Vol 1 Issue 18
THREE AWKWARD STEPS
But bearing what we cannot change and going on with what God has given us, confident there is a destiny, somehow seems to bring a reward we wouldn't exchange for any other. It takes a lot of fire and heat to make a piece of steel. --Ronald Reagan
It is the season of graduations - a bittersweet time for parents and teachers– a time of celebration and excitement for students. As a member of the Board of Education for the Winston-Salem/Forsyth County school system, I am called upon to make welcoming remarks in behalf of the Board at high school graduations.
A few years ago, amid the pomp and circumstance of the East Forsyth High School Graduation, I stood before 345 graduates of the class of 2003. What a splendid array of young people! Each dressed in a dark blue robe, capped with a silly mortar- board hat, adorned with a gold and white tassels.
Excitement filled the air. Smiles brightened faces of all in attendance. Thirteen years of hard work would soon give way to a boundless future filled with hopeful expectation.
I never suspected that amid a simple graduation exercise, I would learn an important lesson about indomitable nature of the human spirit.
After completing my remarks, I sat on the stage at Lawrence Joel Coliseum with several dignitaries and school officials. Each of the graduates walked briskly to the middle of the stage as their names were called, smiled, shook hands with Principal Patricia Gainey and accepted their diplomas.
As the students filed upon the stage in alphabetical order with precision more familiar to soldiers than to high school students, my attention was drawn to a student in a motorized wheelchair. As the student weaved her way to the stage, I noticed that she was accompanied by two assistants, who helped her navigate her chair into a small elevator that lifted her to the stage. Curious, I asked a teacher sitting next to me the name of this student.
The answer was simply: “That is Renee Green.”
Suddenly I remembered. Renee was injured as a little girl. She was but a year or so older than my own daughter. While in elementary school, she nearly lost her life in a motor vehicle accident. She was in a coma for some time and when she awoke, her life was forever changed. Once a healthy little girl, who ran in the school yard with friends, Renee faced years of rehabilitation just to be able to take a step on her own.
My thoughts were interrupted as the teacher turned to me and said: “Renee is going to walk today. She has worked hard for weeks. It will be a surprise for her father.”
About that time, Renee emerged from the elevator and guided her wheelchair onto the stage, waiting in turn with her classmates to accept her diploma. It was obvious to me that her injuries had been quite severe. Frankly, her physical appearance did not provide me with much assurance that she would be able to take a step on her own, much less walk across the stage.
As her name was called, she carefully moved her wheelchair to the front of the stage, stopping ten feet from Principal Gainey. The coliseum grew silent. Then, with the help of two assistants, she struggled to stand. As she began to stand, her classmates began to applaud. As she hesitantly took her first step, the class of 2003 stood as one and began to cheer. Soon every person in the coliseum stood, many with tears streaming down their cheeks, joining students in a thunderous ovation.
The first step was followed by a second and then a third. With her left hand, Renee grasped her diploma. With her right hand, she embraced her principal. From my vantage point, I read her lips as she exclaimed to Ms. Gainey: “I made it! Thank God, I made it.”
As I stood and cheered with the class of 2003, I wept. I shed tears of joy and mingled them with tears of sorrow. I cried in exultation for the accomplishments of one so cruelly injured. I cried in empathy for her parents. Mostly I cried for the class of 2003, for I am sure they did not understand the significance of the miracle they had just witnessed.
True wisdom, or courage, or compassion, are not gifts handed out to deserving people. We earn them by our labors. Our struggles reveal them. They are taught to us by the very lessons of life itself. Bearing what we cannot change and going on with what God has given us, confident there is a destiny, somehow seems to bring a reward we wouldn't exchange for any other. All of which is embodied in the three awkward steps of Renee Green.
But bearing what we cannot change and going on with what God has given us, confident there is a destiny, somehow seems to bring a reward we wouldn't exchange for any other. It takes a lot of fire and heat to make a piece of steel. --Ronald Reagan
It is the season of graduations - a bittersweet time for parents and teachers– a time of celebration and excitement for students. As a member of the Board of Education for the Winston-Salem/Forsyth County school system, I am called upon to make welcoming remarks in behalf of the Board at high school graduations.
A few years ago, amid the pomp and circumstance of the East Forsyth High School Graduation, I stood before 345 graduates of the class of 2003. What a splendid array of young people! Each dressed in a dark blue robe, capped with a silly mortar- board hat, adorned with a gold and white tassels.
Excitement filled the air. Smiles brightened faces of all in attendance. Thirteen years of hard work would soon give way to a boundless future filled with hopeful expectation.
I never suspected that amid a simple graduation exercise, I would learn an important lesson about indomitable nature of the human spirit.
After completing my remarks, I sat on the stage at Lawrence Joel Coliseum with several dignitaries and school officials. Each of the graduates walked briskly to the middle of the stage as their names were called, smiled, shook hands with Principal Patricia Gainey and accepted their diplomas.
As the students filed upon the stage in alphabetical order with precision more familiar to soldiers than to high school students, my attention was drawn to a student in a motorized wheelchair. As the student weaved her way to the stage, I noticed that she was accompanied by two assistants, who helped her navigate her chair into a small elevator that lifted her to the stage. Curious, I asked a teacher sitting next to me the name of this student.
The answer was simply: “That is Renee Green.”
Suddenly I remembered. Renee was injured as a little girl. She was but a year or so older than my own daughter. While in elementary school, she nearly lost her life in a motor vehicle accident. She was in a coma for some time and when she awoke, her life was forever changed. Once a healthy little girl, who ran in the school yard with friends, Renee faced years of rehabilitation just to be able to take a step on her own.
My thoughts were interrupted as the teacher turned to me and said: “Renee is going to walk today. She has worked hard for weeks. It will be a surprise for her father.”
About that time, Renee emerged from the elevator and guided her wheelchair onto the stage, waiting in turn with her classmates to accept her diploma. It was obvious to me that her injuries had been quite severe. Frankly, her physical appearance did not provide me with much assurance that she would be able to take a step on her own, much less walk across the stage.
As her name was called, she carefully moved her wheelchair to the front of the stage, stopping ten feet from Principal Gainey. The coliseum grew silent. Then, with the help of two assistants, she struggled to stand. As she began to stand, her classmates began to applaud. As she hesitantly took her first step, the class of 2003 stood as one and began to cheer. Soon every person in the coliseum stood, many with tears streaming down their cheeks, joining students in a thunderous ovation.
The first step was followed by a second and then a third. With her left hand, Renee grasped her diploma. With her right hand, she embraced her principal. From my vantage point, I read her lips as she exclaimed to Ms. Gainey: “I made it! Thank God, I made it.”
As I stood and cheered with the class of 2003, I wept. I shed tears of joy and mingled them with tears of sorrow. I cried in exultation for the accomplishments of one so cruelly injured. I cried in empathy for her parents. Mostly I cried for the class of 2003, for I am sure they did not understand the significance of the miracle they had just witnessed.
True wisdom, or courage, or compassion, are not gifts handed out to deserving people. We earn them by our labors. Our struggles reveal them. They are taught to us by the very lessons of life itself. Bearing what we cannot change and going on with what God has given us, confident there is a destiny, somehow seems to bring a reward we wouldn't exchange for any other. All of which is embodied in the three awkward steps of Renee Green.
