Chance of a Lifetime
My dear readers, this happened:
That is a picture of Addy, standing up in front of thousands of people, to give a speech and handle a live Q&A.
My darling birthmarked baby, whose port wine stain made us wonder how she’d face life, got up and did this three times in a row, overall speaking to 30,000-35,000 people last weekend.
Addy had the immense privilege of being asked to speak at Eagle Brook Church, one of the largest churches in our metro area, as part of a sermon on God’s strength showing up in our weaknesses. This was our first time being there.
Here is the link to the recorded service; I recommend the whole message (38:06 if you click the “Message Only” button), but if you want to skip ahead, Addy’s segment starts at about 24:30.
Dr. Merritt (“Pastor Bob”) researched meticulously. I only met him shortly before Addy went up on stage. I didn’t even provide the photos; he picked them from my blog. I didn’t provide him much commentary at all. Everything he said about our story, he distilled himself from the words I’ve written here – and I couldn’t have distilled my own words better if I’d tried. This man isn’t kidding when he says he’s anxious about speaking his messages; it makes him prepare carefully, and God moves powerfully through it. His message resonated. Addy may have helped it resonate, but it was deeply moving long before she ever got there.
I was touched by how well he told her story. He and his staff warmly welcomed & closely shepherded us through the weekend, and I am immensely grateful for it.
I now understand the immense anxiety of powerlessness. This event, this speech, this privilege, this moment was in the hands of a ten-year-old kid, and there was nothing I could do to prevent disaster or help mitigate a single thing. Once she left the backstage ‘green room’ with her mic clipped to her little uniform jumper, it was all on her.
This wasn’t life-or-death. This wasn’t major surgery, handing off the car keys, or freshman year of college. But I was sending out my little girl, so tiny on that stage, to speak a speech and to handle live Q&A in front of thousands. If she froze mid-speech, if she fell off the chair, if her jumper caught, if she got sick, if she answered awkwardly, if anything happened to her that we’ve all seen happen to other people in public, there was nothing I could do. Thousands were watching. How much will therapy cost if this goes sour?
She remembered her speech. She even remembered to do the shortened version. Twice she accidentally launched into the longer version, but soon caught herself and smoothly jumped down to the right spot in the speech without anyone even noticing.
She answered Pastor Bob’s questions. It’s so easy for humans to give mistaken answers, to blurt out something embarrassing by accident; adults do it all the time, and even professional talking heads do it and lose their jobs. But she answered them just fine.
I don’t think I breathed until the applause began and she could leave the stage. She got three standing ovations, from a quiet northern congregation that doesn’t do standing ovations.
What do I say, after such a weekend? I am rarely stuck for commentary, but I’m coming up short right now.
Readers, you know Addy’s journey. Many of you are parents of unique children, too. You’ve hoped, like we have, that your baby will be able to simply walk into a classroom someday without feeling embarrassment or shame. That’s a high-water mark that we don’t take for granted. We can’t.
Moments of this exhilarating magnitude are definitely not guaranteed, let alone expected.
But they’re possible. And not just in spite of, but perhaps because of, that uniqueness.
May her words (and Dr. Merritt’s) encourage you.