work. And yet even though we feel privileged to advocate for Kaleb and others, it is always a relief to enter spaces where we don't have to, where he is welcome to take up space just exactly as he is. Sometimes too loud, or standing too close, or hard to understand.

The built world is not built for people with differences or disabilities. Those of us who move and act in the world in conventional ways sometimes fail to see this. We are used to a world that is built for us. When someone doesn't fit, we think they should be the ones to change. But belonging means no one has to change. Belonging means everyone is welcome. Belonging means that we, who have the power to, change the rules of the game, redesign spaces, open our minds, our hearts, and lay down inhibitions to say with our mouths and with our actions, "You are welcome here, because we need what you have to offer." 

There are many ways to advocate. Sometimes it's picket lines and protests, hard-won fights for basic access, but often it's everyday things--remembering to put the desks back into their predictable configuration so your classmate who happens to be blind can enter the next class and find her seat independently, with dignity. Or reminding an acquaintance that your son isn't a Downs kid, but a young boy who happens to have Down syndrome. This kind of work isn't just good for people like Kaleb. It's good for all of us. We need each other. Not just in the strengths and gifts we all possess. But in our differences, vulnerabilities, and challenges, too. Maybe most especially in those.

The seating at the coffee shop is primarily two long stretches of counter, where strangers must sit elbow to elbow, where customers are as close as they can be to the people serving them, where everyone takes up the same space together--people who come in as strangers and leave feeling like friends.

We don't have to wait to live in communities like that. We can make them. An in making them, allow ourselves to be remade into a nearer reflection of who we truly are. Beloved image bearers of a richly creative God.