SIMCHA FISHER

Did we appreciate Mr. Rogers when he was on TV? No, we did not. My sister and I didn’t, anyway. We thought he was unbearably gooney (and it didn’t help that I was secretly terrified of Lady Elaine). When his show came on, we would elaborately die of boredom, rolling our eyes so hard, we could see the inside of our snarky little skulls.

Also, I couldn’t deal with his face. I just didn’t want to look at it.

He had that smile of extreme simplicity that you see in people who have gone through tremendous sorrows, or in the mentally impaired at Mass. It’s a radical openness, a lantern that burns too bright.

Mr. Rogers was remembered by François Clemmons on StoryCorps last week. (The very short StoryCorps features on National Public Radio are almost always worth a listen — sort of the audio equivalent of Humans of New York.) In this edition, Clemmons tells how Fred Rogers invited him to come play a policeman on his show.

Clemmons, who is black, says that the idea didn’t appeal to him. 

“I grew up in the ghetto. I did not have a positive opinion of police officers. Policemen were siccing police dogs and water hoses on people,” he says. “And I really had a hard time putting myself in that role. So I was not excited about being Officer Clemmons at all.”

But he agreed; and one show in particular stands out in his mind. It was 1969.

Rogers had been resting his feet in a plastic pool on a hot day.

“He invited me to come over and to rest my feet in the water with him,” Clemmons recalls. “The icon Fred Rogers not only was showing my brown skin in the tub with his white skin as two friends, but as I was getting out of that tub, he was helping me dry my feet.”

Something to think about as Holy Thursday approaches. Fred Rogers clearly saw his career as an opportunity to invite, to serve, and to model charity. He was goony, yes, but that is who he was. He did what we are all supposed to to, in our own way.

It strikes me, too, that Rogers didn’t hide behind the TV screen and consider that he had discharged his duty by broadcasting his message to the millions of people who watched his show. Bloggers, take heed! Talking to a crowd was not a substitute for talking to the man in front of him. There is no substitute for the personal.

[Clemmons] says he’ll never forget the day Rogers wrapped up the program, as he always did, by hanging up his sweater and saying, “You make every day a special day just by being you, and I like you just the way you are.” This time in particular, Rogers had been looking right at Clemmons, and after they wrapped, he walked over.

Clemmons asked him, “Fred, were you talking to me?”

“Yes, I have been talking to you for years,” Rogers said, as Clemmons recalls. “But you heard me today.”

Okay, so, that sounds familiar. Doesn’t it? Who talks that way? You know who. That’s why I find it hard to look Fred Rogers in the face. He was a holy man.

***

Photo: By Dr. François S. Clemmons (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Last night, my friend Elisa posted a picture of something amazing she made: a fold-out, fabric icon book in a leather cover.

[img attachment=”94876″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”icon book” /]

I’ve never seen anything like it. (More pictures here.) Very kid-friendly, ideal for Mass, but not cutesy or sentimental, like so many religious goods for kids — and it would make a beautiful devotional display for adults, too.

I wanted to spread the word about her gorgeous icon book — and then it occurred to me that there are lots of other Catholic crafters and artisans out there who have lovely goods for sale. So I put out a quick request, and the result is this little feature.

First, check out Elisa’s shop, Door Number 9, where she sells a wide variety of quirky, geekish handmade items, along with little oratories and contemporary styled religious jewelry, at her Etsy shop, Door Number 9. We have a few of her products and love them. Elisa graciously used my name, SIMCHA, as a coupon code for my readers, for 15% off a $25 purchase or more.  It expires Easter Sunday, March 27.

If you have handmade religious goods for sale, feel free to add a link to your shop in the comments!

PLEASE NOTE: Many, but not all, of these sellers can ship before Easter. PLEASE check the delivery details on the individual pages, especially if you are ordering a custom-made item.

Annie Tillberg makes the items for sale at Annery’s Handmade: Take a look at this sweet Roses Gift Set, meant for little hands that fidget or older hands that can’t grasp small rosary beads anymore:

[img attachment=”94882″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”rosary roses annery” /]

Also for sale: Communion veils and knit and sewn infinity scarves.

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Bumblebee Bonnets: ADORABLE. Handmade bonnets for babies age newborn to 36 months.

[img attachment=”94883″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”bumblebee bonnets 2″ /]

Bumblebee Bonnets can deliver by Easter. Check out the selection of fabrics available now, and see the most lovely bonnet model in the world.

I also like the “The Lord walks among the pots and pans” watercolor.

***

Anyone who follows my blog knows that I’m hopelessly devoted to the lovingly handmade cold process soap by my dear friend Robin. Robin is on hiatus for the moment, but her store still has plenty of gorgeous, fragrant soaps for sale in many varieties. Here’s my family’s favorite: just plain goatmilk

[img attachment=”94919″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”goatmilk” /]

Wonderful for dry skin, very gentle and dense. Robin also has some sweet flower-shaped soaps for sale, along with a variety of beautiful and aromatic hand-cut bars. 

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Another option for handmade soap: Clean River Products. Christine Lyons says: “Our specialty is Chrism Scented Soap.”

[img attachment=”94920″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”chrism soap” /]

“This is a perfect gift for the newly Confirmed, Ordained, or for anyone who would love to be reminded daily of the outpouring of Grace received from the Sacraments. We use only the highest quality essential oils to scent our soaps.”

***

AND NOW FOR THE ROSARIES!

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Every well-appointed Catholic home has a large collection of broken rosary bits. If you’re ready for something that will hold together forever, check out my friend Kyra’s awesome new chainmail-and-hematite rosary.

[img attachment=”94891″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”chainmail rosary” /]

While I was writing this post, her rosaries sold out, but she is making more!

These rosaries would make excellent First Holy Communion gifts, and more will be listed soon. In the meantime, check out Kyra’s strikingly beautiful and amazingly strong handmade chainmail jewelry at Iron Lace Design.

***

More custom-made, one-of-a-kind rosaries and chaplets from Allison Kinyon of  Rosaries by Allison. There is a huge selection in a wide price range. Here’s one that caught my eye, because I am a sucker for sea glass:

[img attachment=”94893″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”sea glass rosary” /]

Many lovely and unusual rosaries for sale. Several rosaries are ready to ship in time for Easter.

***

Another personal favorite: wrap-around rosary bracelets and other goods from Apple and Azalea, handmade and designed by my dear friend Theresa Barger, who lives in Webster, NH. It was hard to choose one to feature, but this swirled red brecciated jasper rosary with jet black glass Our Father beads is especially striking.

***
Thanks to all the artisans who contributed to this post! If you have handmade religious items for sale, please feel free to leave a link in the comments.

SATURDAY
Hot dogs, baked beans, cheesy weezies

WYSIWYG.

SUNDAY
BLTs, Pringles, Banana splits

Birthday at the Fishers’ house! Cake at some later point. Jeff Miller used to do this “test your detachment” thing on Fridays in Lent. Here’s my contribution, with five pounds of bacon:

[img attachment=”94611″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”bacon” /]

Imagine your suffering if I had a better camera, you backsliding reprobate.

We also had banana splits. Corrie’s was served pre-deconstructed, which pleased her majesty:

[img attachment=”94612″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”corrie banana split” /]
MONDAY
Chicken pies

I last made chicken pies maybe eight years ago, and nobody liked them. I thought it was time to try again, so I went with the most bourgeois version I could think of. No leeks or fennel or white wine involved to challenge anyone’s palate. I also made a lot of Mr. Tweedy jokes, just to prime the pump and make everyone feel jolly about the meal to come.

In chicken broth, I cooked chicken breast, carrots, potatoes, peas, mushrooms, celery, and onions. The sauce was a plain white sauce (flour, butter and milk) seasoned with two envelopes of onion soup mix. And I made it in store-bought pie shells. Here’s what they looked like before I put the top crust on. VERY NORMAL, right?

[img attachment=”94619″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”chicken pies” /]

The family deemed them . . . okay.

I thought they were delicious. They tasted exactly like they ought to taste. Now my only problem is, where am I going to find a new family? HA.

TUESDAY
French toast casserole, Sausages

Everybody was ridiculously happy about this meal in the aftermath of the immense suffering of homemade chicken pies yesterday. Here is my lovely bread-tearing assistant, hard at work:

[img attachment=”94628″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”benny bread for french toast” /]

I also served one of the leftover chicken pies, because I am mean.

WEDNESDAY
Ziti, salad

They were also really excited about this meal, not sure why. Ziti from a box, sauce from a jar, limited cheese requiring the oversight of the teenage cheese police.

Oh, so I have this colander problem. Our old colander is a standard size, which means that whenever I made enough pasta for our family, I have to do it in batches, or else some of it ends up slithering out into the sink, which is always gross, because Fly Lady can go suck an egg. (Actually, Fly Lady seems so quaint and reasonable now, doesn’t she? All the cleaning experts currently in vogue are all, “Do you really need a front door? Does it spark joy? Consider achieving inner peace by dispensing with your floorboards, and just skipping lightly from joist to joist. Japanese mothers have been doing this for years, and they glow!”)

So I tried for a while, but I discovered that it’s hard to find out exactly what sizes colanders come in; so I bought what seemed like a reasonable step up: 16 quarts.

[img attachment=”94630″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”colander” /]

Thanks a lot, common core. The thing is, of course, big enough to bathe a calf in — or I guess strain a calf, anyway. It doesn’t fit in my sink. I’m an idiot. Now I just have to pack it back up and return it and buy a smaller one, which I will definitely do right away.

You know what, how about one of you cleaning experts come over here and do it for me, with all your free time and serenity.

THURSDAY
Pork carnitas, Avocados 

I made carnitas once before, and they weren’t great, so a bunch of people suggested yummier, more authentic recipes. I ignored all of these and went to allrecipes.com. It actually turned out pretty great — although I doubled the meat and quadrupled all the seasoning. The flavor was mild but pleasant.

[img attachment=”94629″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”carnitas 2″ /]

One quibble: Preheat oven to 400, simmer the meat on the stove top for 2.5 hours, then put the meat in the oven? Something ain’t right there. I’ll get back to you when I put my finger on it. I’m not feeling great. Why is it so hot in here? Ugh, I must be getting a fever.

FRIDAY
Quesadillas, Tomato soup, spinach salad, tortilla chips

Pretty good for a Friday!

What’s slithering around in the sink at your house? Anything good?

Dear Young and Very Sad Me,

First, I know you won’t believe me, but I gotta say it: You’re not fat.

Honest.

Don’t be crazy. You do crunches obsessively and eat nothing but salad and ice, so do me a favor: ditch the baggy sweatshirts and saggy jeans, and find out what it’s like to wear fitted clothes in small sizes, before it’s too late! OK, thanks.

Now I want to tell you the things you will need to know in order to become happy, a good wife and mother, closer to God, and a more productive member of society.

I really want to, I say. But even now, I’m not sure what to say. I could warn you against some horrible mistakes you’re going to make: wasting time, getting into debt, treating other people badly, looking for love in all the wrong places, and so on.

But the fact is, you’ll know when you’re doing them that they’re bad ideas, and you’re going to go ahead and do them anyway. What can I say? There are plenty of people looking out for your happiness, eager to help, and you don’t want to be helped. You don’t want to be happy.

I know why. It’s because you don’t think you deserve to be happy. You think that everyone hates you. You hate yourself and you can’t imagine a future where you don’t hate yourself, because you think that who you are now is who you will always be. And at the same time, you’re furious at everybody for not being your friend, even though you are not exactly pleasant to be around.

I know you won’t hear me when I tell you to be patient with yourself. But maybe you will be able to hear this: Be patient with God. He has His reasons for letting you go through these dark and ugly times. He is softening your heart, making it tender. Ever seen a meat tenderizer?

[img attachment=”94571″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”MeatPounder2″ /]

Yeah. But it won’t go on like this forever.

I want to tell you that every misery and humiliation that you’re going through now is for something, if you will sit still and let God work on you. Some of it will make you more compassionate; some of it will make you more resilient. Some of it will make you appreciate the joys and pleasures of life a thousand times more, when they come, because you won’t take them for granted. And some of it is going to make you a genuine pain in the pants, and you are just going to have to get over yourself and realize that everybody had a crummy childhood or a crummy teenager-hood or a crummy something.

All right?

But nothing has to be wasted.

The boyfriends you think you deserve? Let them go – you and they deserve better. The guy who makes you want to change into a better person? Hold on tight. And when he says he loves you, believe him! You both have to learn what love really means, but wanting to be good is a great place to start.

Some day you will wake up every morning in a small, sunny house crammed with people you love: a strong and tender husband and a whole bunch of strange and wonderful kids (more than you expected – see paragraph one: enjoy being skinny) who know you very, very well and who love you because they know you, not in spite of it. They need your specific talents, your specific strengths and enthusiasms, your specific capacity for work and creativity. They will need your help to get through struggles of their own. They need you – the you that is being formed right now. It’s not for nothing. I want you to have hope.

So go to confession, make a morning offering every day – even a little one, even a half-hearted one. Pray before you go to sleep. These things will help. They will, in fact, save you.

God wants to save you. Let Him!

Love,

Older, Fatter, Happy Me

***

(This essay originally ran in Catholic Match in 2012.)

Suffering is a strange thing. When we suck it up, it’s like burying a seed, but refusing to water it. It probably won’t do any harm that way, but it won’t do any good, either. But if we bury that seed and then offer it up, it’s like telling the Holy Spirit, “Psst, over here! This one needs some water.” And we know what happens next: the thing cracks open and starts to grow. Amazing!

Read the rest at the Register.

***

Image:

Oke-mah Wah Cumig Oke planting seed potatoes By Unknown or not provided (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

So my husband says to me, he says, “Next year, I’ll be the one shooting at the roof. Then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

Let me back up. We were at Señor Tadpole’s, celebrating the benignity of my nodules. If you say that fast enough, it sounds like something fried they serve to gullible tourists in the French Quarter, but it is not. I had been waiting since last week to hear from the lab whether I had cancer or not. Thyroid cancer is kind of the Switzerland of cancers, from what I hear. You have to work really, really hard to get it to make a fuss.

Even the surgery isn’t too bad, if you have to have it. I’ve already had the other half of my thyroid taken out, and that was good for a lot of sympathetic door-holding, let me tell you. People see you coming down the hall with a bunch of little kids and your neck stitched shut, and they hold the door.

But this week, I had been holding my own doors, and my husband wanted to make sure I knew he had been worried and concerned and praying, even if he didn’t wear it on his sleeve. I knew this, because I know him. When I got the heebie jeebies, I would tell him so, and he would hold me, and there was no use thinking hard about what might happen should one of us turn out to be mortal.

Around the same time as I went in for my biopsy, he fell on his bottomus on the ice. His forearm bruised and swelled up impressively, and his jaundiced eye got a few shades yellower, but we thought that was the end of it. But no. It now looks like he may have fractured a rib or two — just enough to make most movements uncomfortable, not enough to, I don’t know, GO TO THE DOCTOR OR ANYTHING.

I can’t tell him anything. I did ask, “Do you want to, I don’t know, GO TO THE DOCTOR OR ANYTHING, YOU RIDICULOUS  MAN?” Which is my way of saying, “I love you”; but he didn’t.  He did tell the kids that it was partially my fault, because his rib is where I came from. This seems fair.

So there we were, sharing a plateful of what the menu called — I’m not making this up — “Nachos Cowabunga.” To the waitress, my husband said, “We’ll have these nachos. The ones with beef.” When she nodded and left, he looked at me and said, “I’m an adult.” Cowabunga-free since 2004, at least.

We got to talking about how decrepit we were, and I expressed astonishment that it was on this mild winter that he had fallen and broken his ridiculous ribs, and not last winter, which was the winter where I spent most of the time sleeping like a fat, fat, fat bear because I was pregnant, and he spent most of the time up on the roof, trying to chip through the aptly-named ice dams that were causing our house to slowly fill up with light brown water, one ceiling drip at a time. (That winter, we established that, as homeowners, our least favorite sound was trickling.)

Last winter would have been the time to fracture something. This winter has been mild. Next winter, he says, he has a plan, in case all that effing snow comes back. Next winter,  he says, he is going to fill his shotgun with salt and he is going to kill the ice. And then no one’s house will fill up with water, and no one’s roof will cave in, and we will all be safe.

Which is his way of saying, “I love you,” and I know it.

***

It won’t shock you to hear that sometimes, Catholic bloggers have nothing to say. It won’t surprise you to hear that inspiration doesn’t routinely and spontaneously descend from the heavens and whisper insight into our ears, leaving us only with the problem of rushing over to the keyboard fast enough to copy it all down before it flutters off in search of a writer who can type faster.

Sometimes, we have nothing to write about, but we still have to write something. So we look around, and we think, “Well, that thing that happened to me is kind of a lesson. About Jesus. Because I’m Catholic, and this is what I do.”

Let’s see. Well, my dog goes berserk and barks like crazy when the UPS man comes by, because my dog, being a dope, doesn’t realize that we wanted that package. And that’s like when the Holy Spirit tries to give us grace, and we, um, bark at Him.

Or, the baby spends all her time trying to throw herself off chairs and eat glue, and then she gets mad at me when I rescue her. That’s kind of how we are with God, thinking the commandments are God being mean and wrecking our fun, but really He’s trying to keep us safe.

Or, my four-year-old asked, in a worried voice, if people are made out of meat. It turned out that she was trying to figure out the motivation of the Werewolf of Gubbio. Took a while to untangle that one, and to figure out what her real worries were (namely, that St. Francis is real, but so are werewolves). It was only because I know her, and I know what books she reads, what games she plays, and how she thinks, that I was able to understand what was in her heart, even while she herself didn’t have the words to express what she was thinking. Just like me and Jesus, me all inarticulate, Him all knowing, etc. etc. etc.

In other words, it’s very easy — almost a game, or a chore — to browse the shelves of our daily lives and find little shrink-wrapped lessons about our relationship with God. I could do it all day. Sometimes I do it all week. It’s not a terrible thing to do, and often enough, people tell me, “That was exactly what I needed to hear today. ”

But after a certain point, it feels grotesquely cynical. Oh, look, Jesus is on sale this week! I’m going to buy a nice hunk, and I have the perfect recipe in mind. I’ll just chop Him up into nice, bite-sized pieces . . .

It won’t shock you to hear that this is what I do. We all do it, in one way or another.

As I pushed past the hysterical dog, lugging my package (which was a colander I ordered in a fit of despond, and hadn’t been sent by Holy Spirit at all, at all), I fretted over how late it was and how I still hadn’t come up with anything to write about. And I thought with a little groan, “Okay, Jesus, get in the box.”

It was the best possible prayer I could have prayed.

Why?

Not because of what I said, but because I was praying. I was talking to Him, rather than about Him.

Yesterday on the radio, Mark Shea recalled how a priest once said, “Don’t ask yourself, ‘Do I really trust Jesus?’ Because that’s a question you could go on asking yourself forever, wondering, fretting, challenging yourself, never being sure that you really, truly trust God as much as you should.

“Instead,” said the priest, “Ask yourself, ‘Is Jesus trustworthy?'”

And the answer to that is always, “Yes.” Full stop. That’s all there is to it. It puts an end to the navel gazing and refocuses our gaze on the only gazeworthy thing in the world, which is Jesus. He really is the answer to all of our questions. Not because He gives us something to talk about! Because He is the answer, full stop. There’s no way to make that bite-sized.

Talking about Him is good. It’s great. We’re commanded to do it. But let’s remember what it’s all for. Through Him, with Him, in Him. It’s Him. It’s about being with Him. No story or lesson or parable or metaphor is a substitute for that. Whether you’re a Catholic writer, or a teacher, or a catechist, or a parent, or a combox warrior, or a politician, or a rosary-maker, or someone who, for reasons unknown, shares those gifs of sparkly flowers fluttering around the Sacred Heart . . . stop.

Stop and pray. Stop and be with Him.  He doesn’t want you to put Him in a box. He doesn’t want you to put Him in shrink wrap, or a recipe, or a lesson, or a meme. He doesn’t want you to set up a tent for him. He just wants you to stop, stop, stop, and be with Him.

***

image By Bill Branson (Photographer) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

On Sunday at Mass, I saw my four-year-old gazing at the stained glass window showing Mary, Mater Dolorosa. Mary’s face is twisted, her eyes large and sorrowful as she contemplates the crucifixion painted on the wall above the altar.

After a few minutes, my daughter took her crayons and started to draw. In her picture, the woman is agonized, her mouth open, her hands outstretched, a river of tears streaming down her face. My daughter crayoned in the last details, and then offered the picture to me. She grabbed my head and whispered hoarsely into my ear, “She is crying because her husband got eaten by a shark.”

We’re gonna need a bigger pew.

Here is a chart of this week:

[img attachment=”93744″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”emotional menu chart” /]

Also, I couldn’t find my camera charger all week, so the pictures are much more terrible than usual.

The specifics:

SATURDAY
One pan chicken thighs with veggies

[img attachment=”93771″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”fancy potatoes” /]

I’ve had tons of success with this one-pan roasted chicken and fall vegetable recipe, which I’ve made with crazy purple potatoes (see above. Yes, that is an old picture. I like to keep old pictures of fancy potatoes on my iPad just in case I need them), tender little Brussels sprouts, and all kinds of nice veggies. This week I got an attack of the cheaps when I was shopping, so we just had carrots, white potatoes, and butternut squash. It was still good, and the skin of the chicken thighs roasts up nice and crisp.

A bright and tasty dish you can prepare ahead of time, and only barely have to know how to cook.

SUNDAY
Pioneer Woman’s Perfect Pot Roast, mashed potatoes

This smelled heavenly, looked magnificent, and tasted . . . okay.

I was heartbroken. I’ve been waiting and waiting for beef to go on sale, so I scooped up a nearly five-pound roast and spent most of the day making Tasmanian devil noises while is slowly cooked in wine and beef broth.

[img attachment=”93767″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”pot roast in pan resize” /]
Looks pretty great, right? Well, it wasn’t terrible, it was just bland. The mashed potatoes were good, though.

MONDAY
Korean pork ribs, rice with seaweed, roasted sesame broccoli

I see now that I should redo that chart, because Monday was actually the high point. Couldn’t be more pleased with the way these ribs turned out. I made a triple recipe of my friend Elizabeth’s sauce again:

5 generous Tbs gochujang 
2 Tbs honey 
2 tsp sugar 
2 Tbs soy sauce 
5 cloves minced garlic

and set the ribs to marinate all day. Then I threw them under the broiler for half an hour and pulled them out when they were sizzling and gleaming. Then I stepped back and watched my family rediscover their lupine heritage. I’m surprised no one lost a finger. I think we would have considered it a good trade if we had, though.

[img attachment=”93778″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”korean pork ribs” /]

To get this image, I took an elderly cell phone, soaked it in mineral oil for a while, and then hit the shutter button with my elbows while balancing on a can of condensed milk.

The broccoli, I cut it into pieces and put them in a shallow pan, drizzled it with my new found best friend, sesame oil, and sprinkled it with salt, pepper, and toasted sesame seeds.  Put it under the broiler for a few minutes until the broccoli was a little bit charred, and it was not bad.

TUESDAY
TACO TUESDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!

Is Taco Tuesday so exciting because it’s called Taco Tuesday, or because you get to eat tacos? Or is it mainly about the sour cream?

WEDNESDAY
Pizza

Two pepperoni, two olive.  I’ve never made four pizzas so fast in my life. Not really a story, but I was impressed and feel like telling someone.

Oh, wait, I have a second pizza triumph to report. Here is a pizza that I made several weeks ago. I like to slide it off the pan in the last few minutes, to let it brown up a little underneath. Well, look at the terrible thing that almost happened when I stretched things a little too thin:

[img attachment=”93770″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”pizza in peril” /]

But guess what? I saved it! You have to approach these things with confidence.

THURSDAY 
Chicken nuggets, chips, veggies, dip, and hummus

The children prepared this meal for me in my hour of need, and all I had to do was set it all up ahead of time, give them detailed instructions, yell at them for not doing it, and then give them a massive guilt trip for how hard it was to get them to do it. Tasty!

FRIDAY
Spaghetti

I may go lie down first, though.

Have you heard of Unified Sports? I caught a quick story on the local news yesterday, and it’s a brilliant idea. In Unified Sports, which sprung out of the Special Olympics organization, students with and without intellectual disabilities practice and play together on all sorts of athletic teams, from basketball to volleyball to figure skating.

I can’t seem to find online the story I heard, but one girl told the NHPR reporter that she got involved simply because she wasn’t ready for the regular basketball season to be over — so she signed up to be a “partner,” helping kids with disabilities to pass, dribble, and score. The rules of this league stipulate that partners may not score more than 25% of the points in a game; but in the most recent season, the partners didn’t score at all, choosing instead to pass the ball to their developmentally disabled teammates. As the team practiced and played together, friendships developed naturally between kids who, in other circumstances, would never have spent time together at all.

The games are less fierce and more cooperative, but they are real games, and part of real tournaments. The program has recently taken off in a big way in high schools across New England. The games are lively and exciting, but “[t]he best thing we found out that happened last year were all the things that happened off the court,” [Project Unify director at Special Olympics Maine Ian] Frank, Frank said.

“The traveling to games, putting on the uniform with the school colors, playing in a home gym, socializing with students that typically you wouldn’t have, the barriers that got broken down and the doors that got opened, obviously the things that are happening are very positive to all of us and the students involved.

“It’s a place where people can shine, it’s a great avenue for sports at its truest form. There are so many life lessons that really come out of this program it’s hard not to be able to sell this,” he said.

…

“The impact it had not just on a basketball team but the culture of a school internally was special to see.”

When I was in school, kids with developmental disabilities were segregated into separate classrooms. Students in the general population rarely saw them, much less played or worked with them. They were just those weird, scary kids who got shuffled around when the rest of us were doing regular school. A few of the more effusive kids with special needs were treated as adorable mascots, but there was certainly no concerted effort to integrate them, or to get to actually know them. Things have changed.

Another happy innovation: in my kids’ high school, the Interact club (the high school version of Rotary) has an initiative that encourages students to become friends with kids with special needs, checking in on them throughout the day, cheering them on, helping them get along with other students. I talked to a student from one high school in a different state, and he said that, as the year began, the kids with developmental disabilities were outcasts, and their classmates nervously averted their eyes, or even jeered at them. But once the school made an organized, explicit effort to bring them into the community, the special needs kids gradually became “rock stars,” collecting high fives and swapping nicknames with the other kids as they made their way down the hall. More than that, true friendships formed, which endured outside of the school.

These programs are very much in line with the aims of Jean Vanier, founder of L’Arche, a foundation which builds special communities where people with and without intellectual disabilities live and work together for their mutual benefit. How beautiful to see secular schools making a similar effort.

Sometimes it feels like the world is getting worse and worse, but this effort to integrate the developmentally disabled is a true, meaningful, and increasingly popular movement in American society. Even as there is a push to eliminate “imperfect” children before they are born, there is a simultaneous push to make contact and to build genuine relationships with people with developmental disabilities, for their benefit and for the benefit of the non-disabled population.

Little green shoots! They’re there if you look for them.