Longtime readers of this 'blog know I have a child with Asperger's Syndrome, a fancy name for high-functioning autism.
She danced in her fifth ballet recital this weekend and for the first time I saw my mother-in-law cry at the sight of it.
My daughter, while an enthusiastic ballerina, is not exactly the most polished dancer in her class. Her mind is often full of other things -- the music that's playing, her own image in the mirror, the shuffling and stepping of the other students in the room -- and this keeps her from focusing heavily on her own body posture and positioning.
The routine her teacher choreographed gave my daughter no quarter. She was expected to perform alongside the rest of her class and to learn all the same moves. Mercifully, her teacher understands the challenges of Asperger's and kept my daughter largely to the back of the configuration so that any mistakes would not be as obvious. While it's important to give people with Asperger's every opportunity to do their best, it's equally important to preserve their dignity in the event their best is not as good as the world thinks it should be.
A full dress rehearsal is always held the morning of the recital. Usually, the rehearsal is full of stops and starts, blocking the dancers on the stage, and finally the dance to music. The auditorium lights are up, people are talking, parents are fussing over last-minute costume fittings, makeup or hair, and stagehands are working out last-minute kinks in curtains, lighting and sound. All this contributes to a complete lack of focus for my daughter and this year's rehearsal was no exception.
Arms loose, legs flailing, eyes darting out to see if I was watching her, my daughter was anything but the picture of poise and confidence. She watched nearby dancers too closely. Had she not really learned the routine? She seemed perpetually out of step. Could she not hear the music? I smiled on the outside, but inside my heart sank a little. I began to dread the actual performance later that day.
Call time found me in line with my daughter and her younger sister who is also a ballet student and whose work is consistently high caliber. Among the extended family, my younger daughter is the dancer no one worries about and who everyone expects will do wonderfully. She never fails to disappoint. I'm proud of her achievements, but because they are the norm for her I confess to being less amazed than when my older daughter does something in a similar vein. I guess I was born to cheer for the underdog.
As I signed the girls in to the backstage holding area, I said a silent prayer over my oldest -- the verse from the Book of Timothy in which we are told that "God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of love, and of power, and of a sound mind."
Please, God. Please give her the soundness of mind she needs to pull this off. Remind her of the joy You gave her from birth, the love she has for music, and calm any anxiety she might be feeling.
I'm firmly convinced that God listens most closely when a mother is the one pleading her case. Those are often the most desperate of prayers.
Following a series of well-executed dances by other groups, my daughter's class came on to the stage and the music began.
Seated in the third row, I could clearly see my child but she could not see me thanks to the glare of the stage lights shining down. This was good. It meant she would not be seeking me out. It meant she would not see my inadvertent grimace should she make a misstep. I could cover any disappointment simply by sitting hidden in the dark.
As the music started and the dance commenced, something took hold of my struggling ballerina. She began to smile. No, not smile, beam. She began to beam as if someone had flipped the switch on a very bright light somewhere inside her spirit and its shine simply had to come forth.
Her steps seemed more sure. Her arms, for the most part, were held in proper position. She stood tall and confident and seemed to know where to go without having to look to a classmate for guidance. Even though she spent only a few moments somewhere other than on the back row throughout the whole routine, she never once stopped beaming.
My mother-in-law leaned in to me and said, "This is just wonderful. I can't keep from crying."
I knew what she meant.
For about three minutes, the brightest light in that whole auditorium came not from any spotlight but from the face of my daughter and I, too, gave up trying to hold back the tears.
For in him we live and move and have our being. As some of your own poets have said, "We are his offspring." Acts 17:28 (NIV)
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