So much to teach...

Last week, I was quizzing him in "Name that Category" cards.  I held up picture cards with three items on each one.

"Apple, banana, and grapes are ...." I started, and Colby quickly responded, "fruit."

I followed with "Hammer, screwdriver, and saw are ..." and he answered, "tools." 

My next card was "A cloud, rainbow, and sun are ...."  Colby's instant response made me stop my rapid-fire drilling.

"Beautiful," he said.

So much to learn...

Cards printed permission of Super Duper Inc. ©2009

The opening welcome was handled by four of our alumni, the first group from Hope Academy to be graduating from high school, which includes my older son, Rixon.  Although each of these seniors moved from our program into different high schools, all of them have made their mark - taking honors and AP classes, participating in the arts and sports, holding leadership positions.  After four years, they remain friends, eager to come back to recognize the impact of Hope Academy on their lives.

One of our current 8th graders, a leader with a quiet disposition who had opted to be the stage manager so that he would not have a speaking part, made a surprise request to do our opening prayer. He wrote a heartfelt, eloquent message and prayed it with conviction.

The preschoolers sang with gusto, the children with autism positioned next to friends who stood ready to help. Parents of the children with autism marveled to see them smiling into an audience of nearly 300.  Parents of "typical" students had tears in their eyes as they watched their children befriend their peers who were unsure about what to do.

One of our 3rd graders with autism, who often speaks too softly to be heard, proclaimed his lines into the microphone with poise, waiting for the applause to die down before delivering his next words.

A 1st grader with autism, who started with us this year with the expectation that we might not hear her speak for months, joined her class on stage and spoke clearly into the microphone, breaking into an angelic grin!

A 2nd grader who has struggled with anxiety laid her fears aside and took charge of her friend with autism, handling the microphone for him and guiding him off the stage.

In a beautiful blend of traditions, one 2nd grader wearing his yarmulke explained the significance of the menorah.  His friend, garbed as an angel, discussed the creche.

The 1st graders belted out "Frosty the Snowman," arms linked as they swayed back and forth, a plan they devised on their own to help their classmate with autism who was unable to stand in place.

One student on the autism spectrum was placed in charge of the light system, handling 26 different light changes all by himself.  Another managed four costume changes and brought down the house with his comedic role.  My younger son, Colby, performed the role of a doctor, for the first time in 7 years speaking lines that could be understood by the audience without benefit of written prompts.

Truly a celebration of hope!

Now, I am not a jello kind of gal.  I do not consider jello a dessert for sure - chocolate is not involved.  Nor do I see jello as a substitute for a salad, a fruit, or even a snack.  In my book, jello is really a useless substance.  Don't like the smell; don't like the taste; don't like the texture.

But, in July, a bowl of red jello became my most memorable dining experience of the year.  My older son, Rixon, and I were lounging in the sun, talking about his upcoming senior year - football practice, college applications, vacation plans - and dozing in between.

Suddenly, my younger son, Colby, burst through the back door, bearing two bowls of red jello.  This jello was not molded into cubes or rounded domes.  It was not garnished with dabs of whipped cream.  This jello had obviously been squished through Colby's fingers as it was glopped into the bowls.

And yet, Rixon and I sat up and looked at each other, astounded and ecstatic.  Colby, who has autism, had SERVED US jello.  Colby, in his 15 years, has shared food only a handful of times.  He has spontaneously said "I love you" only two or three times in his life.  His conversation, strained at best, nearly always centers on  "I want ..." 

But, today, amazingly, Colby had formed the thought, "I want to do something for my mother and brother."  On his own, he had searched the fridge, found containers of jello, torn them open, pulled out bowls, maneuvered the jello into bowls, retrieved spoons, and searched us out. 

As he thrust the bowls into our hands, his smile said it all.  For the first time in his life, Colby was performing an act of service, simply out of love.

The best meal ever.