Circle of Life

    When we were asked to enroll Micah, our son with special needs, in kindergarten at a local elementary school, my first reaction was “No way.” I have many bad memories of my own classmates from the same school and I couldn’t imagine sending Micah there.

    He doesn’t talk; how is he supposed to defend himself from bullies? He needs help with most aspects of daily life; how will he survive in the midst of such cruelty?

   After meeting with several of the teachers and therapists who would work with Micah, we finally agreed to a trial run. I readied myself to yank him out at the first sign of distress.

   The first day passed and Micah came home with a huge grin and a thumbs-up to tell us that all was well. The next morning he waited on the front porch for the bus, bouncing lightly in his leg braces. The instant he spotted the flash of yellow through the trees lining our drive he clumped down the sidewalk, waving and smiling. The bus driver greeted him with a fist bump and helped him into his seat.

  Days turned to weeks, and Micah’s excitement never dimmed. The moment he got up in the morning he would drag his backpack out to the kitchen, expecting me to drop everything and get him ready for school.

   Then he brought a note home from his teacher. I unfolded it, my stomach quivering. What had happened? Micah is making friends left and right, I read. He is getting to be the most popular child in school! Everyone wants to play with him at recess.

   I smiled but remained skeptical.

   He brought his yearbook home. I paged through and panicked. Several last names screamed off the page at me and I scrutinized the children’s faces. Yes! That one’s smile looked exactly like the boy who tormented me in math class. It’s been years, but I still remember. And that girl’s eyes. She must be the daughter of the bully who pushed me around in the halls. Why were we letting Micah attend this school? I took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “Lord, I must not have forgiven old hurts like I thought I had…”

   Micah brought home a hand-drawn portrait of himself. It was well done, better than what a kindergartner would do, so I looked for a name on the back. Instead of one, I found three. Fifth-grade girls who had taken the time to reach out to Micah. A message from each one was scrawled across the page. “Keep up the good work,” one read. “I hope we can play with you next year, too!” another had written. I blinked back tears.

   I spent a few hours at school and watched Micah interact with his classmates. He confidently made his way through the halls, waving and smiling to everyone. And everyone knew his name. “Hey, Micah!” they’d say, looking delighted to receive a high-five.

   The principal pulled me aside and chuckled. “When the buses pull up in the afternoon, we have to take Micah out early so he has time

for all the students who want to give him hugs and high-fives before he goes home. He has a huge fan club.”

   I breathed in; a long, calming breath. It was time to let go of my memories and embrace Micah’s reality.