She stood a short distance from her guardian at the park this afternoon, her
distinctive features revealing that although her body had blossomed into young
adulthood, her mind would always remain a child's. My children ran and jumped and
sifted sand through perfectly coordinated fingers. Caught up in fighting over a
shovel, they didn't notice when the wind changed. But she did. A wild autumn wind
spinning leaves into amber flurries.
I called to my boisterous son and jostled my daughter. Time to go. Mom still
has lots to do today. My rosy-cheeked boy stood tall, watching with wide-eyed
fascination the gyrating dance of the girl with Down syndrome as she scooped up
leaves and showered herself with a twirling rain of autumn jubilation.
With each twist and jump, she sang deeply earthy grunts--a canticle of praise
meant only for the One whose breath causes the leaves to tremble from the trees.
Hurry up. Let's go. Seat belts on? I start the car. In the rear view
mirror I study her one more time through misty eyes. And then the tears come. Not
tears of pity for her. The tears are for me. For I am far too sophisticated to
publicly shout praises to my Creator.
I am whole, intelligent, and normal, so I weep because I will never know the
severe mercy that frees such a child and bids her to come dance in the autumn
leaves.
This was taken from a book called "More stories from the Heart"
It's called "Autumn Dance" by Robin Jones Gunn