** may NOT be reproduced in any format without the author's express permission **  . 2009



                    Memoir of a Melody

There could be no more perfect name for a child who loves
music like Melody does. She also brightens at the sound of
her momma's voice, the soothing murmurs of the teacher
who adores her, and wind chimes. But she cannot speak or see, and
some days can barely breathe without her treatments for cystic fibrosis.

Maryann is Melody's teacher, and has taught special-ed for twenty-five
years. Sheadores and dotes on  her students, checking  on them over the summer months, visiting them when they're hospitalized, and attending their funerals when their young lives end and their too-small coffins are lowered into the hostile earth.

Maryann is THE person you'd choose as a teacher for your handicapped or severely disabled child. She's patient, kind, empathetic, and celebrates the smallest of accomplishments with her students. Many of the kids will never  walk, talk or feed themselves. Some will live to be perhaps fifteen years old with good medical care but they'll still wear diapers and live in their own worlds. Many are autistic; others have cerebral palsy or chromosomal anomalies.

They are all euphemistically and optimistically labeled 'developmentally
delayed,' but the reality is that they will never catch up to their peers.
Most won't write their names, learn to add and subtract, or run to
chase a ball or dance; their limbs and senses don't work in sync. They
surely don't fit any paradigm of 'normal.' They'll all be 'left behind,'
scholastically and politically. But they are people worthy of dignity,
all the same. And Maryann gives them that in spades.

There is no test to measure Melody's newfound ability to tap her
finger to the beat of music. This development was cause for celebration in Maryann's class, just as James' not hitting or biting during quiet time
was a triumph. Their teacher cherishes these milestones.
When learning of this precious child's ability to hear and appreciate
sound, I got out a dragonfly wind chime I'd been saving for the perfect
recipient. You see, I have chimes all around my cabin, swaying musically in trees, porches, windows and even my rose garden. To me they're a lyrical analogy of faith. Without the wind, they're pretty but silent. I can't see the wind, but I can hear and see its essence. Without the Holy Spirit in me I'm diminished, but with It swaying me, I am made whole, useful, beautiful.

But this particular wind chime with its silvery dragonflies had never quite
fit anywhere. I knew then, this was what I'd kept it for. Maryann hung it on
Melody's wheelchair the next day, so that her music would travel with her.

I once asked Maryann why she goes to work every day, to a depressing
job where she'll never be nominated for 'Teacher of the Year,' and can't
point to standardized test scores as proof of her students' progress.
Maryann replied to my query thoughtfully.

"I believe," she began softly, "that God gave me the ability to see
beyond the external, and to find that one special thing inside a child,
something that he or she can react positively to. I know that each
living being is a creature of God, each having purpose and talent.
God gave me the gift of finding that and using it to make these
children as happy as can be for their short time on this earth. I also
feel that these children with severe disabilities are sent here to
teach us. I'm grateful for the insight to learn from these earthly angels."

I believe it is people like Melody and Maryann who - perhaps
better than the rest of us - hear so clearly the voice of God.

Amen.