Changing My Mind

I had limited exposure to people with intellectual disabilities when I was growing up. 

There was a teenaged boy named Jeff in the house down the road from my childhood home. Whenever I saw Jeff, he was with a parent, he was protected by a very large, growling guard dog, and he was making noises that sounded to my young ears like agonized moaning. I walked by his house every day with my head down, hoping that I looked deep in thought, hoping that he, or his dog, wouldn’t notice me.

Then there was another teenaged boy named Eddie. He was the son of an out-of-state friend of my parents. I heard stories about Eddie throughout the years, but I only met him one memorable time.

I didn’t know how to act around Eddie the time we visited. I was fifteen and, being a girl, very self-conscious. 

I tried to talk to him once, but he didn’t say anything – he just stared. 

I smiled once, but he didn’t smile back – he just stared. 

I wanted to ride his dirt bike around the yard, but when I asked, he didn’t shake his head or nod or anything – he just stared. 

And this wasn’t the “wow, I think you’re cute!” kind of staring. It was the kind that had me running for the nearest mirror to do the nose check, hair check, teeth check, girlie paranoid thing.

So my very limited exposure to people with intellectual disabilities caused me to form a faulty perception, which was people with intellectual disabilities are unapproachable and very sad.  They spend their days moaning, staring and separated from other people.

 This perception wasn’t challenged until I started working at Shepherds. I saw that people with intellectual disabilities had personalities and character and charm. 

They had many moods, and sad was only one of them.

They moaned once in a while, maybe when the lunchroom ran out of pizza and they had to eat beef stew instead, but there was also chatter, bickering, smiles and laughter that filled the hours every day.

And rarely – rarely – did I see anyone just staring. Our people were engaged on all levels – mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually.

If anyone reading this blog currently shares the erroneous beliefs from my pre-Shepherds years, I invite you to visit our campus. Meet our people. Eat a meal with them at the Shepherds Table. Spend an evening singing bad karaoke with them. Talk to them about their families and God and their favorite dessert at Dairy Queen. They have a lot to say.

Sure, some people with intellectual disabilities communicate non-verbally. Some of their noises sound an awful lot like moaning. But stop for a moment and really listen. Watch their expressions and listen to the inflections in their voices. They have something to tell you. They are excited. They are angry. They have a story. Hear them.

And some people with intellectual disabilities stare. I do too when I’m writing, when I’m gazing inward at all the words floating across my mind like the messages in the window of a Magic 8 ball. I’m sure I’ve freaked out every single one of my co-workers. But when our residents stare, don’t let it unnerve you. Look deep in their eyes and acknowledge them. Appreciate the soft gaze of satisfaction deep within. Or notice the pinch of confusion or the light of curiosity. Just don’t turn away in discomfort as I once did. See them.

I wish I could take all that I learned at Shepherds in the last six years and give it to the little girl who wanted to be nice to Jeff, but didn’t know how. That little girl would have asked Jeff’s dad if she could sit by the pond in their front yard with Jeff and talk about how crazy the ducks got when someone threw bread in the water, or her amazement at the big hill in the center of their driveway. Did Jeff ever want to sled down it in the winter the way she did?

I wish I could tell my teenaged self that Eddie was staring because girls didn’t usually come over to his house. He didn’t realize that hair could be teased so high, and I didn’t realize how distracting my big, sparkling earrings were to someone with sensory issues. I’d like to think that my teenaged self would have been less self-absorbed and more patient, that I would have smiled more than once, or asked him more than one question. Or maybe I should have stared back to let him know that I was aware of him and wanted to take the time to figure out this whole new form of communication.

It took the people of Shepherds to teach me that disability doesn’t equal sadness and separation. Disability is just one tiny part of the richness of our human experience. The other parts? Purpose, faith, friendship, community, learning, talents, strengths, weaknesses, adventure, promise, love, loss, communication, caring… it’s all there in every one of us.

Shepherds changed my beliefs about disability. 

Has your experience with Shepherds changed you too? We’d love to hear your stories about Shepherds and the people who call this ministry home.