Her eyes will never focus directly upon my own and her spine will never straighten enough to allow her to move without her wheelchair. I do not always understand the limited words she speaks out loud and I will never understand all the thoughts that flow through her mind at any given moment. I only understand that she is beautiful, a kind of beautiful I can only hope to achieve.
Her spine that has grown, in ways that mine has not, will never fully support the diminutive weight of her lithe figure. Our mental capacities will probably never equal. She may never be able to play the tambourine or run across a field. She will never be able to do many of the things that other children certainly desire. But, she can smile. And she can laugh. And she knows what it means to be happy.
When I sit next to Jenny or I see her in the hall and she looks at me as only she can, a smile upon her face, with no other origin than pure happiness, only then do I know why I am alive. I am alive because she is alive. I am alive to be a friend, a teacher, a helper, a student… and she is alive to do the same.
Thank you, Jenny.
A Grateful Life 