Class of 2015 Speeches

These past two years, I delivered two speeches to the Class of 2015: one for their junior leadership luncheon (April 2014) and one for their graduation (May 2015). The speeches speak to each other a bit, so I included both addresses here. Thanks for even wanting to read these; they are from the heart but not necessarily profound! xoxo Sara

Part 1: Junior Leadership Luncheon 2014

Five months ago, Mr. Gahan and I welcomed baby Grant into our little family and into this world. Four hours after he was born, a nurse walked into my room and told me that Grant has Down Syndrome, a chromosomal disorder that will cause Grant to have intellectual and developmental delays. Initially, I was devastated. For days, I sat next to Grant in the NICU and worried about his health, his future, our other son Will. Life suddenly looked so different from what I had expected. I felt more alone and scared than I have at any other time in my life.

BUT—and you all know that I think BUT is the most important word in literature—

BUT

Every day around 4:00, Mr. Gahan would arrive straight from school bearing gifts. From you all. Handwritten letters, a jacket with Grant’s name embroidered on it, a video of you playing a favorite song on the piano. Every day at 4:00, you all loved on us from afar and made me feel so much less alone. And in those moments, I thanked God for you. I still do. And you know what I started to think and now think about all the time?

You are going to be the leaders that my boys look up to.

And after teaching you and knowing you and falling in love with you all over the past two years, I say YES. And thank you. This leadership luncheon honors the leaders you are now and the leaders you will become, and I want to be one of many who say I am so proud of you.  But you gave me this opportunity to speak to you outside the classroom today, so I am going to seize it and tell you five things I have learned this year that I need you to hear.

First, you need to know that YOU ARE ENOUGH.  I used to see my life as a to-do list. Study hard so you get that grade, work hard in this job so you can get that job, run these miles so you can say you did, go to bed tired so you can wake up and do it all again. I see it in you all too. In this world of college applications and grades and awards, I watch you beautiful people feel all the time that you are not smart enough or skinny enough or cool enough or fast enough or tough enough or articulate enough or good enough. You beat yourself up because you already feel behind. You are sixteen and seventeen and you already feel behind.

Oh my.

Friends, you are SO ENOUGH. You don't have to DO anything. At the end of the day, YOU ARE ENOUGH. You are more than enough. It may be hard to believe, but so many people love you for who you are right now. Not because of where you get into college or because you aced the test this morning or because you scored the goal last night. We love you because of WHO YOU ARE. And who you are—separate from everything that you DO—is enough.

2. You need to know that Life is hard. If it’s not hard for you right now, then I can promise you it is hard for someone sitting near you. People are fighting public and not-so-public battles all over the place. Turn on the news and you hear about high school students drowning on a ferry ride, burning buildings in Boston, car accidents, and cancer. You know, I used to believe that Life is beautiful, but Grant’s birth shifted my perspective a bit. Now I believe that life can be hard. It’s PEOPLE that are beautiful. And in the end, LOVE WINS. Every time. Bombing at the Boston Marathon? Boston Strong rallies in the most beautiful, inspiring of ways. Coach Martin’s cancer returned last fall? Maya’s making t-shirts and the entire field hockey team is walking in support. My son has an extra chromosome? You have shown me that it’s going to be okay, in fact, it’s going to be awesome, and that he is going to be so insanely loved. Last November and every day since, you have shown me that LIFE MAY BE HARD BUT LOVE WINS.

3. Similarly, you need to know that REVISION is not only the most important step in the writing process—it might also be the most important approach to life too. Because, as you know, life may not always unfold the way you plan for it to, the way you picture it. I totally had a picture of what Mr. Gahan and my family and life would look like, and when that that nurse walked into my hospital room with Grant’s diagnosis, I felt like she took an eraser and wiped that picture away. And that very night, no joke, I got a text from a former student. One line: You always said revision is where the magic happens. That’s grace right there. An important concept takes on a whole new meaning for this teacher, and a student revealed it to me.

There are many parts of the writing process that I urge you all to carefully consider and apply, but none is more important than revision. I beg you all to see this step in the process as space in which the rough gets polished, the raw gets refined, and the superfluous falls away. It results in a better final product; I believe that more than ever now.

This picture that my family has been revising since November looks so much more meaningful and beautiful and FULL because Mr. Gahan and Will and Grant and I are composing it together. It’s like the irony of photography. The most beautiful pictures are developed in a dark room. Don’t be afraid to revise.

4. You need to SHOW UP. During interim week this year, I visited the Heuser Hearing and Language Academy. I walked into a classroom of three year-olds and felt the six kids in there take my breath away. They were so darn positive and determined and focused on communicating with each other. One little boy started walking over to me, and I couldn't help but notice his limp and brace that made his effort to get to me even more laborious. Nevertheless, he gave me a high five and kept smiling at me, making me feel really welcome. A few minutes later, his teacher was helping him into his wheelchair to go out to his school bus and what she said stopped me in my tracks: "He's really behind but he's come so far this year. His parents basically gave up on him from the moment he was born. There's no support at home."

Dude.

I almost brought him home with me.

Here was a kid who is facing tremendous challenges, and rather than complaining about them, he is BATTLING.  And then I stood there thinking about how just months earlier I had worried I wasn’t enough of a mama for Grant. But standing among those gorgeous three year olds, it was so clear. Grant needs me. SHOW UP. Grant and I need YOU to show up too. Some days it might be hard to see why you are doing all of this hard work. Walk down the hallways of the lower and middle schools with me and I’ll show you hundreds of reasons why. All of these kids are going to look to you for encouragement, for an example, for understanding, for help. They need you to be a cheerleader and not a bully, to find solutions to problems rather than cause more of them. No matter what you do with your one wild and precious life, you will have big and small opportunities to help or hurt people. I pray that you will choose to help.  And when life throws you a curve ball, keep your head up and battle. Don’t you give up. Because kids like mine need you to keep trying for them.

5. Finally, I need each and every one of you to know that you are so, so loved. Your parents love you with every breath they take, and I know that because I’ve gotten to know some of your parents. Your teachers love you so much. And I know that high school relationships can be confusing, but you need to know that your friends love you so much. And you need to know that loving other people, everyone really, especially when they need someone because life has been hard and dealt them a tough hand is really, really important. When in doubt about what to do or how to respond, LEAD WITH LOVE. Make it your default. There is no such thing as too much love in this world.

So there it is.

You are enough.

Life is hard but people are beautiful.

Practice revision.

Show up don’t give up.

And LOVE.

I believe each and every one of you has the potential to change lives for the better. I know because you’ve changed mine.

Thank you.

Part 2: Graduation Speech 2015

Hello, beautiful people.

Esteemed family and friends of these happy graduates, congratulations on this exciting day. I can only imagine the love, sacrifice, and dedication from you all that helped these young people arrive at this moment.  I admire you and we all appreciate you.

To the awesome faculty over there, you all are the greatest team of educators, and I am honored to call you my colleagues and my friends.  Thank you for guiding and loving these graduates into this moment.

To the Class of 2015, holla! This is it. You are about to receive your diplomas and walk out of here Collegiate graduates. I think I speak for everyone in this theatre when I say that I am so insanely proud of you. Last year, I shared with you all some life lessons I learned in the days following my son Grant’s birth. He has changed me in the most powerful and beautiful and life-giving of ways.

And you all have too. You have shown up for me and for my family, you have challenged me to be a better teacher and person, you have inspired me as artists and thinkers and PEOPLE. You have also taught me a great deal. So today, this year, I’d like to articulate some life lessons I have learned from YOU.

1.First, you all have taught me how to compete. My oh my are you all competitors. You have spent a lot of your life competing, and you all have done very well. Among you are—get ready, this is a long list--Scholastic Silver Key winners, All-A state soccer champions, state track and cross-country champions, top ten Greater Louisville Math League finishers, Collegiate’s all-time leading basketball scorer, a world champion eventer, a national rower, leaders of the winningest swim team in school history, runner-up in the State girls tennis doubles championship and a top 8 male singles tennis player, members of the Girls Lacrosse district 1 championship team and Boys Final Four lacrosse team, leaders of a state top ten mock trial team, leads in the school plays…you all make me tired just saying all of these, and this list only captures SOME of what you have achieved THIS YEAR. Needless to say, you all are impressive. You’ve taught me how to battle.

But you’ve also shown me that in the end WE ARE ALL ON THE SAME TEAM.

You see, when I was your age, for some reason I thought that success was measured on a bell curve and only so many people could be the most successful or the most popular, and thus I spent so much time worrying about how I measured up against others and whether I was cool or included or making some type of cut.

And then as I transitioned into adulthood, I gradually started noticing that all of the cliques and categories that drove me nuts and made me feel badly about myself didn’t exist anymore. People were too concerned with other, very real problems, like their mother’s recent cancer diagnosis or how they were going to make ends meet. They were too concerned with loving people and working hard and just plain trying to make it that they didn’t have time to focus on what other people judged them to be. It didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. And part of what I love about you all is that you get that. You go after what you love to do and you do it the best that you can and you OWN it. If someone else is doing something amazing, you celebrate it and you support it and you often join them. You realize that there’s no time and no reason to be exclusive or judgmental or discouraging, there’s no friend quota or achievement ceiling or limit on the amount of kindness that this world can handle.

I don’t know if any of you have seen the video going viral this week about Matt, a fifth grade student at Colonial Hills Elementary School in Worthington, Ohio. Matt has spastic cerebral palsy, a condition that makes it difficult and painful for him to run for long periods of time. But his school’s field day was a couple weeks ago, and he was determined to be a part of it and run alongside his classmates. He kept up with his peers for the first lap, but then his legs start to slow and his breathing became labored and before long, he was the only student left on the grass track. But he was still running. His physical education teacher ran up next to him and asked, “Matt, you’re not going to stop, are you?” “No way,” panted Matt, and he kept on putting one foot in front of the other. And then suddenly and naturally, Matt’s classmates fell in beside him, running with him and cheering him on to the finish. Those students understood that in life, we are all on the same team, and I think you all understand that too. You all have proven to me that everyone can be smart, everyone can be kind, everyone can be successful, and everyone can be loved beyond measure. You all certainly are.

2. In our year together in the classroom, we read a lot of stories, some of which you loved and some… you didn’t love as much, but the stories I will remember from that year are yours. In person and in your writing, you each revealed to me an inner depth that earned my respect and admiration. You may have been only 15 and 16 at the time, but you had already experienced very real loss and grief, heartbreak and betrayal, adversity and disappointment. You kept asking big questions and you wrestled with not having many answers, you recognized injustice and you gracefully but confidently demanded that people do better.

You taught me that every single person has a powerful and worthy story.

You are about to head into the great wide open, where you will meet lots of people, none of whom will know your story. Be willing and proud to share it. Each and every one of you has a story that is worth telling.  But I also want to remind you that everyone else does too. My experience with you all is that the more I got to know you—your strengths and your weaknesses, your fears and your dreams, your opinions and your life choices—the more beautiful a person I found you to be. If you take the time and earn the trust to know a person’s story, I’m pretty sure you will be so overwhelmed with admiration that you wouldn’t know how to do anything other than respect and perhaps even love that person. No one is perfect but everyone is beautiful.

Lesson #3 that you all taught me: This year, as you all engaged in the super easy and low-stress college application process, you all taught me the importance of pursuing my passion.

No. You didn’t.

You taught me that you actually HATE that phrase and that’s it not only incredibly cliché but also insanely overwhelming to consider. I couldn’t agree with you more. As you all reminded me multiple times, it’s okay not to know what you passion is and what’s more, it may take a long time to figure out, and you might have many, and at times you might have none, and all of that is OKAY.

When I was your age, I had no idea what my passion was or my career path was or what my talents were or what I even cared enough about to dedicate my life to.  I liked being with people and I liked learning and I wanted to do something with my life that was meaningful. Beyond that, I had NO CLUE what I wanted to do. My parents are my two greatest role models and my dad is a lawyer, so I planned to go to law school. Until I took a politics course and hated it and then took the LSAT and bombed it and then interned with a law firm and was more interested in reading the magazines in the lobby than the journals of law in the library. By a miraculous turn of events, I found myself interviewing at this tiny boarding school in the middle of nowhere Maryland on a weekend when a blizzard also decided to visit. My day-long interview turned into a full-fledged immersion experience in how to teach a class and then coach a sport and then run an evening meal and then host a movie night for thirty middle-school girls in a big dorm. I loved every minute of it and accepted the job offer in a heartbeat—but I still thought I would head to law school before long. And then I got to know the students, kids almost as awesome as you, and my life changed course. Twelve years later, I still feel most alive in the classroom.

Like so many of you did so well this year, let go of this loaded word “passion” and instead focus on loving the people around you. My experience is that your passions will find you.

4. Finally, you always challenged me to get to the point. Understandably, you wanted to know why we were reading Shakespeare (because his brilliant work gets at the heart of what it means to be human) and why you all had to analyze (because it makes you think about the big questions) and why you all had to take super easy reading quizzes (obvious). Mrs. Gahan, WHY? What is the point?

And so for three years, I have been asking myself that very question. And you all helped me find the answer.

The point of life—the hard work, the frustrations, the disappointments, the joys, the days when we’re on top of the world and loving life and then the days when we’re feeling utterly defeated and despairing—the point of all of it is TO TAKE CARE OF EACH OTHER. It is not to make money or to gain power or to get smarter. We do all of those things SO WE CAN TAKE CARE OF EACH OTHER.

That’s it.

But that’s a LOT.

Because as you know, there are billions of people in this world, and every single one of them deserves and needs and wants to be loved. We’ve got a lot of work to do, work that will never end as long as men can breathe and eyes can see. So, class, get to the point. Take care of the people sitting around you right now, take care of the people in this audience who love you more than their hearts can contain, take care of the people you will meet in college and after college and forever. You have taken care of me at a very tender time in my life, and I thank you.

I will end with this. You know, Mr. Gahan and I are trying to teach Grant sign language, and when we asked his occupational therapist which words we should start with, you know what she said?

“More” and

“Love.”

More love. Of course.

I hope you always remember that you are enough.

BUT—and there’s that word you know I love—BUT our work here is not done.

This world needs more love, and you have taught me that your minds are big but your hearts are bigger. Be kind. Be brave. Be inclusive and encouraging and grateful and be proud of where you came from and proud of where you’re going. I look forward to encouraging and following your stories for years to come.

Congratulations, Class of 2015.

Sometimes, love chooses you

Every day, when I come home from school, something magical happens.

 I rush over to Will and Grant, give Will a huge hug, scoop Grant into my arms, and wait. 

And then there it comes: An ear-to-ear grin from our second born. 

He curls into a little ball, burrows his head into my neck, and then coos the softest, sweetest coo these ears have ever heard. We lock eyes again and boom, the smile returns. 

And then when I put him down and walk away, this is what happens:

Pick him up and suddenly we're back to this:

 And I know he might do this for everyone, but it doesn't matter because HE SMILES FOR ME.

He knows me. And while he might be smiling because he knows I bring milk, I prefer to think that he smiles because he actually LIKES me. Because he has faith in me as his mama. Because he belongs to me and I belong to him. Because at the root and heart of it all is LOVE. 

I now beautifully believe that sometimes love chooses you, that you can run, hide, focus on other things, doubt yourself, and feel overwhelmed by it all, but then it sneaks in, taps you on the shoulder, and surprises you all over again. At times in my life, I have been afraid and hesitant to love. But that love keeps showing up--because that is what love does. It keeps showing up. 

Earlier this week, I was feeling discouraged about things at work and the fact that I was going to need a root canal (ah, this year has kicked my butt), and I left for school feeling a little defeated. I really did think for a moment, "what is the point of all this?"

And then I looked back at our little house. There was Will, looking out the window at me, both hands pressing against the glass. And then he blew me a kiss. 

Yup, that's the meaning of life for me these days. Will's kiss and Grant's smile.

Embedded in both of them is love that I don't deserve, instinctual loyalty, and a faith that the big picture is stunningly beautiful even when all we can see is a single blurry pixel. 

 This year, Will cannot wait for the Easter bunny to arrive. 

I cannot wait to be reminded once again that this world is magical when you choose to see it that way.

 I am BLESSED.

The Extraordinary Will Take Care of Itself

Yo. What up.

Needless to say, it's been awhile. So sorry. Been a little busy insane around here, but now we are on spring break and man is it glorious. This little family needed some dirt-digging, House of Cards- watching, gumbo-making, nap-taking, trail-running, relaxed grading, house-cleaning, boy-snuggling time. 

I have been feeling and thinking a lot lately, too. This roller-coaster of a parenting ride just keeps on going. And while I had a tough moment in church the other day watching several families each with multiple healthy kids have their youngest baptized, I also feel so incredibly devoted to and blessed by my boys. As I watched these other little ones be baptized, I held Will and Grant close, knowing that they are my two greatest gifts. And while Grant's birth and diagnosis sent us into a tailspin, I have no doubt in my mind that he was meant to be ours. He's beautiful and happy and strong and perfect. I love him with a fierce and unwavering and proud devotion. 

World Down Syndrome Day was March 21 (it's always 3/21 because Down Syndrome is a result of three copies of the 21st chromosome), and while I tried to face it head-on by posting a picture and note on FB, I have to admit that I didn't love this day--until I got home to Grant. When I walked in the door and saw his sweet smile respond to mine, I was reminded that this journey is going to be amazing because it will be ours. All day long I had been reading posts and articles about DS Day, reading people's stories and watching videos only to feel once again thrust into the scary unknown. What will Grant be able to do and when? What will his future look like? Will he be accepted for who he is, which is exactly who he was meant to be? Will people look at Grant and mainly see the DS--or will he be loved and celebrated for all of his other beautiful qualities? Ah, the questions can get you.

But.

I am now beyond excited to live our way into the answers. We're going to learn and love and laugh our way through this life together. Whereas five months ago I wanted to run away due to all of the uncertainty and fear, now I don't want to miss a thing. I'm a lot more aware of my lack of control but also a lot more aware of my purpose in life. It's a good trade-off.

There are also a lot of questions I no longer ask myself: Why us? (Why not?). How do we do this? (Love the heck out of each other and trust it will all turn out beautifully.) Will we be happy? (We might be happier than ever right now.) What will Grant's future look like? (Who knows? But we will work hard to try to give him every opportunity to be happy and fulfilled.) How will this affect Will? (Will loves Grant so much it's adorable. I hear from other parents that this love between siblings only intensifies. As long as our family loves each other, I have a feeling Will will be a-ok.)

I also used to be upset about the fact that our family would be "different." And then--of course--we had a series of speakers and discussions at school about difference: how thinking differently leads to breakthroughs and progress, how working differently leads to better learning and preparation, how celebrating each other's differences is a whole lot more interesting and fun than focusing only on our similarities. One right after the other...it was amazing. We are ALL different. I am different, Clay is different, Will is different, Grant is different, each of my students is different from the others. This difference doesn't have to be bad, but for some reason we often see it as such.

I was self-conscious over the holidays about our holiday card. I looked through the Minted and Shutterfly ads we got in the mail and threw them down, complaining, "None of them have children with disabilities in them." This year, I have a feeling I will send our card out with hope that we might show people, "Hey, we might not look like the 'typical' family, but different is BEAUTIFUL. And we are so, so happy."

Several people have asked me lately, "So, do you feel like you are on the other side of all this?"

Yes. I do. There are flashes of sadness, but they are quickly kicked out the door by Grant's smiles and coos, Will's laugh, an unexpected card from a friend, an inspiring quote, a story on the news that either reminds me we are ultimately so lucky or that people are ultimately so good. 

Mostly, there is finally peace. While I do wish I could have changed some things about the way we found out about Grant's diagnosis (for example, I wish I hadn't been told by a stranger when I was completely alone in the hospital), I am ultimately thankful I didn't know before he was born. Perhaps it all worked out the way it should have. So many people make the decision not to continue the pregnancy after a T21 diagnosis. While I respect other people's decisions, I know that, for us, that decision would have haunted us forever. We would never have known Grant's smile, never have known all of the lessons he would teach us, never have known the impact he would have on other people. We would have chosen not to believe--and I think we would always wonder what could have been. Most importantly, Grant would never have known life, and while this life might be difficult for him at times, we know without a doubt that his life is worth it. He is meant to be here.  And knowing throughout the pregnancy might have helped make the first few months of Grant's life less of a shocking, grieving time, but I think I would also have worried my way through the pregnancy--and not had a really cute baby to hold to help soothe my fears.

There are really only two questions that matter to me now:

1.) Grant needs you to believe in him. Can you believe? Oh yes. I believe. I really believe.

2.) Grant needs you to love him. Can you love him? More than life itself. I love him with all of my growing heart. 

Love has a way of sneaking in the backyard and planting a garden. Before you know it, beauty and life are growing everywhere. We're excited for Spring :)

Make The Ordinary Come Alive

by William Martin

Do not ask your children

to strive for extraordinary lives.

Such striving may seem admirable,

but it is a way of foolishness.

Help them instead to find the wonder

and the marvel of an ordinary life.

Show them the joy of tasting

tomatoes, apples, and pears.

Show them how to cry

when pets and people die.

Show them the infinite pleasure

in the touch of a hand.

And make the ordinary come alive for them.

The extraordinary will take care of itself.

Video: Dear Future Mom

Thank you, Amy, for sending us this:

I've watched this maybe a dozen times in the past 24 hours, and I cry every time. This is going to be such a journey of love for us, I just know it. And sometimes it will be difficult--there is at least one moment a day still when it feels like someone stole a little bit of hope away from us, when I feel a little punched in the gut by worry and responsibility and sadness--but this video affirms the feeling that never, ever goes away for me: I am so, so, so blessed to have Grant. I will love him fiercely forever.

Grant's Rockstar Check-up

Grant had his 4 month check-up today. Our doctor had a nurse practitioner intern rotating with him today, and she could have been saying this just because we looked like concerned parents, but she just kept saying, "He looks amazing! This is all such good news!" So sweet.

And it was good news. Great news. He weighs 12 lbs, 8.5 oz, which puts him in the 51th percentile on the DS growth chart (up from the 28th percentile two months ago). His length also jumped to 22.5 inches, which is in the 24th percentile. His little hernia is much smaller than it was 2 months ago, and he has "remarkable" head control :). Go Grant. Go Go Go Grant.


He didn't love the vaccines part of the visit, though.

I LOVED this story on abcnews.com today. Thank you, dear Libby, for sending it to me. It comforts and inspires me so much to know of other families who are also walking this path--and realizing the incredible, unexpected joys that come along with it. The community is deep and supportive and smart and happy. I am proud to be a part of it and am grateful for their fellowship.

Goodnight!

Thank You.

Glennon Doyle Melton over at Momastery.com posted an awesome video today on brokenness and grief. Couldn't agree more with her words, especially when she says, "when a friend is grieving, all we have to do is be present with her."

I want to take a moment tonight to thank you people. You have allowed me to work my way through this whole process, a lot of which was admittedly grief, and you have offered me your presence. And I think so often people don't know what to say to someone who is hurting (totally understandable), but my own experience these past few months has taught me that words can certainly help but it is presence and time that heal. When I was in the NICU, my friends Molly and Lori each came to visit. I consider them to be two of the wisest, strongest women I know. They each walked into the room and, without saying a word, hugged me and cried with me. No "God doesn't give you anything you can't handle" or "You are strong enough." They knew that I wasn't ready or willing to hear that then. I just needed someone to acknowledge the hurt and be with me in it for a time. It's like that quote, "Life is slippery. Here, take my hand." Don't walk in front of me, don't walk behind me; please, please walk beside me.

I think so often we see people broken and hurting and we want to fix them. We want things to be all better. But transformation, wisdom, perspective--these all take time. There's something to the idea of growing pains. They're painful. Take away the pain and I would argue you take away the growth. As much as grief sucks, if you dismiss it or rush it, you don't fully realize the depth of emotion and understanding that comes along with it. People grieve because they care SO much. You can't just take that away. But holding that person's hand as they feel their way through the raw realness of it? Yeah, that's a gift.

It reminds me again of what Frederick Buechner said about being a steward of your pain. You've got to feel pain fully in order to forever understand and be with others who experience pain.

So thank you. Those of you who read this blog--Clay, Nina, Cara, Blaire, Emily, Lashelle, Katie, Kristen, Susan, Ashley, Kat, Maresa, Julia, Shirit, Ali, Claire, Caroline, Emily, Morel, Kay, Beth, Bob, Liz, Libby, Chris, Laura, Ellen, Molly, Lori, Kristin, Nicole, Katie, Anna, Michelle, Brittany, Gege, and Mom and Dad--have held my hand and let me find my own way through this experience. You didn't judge me, you didn't try to fix me, you didn't dismiss it by telling me it was all going to be okay. You acknowledged how I felt and let me feel it--the whole painful, unknown mess of it. You loved me enough to let my heart break. You let things fall apart. And in that gift, you enabled me to find a new beginning. One that includes a fierce, genuine, heart-overflowing love for my newborn son.

Glennon includes the following quote from Victor Frankl: "What is to give light must endure burning." I think if we try to protect each other from heartbreak and pain, we limit our ability to live a life FULL of every emotion, every experience, every understanding. Instead, we need to let each other experience it. And we need to stay close throughout it.

You know, I don't know if I'll ever say that I am glad Grant has Down Syndrome. But I can say without a doubt that I am glad I have Grant. I see him smile and feel his warmth and see God in his eyes and I know he is meant to be here and he is meant to be mine. I don't think I am a "special parent" or that "God gave me something He knew I could handle"; I don't personally believe those things to be true. And I am being totally honest here: I am not sure where I stand on abortion and I am glad I wasn't forced to make the decision either way. I can understand why this diagnosis would scare people because, well, I was scared out of my mind. But I do believe that Grant's presence, like yours, is a gift. His love is going to make my world and this world better.

The UVA Glee Club came to school today for a little concert, so I was able to relish in my good 'ol college days for a minute as I shouted "wahoowa" to them on my way in the auditorium. I sat down by myself towards the front of the room and thought for a moment about both how important and how long ago those college days feel to me. It was an overwhelming feeling for me, one that was punctuated by their powerful voices singing their way into the room. They started with an African song that I loved but didn't understand. When the song was over, the director explained that the chorus of the song could be translated as the following: "All those who sing have the right to be called the children of God." And once again, I was struck by the grace of things coming full circle. I felt like UVA itself was affirming Grant's presence, that my past was encouraging my future.

And like the song, I don't have to understand every part of this experience in order to love my way through it. In fact, I think it's loving without understanding that enables us to experience grace and joy.

So thanks for loving me, and loving Grant, with or without understanding. Your presence in my life has been an amazing, saving grace.

On Heroism.

The night Grant was born, all I could see was a future full of unknowns, challenges, and difference.

Four months later, I see beauty, strength, wisdom, depth, inspiration, and community all around me. It took my heart being broken for this revision to manifest, but I can see clearly now. (The rain is gone. I can all obstacles in my way. Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind. It's gonna be a bright (bright) bright (bright) sun-shiny day. Dude. Couldn't resist. That song is speakin' my language these days.)

I see my new heroes. I watched "My Brother, Teddy." on The NYTimes.com this morning while I was getting ready for school, and I was transfixed not by the dancing Emma but by the quiet strength of her brother Teddy. In one shot she's dancing all around him while he stands there. Unable to dance. But he's standing and trying and living and amazing me with his presence. Damn cerebral palsy. Why did you have to take his dance away? There isn't a good answer to this. But in the face of this undeserved, overwhelming challenge, he STANDS.

Yes, I admire parents of children with disabilities something fierce. I imagine it can sometimes feel like a long, lonely road. I now understand why parents advocate so determinedly for their children, why special education needs to not be an afterthought or inconvenience to schools, why handicapped parking spaces and ramps really matter, why events should provide sign language interpreters even if only one person there needs them.  All parents try to provide as many opportunities to their children as possible; I think parents of children with special needs try to do this in a world not always designed to make it easy for their children to realize such opportunities. It's amazing what love can do, though. You love your child more than you care about what other people think, how hard it might be to provide your child with that opportunity, or what "success" your child may or may not achieve down the road. You step up because your child needs and deserves a team, and by golly, you're going to be the captains.

But I would argue that there's another reason why parents step up: we know that our children are the true heroes. We see how hard they work to find their way in this overwhelming world; we know their strength. Grant is already and forever will be my hero. As I put him through his therapy exercises, I both curse his extra chromosome and marvel at his determination and happy disposition. When he rolls over onto his back and finds my eyes again, he breaks out this killer smile such that I can't help but scoop him up into my arms and hug the heck out of him.

It's like this kid singing the Coolest version of Ho Hey. He is working so so so hard every day to do the things I take for granted, so when I watch this video, I can't help but get all teary and inspired. This is beauty to me now.

There are people and stories all around me, around all of us, that deserve to be seen. I didn't see them clearly until Grant was born. He has helped me not only see them but feel them.

My dear friend Katie posted the following story and picture from Humans of New York on my FB page today. I read it and thought, YES. Here is a man "leaning heavily on his cane" and yet he "went through life looking for the smallest excuses to be happy."

I found this man on 7th Avenue in Park Slope. He was leaning heavily on his cane, looking down, wearing a grimaced face. I felt bad for him, so I smiled and waved when I walked past. His face changed completely. He lit up, smiled wide, and gave me a cheery greeting. There was nothing forced about it. He seemed like a man who went through life looking for the smallest excuses to be happy.

I walked 50 feet down the sidewalk, turned around, and walked back to him. "I want to take your photo," I told him, "because of how big you smiled when I walked by."

He said: "Well I saw someone smiling at me who I didn't even know. So I thought: 'By God! I Better do something!'"

I too better do something. There are people all around me facing incredible challenges and rocking life despite--because?--of them. I see them now. I applaud them now. And I will admire them forever. 

Keep standing, Teddy. Keep singing, Van. Keep smiling, Grant. You're showing everyone how to live.

Life Giving

Yesterday was a full day. It was the National "Spread the Word to End the Word" Day. I'll never say "retarded" again. I like Noah's Dad's post on the subject. Can we please all agree that this word hurts? And that people with disabilities are born that way (cue Lady Gaga)? And that life is way too hard already for us to hate on each other? Okay, there's my soapbox; I'm stepping down.

It was also the first day of Lent, and I have a list a mile long of things I want to give up this year: grading papers, not sleeping, worrying, snacking, eating chocolate chips for breakfast, pumping, paying bills...yeah, I'm pretty selfless and disciplined when it comes to sacrifice. But I have been doing something all week in preparation for Lent that has been pretty fun: I have been writing down everything that has been life-giving and everything that has been life-sucking (sorry. no better term for it).

Life-giving: reading to Grant, reading to Will, cooking, being in the presence of my husband, writing, therapy, hot yoga, deep breaths, dancing with Will, photography, being in the presence of good friends, quotable cards, time in local bookstores, cleaning (I know. Strange. Totally strange.), a good glass of wine, church, smoothies

Life-sucking: email, worrying about the future, Facebook and Instagram, watching the Oscars, watching most TV, eating lunch in the school cafeteria (I am just not quite ready to be that back to normal at work yet. I still feel like a different person), reading about DS

Terrible picture, I know, but if you look closely, you'll see Will and me doing yoga together. Love this kid to PIECES.

Fifty shades of brown right here...

Thank you, Lent. You gave me just the excuse to SHIFT. If Grant's birth handed me a blank canvas, I'm going to run with it and change some things up. And mainly that means LESS. I can't really take much more.

* No plans on Friday nights for awhile. I'm too exhausted. and I miss my boys. Bring on family cuddle time.
* No more checking social media while I nurse. It just makes me sad.
* Namaste and I have a weekly date. Ommmmm.
* I am going to use my lunch break to grade/work so that I can use an hour of my grading/work time at home to read to Grant.
* No more sweets. No more eating after dinner. No more snacking. LESS. More real, natural meals. Only exception is on date nights with my love. Bring on the ice cream.
* More time holding Grant and helping him with his exercises, less time reading about everything potentially in his future.

I'm back at work and life has gone on and Clay and I are trying to figure out a new normal and yet I have moments when I just feel so not normal.  Different in a way that makes me not want to go back to the routine and perspective I had before. Different in a way that makes me think a second longer before I speak, spend an extra second with that student who looks like she is secretly struggling, smile an extra second at the woman who was kind to me at the grocery store, hug Will an extra second at bedtime. This world is moving forward a million miles a minute and I find myself content to let the frenetic pace continue on without me. I'm not sure in what ways I will be different forever, but for these next 40 days, I am going to embrace being intentionally different. And as Grant has been showing me, perhaps being a little different is a mighty good thing.

My main goal is to do LESS and hopefully have MORE time to do good.

It's also Interim Week at school, which means that my sophomores are all over the city volunteering for different organizations that help people. HOLLA. My last visit yesterday was to a school for the hearing impaired. I walked into a three year-old class and felt the six kids in there take my breath away. They were so darn beautiful and innocent and happy and TRYING. They were focused on their teacher and excitedly communicating with each other. One little boy started walking over to me, and I couldn't help but notice his limp and brace; his wheelchair was off to the side. He gave me a high five and kept smiling at me and made me feel really welcome. A few minutes later, his teacher was helping him into his wheelchair to go out to his school bus and what she said stopped me in my tracks: "He's really behind but he's come so far this year. His parents basically gave up on him from the moment he was born. There's no support at home."

Dude.

I almost brought him home with me.

And then I stood there thinking about how scared I was of Grant four months ago. In my mind, there was so option: you're his mama. He needs you. SHOW UP. And the fact that there wasn't that option was exactly the way I needed it to be. Sometimes life knows when to NOT give us options because if it did, we might choose the one that isn't good for anyone just because it seems easier at the time.

I continue to not know much about what our lives are going to look like, but I do know, especially after falling in love with this kid, there ain't no way I am giving up on him. I mean, look at these two. How can you do anything other than love and encourage and belief the heck out of them?

These kids I saw today were so determined to learn and love. I am starting to think it's us adults who run around complaining about how hard life is--and it IS hard--while kids face tremendous challenges, look them in the eye, and battle them. They know no other way. They have no other option. They don't get to choose the fact that they are born with disabilities, they don't get to choose their parents, they don't get to choose who interacts with them and helps them and who dismisses them and overlooks them. They just BATTLE.

We've been working on getting him to hold his own bottle. Progress!

I have been finding such deep inspiration in watching other people battle lately. They don't complain, they don't give up, they just keep showing up and keep smiling and keep trying.

That's my new life philosophy:

Keep showing up. 

Keep trying.

and LOVE.

It's amazing. Every time I do that, something good happens. Last week I observed a colleague (showed up), wrote her an email (tried), and praised her for the sincerely impressive work she is doing (loved). Yesterday I got an email saying I had won this month-long faculty raffle that included everyone who had observed a colleague recently. I never win anything. I am starting to think Grant is my good luck charm.

I also accepted a new position at work: Assistant College Counselor. There are many things about this job that leave me feeling all giddy and excited (my new boss being one of them. He's awesome), but my heart has felt a little hesitant to buy in. There is something about the idea of me working at a school where Grant will never go and working in a position focused on college placement, which Grant may also never experience. I feel almost like I am betraying him. But I have come to a peace about it, knowing that I hopefully will be helping kids and their parents as they too navigate how to accomplish their dreams. Every child is different; it will be my job to really get to know what the student and his/her parents feel is the best for the student. I'm all about that. And as someone who ended up at a university I never expected or even really wanted to attend, I know the power of good placement. I ended up exactly where I needed to be. It didn't take me long before I wanted to be there. I met my best friends there (318 4-eva), was inspired there, discovered whole new parts of life there.  Same thing with New York City. Same thing with Grant. Sometimes life hands you what you need rather than what you think you want. And it ends up being BOTH.

These snow days are wreaking havoc on our furniture. Our couch is Will's favorite new swimming pool.

 Will loves to help me cook and bake. #luckymama

 Trying to watch less television, yes, but had give a shout-out to Jimmy Fallon. The guy is KILLING it!

 Love and sweetness from us to you.

Enough is enough.

What a difference three months makes. 

Right after Grant was born and when we were still in the NICU, several people mentioned that I needed to meet Libby, a mama a few steps ahead of us on this new path. Libby, Libby, Libby. I kept hearing her name. I wasn't ready to talk to most people at that time, but there came a day when Clay was back at work and the hospital felt claustrophobic and I got really scared about what the future held and Grant's doctors didn't have much good news, and I reached for my phone and called...Libby. Totally out of the blue. The conversation went something like this:

Sara: Hi. Libby? This is Sara. I know you don't know me, but our son, Grant, was just born and I didn't know if maybe we could talk.

Libby: Where are you?

Sara: In the NICU.

Libby: I'm on my way.

That's how mamas roll. You need me. I'm there. Amazing.

I walked out of the doors of the NICU and into her arms. Never met this woman before, but I felt like we had rushed the same damn sorority and that I could be all raw and open with her. She floated into Grant's room and gushed about how beautiful he was. I immediately felt less alone. 

Then a nurse walked in. "Sara, if you want a chance of getting Grant home today, you need to drive downtown right now and pick up one of these therapeutic car beds."

My heart fell. We had been trying to get Grant home for days, so I was willing to do anything, but the timing just felt cruel. My first conversation with another mama in these shoes and I had to leave. I nodded and felt the tears coming. Again. 

Libby grabbed my hand. "I'm going with you. Let's go."

And like that, her name was added to my list of role models. She knew where I was. She had been there. And SHE SHOWED UP. This mama of four hasn't stopped showing up for me since. 

Fast forward (hmm...not really. Slow forward. Yes, slow forward, like longest months of my life forward) three months.

Last night she and I and our awesome husbands went on a double date. We laughed and shared stories and talked about how much we love our children and what we have already learned from them. And when we got up to leave, I thought back to our first meeting, a time when I felt more broken than ever before in my life, and I smiled knowing that neither one of us were still in that damn dark diagnosis place (ugh, I shudder to remember it). It's not that life is easy now--is life ever easy?--or that we love that our children are "special" or that we've got our heads in the sand or that there aren't many moments that are hard and will be hard. Instead, I think we have both found perspective (and friendship) in this deep end we've been pushed into. 

Three months ago, when Libby and I were in my car on the way to yet another hospital, she asked me, "you want to keep on driving, don't you? Away from all this?" 

Yes. I did.

"You feel like your heart is broken, don't you?"

Yes. I did.

She nodded. Pause.

"Grant will heal it. He's broken it wide open. He'll heal it."

I didn't believe her.

Now I do. 

I now believe that my heart was broken wide open so that it could become bigger, knowing all the while that I would need more room to hold this insane amount of love I now feel for Grant, for both my sons. Three months ago, I wept with sadness. This week, I wept because I love Grant so much, because I now genuinely feel that I would do anything in the world for him, that I would claim him (and Will) before all others, that I would be proud of him every day of my life and proclaim him my best buddy, that I believe in him tremendously and always will. 

I went back to work last week. A sweet colleague stopped me in the hallway one day and seemed worried. "Are you okay? I know your life is so full right now. Appointments and papers to grade and meetings and nursing..." but I had stopped listening to her. Did you hear what she said? I know your life is so full right now. 

Friends, my life is FULL. 

Do you see me smiling as I write this? Before I had Grant, I saw my days and life as a to-do list. Work hard in this job so you can hopefully get that job, run to the grocery to get food that you will quickly eat in between walking the dog and bathtime, run these miles so you can say you did, go to bed tired so you can wake up and do it all again.

And then Grant was born and life stopped for a bit and I started really seeing things. I stopped talking and started listening, I stopped running and started admiring, I stopped doing and started BEING. 

And my days that were once full of obligations transformed into days full of opportunities. 

I seriously looked around and thought, "Dang, there is so much beauty all around me. Have I really been looking right past all this??"

And at the end of the day, I now know that is enough. Life isn't about getting a bigger house or the impressive job or the perfect-looking family. It's about loving each other as much as we can. That is enough. That will always be enough. 

I told my students the other day that they are ENOUGH. In this world of college applications and grades and awards, I watch kids feel all the time that they are not smart enough or skinny enough or cool enough or good enough. These beautiful people I teach every day beat themselves up because they already feel behind. They are sixteen and already feel behind. I didn't see that before because I was right there with them. But now I look around and see all these people, teenagers and adults and super "successful" people, wondering if they've done enough, if they have enough. We're all working for more.

Oh my. 

Friends, you are SO ENOUGH. 

You don't have to DO anything. At the end of the day, YOU ARE ENOUGH. 

On Valentine's Day, Clay and I collapsed after putting Will to bed and he said, "I'm sorry. I don't have anything to give you." I almost laughed out loud. Nothing to give me, huh? How about your unconditional support these past three months when I felt lost? How about the friendship you give me everyday? How about those two beautiful boys asleep in the next room? How about that kiss when we woke up? How about the fact that you come home to me, to us, every day after a day of working hard for others? How about the faith you had in me when you proposed to me eight years ago and asked me to spend my life with you?

HE is my way more than enough.

And in this world where people are often assessed by their alma maters and degrees and job titles and savings account balances, I want to whisper in Grant's ear, "You are enough, my love. You will always be enough. I used to care that you might not go to college or be totally independent (and who knows? A lot can change in 18 years), but every day, I care less about that and more about you. Less about what this world says is okay and more about who you were created to be. And whoever you are created to be is ENOUGH."

I asked Will to sing me a song yesterday. Guess what he sang? "I love you just the way you are." I never taught him that song. That, my friends, is grace. I'm not sure I would have heard him sing that song before Grant was born. I think I would have been too preoccupied trying to be enough.

And in one more example of grace, I stepped back into the classroom when my students were halfway through Life of Pi. If you haven't read it before, pick it up. It tells the story of this boy whose life suddenly takes a dramatic and permanent turn: he is the only human survivor of a ship that sinks in the Pacific. As the days drag on, he loses his food supply, his clothing, his solar flares, his eyesight...it's just him and the water and this tiger who also happened to survive. But he doesn't lose his faith. And he doesn't lose hope. And at the end of the story, he tells these two incredulous interviewers about his journey. And he basically says, "You can choose to believe or choose not to believe. I choose to believe. Some of the most meaningful things in life--God, love, dreams--depend upon you BELIEVING they are possible."

And so I choose to believe in my son. I hear the doctors when they warn me about what he may not be able to do. Three months ago, I focused on their words. Now, I focus on my son and his smile and his sweet baby smell and my friend Libby and "I love you just the way you are" and LOVE. Who knows what will be. But believing in my son and my little family and the love of the beautiful people around us is more than enough. One day at a time. There's more than enough in this day--THIS DAY--to love.

And while I hope I stay in education for a long time because I am better for knowing and learning from my students, I do have to admit my dreams are changing. One of my new dreams involves doing something similar to what this awesome mama--and community--has done. I would love to work alongside my son one day. Hopefully this world will give him lots of opportunities to shine. But if not, I want to create some for him.

                                    

Love from us to you.

 A few pictures from Gramma's visit. We miss her something fierce. Her presence heals us.

One more cool video. Tough moms raise tough kids.

YES.

I also think tough kids raise tough moms.

Grant is tough. He and Will are already my greatest teachers.

I love them both so very, very much.