In his gentlest voice, he said to me, "Taylor perfect."
A thunder-clash of emotions clutched my insides---and then found a soft resting place deep within.
"Yes. Taylor perfect," I vowed.
Taylor perfect.
And so it is.
And always was.
OK, I know it's not politically correct to use the word retarded. But, what if it were not a "bad" word? What if you hadn't had a negative reaction when you saw it in my blog title? Search your heart. Rethink this. My son has Down Syndrome. He lives in a world in which everybody treats him like he's "retarded." I'm his mom. My son teaches me so many valuable lessons that I am often too "slow" to get. I'm the Retarded (Loving) Mother.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
An Easter Sermon
Driving down Alps Road in Athens last week, Taylor reached over and took my hand.
In his gentlest voice, he said to me, "Taylor perfect."
A thunder-clash of emotions clutched my insides---and then found a soft resting place deep within.
"Yes. Taylor perfect," I vowed.
Taylor perfect.
And so it is.
And always was.
In his gentlest voice, he said to me, "Taylor perfect."
A thunder-clash of emotions clutched my insides---and then found a soft resting place deep within.
"Yes. Taylor perfect," I vowed.
Taylor perfect.
And so it is.
And always was.