Gifts and Gratitude

     I read Henri Nouwen's book, 'Adam: God's Beloved', when Daniel was about three years old. I'm the type of person who tries to make sense of things. I tend to live in my head, sometimes driving myself crazy with questions that don't have answers. The story of Adam is well-told by Nouwen, and it helped me make peace with disability.
     Nouwen was a priest and academic for most of his life. He wrote books, did theological research, and in general lived a life that placed intelligence in pretty high esteem. In 1986 he left university life to go and live with the mentally disabled in a L'Arche community in Canada called Daybreak. He would be their pastor for the next ten years.
     Part of his first assignment was to work with Adam, one of the most disabled in the community. He was taught to help him with the very basic tasks of bathing, dressing and eating. It scared him. He didn't think he had what it took to help someone with such severe limitations. He was afraid he might not do the job right, or that he would somehow hurt Adam. That was not the case. In fact, he later wrote that the friendship that developed with this very disabled, non-verbal man was one of the most transformative of his life.
      In Nouwen's book he wrote, "Speaking about 'Adam's Gift' is not romanticizing an otherwise quite demanding and unrewarding life situation. Adam's gift was a reality of everyday living...Amid all the planning of meals, cleanups, visits to the doctor, shopping, repairs, and countless other things to do, that question of the gifts of Adam, Roy, Michael, Rosie and John (other disabled core members) always remained central. Everyone knew that they would not remain good L'Arche assistants for long if they weren't richly rewarded--by the spiritual gifts of people like Rosie and John. They were discovering that true care is mutual care. If their only reward had been the small salary, their care would soon have become little more than human maintenance."
      Once, a pastor friend who taught theology visited him at L'Arche Daybreak. He felt that Nouwen was wasting his time and talent working with Adam.
     His friend asked, "Why spend so much time and money on people with severe disabilities while so many capable people can hardly survive? Why should such people be allowed to take time and energy which should be given to solving the real problems humanity is facing?" (A question that some still have, and one that reminds me of Judas objections when Mary used expensive oil to wash Jesus' feet.)
     Nouwen didn't feel the need to debate with his friend. He did later write in response to that conversation that the real questions of God are "Can you let Adam lead you into prayer? Can you believe that I am in deep communion with Adam and that his life is a prayer? Can you let Adam  be a living prayer at your table? Can you see my face in the face of Adam?"
     At the end of the book, Nouwen writes, "From a worldly perspective telling about our relationship makes no sense at all. But I, Henri, Adam's friend, decided to write it down. I didn't embellish it. I didn't soften or sweeten it. I tried to write it as simply and directly as I could. I am a witness of Adam's truth."
     It's a truth that many parents of  profoundly disabled children know, but find difficult to put into words without sounding sentimental. We're not superhuman. Our kids aren't angels. They're human beings made in the image of God, and we can recognize their gifts and offer ours in return if we choose to.