Todays Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

Sunshine

By Lauri Khodabandehloo

" How long has she been skating? " the woman asked, as she took a seat

next

to me on the bleachers surrounding the ice rink. " She's very good! "

In spite of the lump in my throat and the tears welling up in my eyes I

answered, " She just started. "

I didn't tell her she was seeing a miracle in the making. My autistic

daughter had found a place she could shine - and my heart sang out, " Thank

you,

God. . . thank you. "

I sat there with my eyes fixed on her as she skated around the icy

rink,

gaining confidence and speed with each revolution. She didn't seem to

notice

the obvious danger of falling, or even the overwhelming chill that numbed

the

fingers and noses of the few who joined me watching from our bench seats.

And

my thoughts turned back to the early years as I remembered how we'd come -

my

child and I - to this moment.

I was almost thirty-five and my teenage daughters were testing their

wings

of independence. The last thing I'd expected to be holding soon was a

newborn.

And certainly not my own. Yet, a thirty-second phone call to my doctor's

office

had confirmed the fact and I would find myself exactly that - expecting.

And on

a crisp, but sunny morning in February 1981, my fourth daughter, Farema, was

born. Her father, Cody, chose her name from his ancestral homeland of

ancient

Persia. I gave little thought to its rarity until one of the nurses asked,

" So

- you named her Farina? Like the cereal? "

" No, " I answered, " it's pronounced Fa-ree-mah. " I would hear that same

question, many times over. I'd even resigned myself to the fact that if in

her

life she were mistaken for a breakfast food, so be it.

Before my surprise pregnancy, I'd anxiously contemplated what freedoms

awaited me when my children were finally grown. Leisure lunches with a

friend,

no more rushing home to beat the school bus - maybe even trips to far off

places. Cody and I deserved time to ourselves after raising three

daughters.

Now, a new baby meant that the smell of ocean beaches in faraway lands

must

succumb to the pungent odor of ammonia-laden diapers. Soothing sounds of

music

drifting overhead from eateries dotting the sandy strip where I lounge

watching

the orange sun set over the calm blue sea - a fading fantasy. I'd be well

into

middle age before this child was out on her own.

" My albatross, " I'd thought to myself - only to be filled with shame

for

thinking such a thing when I realized something was seriously wrong with my

youngest daughter.

I'd seen families burdened with a child who never left home. Now, it

was

my own life that would be forever rearranged. But what worried me far more

was

what the future held for Farema as she grew older.

I began to search for something that would offer my daughter a life

with

some amount of joy. I didn't want her to be lonely and left behind, though

she

never seemed to care one way or the other. By keeping her around normal,

healthy children, I hoped she might imitate and become like them. That was

my

new dream. And though she lived in a secret world that we could not enter,

her

love for the outdoors and her ceaseless energy convinced me to look in the

direction of sports.

I jumped at the idea of signing her up for soccer when a friend offered

to

coach the grade school girl's soccer team.

" She doesn't talk much, " I warned him. " But she understands everything

you

tell her. "

Before her third practice, I knew soccer was not for her. Basketball,

softball and track were just as hopeless. She was the kid no one chose for

their side, leaving the coach the ultimate decision, as the little girls

whispered their dismay.

By the time Farema was twelve I had run out of ideas. I had come to

the

end of my imagination. And by now she'd been diagnosed with autism, a

biological brain disorder with no known cure. My senses told me to accept

what

cannot be changed; yet my heart continued to hope for more. And one

evening, I

noticed a short preview of the coming Olympic Figure Skating competition on

television, and it sparked a memory for me.

As a very young child, Farema seemed to have some mysterious pact with

the

elements of nature, especially when it was cold. When other children were

driven indoors by the chilly weather, or bundled up against the winter wind,

no

amount of pleading would persuade her to keep a jacket on. And at night,

she'd

shed her warm covers to sleep under her bed on the hardwood floor - and

never

would a shiver betray her.

Now I sat on the cold bench at the skating rink, with the other moms,

watching that familiar smile envelop her small face and sparkle from her

eyes to

the very air around her, and I knew God had heard me. He hadn't made her

normal, as I begged in prayers offered up to heaven on a sea of salty

tears -

but I knew from the moment she stepped out onto the ice that this day was a

beginning for her. This was the beginning of her life, a life that would

fit

her perfectly.

Farema and I returned to the skating rink again and again. As her

skills

progressed, her ability to speak improved as well.

" I like ice! " she said to me in the car on our way home from the rink.

I

was dumbfounded to hear a complete sentence from her. Months later, she was

talking incessantly.

The local ice skating rink is truly her place. The icy mist in the air

is

her shadow - the breeze that caresses her body as she skates in her solitary

world - her companion. With Farema's newfound happiness came friends who

joined

with her in a special camaraderie, as they too fulfilled personal goals and

reached for their Olympic dreams.

My uncommon daughter, Farema, is now indistinguishable from any other

young

girl as she glides over the ice with a smile that illuminates her face - and

my

heart.

Cody and I are now approaching the prime - and retirement - years of

our

lives. I would never have asked for the heartache and disappointment that

raising a disabled child could bring. But I would not have traded the

lessons

I've learned, including perseverance, faith and enduring patience for all

the

freedoms I've sacrificed. And those faraway shores and sunsets are getting

nearer every day.