A life lived small
The simple act of going to basketball practice
None of us parents want our kids with special needs to have a life lived small. But it can happen quickly, can’t it? Evie went to basketball practice last night for special olympics and here is my confession: I didn’t want to take her.
I feared she’d get bumped by other players or upset or clobbered by the big round orange thing essential to the game. I’m often quick to assume what she can and can’t do without even providing her the opportunity to decide for herself. (Note: It’s not about ‘the can.’ The can shouldn’t be a factor. A lesson I’m clearly still working on.)
My assumptions about Evie, if not dealt with, result in a life lived small. And my bones ache at that realization. I know it’s not okay.
Chronic sorrow
Sometimes on our special needs journey, I struggle with what’s known as chronic sorrow, a reoccurring swell of grief some parents experience over certain aspects of life with disability. For me, it presents like a nostalgia for a different life. A longing for a world I control and direct. But these thoughts cheapen the gracious lives gifted to us by God.
After thirteen years of parenting kids with special needs, I’m starting to understand that making decisions for my kids and “protecting” them from the big, scary world where basketballs can drop on your head are sure ways to induce the very chronic sorrow I’m trying to avoid.
So, I took her to practice and she stood and rocked and got overstimulated. She also caught and threw the basketball and made her coach chase after her passes.
I realize that trying new things isn’t easy or cookie cutter. It takes a lot of heart to branch out. There are attempts and modifications made and at the end of the day, sometimes our plans still don’t come to fruition. But there’s value in the trying. Our efforts, either failed or resulting in success, are worth it.
The simple act of walking out onto that scuffed up gym floor underneath buzzing, fluorescent lights and handing her a ball expanded us both. It only took an hour. Showing up is a big deal. An hour made more space. And it was scary and good. Because no one, disability or not, should live small.
Now, friends, here’s your assignment. What part of your life is small? Can you give an hour to expand it?