I used to work with children with special needs and we had a poem on the wall, similar in sentiment to your one, Fi, about how blessed were those who had been chosen to look after a child who was special. I wish I could remember it.
Saffronya, was this it? I've no idea who wrote it.
Heaven's Very Special Child
A meeting was held quite far from earth.
"It's time again for another birth,"
Said the angels to the Lord above,
"This special child will need much love.
"His progress may seem very slow,
Accomplishments he may not show,
And he'll require extra care
Form the fold he meets down there.
"He may not run or laugh or play,
His thoughts might seem quite far away,
In many ways he won't adapt
And he'll soon be known as handicapped.
"So let's be careful where he's sent,
We want his life to be content.
Please, Lord, find the parents who
Will do a special job for You.
"They will not realise right away
The leading role they're asked to play,
But with this child sent from above
Comes stronger faith and richer love.
"And soon they'll know the privilege given
In catering for this gift from Heaven;
Their precious charge, so meek and mild,
Is Heaven's very special child."
There's also this one written by a mother.
To Simon, my handicapped son
(Someone once told me that Simon was my masterpiece)
"You are my masterpiece,"
Whispered one lone voice
And, knowing that the word was murmured not
In idleness, merely to comfort,
I pondered its meaning,
Reflected on its truth.
"You are my failure,"
The world had said
And, from those early, non-forgotten years
When my grief was new,
That bitter guiltiness of failure
Haunts me still.
"You are my burden,"
They had said,
Some with voice of scorn,
Some with uneasy pity,
And others with dismay.
But each spoke a message devoid of hope -
That this burden must be cast aside,
Hidden in some nameless place,
Lest you should fill my life
With wasted years.
But you have filled my life
With growing years.
You came to my unwilling
And uncomprehending care
In a closed, eternal night
That had no days.
But, in the tomb of all those dayless years,
There stirred new wakenings,
Rousings from small complacencies
And little, shallow dreams,
To finding of new values
Rich and deep.
Slowly there grew profound new wisdoms.
Quiet strengths there came,
And such openings of love
That love became the reason and the growth.
Love became the wisdom and the strength.
And love mow becomes the vision
That can see, indeed,
So! when my masterpiece
Shall grace the hall of Heaven,
O, may he then plead for me.