The Painting

It was a new place. A different group of people. A community who was unknown. And the mother had been made aware of the stark difference between her child and theirs. She struggled. She cried. She hurt.

They had art class together, the children did, and her daughter participated with her age group. The children stared and wondered. They were not unfriendly. But neither were they friendly. They were not purposefully hurtful, but in excluding, they hurt. And the mother heart hurt for her daughter.

The day over, the children were directed to find their pieces of art drying on a table to take home. Beautiful black and white silhouettes of wolves, noses stretched upward, and graceful horses, ears alert. The mother searched for her daughters picture among the many paintings. Where was it?

Then suddenly she saw it. How could she have missed it? It was a mirage of colors. No pattern. No design. No beautiful picture. A mess of paint.

The mother heart cried out. Could not someone have helped her daughter paint a beautiful picture, one like the other children’s? Could not someone have helped her fit in in this small way?

Standing amongst the paintings with strangers surrounding her, the mother almost broke and wept.

Then her daughter came. And instead of feeling shame or comparing her painting with the others, the little girl delightedly showed her mother her abstract art. The sparkle in her eye, the smile on her face, the joy at simply creating. And the mother loved her.

The child did not care that her painting was unlike the others. She did not compare her picture to theirs.

Suddenly the grey and white painting was beautiful in her mother’s eyes. It was special, not because it was like the others, but because of the hands that made it. And now it hangs in her room as a reminder of the preciousness of the little girl.

Her daughter. The beautiful child with down-syndrome.