Inchstones

The burgundy carpet and mauve walls are so classic Southern Baptist. The gold chandeliers hang in a neat row of three and the choir loft is left empty for today’s preschool graduation. There are ten little red chairs on the stage, each marked with a name taped to the back. The chairs wait in eager expectation for their very special little ones.

Some come down the aisle with a typical walk, as they are physically able. One comes with her long, curly, chestnut hair cascading down the side of her wheelchair. She is radiant in bubblegum pink. The others come with help, staggering and unsteady, holding the hand of a loving adult.

Walking is not a given in this class. This is a community of inchstones, not milestones.

The sanctuary is dotted with beaming parents. Parents that no longer are handed the developmental worksheets at the pediatrician’s office. As if they needed to be beat over the head again with all the things their special ones can’t do. Checkbox after checkbox of “not yet”. They don’t give those checklists to me anymore. We all know that those worksheets were made for the milestone mamas.  

They fill the stage with robes of bright red, dark purple, yellow, emerald green, white and our Oliver in Carolina Blue. They are a rainbow of five year old happy faces. We know Oliver will never wear the real Tarheel Blue, for we grieved the dream of college years ago. I’m caught up for a moment in what it might have been like to stand at The Well with him---a mother’s arms draped around her son. It was my dream and I have to let it go; right there on the fellowship hall floor as I untangle his tassel. It is a tiny death in the midst of a joyous day.

When their names are called they snatch up their diplomas with wild abandon. We hug teachers and gather our things. We leave the church with Oliver in his wheelchair, tired from the day’s festivities. We take off the Carolina blue gown before lifting him into his car seat. I realize he managed to break the entire zipper of the gown.

I get home and go through our bags. Rescue seizure med goes in the cabinet, dirty sippy cup goes in the sink. I pull out the blue gown and hold it in my hands. I think for one second about what to do with it. I do not hesitate. I ball it up and stuff it in the trashcan. Two halves, unable to be put back together.

I decide to keep the cap as a relic of this moment that we did not take for granted.

Despite being ripped in two, we are still whole in our deepest parts because today we give thanks to the One who entrusted us with this treasured, special one. Happy Graduation, precious Oliver!