Our beginning was tentative, although I have become accustomed to prying words out of kids in the first lesson. Ricky's wobbly fingers were unable to negotiate even the simplest one-finger chords. He was four and a half, my youngest student ever. I had him strum the strings, copying the rhythm of my playing.
When he smiled, light seemed to pour from his eyes as they alternated between me, his new teacher, and our wildly strumming hands. As I gradually increased the speed, we clenched our teeth and exchanged growling facial expressions, racing toward the collision of a million notes-flying-everywhere. We laughed together.
My favorite moment is when a child and I lose ourselves in laughter--not at clever jokes or someone coming "down to their level." Not smirks or giggles, but real laughter, as we look each other right in the eye holding our stomachs. That's real. That's when you know you are buddies.
Encouraging him on, I say, "Who are you trying to fool, telling me you are a beginner and then strumming like that? Are you going to give me lessons?" We laughed like brothers reunited.
Ricky's eyes occasionally wandered upward in his sockets. I would have panicked, but his relaxed demeanor told me there was no need for alarm.
We discussed the parts of the guitar. We played 'Simon says' which is always a big hit. Soon Ricky was pointing to the sound-hole and bridge and tuners on his own guitar. We did all the usual stuff you do with one of those miniature toy guitars guaranteed to stay out of tune through the next millennium.
We were together counting the strings when I noticed his confusion. His smile quickly vanished, and tears suddenly poured from his eyes. A terrified ashamed voice cried, "I'll never count the strings! My big brothers tell me I can't think right!"
My stomach tightened as I quickly found myself mourning this child's terrible loss. I felt like the air had been knocked out of me with a 2 x 4. It was all I could do to smile while seeing the deep pain Ricky carried inside. I could feel that same pain in me.
I quickly changed gears and resorted to questions I was sure he could answer. Soon back on track, we were bobbing our heads to the rhythm of "Mr. Frog Is Full Of Hops." But the smile he gave me minutes ago was gone, tainted now by self-doubt.
I had to say something."Ricky?" I said now serious.
His innocent eyes connected with mine. "Yes?"
"I think you are a special kid."
Ricky look downward. Then a whispered voice of reassurance left his lips. "Well of course I am," he replied. The announcement was so smooth that it could have passed without notice.
As though I had just glimpsed a ghost in the room, my mind struggled to make sense, to rewind the wisdom of a saint before it melted like snow in the sun. Those weren't four-year-old words! It was as if God himself had uttered an immutable truth.
Ricky was already in tow to the place where the rest of us have taken up residence--where "who we are" becomes less important than "what we do." We tell ourselves careers or homes or things is what defines us. We pretend not to care about the dreams we left behind, and we learn to fit the role bestowed by others.
Ricky's brothers may have teased him ruthlessly. And the sounds from his guitar may have been out of tune. But for Ricky, on that particular day, and in that small room, the melody of his spirit was divine and unforgettable--a song for sure. It was a song wordlessly communicating his birthright to happiness. We are not valuable because of what we can do or what we become. We are valuable because we are here.
Little Ricky may not become a brilliant physicist or engineer, but with visible pride and joy, he could demonstrate how his guitar could vibrate and clang and push out sounds as his fingers thrashed those out-of-tune strings. He could sit with me and face his worst nightmare--that he is not what others say that he should be. Ricky reminded me that it is the joy we feel in what we do that gives us meaning.
My heart went out to Ricky because he expressed the fear most of us endure in silence--that we are not good enough. Beyond the torture of that feeling and the teasing of his brothers about what he could not change, he had that soft still voice reminding him, "Well of course I am." He could still hear the innocent and Christ-like voice of self-love ringing like a perfect note in his ears.
Who were you trying to fool, Ricky? You were a song long before you could count those strings--long before your little body walked into that room, and long before you became a little boy with a learning disability.
After that day, I had a dream that Ricky and I were standing before God. For some reason, I heard myself explaining that although others may think Ricky isn't good enough, he is beautiful and innocent and perfect.
God answered, "Well of course I am!"
.......................................
Maryann Munroe is a phenomenal spiritual counselor who works with families of children with special needs. Contact: Maryann Youtube or Maryann spoken word audio
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You are an excellent writer, Daniel. This is going to always be one of my favorite ones!
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