grace
When we round the corner, she gets up from where she sits, pushing open the door. I can see the cold, straight legs of a card table through a narrow opening; I can tell she has hair the color of straw, that she wears a rose-colored shirt. Even before she stands in the doorway holding out her hand, even before she says her name is Grace, she reminds me of one of my grandmother’s friends. I’m speaking of course not of the grandma who pruned azaleas in the country and kept gallons of sweet tea in the icebox in her kitchen, not the one who stained her fingers learning how to dye reeds and weave them into baskets. No, I’m speaking of the grandmother who stretched out the letters of that affectionate name to gather years in the spaces; the one who wore trim suits in the middle of the day; the one with eight bottles of perfume tinkling on a mirrored tray in her bathroom.
“Hi, Riley? I’m Grace,” Grace says. Funny; she’s an evaluator named Grace. Her voice is gritty and rich. I wonder how she anticipated us before she could see us through that slit in the door, but we could have been narrating our way down the hall; Riley and I do that, especially when it’s just the two of us. It’s some throwback from the days when she was first and fat-cheeked and painfully silent; when Autism stole all of her words and stuffed them in some bursting corner of her mind; when I filled in the negative space with labels for all our living. “Okay, so we’re going to walk down this hallway and look for this room–not this one, not this one, and oh-move to the side for the people coming by, and do you need to stop at the restroom first?” Of course, now it’s not just me. Riley narrates her life constantly, especially when she’s alone with her own thoughts. I know; it’s my fault.
It immediately occurs to me that Grace is already dressed for the weekend. She’s wearing laundry and cooking jeans–you know, the comfortable kind–with a cotton shirt. She smiles easily, gives Riley’s hand a little squeeze. Grace has bony hands, like mine, with veins raised and running like tributaries across the back. But her fingers, apparently like all of her bones, are long and lean.
“Hi Grace, I’m Riley,” Riley says, smiling widely.
And just like that, Grace’s heart breaks. I see the evidence–the softening of creases, the light. Whatever hope of solid decorum and distance she has hoped to maintain during this evaluation instantly disappear. Grace tilts her head, as though she can’t quite put her finger on what just happened. Of course, I’ve seen it many times before, like the day the sheriff’s deputy came to formally serve Riley her copy of the guardianship papers I’d filed; the first time Riley met her neurologist; when she greets a first-time visitor before worship. At our house, we’ve “verbed” her name to describe this very transformation; we say, “So-and-so just got Riley-ed,” and we smile. I guess there’s just something about meeting a person made of light; something about the touch of someone who actually loves everyone.
“Is she always like this?” Grace says to me, extending her hand. I like that she doesn’t bother with any unnecessary small talk.
“Yes, she is,” I admit, wanting to say more, wanting to say and it doesn’t have the first thing to do with me. I follow Grace as she turns to walk back through the door, gesturing toward the table and a chair she has waiting for Riley.
I’ll be honest: I hate these evaluations. We exceptional needs parents accept the constant evaluation of our children in much the way we accept invasive medical physicals, submitting to them reluctantly. For the next hour and a half, I will listen to my daughter stumble and trip and fall smack down over Autism, so that I can receive an official piece of paper that reduces her journey to a list of numbers, mostly deficits. But with that paper I can march on and do what hope does: I can help my daughter grow. An evaluation is just a key that opens the next gate and the next and the next. I’ll have to review it for mistakes or questions, but after that, I’ll hold it in my hand and use it, but I’ll never let it matter.
“Well, if that’s so, you know, this stuff really doesn’t matter,” Grace says, picking up a pencil, settling in at the table across from Riley. “You know, if we could all just be–well, like that,” she says, opening her fingers toward Riley, who just smiles, “then we’d all be doing pretty good, I think.”
Nodding, I pick up the clipboard Grace has placed in my chair. It asks about Riley’s independence, her social acumen, her comprehension; I carefully fill in the bubbles—sometimes, hardly ever, not at all—while Grace begins to explain to Riley about the first test. “Mmmhmm, okay,” Riley chirps, putting her hands in her lap.
“Wait, let me tell your mom one more thing,” Grace says, and I look up.
“Remember that you want this to look bad,” Grace says. “You know, you want to evaluate things just as they are, not potentially how they could become. I mean, the purpose of this is to focus on the areas where she needs the most help.”
“Right,” I say. I know this, but I find it excruciating. I look at Riley and see ability and brightness and limitless potential. I look at Riley and see what God has done; I don’t look at her and see deficits. But then, neither really does Grace. Grace acknowledges the facts but doesn’t confuse them with Riley’s identity. That’s what happened, before. Grace met Riley. And her heart broke.
Grace can look at the broken mess of a person and recognize something infinitely more significant, something immeasurable, something even eternal.
Because of grace, God looks at me now, acknowledging the clear fact of my imperfection but seeing the fullness of Christ. I will never be the sum total of my deficits.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Riley, I turned the page too quickly,” Grace says quietly.
“Oh, it’s okay. You’re fine; you’re good, Ms. Grace,” Riley says, looking up from her test, pausing to study Grace’s expression. Riley never struggles to communicate that she cares.
Grace puts her hand on her mouth, looks from Riley to me, shakes her head. “This kid is incredible,” she says to me. And we both know that’s not something that will show up in the numbers.
