It was a rough morning that started out good enough. Grace had an 8:15 dental appointment, so we slept in until 6:30. For many years, we literally had to drug her with a dentist-prescribed medication so that she could tolerate having her teeth cleaned. After her appointment, the dentist (also featured in a humorous post on this blog here), shook his head remembering the progress Grace had made. I followed his gaze , across the room to where my nearly 17-year-old daughter bent, blue-jeaned butt up in the air, her face studiously hovering over the toy table. "The toughest part about these appointments nowadays is deciding which toys to take home," he jested. This, my daughter, who, also, three times in younger years–causing much parental and financial angst–had to be put downunder general anethesia to have a cavity filled. For a couple of years now, including this time, she received all "A's" from our dentist.

Until.

I stood at the receptionist's window. I retrieved my plastic, having paid the bill, and looked at Grace affixing three "I had a great check-up at the dentist" stickers to her sweater…the purple one from which she'd bitten off all the buttons. And then that's when I noticed: her pants were wet. It's a behavior that we'd struggled with since she was eight.  Her first year of high school marked a year of dry pants, but the soggy kind made their reappearance routine again just before Christmas. The first snow of the season marked a series of changes. A ridiculous amount of missed school days that continued into February because of more snow, and then her beloved assistant's absence due to a close family member's serious illness. Routine normal interrupted.

She usually stays dry with me and saves the wetting for Capernaum, school and other outings when I or her father are not with her. Frustrated, I made a special trip home for her to change because she'd just cut down on the number of back-up wardrobe choices she'd have if she repeated her mishap. And, I missed my weekly yoga class.

Driving home from the dentist, then to school and back, I ruminated. We need a behaviorist. Insurance does not pay for behavorists. And the state? I envy the services provided if one could be so lucky to get up front of a cue of thousands waiting. For years. There's little encouragement when you live in a state that's only status is being in front of Arkansas–which ranks LAST–for the quality of disAbility services.

And then. As I later sat clicking off emails, one from Andee came through that brought tears, opened my heart, refreshed my hope and reminded me that there is redemption. In my child, it is her art. The message read:

"Loved seeing Grace's work at Hillsboro High today…her art shines!"

Andee was one of three area artists who served as visual arts judges for Hillsboro High School's annual Festival of the Arts. According to Grace's exceptional teacher, Marti Proffit-Streuli–who has years-long reputation for her inclusive, loving instruction of students with disAbilities–the decision was unanimous. Andee and the two other judges all placed Grace first in the LifeSkills class category. This is the second consecutive year Grace has placed first. Here's the low down on last year's Festival.

The show has ended. We're back home. I sit in Grace's bedroom while she performs her nightly ritual of depleting our hot water supply.  What is the lesson here? I ask as I type. My body tired, fingers moving rapidly, my writer's soul anxious to assimilate and communicate….Perhaps it is once-again a reminder that there is always Good. That challenges do exist. Breathe deeply and remember: while you chip away daily–focus on the abundance and not the deficit….

Go, Grace! See more of GraceArt here.

It wasn't until I viewed this cell phone picture (oops on the quality…accidentally delete those from my camera) that I saw what might be more possible angel images. More on such images in Grace's work here.