“They” said he was a shy and quiet introvert.
That he was startled by loud noises.
That strangers made him cry.
They said he was cognitively delayed.
That he was well behind his peers.
That he spoke little, learned slowly and would probably be behind.
They said he couldn’t walk.
That his cerebral palsy held him back.
That this precious little boy who has captured all our hearts was “hard to place,” was “special needs” … and would need the gentlest of hands and the most careful of care.
A week and a half into life in a family — into life where he waves at every stranger and sings songs to every friend; where he bears weight on his legs but just can’t stand alone; where in 10 days, he's learned signs, English words and the name of every family member; where he is the singer, the initiator and the current leader of the wrestling pack — it looks like “they” were wrong.
Because the file that describes this fragile boy we were almost afraid to make ours doesn’t even mention the JOY this boy brings to our team.
The hilarious antics he brings to our home.
The charisma which he exudes in every interaction with every human we’ve seen him spot so far.
The bright mind that has already figured all of us out.
Yes, files are important.
Yes, medical diagnoses are big.
But in 10 days, we’ve learned the truth.
That God is bigger.
That prayer is mightier.
That a file is just a piece of paper written about the potential needs of a child.
It doesn’t capture his personality.
It doesn’t capture his heart.
And it sure doesn’t capture the potential we’ve seen BLOSSOM in just 10 days inside a family.
What’s scarier than big words in a medical file?
That the words “cerebral palsy” and “cognitive delays” could have robbed us of one of the four greatest blessings of our lives.