The measure of a man (or boy)

It's that time again. That time when Buddy has his annual evaluation for First Steps. The time when I remember that it's been two years since we received his diagnosis.

I understand the need for yearly evaluations. I do. I understand that parents of typical children look forward to them because they tend to bring good news--"you've successfully met the goals we set for you and are therefore graduated from the program and no longer in need of our services." And I also understand that they provide a way to find out which areas are strengths and which are weaknesses needing work.

But that doesn't mean I have to like them.

As the therapists spent their requisite hour with Buddy, asking me questions, and observing him, making their little checks in the boxes on the evaluation sheets, and tallying up the "points," they finally announced that, yes, according to their calculations, he was still delayed in just about every area.

And I found myself wanting to say, "But . . . but . . . but isn't there something you can say he's good at? Where, for instance, are the check marks for 'can hum any tune after hearing it once'? Where are the boxes for 'learned the Doxology after only hearing it at church and knows that it ends with aaaaaaa-men'? What about the points for 'never met a stranger'?" But I didn't. Instead, I signed the forms I was supposed to sign, and the therapists went on their way.

I'm not the only parent of a child with special needs who feels that "pang" in their heart after an evaluation. Another father of a child with a disability wrote:
In the pile of papers I referenced yesterday were some old test scores. Since Paul attends public schools, they assess his educational progress as mandated by various federal and state bodies. The things they want to measure, he can’t do. His scores on reading, reading comprehension, math, math concepts and the like were as low as you can score and still be breathing.

The things they can’t measure – like his inherent, God-created dignity as a human being – he excels at. I used to cry when those came in the mail every year. They still make me sad, not because of how severely disabled they ‘objectively’ show him to be, but because this is the cultural measure of his worth.

And therein lies a danger to children with disabilities not yet born. These are the objective measures of ‘reality’ that doctors and social workers and university professors understand – and which are communicated to parents who live in and breathe the air of this culture. The decision to do away with such seemingly worthless human beings then appears to be obvious.

No, let us talk about what is truly real. God creates some to live with disabilities (Exodus 4:11), he knows all their days (Psalm 139:13-16), he will supply every need (Philippians 4:19), and he knows the end from the beginning (Revelation 21:5-7).

After the therapists went on their way, I found myself singing the chorus to this old 4Him song:

This world can analyze and size you up

And throw you on the scales

They can IQ you and run you thorugh

Their rigorous details

They can do their best to rate

And they'll place you on their charts

And then back it up with scientific smarts

But there's more to what you're worth

Than what their human eyes can see

CHORUS

Oh I say the measure of a man

Is not how tall you stand

How wealthy or intelligent you are

'Cause I found out the measure of a man

God knows and understand

For He looks inside to the bottom of your heart

And what's in the heart defines

The measure of a man