Differently Blessed

May God be gracious to us and bless us

and make his face shine upon us,

that your ways may be known on earth,

your salvation among all nations.

May the peoples praise you, O God;

may all the peoples praise you.

- Psalm 67:1-3

I've been meeting with the parents of children with special needs to prepare for a parents panel session  included in our Special Needs Conference for parents and caregivers.

What a privilege to step into the homes and lives of these courageously real parents who have stuck together under seemingly unbearable stress that has torn apart most families (the rate of divorce for parents of children with special needs is considerably higher than the typical rate, with estimates as high as 80-90%). I say "courageous" because they have faced many odds against them, but "real" because I know they resent being singled out as "special" or "heroic" when they have simply lived with what has been given to them. 

As one parent candidly remarked, "reality lives in this house." The reality for me is that I will never be able to fully step into their shoes and identify with their lived reality, yet I am so thankful for each parent who has vulnerably risked unpacking the reality of their daily lives, as I've assumed a listening posture in their presence.   

I listened to the stories of the daily grinding challenges - working and coming home to pick up the pieces, day after exhausting day searching for hope as if fumbling in the dark for the light switch, only to be told by the "professional expert" that their child is "hopeless" and to not expect any improvement; to be told by friends and family that their "disruptive" children are "misbehaving" due to their poor parenting skills; to be told they are no longer welcomed in their circles of community if they insist on bringing their "out-of-control" child with them; to receive their child's school yearbook only to realize that their child's special education class was conveniently left out; the behaviour of a child is rendered "cute" at the age of five, but when their adolescent's behaviour has not progressed past the age of five they are told that their child has become a problem. And so on.  

When parents are given space to share the pain that has been pushed down as a matter of survival, the reality all surfaces irrepressibly. A mother shared with me a session she had taken in at our last conference on the character of God and the problem of pain in the context of raising children with special needs. As parents shared their questions and expressed their anger at God, often for the first time, a raw nerve was touched, "the pain in the room was almost physical", she said with tears forming in her eyes, still clearly moved by the experience.

It's become increasingly clear to me that the pain does not sting in response to the disability, in and of itself (even in a medically fragile state), but in response to the accompanying exclusion. Families of children with special needs still feel isolated, ignored and excluded - looking from the outside in communities and churches that are shaped by the world's exclusionary normative standards and power structures. 

I'm praying that our local churches would be a counter-witness to the powers of the age: churches not merely running outreach programs for people with special needs, but an extended family of mixed abilities. A church that not only advertises, "all are welcome", but is by nature welcoming. A church not for people with special needs in a charitable posture of accommodation, but a church of people with special needs, where we all vulnerably gather together in our need (regardless of what that need may look like) and the abundant overflow of God's blessing. 

"I don't like the term special blessing, but he is a different blessing", one parent shared as her son pulled at her arm for her attention. When I think of all the differently-abled people I've worked with I too know that I've been differently blessed, and as we share our lives with each other in the church we will be a blessed people, the blessing of God's manifest presence radiating from our faces, which makes all the difference in the world.   

The evening was getting late, and the parents I was visiting that night asked their son to go to bed. He was still restless and with a guest in the house he simply refused to settle down for bedtime. The Dad laughed with his son and said, "I think you want to wrestle." They began play-fighting on the couch and the Dad asked his son for a hug and kiss, which the son gave gladly.  

"I love you son" his Dad said softly, as his son smiled and expressed the non-verbal language of affection with his shining face and another kiss. We can  manipulate our image with words, but there is no image-management in this household. They are housing a different reality, an altogether different language, the blessing of gentled, affectionate love, softening their spirits and holding their family together in the midst of the painful silence of most typical homes falling apart around the world.