God gives Special Children to Special People

A couple weeks ago I wrote a post that focused on an aspect of this culture that I believe is quite harmful and wrong: jealously and gossip. Today I’d like to focus on another aspect that I find quite beautiful and compelling. But first to understand why, you must understand a little bit of my story.

I was an only child for 10 years. From the time I was five years old, I prayed every single night that God would send me brothers and sisters. In 1996 my first brother came along. I was ecstatic. In 1997, my mom found out she was pregnant again. I was being home-schooled at the time, so I would accompany my mom to her doctors’ appointments. It was a long time ago; I don’t remember all the details but I have a very clear memory of standing in the elevator after one appointment. My mom had tears in her eyes as she stared at the closed elevator door and informed me that the doctor thinks my new little sister might have a brain tumor. Oh, and she has Down syndrome too.

I’d only met one Down syndrome girl in my life. I was eight years old, in a dressing room in JC Penny’s trying on a new Easter dress when this girl busted into my dressing room! I was terrified. And this is what I was working off of with my sister’s diagnosis.

Amy was born in November. She didn’t have a brain tumor, but she did have other health problems. I can’t list them all or in what order they happened. She spent several months in the hospital with severe pneumonia when I was thirteen. We fed her out of a feeding tube in her stomach for a long time.

During this time, my second brother was born, healthy as a horse. In 2000, my mom found out she was pregnant again. She opted for no amniocentesis this time because she was not pleased with her obstetricians and the advice they’d given her with her two previous pregnancies.

Amy

The day Jenna was born my dad came and picked me up at my high school. With her birth, my prayer for brothers and sisters was finally answered. I was fifteen. We drove away from my school and he looked over at me in the front seat and said, “The baby is healthy but she has Down syndrome.” Huh. I don’t remember what I said because it just wasn’t that big a deal. Three-year-old Amy was a normal little girl. She did little girl things- maybe a little bit more slowly- but she just didn’t seem all that abnormal to me.

Fast-forward thirteen years to where we are now. Amy is boy-crazy sixteen year-old. She loves to sing. At the top of her lungs. Very badly. She’s opinionated. She loves cheerios. She loves dancing. She craves attention. She is so annoying. I love her to death.

Jenna with barbies

Jenna is girly thirteen year-old. She has long hair that she refuses to let my mom cut. She has a bazillion Barbie dolls but she carries around a select few. Their hair is always fashioned like something you might see in the Hunger Games capital. She eats fish sticks for breakfast every morning and will put ketchup on almost anything.

Amy and Jenna are best friends. They do everything together. They sing and dance and watch the same movies over and over…and over again.

The girls ground my family. My parents can’t jump on a plane and visit me in Africa because of their responsibilities to my sisters. The girls are more susceptible to sickness. We’ve gone through the wringer more than once regarding their health.

But they bring constant laughter and joy into a family dynamic that really needed it. They are resilient. At times they are able to calm the hotheaded males in my family. They are integral and I can’t imagine having lived life without them.

Many people in America are making that very choice though. Down syndrome is the most commonly diagnosed genetic defect in the US. Eighty percent of women who are told their child will be born with Down syndrome choose to abort. Fueled by misinformation and sometimes selfishness, they reject a beautiful gift.

Though my sisters are completely unique individuals and I love them for them, I do carry around a special place in my heart for any person with Down syndrome. Which is why I was so touched last night.

I attended a wedding ceremony with some friends from another town. This particular ceremony is mostly made up of women. Women compose the entire drumming circle and sing the traditional songs. Dancing women make up the audience. The men of the bride and grooms family sit on the stage. They are outnumbered twenty to one by women, at least.

I wasn’t really looking forward to attending because it didn’t start until 9pm, the music is loud, I never understand what’s going on and my only role is to be stared at and give money at the end. Therefore, I was pretty stoked when I got to sit in the drumming circle and play a drum. Sure that probably meant even more eyes were on me, but at least I had a purpose.

An hour or so into the ceremony, I noticed one of my friends grab a chair and put it in the center of the drumming circle. Then in saunters a man dressed in a ratty t-shirt and shorts. He sits in the middle of a giant circle of women, bold as brass. He has Down syndrome. The leader of the drumming circle immediately stood up. I sat transfixed, waiting for her to shoo him away, treating him as worthless like I’ve seen in many of the countries I’ve visited. Instead she walked up to him, leaned over to give him a hug and gave him a drum on which he immediately started beating…completely on rhythm. Tears filled my eyes. I tried not to be rude as I picked up my iPhone and started snapping pictures.

He stayed in the circle beating away at his drum the rest of the night. I asked a friend about him. Who is he? Why is he here? His name is Ely and he’s a town favorite. No, she amended, he is an island favorite! He has a family but he is welcome to eat wherever he wants in town. Families welcome him into their homes and spend time with him. He has even accompanied the drumming circle to the main island to play at a wedding there. Ely is well liked and well treated by all in this town.

“Blessed is he who has regard for the weak.” Psalms 41:1.

I could do nothing but marvel and bless the Clove Island people last night. They do not hold to Darwin’s survival of the fittest. Despite his disability, Ely is given respect and an honored place within the drum circle. He is not feared or treated with kid gloves. He is treated like the exceptional, talented human being he is.

To Amy and Jenna and Ely, you are a special gift. God gives special children to special people. May all future mothers and fathers of these special children remember that too.

Destination Wedding

I don’t really like weddings. I haven’t for many years. To be more specific, I don’t like the concept of weddings. Probably in part, I’m a tinsy bit bitter but mostly it’s simple practicality. Weddings are a colossal waste of money for everyone involved, but especially the bride (or her parents). And with half of marriages ending in divorce, even in the Christian community, the pomposity of a large wedding seems such a waste.

But as I get older and attend more of my friends’ weddings, I must admit, they are a whole lot of fun, at least for the guests. Once again, the bride seems to get the short end of the stick, having to plan everything, set-up, organize and then stress about whether her guests are enjoying themselves. Obviously, having never been a bride, I can’t say for sure, but it does seem an enormous hassle and expense for little reward.

I spent this past week in the Dominican Republic at my first destination wedding. And it was awesome! A vacation and celebrating a friend marry their love, what could be better?

My friend, Trina served as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Dominican Republic where she met her now-husband, a Dominican. It was a destination wedding by necessity, so that his friends and family could attend. She and I worked together in the Atlanta Peace Corps office before she moved up to work at headquarters in Washington D.C.

Me and Trina in Atlanta after we won a scavenger hunt.

Obviously, a destination wedding is something that must be planned far in advance so I have known for months that I would attend. I had the option for a “plus-one” and I’d invited a couple people but for various reasons neither could come. So, story of my life, I boarded the plane at Ft. Lauderdale alone bound for Santo Domingo.

But this time, Trina and her dad were waiting for me when I got off the plane. And from that point on, I was incredibly well taken care of by the bride and welcomed by her family; the lack of a “plus-one” went unnoticed.

Santo Domingo, the capital of the Dominican Republic, was “discovered” by Christopher Columbus in 1492. I say “discovered” because of course there were natives on the island that were subsequently massacred by guns, germs and steel. It was the first capital of the Spanish empire in the new world. We stayed in the historic district and were wowed by walking down the oldest street in the Americas and peering into the ruins of the oldest hospital. We ate dinner across the plaza from Diego Columbus’s residence when he was governor the Indies (which at the time included all of Hispaniola, Cuba, Jamaica, Puerto Rica and the Caribbean coastlines of much of Central America and Colombia.

At the ruins where the wedding took place.

 

The wedding ceremony was held in what was left of the oldest cathedral. It was beautiful. And hot. It was to start at 11am. However, like much of the developing world, they run on their own time, in this case, “DR time”, so it began around noon. We had parasols to keep the sun off and the programs had been made into fans, which all the guests used incessantly, creating a breeze to cool the sweat dripping from our faces. When the time came, it was a beautiful ceremony. Trina’s sister officiated while a family friend translated into Spanish.

The woman answering her phone.

 

Keeping perfectly with Trina’s personality, it was not overly formal and involved some laughter, especially when the best man stood up and his suspenders popped right off! I was also a little appalled, but by no means surprised, when one of the guests cell phone rang in the middle of the ceremony, and she answered it!

The reception was an interesting study in culture as well. When the salsa, bachata and merengue music came on, couples entered the dance floor and shook their hips. A few brave Americans gave it a go for a song or two. The minute a song in English came on, all 19 Americans ran onto the dance floor, standing in our normal circle, jumping up and down and waving our arms around, looking to the rest of the world like crazed maniacs, while the Dominicans sat primly in their chair looking on with amusement. Then came the cake cutting. Once again, all the Americans stood around in anticipation and not a single Dominican got out of their chair. My iPhone was poised to take pictures as Trina cut into…foam. The entire three-tied cake was made out of foam! And not the edible kind, if there is such a thing. Something had been lost in translation with the wedding planner. Apparently, this is the norm in the DR. You have a decorative cake, made of foam, for show, and a sheet cake in the back for eating. Surprise!

This was followed by the bouquet toss, which I won! Do you win? Only to be informed that whoever got the garter would be expected to put that on me. Hold up…what? Have I missed this at every other wedding because I didn’t care what happened after the bouquet was tossed and I didn’t get it? I waited, in mild horror, as the garter was tossed and a young boy caught it. A brief argument ensued between bride and mother-of-the-bride as to whether this child should put the garter on me. Thankfully, reason, propriety and the bride won. It was decided no.

The reception ended in the early evening and we returned to the hotel to prepare for the next adventure. Most of us were accompanying the couple on their honeymoon to an all-inclusive resort on the coast called Grand Bahia Principe.

The following morning we all piled into a bus and enjoyed the two-hour ride along the coastal route to our destination.

I always fancied myself an adventure tourist. I like adrenaline-pumping fun, like white water rafting, zip lining, snorkeling, surfing, hiking, etc. I also like eating the local food, staying in cheap hostels and trying my hand at living like the locals…or so I thought. After two nights at an all-inclusive resort my expectations of what makes a good vacation may have been permanently altered. This was pure pampering. The property was dominated by a huge swimming pool to which my room faced. You could swim up to the bar where all drinks were included. The beach was right next to the pool, dotted the straw-topped cabanas under which guests lounged in beach chairs. There was a bar at the beach. There was always a buffet available. Three times a day, the large buffet opened but the snack bar was open on the beach and the burger joint was open by the shops most of the day. On top of all this, the “animation team” had activities going throughout the day. I played bingo (and won a kilo of coffee), darts, foosball, beach and water volleyball and an interactive game called “Tuti Fruiti”. They also had pool, ping-pong and board games for guests. Each night the same animation team put on a show. Once the show ended, the discotheque opened and rocked out until 2am. There was always something going on but you could just as easily do nothing but lounge and sip on cocktails all day. THAT is a vacation.

Day one began with all of us overindulging in everything! It was a smorgasbord of excess. I couldn’t have wiped the smile off my face if I’d wanted to. How had I never done this before? The food was amazing, the staff was friendly, the games were fun, the sun was hot and the water cool.

And then came nighttime. I went to bed after a short visit to check out the discotheque, where the only music they played required Shakira’s hips. Two hours later I was up and sick. Then like clockwork, every hour and a half, for the next 7 hours, I was up. It was terrible. I managed to crawl to the buffet hall the next morning, only to be nauseated by the smells of food emanating from the buffet. I took one small piece of bread and sipped on water. I didn’t feel right the remainder of the day but I still managed to have fun, despite not being able to indulge in the abundant food selection. I tried my hand at the dart competition and could barely lift the dart, let alone throw with any accuracy. Most of the day I just laid in the sun, until it got too hot, then I moved to the shade.

I was the first to get sick, but by the end of the day people in our group were dropping like flies. We’re not sure what it could have been, but four days after I initially got sick, I’m still feeling the effects. This morning was the first time I have actually felt hunger pangs rather than a bloated, full feeling. Thank goodness; it was very unpleasant.

When I’d planned this vacation, I booked two nights because I needed to get back home for work. With the government shutdown, I didn’t have a job to return to but I also don’t have a paycheck to sustain that lifestyle. So while I wish I could have stayed longer and enjoyed all that was offered, it is good to be home and get back into “Africa-preparedness mode”.

In conclusion, I do not retract my former position of practicality-that weddings are, in general, a huge waste of money.  Sometimes, though, it turns out to be worth it (from a guest’s perspective, of course).