Keeping A *Christmas* Heart

Years ago I was a music specialist for a county program for developmentally delayed children and adults. Day after day, week after week, I traveled to this school and that, pushing the school piano from room to room. Our children were what was then called "trainable retarded" folk, ages 6-60 and beyond. They worked with a variety of other handicaps as well: we had a blind class, a deaf class, several autistic classes, several "profoundly retarded" classes, and so forth. The bottom line was love-with-discipline: a lot of laughter, some tears, and learning how to get along in the group and in society, as well as learning how to deal with each challenge - some permanent, some temporary.

One day in the teachers' lounge the young woman who'd just taken over the blind class, and who was struggling with leukemia herself, regaled us with a story about one of the students. David had been born sighted, but was also born with cancer of the optic nerve and had to have his eyes removed shortly after birth. Brain damage during surgery rendered him intellectually and developmentally delayed, as well. David had a couple of fake eyeballs. Every so often he would get bored, take out an eyeball, and drop it on the floor to hear it roll. His former teacher had always retrieved it, washed off the grime, and given it back to him to re-insert. His new teacher, however, had more than enough on her hands without groping around on the floor for an eyeball several times a day. So she told David after his first eyeball drop in her class, that if he dropped it one more time he was going to have to find it himself. The inevitable happened. By the lunch time when she joined us in the lunchroom, David had indeed dropped, and then found, his eyeball. It took him two hours. We laughed until the tears came, since so many of us had witnessed David's discomfiting habit. But we also had some tears of admiration for the courage of this young teacher, working with a challenging class, with humor and strength, right through her own struggles with leukemia. And of course we cheered her gift of "tough love" strength to David. She made him do his best to correct something that sorely needed correcting, and she stood beside and behind him with everything in her, to make sure he did the job. Now he had a better chance of getting along as he moved into adulthood.

I was asked to start a choir at one of the adult workshops in the same program. In that workshop there was a young woman with cerebral palsy whom, I was told, would play the piano for the group. The first time the workshop choir met, I recognized her right away: she walked with two leg braces, her arms and hands somewhat crippled, and she went straight to the piano bench. I had been told she had a measured IQ of less than 65. I was amazed. She was what is sometimes referred to as a musical "idiot savant." She could play any tune I hummed to her, and she could put the correct chords to the melody, with very little correction - and she could transpose any song instantaneously to any musical key. Of course, she had perfect pitch. She was truly amazing. I was the music teacher, fresh out of school, but I had a lot to learn. These children and adults were great teachers of humility and unconditional love for me; and this amazing musician, Janice, was one of the greatest. When she sang "Somewhere, Over The Rainbow," or "O, Holy Night," people wept. They couldn't help it.  Janice sang like an angel. In fact, I'm certain she was an angel - or perhaps an angel was singing to us through her. Even now, I cannot write about her without being deeply moved.

As a musician, I've heard and known a great many fine performers. I perform on occasion, myself. When people remark on my singing, I think of Janice. I tell people that I learned singing - that is, the art of pouring love into the space and beings around me through song - from the pure-hearted unconditional love of all those county program music students. Beyond that, I learned SINGING from Janice. I'm eternally indebted to the grace which gave me time with her.

"O, Holy Night----the stars are brightly shining;

It was the Night of our Dear Savior's birth."

We have a lot of saviors in our lives, if we really think about it. And some of the greatest ones are those who - like the Savior in the song - have suffered and somehow made the most of their time on earth in spite of all the challenges. In the spirit of Janice and all the other children all over the world, those who are born whole and those who are challenged at birth or later - and along with Charles Dickens' immortal Tiny Tim and many other children born of literature - I wish you an amazing soul season of Lighting the Darkness; and may we keep and give the gift of Hope from our hearts, through our hands and voices, the whole year 'round.

NOTE: I first published this piece in Gather in December, 2007