A reminder of brokenness

It’s supposed to rain later today.

My left arm aches.

I broke it in two places, two different times in my childhood, and now sometimes when the weather changes it aches, either up near my shoulder or in my wrist in the places it broke.

The aches remind me of those times, the agony and pain, the fear of being in an emergency room as a child, spending the night for the first time in a hospital, getting attention from classmates and extended family, people signing my cast, ‘Get well soon!.’ I’m reminded of trying to itch the inside of my cast with a hangar, not being able to swim for half of the summer because I couldn’t get my arm wet, being a bit doped up on the medication to ease the hurt.

My broken arm became my whole world. How could it not have been when the pain was so great, so instant, so overwhelming?

At the time there was no way of knowing that the pain wasn’t going to be my new normal.

For all I knew I could be in that kind of fear and pain for the rest of my life.

I went to the hospital and got help. The excruciating pain eventually turned into a dull ache and then only a flimsy itch.

Life went back to normal. I was found splashing around in the kiddie pool within eight weeks.

But dull aches return now and then.

And I am reminded that at times in my life, I’ve been broken.

Recently, I went to four parent-teacher conferences for my kids in two different schools.

I was prepared to discuss each kid, I thought. But when I sat down with Polly’s teacher (she has Down syndrome, along with her sister Evie), I was surprised to read that she hadn’t met her goals. After a whole year at school, Polly still couldn’t figure out classroom procedures. She struggled with transitions every day.

Polly’s was cute and everyone loved her, but basically she was just walking around making messes in class.

And the dull ache, the fact that I have not one but two children with Down syndrome, started up again.

Polly’s birth shattered me. I teamed up with Jesus and my husband Sergei to put myself back together, but much like that pesky jigsaw puzzle you’ve almost completed, a few pieces were lost in the mix, and now I walk around with empty spaces.

Most of the time the spaces are used for good.

I have more compassion for others.

I understand grace better.

I relate to others through my brokenness.

And sometimes it feels right.

But there are other times when it breaks my heart that my girls are behind their peers.

I am OK with Down syndrome.

OK enough to add Evangeline to our family through adoption, to seek out others in the special needs community, to go to my kids’ classes to talk about inclusion and acceptance of others who are differently-abled.

But there will always be days in my life where the rain will come.

And because I’ve been broken, I will ache sometimes.

It doesn’t mean I love my kids less or that I wish my life was different.

It just aches.

And that’s OK, I think.