Scene from a Cold Stone Creamery

I know what joy feels like; I got a sweet reminder this weekend. I felt it bubble from the laughter of a boy and bounce out to tickle the heartstrings of everyone around. He was about 11 years old, with Down syndrome, accompanied by a young woman who was patiently amused, a little embarrassed, and obviously a big fan of his. We were walking across the parking lot together and he wiggled his way to the door ahead of us while his companion, rushing to keep up, apologized with a smile over her shoulder, "He's a little excited."

Inside there was a long line and I worried it would be hard for him to wait, but the ice cream colored world delighted him, glossy posters filled with larger-than-life berries and chocolate chunks, the warm vanilla smell of waffle cones baking, clear containers of gummy bears and coconut and sprinkles. He jiggled up on his toes, clapping his hands and turning in a little circle to take it all in.  

I watched the smile spread from him, to the family in front of him, to the girls behind the counter, to us. It's delicious to smile that big. While we mulled over the choices, he already knew he wanted nothing but chocolate, so as he waited he turned to shake hands with my son Devin. Then he took Devin's hand in one of his and reached for the young woman's hand with the other and pulled their hands together, insisting with an award-winning grin that they shake hands too. "I'm sorry," she giggled, "He likes people to meet."

I have a friend on Facebook who posted an ultrasound photo this week of the grandson she's waiting to meet. They just found out he has Down syndrome. Friends began posting positive and encouraging comments that were heartwarming to read, and each of those comments were illuminated for me in the light of joy radiating from this boy, reflected in the smile of his care-giver and igniting a merry little warmth in each of us who were watching.

I know this boy's life is not always oozing joy, and this young lady who loves him sometimes hurts for him, from the challenges Down syndrome certainly brings to their days. But for that handshake, for the open, uncomplicated gift of it, she had no reason to be sorry! I can't think of a single thing more joyful than people who aren't strangers anymore because their hearts met over ice cream.

If People with Down Syndrome Ruled the World

A Birds' Eye View

As winter shuffles along, the days close in on us. In particular, the Snow Globe sits in a valley often shrouded by cold air trapped in a dreaded "inversion." The brilliant blue sky does little to brighten us because glimpses of it are elusive. A repetitive fog is thick morning and evening, and lingers stubbornly through the day. In my home-sweet-daycare filled all day with my littles, I don't usually find it to be a somber time. I enjoy bundling them in a rainbow of mittens and beanies to play briefly outside, warming their tummies with alphabet soup, reading snowman stories squished together on the couch. But some days I feel subdued. Like a very little voice in a noisy, closed space. Because even on inversion days the littles aren't still or quiet for long. They light up like sparklers, flying in all directions. Some days I struggle to make myself heard above the sizzle as I shield my eyes from the sparks.

This morning the playroom carpet cowered under the debris of items selected and discarded in the creation of their grand display. A paper on the art table was covered entirely in puddles of purple, the hand bells were being chimed without ceasing while voices disagreed in the loft and the dishes in the play kitchen clattered. The only person who seemed put on edge by the clutter and discordance was me.

I opened the back door and stood in the doorway, lifting my eyes to the upper branches of the big old tree in my neighbor's yard. Gray branches against the gray sky through the gray fog. The chill was a relief to my flushed cheeks and I breathed deeply letting the noise drift out around me and dissipate in the misty air. Movement drew my eyes to the gathering of birds resting companionably at the tip of the tree. They were graceful silhouettes, one occasionally fluttering away, another arriving momentarily. They settled their wings with a leisurely ruffle, stretched their necks toward the heavens, sat still for long moments like birds in a painting. The whole scene seemed entirely purposeful and natural.

And it was blissfully quiet from below, though truth be told birds are not long quiet, so in reality they were likely squawking away up there in an echo of the clamor from inside. I turned back to the playroom and peered with my bird-watching eyes at the busy littles. The hand bells still chimed, but I heard the notes being repeated in an experimental song. There was debate in the loft, but the voices alternated in a give and take of talking and listening. The dishes in the play kitchen were lined up for a birthday party, imaginary candles lighting happy faces. Everything looked entirely purposeful and natural. As I stood there a dripping purple paper was pressed into my hands. "It's for you," said a proud voice, "do you want to hang it up?" I looked down and saw a field of lavender on an early summer day. I guess I just needed a birds' eye view.