"We're going to be here forever," Ben whined. He was right, we probably were, but since it's frowned upon to leave six year olds to their own devices, he was stuck.All six of us had loaded up early that morning and driven thirty minutes away to see Daniel participate in in his first Special Olympics swim meet. Daniel was over-the-moon excited. He'd spend all day, every day in the water if we let him. We'd been told to prepare for a long day.
"These things never really run on time," The coach told us. She tried to guess about when Daniel's events would be up but, even then, things did not go as planned. At the Special Olympics, we discovered, they are much less concerned about keeping to a schedule of the races and much more concerned about the people in the races.
So, we waited. We sat in the bleachers in front of the pool, crushed against the side of the wall. Daniel was already in his swimming trunks, smiling broadly and ready to compete. Katherine, at 14 months, sat in her stroller, calming taking in her surrounding. Gideon was held firmly by Carl because being this close to the water but not in the water was like torture for him. Carl and I struggled to get comfortable on the 18 inches of hard metal we were sitting on. The air was humid and heavy and too warm. Everything was loud, sound bouncing off the water and the walls. Every whistle, buzzard, and shout intensified.
While we waited, we watched the relays happening in front of us. For the most part, they went smoothly. Occasionally, there was a hitch when a participant started to get anxious or didn't want to get in the water. The coaches were patient, talking calmly to the swimmers, easing them into the water, the spectators, encouraging and positive.
The kids squiggled and groaned, tired of waiting and, I'll admit, I had a moment of Why are we doing this again?
The next relay was a 50 meter race across the pool. Six participants of various ages (Daniel would compete against a 51 year old man later that day) and genders, ethnicity and abilities lined up to start. The timer went off and they all jumped in. Two of them took off quickly, clearly gifted in the area of swimming. They finished to cheers. The next two swimmers weren't far behind them. More cheers. Swimmer number five took a breather mid-way through the race. She floated on her back for a few minutes and then faced the crowd, smiling and waving. She too finished to cheers.
But swimmer number six, she was taking forever, as Ben pointed out. She'd swim hard for a minute or two and then stop, rest, take a deep breath and start again. She never went more than a foot or two each time. Her progress could be measured in inches, not meters.
As she got closer to us, I realized why she was so painfully slow. She only had one arm.
One arm. Think about that for a moment. Think about the perseverance, the commitment, the strength of character, the sheer will.
Ben sighed next to me and I bumped his shoulder. "Ben, look at her. Can you see why it's taking her a long time?"
Around us, the crowd was a force, cheering her on. Her coach followed her progress on the side of the pool, yelling at her. "You got this. A little bit at a time. You can do this." One of the swimmers at the finish line doubled back to swim next to her. The excitement, the crushing encouragement was like its own living thing, pushing her on, building her up.
Ben stood up next to me. "Mommy," he said suddenly. "She only has one arm. She's swimming with one arm." His voice was incredulous and excited and, before long, he joined the crowd, clapping and shouting along with everyone else.
And we waited again but, this time, with great anticipation.
Finally, fifteen minutes after every other swimmer had finished, she reached the other side of the pool. The crowd went wild. Not one person cared that a race with world record speed under 25 seconds took her almost 20 minutes. Not a single person was concerned about her form or that she may have held up the next race.
All they cared about was that she finished. It was hard but she finished.
"That was so cool, Mommy," Ben shouted.
I, sap that I am, wiped the tears off my cheeks. "That was way cool, Ben."
This is going to sound strange but at that moment, I was glad that Daniel and Gideon had autism and here's why.
We would never have been at that swim meet that day. Ben (and for that matter, the rest of our family) would never have been able to see these extraordinary people do extraordinary things. He would never have seen the effort that it took for her to finish. But he saw it and then he really saw it.
People with special needs are some of the strongest people you will ever meet. They sometimes only survive on sheer force of will and stick-to-it-ness. They live in a world that won't adapt for them; they have to adapt to the world.
Daniel is named for a guy in the Bible. You know, the one from the lion's den. And I was struck by the fact that my Daniel (and Gideon) spends his whole life in a lion's den. The world is a scary place for him, but every morning, he gets up and he lives his life. He faces a lot of challenges, tough, tough challenges. He lives in a world that doesn't make a lot of sense to him but every single day, he takes it on and he does it smiling. Every day.
Talk about the perseverance, the commitment, the strength of character, the sheer will that takes.
I sometimes forget how much Daniel and Gideon can teach me about life. I'm not just talking about patience and compassion, things that don't come naturally to me in the least, but also how to be strong in the face of adversity, to struggle and struggle but not give up.
To finish something even though it is hard.
That's something we can try to teach our kids about until we're blue in the face but they don't get it until they can see it. That day Ben got to see it in action, right in front of him.
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| Daniel and his two medals |
I know that day we saw a woman with one arm finish that race made an impression on Ben and I hope it is one that lasts his whole life. I want him to remember seeing the people he met at Special Olympics. I want him to remember his brothers. I want him to remember to always finish the race even when it's hard and that strength on the inside is worth so much more than muscles or speed.
I want to remember that too.
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