Chicken Soup for the Soul: Children with Special Needs Read Free Page B

happened on the hardwood. They passed Lauren the ball. She caught it and dribbled toward the goal. Lauren went in for a layup. Amazingly, the opposing team did not block her. She shot. She scored!
    Applause exploded, and the thunderous sounds reverberated off the metal walls of the building. “Lauren, Lauren, Lauren,” chanted the cheerleaders.
    Instead of reacting to the noisy crowd, my daughter kept her head in the game. The final buzzer sounded. Verden lost by seventeen points.
    A few minutes later, Lauren joined us in the stands.
    “Did you see? I scored!” Her brown eyes shone as she wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. “I made a basket!”
    For sixteen years, I’d tried hard to shield Lauren and prevent her from feeling like she was different. But watching Lauren in the game, I saw that she really was different— not physically or emotionally, but spiritually. I, nor probably anyone else in that gymnasium, had ever seen a player with so much heart.
    My daughter wasn’t like everyone else. I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her tight. Lauren was different. And I was glad.
    Reverend Johnny Wray
As told to Stephanie Welcher Thompson
     
    Stephanie Welcher Thompson is a wife and stay-at-home mom who writes when she is apart from daughter, Micah, age four, and husband, Michael. Her stories have appeared in Guideposts, Angels on Earth, Positive Thinking, Sweet 16, and ten Chicken Soup books. Reach Stephanie at P.O. Box 1502, Edmond, OK 73083 or [email protected].
     

A Message from John
     
I f you judge people, you have no time to love them.
Mother Teresa
     
    Early in my career as a social worker, my boss came into my office and said, “Jo, I have a student who wants to do a rotation with you in the substance-abuse program. He’s quadriplegic, but very capable and eager to learn.” My first reaction was to say no. This student’s disability was one of my greatest fears. I fought off the impulse to protest, however, and replied, “Send him over for an interview so we can get acquainted.” John rolled into my office about twenty minutes later.
    John and I began our conversation with the usual exchange of information about past experiences and career goals. Then I took a risk. I said, “John, my greatest fear in life is being in an accident that leaves me a quadriplegic. I’m ready for some personal growth if you are willing to teach me. In exchange, I can teach you a lot about working with addicts and alcoholics.” John thought about my comment and replied, “No sweat! Most people are very uncomfortable with my physical condition until they get to know me. That’s part of what comes with having a physical challenge.”
    John began his rotation on my unit one week after our initial interview. He amazed me with his creative adaptation to his disability. He typed up assessments and progress notes with a mouth stick, and was active and engaging in group therapy sessions. One day, a new member appeared for his first therapy session. He had paraplegia and was still very angry about his disability. He looked around the room for a scapegoat and quickly targeted John. He began with disparaging comments about John’s “obvious” challenges. He taunted John by stating, “You’re only half a man. What business do you have leading therapy groups?”
    John remained calm during this verbal assault. When the new patient finally fell silent, John said, “When I was first injured, I was very angry, too. I was mad at God, my parents, and myself. Becoming a quadriplegic cost me a football scholarship, my girlfriend, and my ability to meet my own needs without help. As I adjusted to my challenges and worked through my grief and anger, I began to realize I still have a lot going for me . . . if I have the courage to take risks. I’m a pretty good therapist, and I hope you will give me a chance to help you.” The patient remained sullen, but stayed for the remainder of the session without making any