A few things you need to know about Valentine’s Day before we proceed to the “Love” portion of this post.

First, you need to know that I heavily procrastinate for Valentine’s Day school parties every year. Like I am running to Michael’s and Target before closing and keeping the kids up past their bed time to teach them the fine art of half-assing. “Can’t find tape? Just staple it.”

Secondly, I’ve learned that fifth grade is an “iffy” year for Valentine’s stuff at school. I mean, so help me God, you get a Valentine treat that’s suggestive of anything resembling love. Because boys. It went something like this:

Me: (throws package of awesome Valentine mechanical pencils with cool eraser toppers on table.) “I got these for you to include in your Valentine bags. Cool, huh?” (pauses for adoration)

Lainey: “Um, I’m not giving that to the boys.”

Me: “What? It’s fine. It doesn’t say love. It doesn’t even say like.”

Lainey: “NO. I’m not doing it.”

Me: “What if I use nail polish remover and try and wipe off the saying painted on the pencil?”

Lainey: “Maybe.”

Me: (Runs to bathroom. Returns with doused cotton balls. Rubs over pencil slogan. Takes off all the paint and smears the whole goddamn thing so it looks like some recycled gift–like some worn pencil we’ve been using for years). “Nevermind, the Hersey’s kisses will be fine on their own.”

Also, F.Y.I.: “You’re the burger to my fries” in fifth grade native tongue apparently translates as: “Marry me.”

And speaking of marriage and love…it’s one thing I don’t write about a lot–not because it doesn’t deserve to be written about, but because the deepest issues of marriage involve the deepest parts of TWO people. And while I’m pretty comfortable writing about my own weaknesses and the fact that I am straight up too much to deal with even for myself, I’m not in the business of writing about someone else’s weaknesses. You’d get a whole lot of admissions where I suck, and yet I would never write those things about Brett–not mine to share. So he’d come out a shiny hero, and you’d all write horrible things about me on the Internet. I’m kidding. (I have written a bit about marriage here.)

I used to envy shiny love-note-writing, “can’t get enough of my spouse” relationships on social media and in movies, but I don’t anymore. Because relationships are as unique as the people in them, and love has many facets. Comparing one’s love to another’s love is comparing apples and oranges. I so admire the love my grandma and grandpa had for each other, but living their love story would be a living hell for me. It was the era of women living for their husbands–finding value in buttering their husband’s bread–and in many ways, my grandma was defined by my grandpa’s love. It worked for them, but my love beats to the rhythm of a different drum.

Much of the challenges in our relationship come from the fact that we are very different. I’m a talker and a writer, and I have a lot to say about all the things. I could stay up all night discussing the complexities of love, writing 6-page sonnets about the different ways I feel it. Brett could say his feelings on the space of the paper inside a fortune cookie and still have room for the lucky numbers. I’ve learned to recognize and appreciate other ways he lives love.

I could say the same for all my relationships though. Loving our children, our parents, our brothers and sisters–that love often looks different than how we imagined it growing up. Sometimes love feels easy and all-consuming. Sometimes–a lot of times–love is hard.

I have found the best way to love all my people–to ride the tides of relationship challenges, to stretch and grow with the way the people I love change over the years–is to keep a love affair with the world on the side.  I do not expect the love of my husband or the affection from my children or the relationships with my friends and family to fulfill all my needs or be the air that I breathe because I am busy loving the world while I love them, and the world feeds so many parts of me. I am defined by all the loves, not by one.

I am thrilled by the love notes written for me by beach sunsets with pink skies and spotting new jasmine blooms on the bush in our front yard and the rainbow palette under the lid of a new box of sidewalk chalk. My love-hungry heart is fed in first cups of coffee, spotting elderly couples holding hands, the smell of Sunday morning cinnamon rolls in my kitchen, texts from my sister, Mary Oliver poetry, finding mint growing along the edge of the dock at the lake up north. Love is almond butter on an apple slice, the perfect name for a paint color, a request for help from a mom who needs a break and the opportunity to fill that request, a pat on the back for hard work and a job well done, the feeling of slipping under fresh cotton sheets dried on the line.

The more I drink in love from the world around me, the more my heart is expanded for more love. That expansion allows me to be more patient with the people I love most and understand more languages of love. It stretches me beyond my sometimes selfish expectations.

And of course, the love of coffee and color and jasmine blooms doesn’t come close to the love I have for this family of mine. I am ever so grateful for the opportunity to love them and learn from them. I am intoxicated with the satisfaction that I am tied, even in the smallest way, to their existence and the love they bring to the world.

No matter where you are today or whom you love or how those people love you back; no matter how many miles separate you from those you think about or years have passed since the last time you held them, the force of love–even when it’s hard–is still love, and it feeds us, stretches us, comforts us and reminds us of how wonderful life can be. Add the sunsets and the poetry, the flowers and the sidewalk chalk, and you have…a full heart.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Friends. xoxo

Eight years ago, I was holding a three-week old baby and learned about Down syndrome those first three weeks only enough to know that the D was capitalized and the s wasn’t. That knowledge came from spelling it wrong a few times and being corrected, but that was as far as I’d go. I can spell her diagnosis. I can hold her. That’s all I can handle right now. Immersing myself into anything that would reflect what adulthood would look for her was off the table. In fact, it wasn’t until she was six months old that I agreed to attend an event for adults with Down syndrome, and even then my stomach was in knots on the way there because I had reached a really good place, and I was terrified that what I would see and experience would make me sad. It didn’t.

Since then, I’ve been to a number of events for adults with special needs. I’ve sat in living rooms with these friends, watched movies with them, visited their college dorms, joined them at Target to shop for towels, texted back and forth with them regarding which sweater they should wear to a party and my personal favorite–dropped it like it’s hot on a dance floor. I got to do the latter again Friday night at Night to Shine, a prom for individuals with special needs, sponsored by the Tim Tebow Foundation and hosted on the same night every year by churches all around the world. Some of you know I’ve had my issues with the organized church, but this? THIS IS MY CHURCH. The faith encompassed in this event is a faith in humanity and goodness and love, and that is a faith that belongs to all of us. If you’re hesitant to step in churches like I sometimes am, this is the event where you will be glad you did. If churches did more of this, churches couldn’t contain a world in need of affirmation and love. This is what churches should be doing.

Every guest at Night to Shine spends the evening with a buddy (this is Allie, my beautiful date) and receives the ultimate prom experience from the moment they arrive.

(All photos in this post shared with permission from Jesi Cason Photography.) 

Guests choose jewels, have their hair and makeup done, take a limo ride and arrive back to the red carpet where fans are lined up on the sides, clapping and cheering their name as they make their entrance.

There are so many stories I want to tell you about the evening–about the moments of pure love I witnessed and felt. While every time I go to events like these, I know I am going to smile the entire night and cry from feeling overwhelmed with love, there are always unexpected things I take away–humbling lessons where I am stretched.

Heidi and I were talking about the event the next day (she did hair and makeup for it) and what we learned from it, and both of us took away similar lessons I think are relatable for anyone talking to people with special needs. I showed up putting so much thought and effort into making sure the people around me had a good time and felt love that I got in my head a little bit too much–Are you saying the right things? Are you asking too many questions? Is your tone of voice condescending? Is she having fun? Does she want to dance? Don’t talk so much. Talk more. Until I realized I was doing exactly what I don’t want people to do with my daughter. I was talking to a person with special needs rather than to a person. I was in my head, trying to say and do the right things when really all I needed to do was be myself. I had the opportunity to spend the evening with a beautiful woman, and all she needed was the same thing everyone else needs–to be seen and to be shown love. Turns out we had a lot in common–both in our thirties and drawn to the craft table.

So we colored and made Valentines and later headed out to the dance floor where you couldn’t not smile from all the love.

At one point in the night, I remember being surrounded by people dancing. It was dark, lights were flashing, and I couldn’t make out who was a guest and who was a buddy, but I finally saw my people in the far corner of the room–my dad and Gary who made this community their family too the day Nella was born. Gary signed up to park cars for the evening but ended up on the dance floor at the end of the night, and my dad? Well, he’s good at loving, and watching him dance with Stevie, his date for the night–hands in the air, his signature dance floor moves I know too well, huge smile and fully present with this woman who later told him “I hope you’re my date next year too”–it made me cry.

Eight years in, and sometimes I still feel so new to this world–ashamed it took having a child with special needs to truly pay attention to the love this community needs. I still worry that I’ll say the wrong things sometimes and even scanned this post with my “Wait–can I say that?” filter. It’s just that the love of this event and the people there is so concentrated, it strips me raw.

My dad told me a story from something he witnessed that night–a mom who was telling her son’s buddy a little about him before she walked away from him for the evening. “He understands every word you speak although he will not say a word,” she told him. “He will enjoy tonight like you can’t know, although he may not smile.” And then she turned to her son, held his face and said, “I’m the proudest mother here. I’m pointing you out to everyone and telling them, That’s my boy! That’s my boy!”

I can’t wait to be a part of Night to Shine again next year. You can too. Next’s year’s event will be held on February 8, and you can sign up now to find out more about one being hosted in your area and how you can get involved.

Watch last year’s video, and you will be ALL IN.

And if you are a parent wondering if this event is right for your child (age 14 and up), let me assure you that the event planners and volunteers thought of everything. EVERYTHING. The love and attention they gave was outstanding. They met the needs of individuals who have sensory issues, had multiple people spread throughout the event to make sure everyone was happy, taken care of, had an exit for a break if they needed one, had skilled caretakers who knew all the ins and outs of special needs, and the love–Dear God, the love they gave to everyone who showed up.

I am reminded once again what a privilege it is to be part of this community and to understand a little more each year with every event, each encounter, every handshake and hug, that we are all equally worthy of what the world has to offer, and that there is infinite beauty in our unique abilities.

And for anyone who’s ever looked at a parent of a child with special needs and thought “That would be hard” or “I could never,” let me remind you what every parent was thinking from the sidelines of the dance floor that evening: I’m the proudest mother here. I’m pointing them out to everyone and telling them, “That’s my boy! That’s my girl!”