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Learning To Love Articles
These Special Pages Are Dedicated to God and my
daughter, Stephanie Dawn Doty, who is Downs Syndrome. It will contain links to
all kinds of Groups, Organizations, Resources, Special Pages etc. on the
Web that have to do with the Differently Abled individual. God blesses us
through these children and adults, which of who many believe and serve Him with
a simpleness of Faith and an unquieted Love for Him and others.
Lawrence Bixby: Each handicap is like a hurdle
in a steeplechase, and when you ride up to it, if you throw your heart over, the
horse will go along too. (Note: We must see to it
that each and everyone with a handicap - first and foremost - has every
opportunity to run the steeplechase - as fast or as slow as needed - giving them
their own personal victories.) - Webmaster
In Brooklyn, New York, Chush
is a school that caters to learning disabled children. Some children remain in
Chush for their entire school career, while others can be main-streamed into
conventional schools. At a Chush fund-raising dinner, the father of a Chush
child delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended.
After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he cried out, "Where is the
perfection in my son Shaya?
Everything God does is done with perfection. But my
child cannot understand things as other children do. My child cannot remember
facts and figures as other children do. Where is God's perfection? The audience
was shocked by the question, pained by the father's anguish and stilled by the
piercing query. "I believe," the father answered, "that when God brings a child
like this into the world, the perfection that he seeks is in the way people
react to this child." He then told the following story about his son Shaya: One
afternoon, Shaya and his father walked past a park where some boys Shaya knew
were playing baseball.
Shaya asked, "Do you think they will Let me play?"
Shaya's father knew that his son was not at all athletic and that most boys
would not want him on their team. But Shaya's father understood that if his son
was chosen to play it would give him a comfortable sense of belonging. Shaya's
father approached one of the boys in the field and asked if Shaya could play.
The boy looked around for guidance from his team mates. Getting none, he Took
matters into his own hands and said "We are losing by six runs and the game is
in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him up
to bat in the ninth inning." Shaya's father was ecstatic as Shaya smiled
broadly. Shaya was told to put on a glove and go out to play short center field.
In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shaya's team scored a few runs but was still
behind by three. In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shaya's team scored again
and now with two outs and the bases loaded with the potential winning run on
base Shaya was scheduled to be up. Would the team actually let Shaya bat at this
juncture and give away their chance to win the game? Surprisingly, Shaya was
given the bat. Everyone knew that it was all but impossible because Shaya didn't
even know how to hold the bat properly, let alone hit with it.
However as Shaya stepped up to the plate, the pitcher
moved a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shaya should at least be able to
make contact. The first pitch came and Shaya swung clumsily and missed. One of
Shaya's team-mates came up to Shaya and together they held the bat and faced the
pitcher waiting for the next pitch. The pitcher again took a few steps forward
to toss the ball softly Toward Shaya. As the pitch came in, Shaya and his team
mate swung at the ball and together they hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher.
The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball to
the first baseman. Shaya would have been out and that would have ended the game.
Instead, the pitcher took the ball and threw it on a high arc to right field,
far beyond reach of the first baseman.
Everyone started yelling, "Shaya, run to first. Run to
first. "Never in his life had Shaya run to first. He scampered down the baseline
wide-eyed and startled. By the time he reached first base, the right fielder had
the ball. He could have thrown the ball to the second baseman who would tag out
Shaya, who was still running. But the right fielder understood what the
pitcher's intentions were, so he threw the ball high and far over the Third
baseman's head. Everyone yelled, "Run to second, run to second." Shaya ran
towards second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases
towards home. As Shaya reached second base, the opposing short stop ran to him,
turned him in the direction of third base and shouted, "Run to third."
As Shaya rounded third, the boys from both teams ran
behind him screaming, "Shaya run home." Shaya ran home, stepped on home plate
and all 18 boys lifted him on their shoulders and made him the hero, as he had
just hit a "grand slam" and won the game for his team. "That day," said the
father softly with tears now rolling down his face, "those 18 boys reached their
level of God's perfection."
Funny how this is so true and shame on us! Funny how
simple it is for people to trash different ways of living and believing and then
wonder why the world is going to hell. Funny how you can send a thousand 'jokes'
through e-mail and they spread like wildfire, but when you start sending
messages regarding life choices, people think twice about sharing. Funny how the
lewd, crude, vulgar and obscene pass freely through cyberspace, but the public
discussion of morality is suppressed in the school and workplace.
Funny isn't it? Funny how when you go to forward this
message, you will not send it to many on your address list because you're not
sure what they believe, or what they will think of you for sending it to them.
Funny how I can be more worried about what other people think of me than what I
think of me. Gives you something to think about doesn't it.
When Augie was born in September of 1973, doctors said
he would last maybe a year. His mom took lots of pictures to remember him
by.
When he was 11, they said he would never make it beyond
his teens.
When he turned 21, we had a big party and watched him
drink a beer.
He's 27 now and although he has no idea what the term
Down syndrome means - or what it doesn't - he continues to give the rest of
us an ongoing lesson.
Down syndrome was first identified by John Langdon Down
in 1866. It wasn't until almost 100 years later, however, that science
pinpointed the cause - an extra chromosome.
Prenatal tests such as amniocentesis are pretty
reliable in identifying it - but actually foretell little. As with any
child, there is no way, even at birth, to predict personality traits,
abilities, likes and dislikes, intelligence. Some don't read, for instance.
Most do.
Children with Down syndrome learn to walk and almost
always talk and use the toilet and do just about everything else most kids
do - just later. Still, people harbor, and promulgate, all sorts of
misimpressions.
Patrick Dunphy, a lawyer representing the estate of a
35-year-old Cedarburg woman who died during an abortion in 1995, was quoted
as saying just this week that, in her mind, "Down syndrome meant no life."
That stereotype, for anyone who lives with Down
syndrome or someone who has it, is very hard to let stand.
I talked to a nurse this week who happens to describe
herself as "pro-life" but called to communicate her concern and despair over
what happened to the 35-year-old woman.
The tragedy of her death still bothers the nurse, who
says she was aware of it when it happened. And it should bother everyone
else as well.
If Dunphy is right about an allegation of malpractice,
he is right to seek redress.
He is also wrong, however, in how he goes about it. He
is perpetuating a perspective that people with Down syndrome, and their
parents and families, can only fear.
The truth is that people with Down syndrome typically
have long, fulfilling lives. Fully 350,000 people in this country have it,
and most that are born today have a life expectancy of 55.
"My daughter has a life," said Anita Szymanski, a
Walworth County resident whose 5-year-old daughter, Angelina, has the
syndrome. "She goes out and plays with other children. She goes to birthday
parties. She plays soccer. She rides horses and she smiles."
Augie, my brother-in-law, does some of the same things.
He talks quite a bit, but is often hard to understand. He focuses on certain
things, the solar system, movies like "Back to the Future," a family dog
that died years ago - then, eventually, moves on to something else. If you
don't know something about the topics, you're just plain out of luck.
He lives with his parents, and is pretty particular
about his things. You would be, too, if, at one time or another, each of
your 19 nieces and nephews was approximately your age.
Sure he's different, but not really. He can be stubborn
as a mule, and giddy as a lark. He'll give you a hug when he feels like it,
but he'll frown at you, too. I love the guy and he cracks me up - even if,
from time to time, he can be irritating.
Hey, what in-law isn't?
He doesn't seem to read very well, unless it's the
movie listings. His dad sometimes says he's "dumb like a fox."
In truth, he's just like everyone else, with many of
the same emotions, frustrations, joys, loves and concerns.
That is, after all, life.
E-mail Mike Nichols at
mnichols@onwis.com. His phone number
is (262) 376-4374.
Appeared in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel on April 27, 2001.
I
Corinthians 13: 4-7 Charity (Love)
suffereth long, and is kind; charity (love) envieth not; charity (love) vaunteth
not itself, is not puffed up, Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her
own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but
rejoiceth in the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all
things, endureth all things.
Romans 14:7-8
For none of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself. For whether we
live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the Lord: whether
we live therefore, or die, we are the Lord's.
The boy threw it back. I caught it and dove
underwater.
"You don't have to do this," said the boy's
mother.
"No, it's fun," I said.
"Yeah go under `gain!" yelled the boy. So I
dove underwater.
We continued playing for half an hour. When
the boy went away he had the biggest smile I've ever seen on his face. This
small experience made me feel normal. I thought that's what anyone would do. A
boy wanted to play, so I did. This made the boy feel good so it made me feel
good. But after that people stared at me.
One boy even came up to me and said, "Why were
you playing with that retardo?"
I said nothing and walked away.
By Keith Toole 6th Grade from A Cup of
Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor
Hansen & Barry Spilchuk
Plant a seed and watch it grow. At this
point, you can bury this inspirational message or copy it and forward it
fulfilling the need!
I didn't cry when I learned that I was the
parent of a mentally handicapped child. I just sat still and didn't say anything
while my husband and I were informed that two-year-old Kristi was - as we
suspected - retarded.
"Go ahead and cry," the doctor advised kindly.
"Helps prevent serious emotional difficulties."
Serious difficulties not withstanding, I
couldn't cry then nor during the months that followed. When Kristi was old
enough to attend school, we enrolled her in our neighborhood kindergarten at age
seven.
It would have been comforting to cry that day
I left her in that room full of self-assured, eager, alert five-year-olds.
Kristi had spent hours upon hours playing by herself, but this moment, when she
was the different child among twenty, was probably the loneliest she had ever
known.
However, positive things began to happen to
Kristi in her school and to her schoolmates too. When boasting of their own
accomplishments, Kristi's classmates always took pains to praise her as well:
"Kristi got all her spelling words right today." No one bothered to add that her
spelling list was easier then anyone else's.
During Kristi's second year in school, she
faced a very traumatic experience. The big public event of the term was a
competition based on a culmination of the year's music and physical education
activities. Kristi was way behind in both music and motor coordination. My
husband and I dreaded the day as well.
On the day of the program, Kristi pretended to
be sick. Desperately I wanted to keep her home. Why let Kristi fail in a
gymnasium filled with parents, students and teachers? What a simple solution it
would be just to let my child stay home. Surely missing one program couldn't
matter. But my conscience wouldn't let me off that easily. So I practically
shoved a pale, reluctant Kristi onto the school bus and proceeded to be sick
myself.
Just as I had forced my daughter to go to
school, now I forced myself to go to the program. It seemed that it would never
be time for Kristi's group to perform. When at last they did, I knew why Kristi
had been worried. Her class was divided into relay teams. With her limp and
slow, clumsy reactions, she would surely hold up her team.
The performance went surprising well, though,
until it was time for the gunnysack race. Now each child had to climb into the
sack from a standing position, hop to a goal line, return and climb out of the
sack.
I watched Kristi standing near the end of her
line of players, looking frantic.
But as Kristi's turn to practice neared, a
change took place in her team. The tallest boy in the line stepped behind Kristi
and placed his hands on her waist. Two other boys stood a little ahead of her.
The moment the player in front of Kristi stepped for the sack, those two boys
grabbed the sack and held it open while the tall boy lifted Kristi and dropped
her neatly into it. A girl in front of Kristi took her hand and supported her
briefly until Kristi gained her balance. Then off she hopped, smiling and
proud.
Amid the cheers of teachers, schoolmates and
parents, I crept off by myself to thank God for the warm, understanding people
in life who make it possible for my disabled daughter to be like her fellow
human beings.
Then I finally cried.
By Meg Hill from Chicken Soup for the
Unsinkable Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen and Heather McNamara
Copyright 1999 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen
Children were
enthusiastically rehearsing and decorating the rural school for their
approaching concert. As I glanced up from my teacher's desk, Patty stood waiting
to lodge her urgent request.
"Every year I g-g-g-get to do quiet stuff. The
other kids are always in a p-p-p-play or something. Talking. This year, I
w-w-want to do a p-p-p-poem, myself!"
As I looked into those eager eyes, all
possible excuses fizzled. Patty's yearning drew from me a promise that in a day
or two she would have a special part - a "reciting" part. That promise proved to
be very difficult to keep.
None of my resource books had any useful
selections. In desperation, I stayed up most of the night writing a poem,
carefully avoiding those letters that trick the tongue. It was not great
literature, but it was custom-tailored to cope with Patty's speech problem.
After only a few brief readings, Patty had
memorized all the verses and was prepared to dash through them. Somehow we had
to control that rush without shattering her enthusiasm. Day after day, Patty and
I plodded through recitals. She meticulously matched her timing to my silent
mouthing. She accepted the drudgery, eagerly anticipating her first speaking
part.
Concert night found the children in a frenzy
of excitement.
In a dither the master of ceremonies came to
me, waving his printed program. "There has been a mistake! You have listed Patty
for a recitation. That girl can't even say her own name without stuttering."
Because there was not time enough for explanations, I brushed his objection
aside with, "We know what we are doing."
The entertainment was moving well. As item
after item was presented, parents and friends responded with encouraging
applause.
When it was time for the questionable
recitation, the MC again challenged me, insisting that Patty would embarrass
everyone. Losing patience, I snapped, "Patty will do her part. You do yours.
Just introduce her number."
I flitted past the curtains and sat on the
floor at the foot of the audience. The MC appeared flustered as he announced,
"The next recitation will be by . . .um . . . Patty Connors." An initial gasp
from the audience was followed by strained silence.
The curtain parted to show Patty, radiant,
confident.
Those hours of rehearsing took possession of
the moment. In perfect control, the little charmer synchronized her words to my
silent mouthing below the footlights. She articulated each syllable with
controlled clarity, and without a splutter or stammer. With eyes sparkling, she
made her triumphant bow.
The curtain closed. A hushed silence held the
audience. Gradually the stillness gave way to suppressed chuckles, and then to
enthusiastic applause.
Utterly thrilled, I floated backstage. My
little heroine threw her arms around me and, bubbling with joy, blurted out, "We
d-d-d-did it!"
By Irvine Johnston from
Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen
and Heather McNamara Copyright 1999 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen
One day in
early December, we woke up to discover a perfect, freshly fallen snow.
"Please Mom, can we go sledding after breakfast?" my eleven-year-old daughter
Erica begged. Who could resist? So we bundled up and headed over to
the dike on the Lincoln Park golf course, the only hill in our otherwise flat
prairie town.
When we arrived,
the hill was teeming with people. We found an open spot next to a tall,
lanky man and his three-year-old son. The boy was already lying belly-down
in the sled, waiting to be launched. "Come on, Daddy! Come on!" he
called.
The man looked over
at me. "Okay if we go first?" he asked.
"By all means," I
said. "Looks like your son is ready to go."
With that, he gave
the boy a huge push, and off he flew! But it wasn't only the child who
soared the father ran after him at full speed.
"He must be afraid
that his son is going to run into somebody," I said to Erica. "We'd better
be careful, too."
With that, we
launched our own sled and whizzed down the hill at breakneck speed, the powdery
snow flying in our faces. We had to bail out to avoid hitting a huge elm
tree near the river, and ended up on our backs, laughing.
"Great ride!" I
said.
"But what a long
walk back up!" Erica noted.
Indeed it was.
As we trudged our way back to the top, I noticed that the lanky man was pulling
his son, who was still in the sled, back up to the summit.
"What service!"
Erica said. "Would you do the same for me?"
I was already out
of breath. "No way, Kiddo! Keep walking!"
By the time we
reached the top, the little boy was ready to play again.
"Go, go, go,
Daddy!" he called. Again, the father put all his energy into giving the
boy a huge send-off, chased him down the hill, and then pulled both the boy and
sled back up.
This pattern went
on for more than an hour. Even with Erica doing her own walking, I was
exhausted. By then, the crowd on the hill had thinned as people went home
for lunch. Finally, it got down to the man and his son, Erica and me and a
handful of others.
He can't still
be thinking the boy is going to crash into someone, I thought. And
surely, even though the child is small, he could pull his own sled up the hill
once in a while. But the man never tired, and his attitude was bright
and cheery.
Finally, I could
stand it no longer. I looked over at him and called, "You have tremendous
energy!"
The man looked at
me and smiled. "He has cerebral palsy," he said matter-of-factly.
"He can't walk."
I was dumbstruck.
Then I realized that I had never seen the boy get out of the sled in all the
time we'd been on the hill. It had all seemed so happy, so normal, that it
never occurred to me that the child might be handicapped.
Although I didn't
know the man's name, I told the story in my newspaper column the following week.
Either he or someone he knew must have recognized him, because shortly
afterward, I received this letter:
Dear Mrs. Silverman,
The energy I expended on the hill that day is
nothing compared to what my son does every day. To
me, he is a true hero, and someday I hope to be half
the man he has already become.
It was a hot, muggy day during the summer
between second and third grade. My hair was in a French braid with my favorite
yellow ribbon - the one my Great Aunt Lilly had given me before she died.
"Flaunt it, Honey," she'd told me, whatever that meant.
Like every summer day, I was in my front yard
playing with Wilma Wynonna Willett, my imaginary friend. Since I wasn't allowed
to leave my yard and no one my age lived nearby, "Triple W," as I called her,
was my best friend.
Suddenly out of nowhere came a big yellow
moving truck. I heard an annoying beep and realized our new neighbors were
moving in. I was excited, though I prayed there wouldn't be any boys, because
boys, of course, had "cooties." But then, I saw an unusual object being removed
from the truck - a wheelchair. It looked cold and heavy. What kind of people
were moving in? They were obviously not like the neighbors I had grown to expect
in my sheltered life.
Soon I learned these neighbors had a daughter
my age named Laura. She could not walk or talk, however, and she was confined to
the wheelchair. I didn't know how to respond. Should I go over, shake hands and
introduce myself as my parents had taught, or should I hide under my bed so I
would never have to meet her?
The problem was solved when my mom announced
that the new neighbors were coming for dinner Friday night. When the doorbell
rang, I answered and introduced myself. Laura's parents quickly explained that
Laura had been born with cerebral palsy, an incurable condition that limited her
mobility, controlled her muscles and destroyed her speech. Pretty sobering news
for an eight-year-old whose previous hurts were healed with a kiss and a
bandage.
Timidly, I said "Hello." Then I heard it,
stammering from the bottom of her stomach and exploding from her lips: the
loudest, strongest and most peculiar laugh I had ever heard. My mom told me that
Victor Borge once said, "Laughter is the shortest distance between two people,"
and this couldn't have been more accurate. Even though Laura could not speak,
her laugh did not need any explanations. Instantly I knew this was the beginning
of a very special friendship.
I could not understand why the other kids
could not perceive Laura as I did. Instead they made fun of her, threatened her
and even tipped her wheelchair. I, too, was teased because I was friends with
"Cripple." No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make the other children stop.
What did I learn from my friendship with
Laura? I learned bad things happen to nice people. Life was unfair! I learned
lessons no other situation could have taught: I learned patience as I watched
Laura painstakingly perform simple tasks that took forever because she was not
physically able to do them any faster. I learned compassion when I heard the
teasing and saw the hurt in Laura's eyes. I learned about courage as I watched
Laura face the battles she had each day with her body and speech.
Each morning, Laura awakens to powerful,
painful muscle cramps; eating is a chore because she is fed every meal; talking
is only something she and her parents dream of. Laura cannot stand, but if she
could, she would be five feet six inches tall. She has big brown eyes, soft
curly hair and, of course, that great big laugh. Laura is able to understand
when spoken to; she simply cannot respond with speech. Instead, she communicates
by pointing to the communication board on the tray of her wheelchair.
This past summer, I had the honor and
privilege of being Laura's able-bodied person in the Special Olympics. My job
consisted of helping Laura do anything she would have done if she were not
handicapped. I wrapped her clenched hand around the ball before we threw it. Our
hands swung that bat together, and I cheered the loudest when she won the
wheelchair race. We were a team and our bodies worked together to pursue the
"gold."
Watching each Special Olympian compete in his
or her event made my heart cheer and cry at the same time. Most of all, it made
me appreciate the many blessings of life I had taken for granted. Helping Laura
win the gold in two of her events was a gift we gave each other. I took the
yellow ribbon that was in my hair that day and tied it around Laura's long,
curly ponytail.
"Flaunt it, Honey," I whispered, finally
understanding what Great Aunt Lilly had meant.
Above You will find the Song
"My God Is An Awesome God" orchestrated
and performed by Ounga Bounga Kids - Check Out All
of their great Christian releases and albums on
MP3.com
These pages are continually having resources added to them so check back often!
If you would like to participate in the development of these pages or have a
site that you would like reviewed for addition to these pages ~ please contact
the Webmaster. 
