Notes from Becker's "a good and perfect gift"

This rainy week, I read (and loved!) Amy Julia Becker's memoir a good and perfect gift: Faith, Expectations and a Little Girl Named Penny (Bethany House, 2011). Becker writes honestly and poignantly about the life-altering experience of first time motherhood, made more complex when just after delivery, she learns her newborn, Penny, has Down syndrome.

Becker's reflections on the diagnosis and on parenting a child with special needs were eye-opening to me, even though I spend lots of time interacting with people with special needs and their families! For parents, the experience of having a child with special needs is surely as unique as their individual children; however, I'm so grateful for the general insight I gained from reading Becker's sensitive, honest portrayal of parenting her daughter. I think it brought me a shade closer to understanding, a deeper empathy and heightened awareness of parenting in general and specifically of children with special needs.

Two of my favorite points from Becker's text:

• "Can she [Penny] live a full life without ever solving a quadratic equation? Without ever reading Dostoyevsky? I'm pretty sure she can. Can I live a full life without learning to cherish and welcome those in this world who are different from me? I'm pretty sure I can't." (123)
• I attended a conference where we heard a child development specialist speak about "responsive parenting." He said most parents of kids with disabilities focused on their child's weaknesses. Instead we should try to identify Penny's strengths and help her grow into those strengths... [this way] we would recognize how capable she really was." (158)

In an identifiable voice, Becker also discusses the very nature of special needs diagnoses and how damaging 'scientific' understanding of limitations imposed by diagnoses can be. A talented narrator, Becker lets the reader get to know her wonderful, charming, intelligent daughter so personally that it breaks preconceptions about Down syndrome, doing for the reader on the page what working with individuals with special needs has done for me in person.

It's such a strange, humbling feeling to realize that one has imposed limits on someone because of preconceived notions related to a disability: one feels so foolish but also so very pleasantly surprised. I have experienced this as a teacher for people with special needs (and am glad to say it has broadened my heart, mind and awareness!). Becker presents this experience (of being pleasantly surprised and learning from it!) from the perspective of a parent, and it's a viewpoint so personal and intimate that one feels honored to be included as a reader.

Fair warning, Amy Julia Becker writes from a decidedly Christian perspective (and Bethany House is a Christian publisher). However, while Becker's faith is on every page, I never found it stifling or overbearing, despite being of a more "generic" spiritual persuasion myself at this time. Becker is down-to-earth and comfortable in her spirituality: it is central to her life and she shares it as open-heartedly as she does her experience of being Penny's mom. I have a feeling she would say the two are inseparable. 

A wonderful read, especially for anyone who loves, teaches or cares for a person with special needs and abilities!

Madonna's Eye



This picture sits above my desk in my home office; when I glance up from working or writing, I see Madonna's eye.  Madonna was a horse I knew for many years, from when I was twelve and she was six, until she died when I was 30 and she was 24.  My sister, Kristen White, took this photo one summer and on the back, signed it: "Love, Kris."  Somewhere along the way, I saved some pieces of Madonna's tail hair, and they are curled between the picture and the back of its frame. 

I have lots of pictures of this mare - some of her grazing, some of me (and others) riding her, some of her and her only filly, who the breeder called Pebbles.  But I like having Madonna's eye on me - just her eye. It's a reminder to be my best self, the person I want to be when she is watching.

As young teens, my sister and I spent many long afternoons at the barn together, and we fought (a lot!).  I remember once I slapped my sister when Madonna was nearby.  The horse flinched with her whole body.  I felt so badly afterwards, in part for slapping my sister, but more because Madonna had seen me do it.  I didn't want her to be afraid of me or realize that I was capable of violence.  I loved this horse so much, and I believed I needed to be my best self in order to deserve her.  In this way, Madonna taught me the consciousness needed to manage volatile emotions. 

Madonna taught me so much. She was very spirited and over the years, it was a challenge to find people to ride, own or care for her when I wasn't able to do so.  She connected me with so many wonderful people - most notably JH & JH-Z who owned her before me, and MT, MB and AB who took care of Madonna in her twenties and found her a retirement home.  I am forever grateful to MT, MB and AB: my own life was very complicated during Madonna's later years, but they showed both Madonna and me compassion and made sure she had a safe place to retire.  They also recognized and loved her beautiful, sensitive spirit. 

In working out homes and training for Madonna over the years, I also met people who were dishonest and/or truly ignorant about horses. Having to deal with these situations and at times stand up for my horse taught me a lot, too.

Kathleen Lindley, horse trainer and writer says, "I would try to be, everywhere, the way I wanted to be when I was with the horses."  This photo reminds me of Lindley's words: I realize if I can take a deep breath, have honest intentions, and stay present, focused and kind around horses, I should be able to accomplish this around the humans in my life as well. 

In part, the photo connects me with this purpose.  On the other hand, the photo sits on my desk because just a glance at Madonna's eye reminds me what it felt like to be 12, grooming a gentle but curious mare, free in her stall.  How she would turn her head to look at me, maybe to nuzzle my arm.  It reminds me of the soft look in her eye when I would sometimes pull a bucket over and sit down outside, but within reach, of her stall door.  She would stretch her head over the door and rustle my hair with her muzzle, making me feel safe and important. 

I liked how she watched me, then.