Graduations, Grief and Grace

Congratulations! What’s next? 

Which college will you be attending? 

What company will you be working for? 

Where to for the honeymoon?

Ah, the joyous month of June! Every year, the academic year tumbles to a hectic close with the bliss and blur of graduations and weddings, proms and parties, gifts and gowns. 

But for parents of children with significant disabilities, it’s also the season when the ghosts of grief return, to haunt us with painful reminders of what could have been for our child, if only... 

Time and opportunities pass by differently for children like mine. My sixteen-year old son navigates life with autism, ADHD, and a host of other challenges. Saddled with comparison and envy, parents like me frequently mourn the forfeiting of typical parent-child milestones: Diplomas inscribed with our child’s name, the mother-son dance at their wedding, or holding our first grandchild. Every June reminds us of the hidden opportunity costs we pay, by way of rites of passage we won’t get passage to. 

Meanwhile, for every ceremony or celebration we attend for someone else, or whenever we hastily scroll past his or her prom pictures on social media, we will ourselves to smile politely. But in our hearts, we silently grieve, What about my child? What about his future? What will his life amount to?

It’s a season that rattles my convictions and challenges my theology. Every year, I must to preach the gospel back to myself in reminder: God’s economy defines blessing and achievement in countercultural, kingdom-currency.

Ranked By Redemption

Two thousand years ago, the heavens opened to the voice of God heralding the debut of a holy and wholly unique Son—the closest He’d ever come to convocation or coronation. God’s beloved Son, with whom He was well pleased, was baptized, and anticipated an early death to follow. Born in obscurity, he grew up the son of a humble carpenter. He delighted at weddings, knowing full well He’d never marry, and joyfully restored the health of children He’d never parent. At festivals and feasts, He broke bread with friends He knew would abandon him, immediately after professing their devotion. 

Rather than bemoan His losses, Jesus remained resolved to the special calling assigned to Him, a truly unique burden no one else could understand. He died naked, misunderstood, and undervalued by the very world He came to save. 

In measures of earthly success, it might appear that Jesus “failed.”  Yet no one else bisected history with the date of His birth. No one else overturned death. No one else ascended to heaven and sat at the right hand of God. No one else secured eternal salvation for all mankind. No one else has been a Savior. 

The Son of God accomplished all these without a degree, career, marriage, family, or the loyalty of friends. His significance vastly underappreciated, He carried out His calling with precious little fanfare, pomp, or circumstance. 

Divine Requirements

He has shown you, O mortal, what is good.And what does the Lord require of you?To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God. (Micah 6:8)

What are God’s minimal—and optimal—expectations, but for His children to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with Him? Unencumbered by social trappings, Jesus had no other ambition but to avail Himself to God’s purposes. He loved the Lord with all His heart, soul, and mind, and loved His neighbor as Himself. These are the only metrics that matter to God. In this way, Jesus lived a life of unparalleled success. 

In contrast, the barometers of success in our world are academic and professional achievement, strength, power, beauty, prosperity, and status. According to these standards, a disabled child like mine is viewed as less-than. Deficient. Impaired.

What about my child? What about his future? What will his life amount to? 

Dearly loved children need not prove any utilitarian value to establish their worth. They are valued because they are loved, before anything they could amass or achieve. From the moment our children are born—when they are most helpless and dependent, contributing nothing and usurping every resource we have—we cherish them with an inviolable love, for no other reason than because they are ours. 

Our devotion for our children is a manifestation of God’s unmerited love. While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us (Rom. 5:8). He loved, treasured, and sacrificed for us when we were most unworthy, for no other reason than because we are His. 

Every child of God—regardless of intake, output, or ability—is equally priceless and uniquely purposed by God. When the Lord esteems each of His children as “wonderfully and fearfully made” (Ps. 139:14), let us not argue with His appraisal. 

The Gifts of Grief

In this wondrous season of celebrating life-changes and transitions, most families will rejoice while some others lament: Typical parents will brace themselves for the complicated joy and sorrow of children leaving home to pursue adulthood. Meanwhile, special-needs families grieve that their child may never grow up into independence.

Ironically, the ghosts of grief also bring unexpected gifts. Perceived losses and deficiencies can serve as a poignant reminder that our greatest honors were never meant to be conferred here. As the great apologist C.S. Lewis once said, If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.

Our ultimate transition will usher us into a glorious elsewhere. Our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior there (Phil. 3:20.)

In the meantime, regardless of rankings or resumes, every child of God can love the Lord with all his heart, soul, and mind—and love his neighbors as he loves himself. No matter what our aptitude, we are valuable because we are God’s children, not for what we accomplish or do. His unconditional love for us is measured in units of grace, not grade point averages.

So from now on we regard no one from a worldly point of view. Though we once regarded Christ in this way, we do so no longer (2 Cor. 5:16).