broken and whole

The past two Wednesdays have found me touring potential schools for Ira. Last week, I visited a school in Manhattan and today I visited a school in Queens. Both schools specialize in special needs children. Both schools are fantastic. Both schools are far away from where we live. But that’s not the purpose of today’s post.

As I toured the school last week I was once again reminded of how broken this world is. I peeked into classrooms where teachers were working hard to get their students’ attention. Sure, this takes place in every elementary classroom across the globe but in special needs classrooms, the effort the teachers give seems greater. I watched kids in gym class with their physical therapists as they worked on the basic function of walking. In the most restrictive classrooms, adults practically outnumbered the kids.

With memories of last week’s tour still fresh on my mind, I walked through the halls of the Queens school today. Up and down the halls were kids in physical therapy sessions. In one class the entire room was dark save one spotlight that shone on a kid who stood at an easel. The darkened room was to eliminate any and all distractions. Other kids were in speech therapy learning their new computer talking program.

So we’re walking around this school today (me, other parents, the director of the school) and the brokenness begins to overwhelm me. These kids have seen, felt and heard too much in their little lives. It’s not supposed to be this way. They aren’t supposed to know this pain. They aren’t supposed to take on such incredible difficulties. They aren’t supposed to carry this much weight.

And as the anger begins to well up inside me at the unfairness of it all, at the “it doesn’t have to be this way” of it all, the Spirit moves in me and reminds me that I’m surrounded by those who are inheritors of the Kingdom of God. The Spirit reminds me that those scooting around me in the hall, those being wheeled around corners, those working on their walking skills, those touching the screen of their talking machines are the very ones that make up the Kingdom of God. The Spirit, taking on the role of instructor, nudges me and says, “Now look at this picture again. Who are the broken ones in this picture? Do you think you might have gotten this all wrong? Is it possible that you and these other fine parents are the broken ones and these kids are the whole ones?”

With this movement of the Spirit I begin to weep. And about the time that tears have made their way down my cheek, the director turns to us and asks, “Are there any questions?” She sees the tears and gives a simple nod. She doesn’t respond with an “Are you okay, Mr. Hays?” There was no “Can I get you a tissue?” No “Oh, there goes another one. Geez.” Just a simple nod as if to say, “Yeah, I hear you.”