rileyed
We stand in a huddled line, breath like mist in the frosty cold, our hands stuffed in our pockets. Seven minutes until the DMV opens, and we wait like a semi-orderly herd of sleepy sheep staring expectantly at a storefront door.
“If we had a YouTube channel, this would be the episode to watch,” I say to Kevin, grinning as we sway back and forth on our feet, our whole brood packed in behind other parents and their soon-to-be driving kids. Zoe will get her driver’s license today, Riley and Adam their first IDs.
Adam squints, one eye closed against the new sun, scripting something from one of the games he likes to play on his tablet. He half mumbles, occasionally raising his voice into announcer speak. Ladies and gentlemen, would you just look at that throw; I can hardly believe it believe it. Even the stadium echo he reproduces, repeating the words more faintly. I’m so used to this I hardly notice anymore, except in settings like this one, when I see people standing near us swivel their heads to cast furtive glances in Adam’s direction. I want to nod, smile, acknowledge with an explanation, but I know the commentary will come off wrong and embarrass Zoe more than our uniqueness does. So we all just smile and stand waiting with our life all hanging out.
When they finally open the door, we shuffle in, all weary business. The chairs–just five rows of five, fill quickly. Hands stuffed with papers and the numbers they gave us at the check-in desk, we wait some more, nodding meekly at each other, passing pleasantries down the rows like cups of water. An older couple walks in, flanneled and weathered and silvered, and two young men in front of us vacate their chairs, moving to stand awkwardly in the only blank space between the waiting area and reception. I feel proud, and I don’t know them. The older gentleman smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges, nods his head in acknowledgement of their kindness while the woman laughs. “I guess we look as old as we feel,” she says.
Everywhere, eyes look tired; we wear waking like thick hoods. Zoe shifts uncomfortably in her plastic chair; Adam leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. I glance at Riley and she beams, looking up from her phone, laughter escaping her lips like she’s exhaling joy. All this quiet, yawning politeness, and she’s already shining.
They call Riley’s number, and after a double-checking pause, she pops out of the chair, her expression brightly expectant. I get up too, follow her to the numbered desk they indicated, and then, discovering no other chair, stand attending behind. I wonder how long it will take for the employee at the desk to understand why I followed, why I stand there feeling too tall, too hovering.
Handing over all the necessary papers, Riley sits, exhaling more joy, quiet and patient. They have questions, a litany of protocol mostly incomprehensible to my daughter, but she’s good at agreeing carefully, as though she’s fully grasping the import of the interview. What color are your eyes? How much do you weigh? Have you ever been convicted of a felony? She pauses, momentarily thrown, and I lean forward, interjecting no. Felony: I’m not sure Riley even knows that word. By now, though, the woman at the desk smiles every time she asks a question. Riley’s happiness, that dancing lilt in her voice, seems to have awakened the entire room. I glance over at Kevin and Zoe and Adam and notice all eyes sparkling, mouths curling up at the edges. Riley only knows one elevated volume for speech, and her heart welcomes the world.
“Okay, I’m going to take your picture now,” the woman says, air-tapping her finger in the empty space in front of the camera affixed to the top of her computer monitor.
“Okay,” Riley says, looking just there, fixing her mouth in a wide, wonky grin.
The woman swivels the monitor. “See, there you are.”
Riley leans forward, arm akimbo, and gasps. “I look AMAZING!” She gushes loudly, obviously pleased, and the room of weary waiters, taken entirely by surprise, dissolves into giggles. I stand watching as Riley’s joy sweeps the DMV like a flood; even the hard-faced security officer grins wide.
Riley has always been the most accepting person I know; accepting of others, accepting of herself. She lives without comparison, apologetically loving –and finding utterly amazing– all that God has created. “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well,” the Psalmist wrote (Psalm 139:14). Riley lives that Psalm, will tell you clearly that everything about her is wonderful because God made it that way, and because of this, she lives with unprecedented joy. Her spirit spreads contagiously, reflecting in faces so often that our family verbs her name. I look now at the woman at the desk; she’s been Rileyed, too, and suddenly we feel more like community than strangers.
