Gillian Marchenko

Why my daughter’s assembly at her special needs school made me cry

The scene: Evangeline’s holiday assembly at school.

I’m late, breathless, with crumbled cookies in my purse to give to her teacher and aids. I forget my camera, and sigh at the fact that my phone takes cruddy pictures.

The gymnasium is small, and the space for parents is even smaller. I cram into a spot on the bleachers and wait with everyone else. The children start to enter. They are wheeled in, walked in, carried, and some proudly strut in by themselves. 150 students. All with some kind of special need.

I spot Evie being led by her teacher. Her Christmas skirt, a hand-me-down from her older sister, barely stays around her hips. She smiles at the crowd. Giggles. I breathe easier. She isn’t afraid.

The program begins. A class attempts to sing Jingle Bells but the CD player skips, and the crowd ends up singing it together. Voices swell. Hands clap. A lump forms in my throat.

I’m at a winder assembly for Evangeline, my daughter, who is thriving and loved in this special needs school.

Her adoption

Almost five years ago, I remember sitting in another school assembly. This one was for Polly (my other daughter with Down syndrome, like Evie). It was her first. Polly was in a blended preschool, meaning that some students in her class had special needs and some did not.

Two little girls in the front row had Down syndrome. I hadn’t seen them before. They looked maybe a year or two older than Polly. I was quite taken with them. I laughed at their giggles and smiled oozy smiles all over them throughout the assembly. I tried to share the love, to notice the other children too, but really, I only had eyes for them.

At that time we had just started the process of adopting Evangeline from Ukraine.

Polly got out of her seat and came over to me and crawled in my lap. I caught her teacher’s eye and she gave the nod that it was okay. Hugging Polly, completely smitten by the other children near me, most differently-abled but, oh, so abled. I pleaded with God internally.

Please bring Evangeline home soon.

At that moment, my love for Evie, although I had never met her, was fierce. My desire to parent, undeniable. I needed to get on a plane. I needed to get to her. She was my daughter. I needed her to come home. Would she love me? Would she find comfortable places to land in this foreign, big world we were about to push on her?

And now

Here we are. Evie sits with her class as they sing a holiday song, and I try not to burst into tears.

She’s been home, she’s been mine, she’s been a part of our foreign, big world for four years.

I have not hidden our adoption struggles. My daughter and I work to bond. Some days we get it. Others, we don’t. She was given a second diagnosis of autism officially a few months ago, and a lot of days, you’ll find our family just trying to break into her world.

But she is here. Dressed in her sister’s hand-me-downs, laughing, and letting her teacher manipulate her arms to join the rest of the class.

“We are so thankful you would come spend the morning with us. We want you to know, we love your kids almost as much as you do,” the teacher says into the microphone at dismissal.

Evangeline is here, performing in a holiday assembly. She’s found several comfortable places to land in our big, foreign world: this school, her church, our home.

There is a glow about her.

I think it is love.

And that’s why I tear up. Out of thankfulness that just because something is difficult, it doesn’t mean it isn’t good. I tear up because it is Christmas, and I am thinking of Jesus, God with us. Although we didn’t ask for it nor do most of us know we need it, God provides a comfortable place for us to land in this foreign, big world through the birth of a baby in a manger.

I tear up out of thankfulness for Evangeline, our daughter, who is here.

And I am spurred on to pursue her, to love her, and to do all I can to provide comfortable places for her to land.

Merry Christmas.