My daughter has a reading disability, most likely dyslexia.
It’s a recent diagnosis, but I’ve known something was amiss for years.
My older two children took to decoding and reading like a fish takes to water, but not M. She was like a fish that landed in a tree.
From the beginning, she struggled to grasp and memorize the letter sounds. The idea of putting sounds together to make a complete word took many, many, many months to take hold. Even then, it was slow. The progress was always slow.
We worked twice as hard for twice as long to make less headway than expected.
For a time, I thought it was just M taking her time like she does with so much of life. I lovingly refer to her as my “enjoy the journey” child because, to her, deadlines are merely suggestions.
As progress continued to be slow and arduous, I realized there more going on than a late reader waiting for the moment to bloom. Instead, I came to understand her reluctance and hesitancy toward reading was more complex and complicated.
I won’t bore you with the details of it all, but the last 2.5 years have been very difficult for me. As a home educating mother with a struggling reader, I have constantly battled the thinking that I wasn’t good enough, prepared enough, capable enough. I waged war in mind to overcome the idea that I have somehow failed my child.
When a parent is trying to unlock a child’s struggle, failure is a familiar feeling.
I have spent countless hours working one on one with M. We’ve made flashcards and worn them out until the edges were bent. I’ve done armchair research on reading disabilities, then worked to employ tools from others’ toolboxes. I’ve changed up my teaching style, incorporated various learning styles. We’ve used games, dice, printed materials, and computer games. We've repeated and repeated and repeated spelling words until she can correctly write “friend” and “people” without fail. I’ve increased the amount of time I read aloud to her, which has become every night - no matter how tired I am.
I am so tired.
Parenting a child with a disability or chronic illness is accompanied by a tremendous emotional toll.
I carried the weight of M’s struggle with me at all times. It would surface during predictable situations like during a reading lesson when I would take a deep breath and find words of affirmation instead of frustration.
The weight would also surface in unpredictable moments like at my work Christmas party. Amidst the gaiety of a party game that requires speed and reading, the unexpected question sprung to mind of whether M will ever feel comfortable with this kind of game because it requires rapid reading skills. Those thoughts sobered me and delivered a familiar internal blow while I affix an external smile hoping not to give anything away.
Add into the mix the roller coaster of a life we lived the last few years complete with ministry burnout, the grief of losing a parent, and a major move away from all that is familiar. It flurries into a perfect storm of emotional tyranny usurping any sense of order, control, or peace I once perceived I possessed. Suffice to say, it’s been a year…or three.
Life has dealt some difficult blows, but I’ve done what we all hope to do.
I try to do my best with the tools I’ve got.
And maybe, on a good day, I extend myself a little grace.
Long story short, since moving to Sioux Falls, we’ve been able to connect with some resources that can aid in the effort to help M build confidence and unlock some mysteries still remaining for her in reading.
In the midst of securing evaluations, assessments, and intervention I have also battled fear.
I’ve been afraid of judgment - judgment of my parenting skills, of my teaching skills, or both. I’ve been afraid that I’ve not done enough and that I’ve ruined my child forever. I’ve been afraid that our ability to home educate would be disrupted. I’ve been afraid that fellow homeschoolers will condemn our decision to accept help from the school district.
Whether you can relate to these fears or not, can you admit we all experience fear. Can we also acknowledge that fear is not usually rational, and fears often augment and distort in nonsensical ways that create all kinds of crazy in the head. Am I right?
Humans possess an immeasurable capacity to give in to fear that will paralyze us and prevent us from pursuing the very things that could help us. Yet, humanity also possesses an immeasurable capacity to stare fear down and choose to move forward trusting that an unknown process might yield positive results.
The gift is in the choosing.
You and I get to wake up everyday and decide which immeasurable capacity will win out - fear or trust.
In what seems to be unrelated news, today is Ash Wednesday. The first day in the season of Lent. A time when followers of Jesus prepare for Easter by recognizing their own humanity. Today, millions of people worldwide received the sign of the cross on their forehead, formed with a finger dipped in ash. A black cross serving as a reminder that we are limited creatures - mortal, fallible, finite. A black cross that reminds us that death is part of life, but death can also make way for hope and rebirth.
A black, ash cross is a visible symbol that surrender can give birth to new hope.
Today, M started dual enrollment as a homeschool student and a student at a local elementary school. She will spend two hours Monday through Friday in class receiving some specialized services with the goal of improving her reading abilities.
I awoke today, Ash Wednesday, and smiled as I considered the apropos timing of this journey. On a day when ashes remind us of our own limitations and dependence, I will release my child into the capable care of others.
On a day when we embrace the confines that restrict us, I will enlarge my circle by partnering with those who have the training and aptitude for reading interventions.
On a day when death looms large but makes way for life, I will lay my own fears to rest and allow certain ill-held dreams to die so that hope is offered to a 10 year old girl who has struggled to read.
Death to life.
Limits transformed to abundance.
The finite making way for the infinite.
All on a Wednesday filled with ashes.
I stroked M’s arm as I gently woke her this morning. This morning that was a beginning in so many ways. This beginning that will unfold one step at a time. This step that has been hard fought.
As I styled her hair and presented her breakfast, I chose to embrace my capacity to trust it will all be ok. Honestly, that’s easier to believe when you’ve met the teachers who will be working with your child. It’s easier to believe when you’ve been warmed by their welcome and calmed by the intentional ways they’ve already prepared to receive your child. It’s easier to believe when you’re told that the class can’t wait to meet their new friend and you know it’s true because that broad smile on the face of “Mrs. S” doesn’t lie. She means every word.
Sometimes, it’s hard to trust that others will fight as hard for your child as you will.
Sometimes fighting for your child means entrusting them into the care of those you have to trust will know what’s best when all you’ve been doing is second guessing yourself.
Sometimes, you hug your child and wish her well on her very first day in a school classroom, and believe it will all be ok, because renewed hope often comes from surrendering to our own limits.
And sometimes,
in the quiet moments after your goodbye,
when you’re reminding yourself that Ash Wednesdays lead to Easters,
your husband texts you a picture.
And in that photograph your child is standing with her new teacher,
in her new school,
and they’re both smiling
and that teacher is donning none other than,
you guessed it,
a black, ash cross on her forehead.
All on a Wednesday filled with ashes and hope.
In that kind of moment, surrender is sweet and no diagnosis feels final or fatal.
