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That's why you have a cold all the time, Cynthia," my secretary, Catherine Geno, teased me as I walked around my home office barefoot. "You really should wear shoes!"

I laughed. Once again, Catherine had straightened me out in her usual loving way. Keeping me straight on all the details of my calendar/notecard business, Band of Angels Press, is Catherine's job; I'm the idea person, she's the organizational whiz. We teamed up three years ago to watch God work and bless. And he has, in both of our lives. Each year, the business grows. As for Catherine, at the end of the summer, she and her new Leader dog will be joining her husband-to-be, Paul Mimms, and his Leader dog, a Labrador Retriever named Crawford, in Kansas City.

The fact is, Catherine's blind. But that hasn't stopped her from demonstrating that her assets far exceed her liabilities.

For five years, I ran an employment agency to secure jobs in large corporations for differently-abled adults. I had worked in telecommunications before starting my own business and had established a relationship with many of these companies. Now came the hard part— dispelling the myth that my clients wouldn't be able to perform their jobs as well as able-bodied persons.

My clients knew they could do the jobs they were applying for; how they accomplished their tasks was the main difference. Together, we anticipated all the questions and were ready with answers—about technology, specific needs, costs involved.

From 1991 to 1995, thirty-two people with various physical challenges—blindness, cerebral palsy, hearing loss, and developmental differences—became thirty-two success stories. It was time-consuming but rewarding work—my thank-you to parents of differently-abled children, especially those with Down syndrome, who had fought long and hard for acceptance and inclusion in the public schools. It made life easier for a parent like myself, who at first resisted my calling.

Why can't I see my baby?
Eight years ago, in a New York hospital, I waited anxiously for the moment I could hold my new son, Jordan. Our family—my husband, Bill, thirteen-month-old Harper, eight-year-old Kevin, and I—had moved from Washington, D.C., four months earlier. It wasn't enough time to build a close relationship with one obstetrician; I saw different doctors from the same practice during my last months of pregnancy.

Every time I went in for an appointment, they asked if I wanted genetic tests performed. I always politely refused. After all, I was only 34. The chances of having an "imperfect" baby seemed remote to me.

"Besides," I told the doctors, "if God's going to give me a baby, I want the one he's giving me."

When, five hours after delivery, the nurse still hadn't brought Jordan to me, I went looking for the pediatrician.

"Mrs. Kidder, why don't you come sit down in my office and talk to me?" he said. This wasn't making any sense.

"No, my mom is here, my husband is here, my sons are here. We just want Jordan."

"There's a problem with the baby."

"Is it life-threatening?" I asked. At that moment, the nurse placed Jordan in my arms.

"No."

"Then whatever it is, we can handle it. You can tell all of us together."

With Jordan snuggling sweetly in my arms, and the people I loved around me, the news still came as a shock: Jordan had Down syndrome.

The doctor must be wrong, I thought. Sure, the baby's ears are tiny—so are mine. Yes, his neck is wide, but so is Bill's.

I remembered how I told the doctors that I was ready for any baby God wanted to give me. But a child with Down syndrome? This wasn't what Bill or I expected; it seemed the end of our dreams.

When Bill left the hospital that night to take our other two sons home, he collapsed in front of the TV. We didn't have cable, so Bill surfed the network stations. On the first channel, the pilot episode was just coming on for the series, "Life Goes On," the story of a family with a son with Down syndrome. He quickly flipped to the next channel—an old rerun of "Quincy" with Jack Klugman. One more option. A show starring Lee Majors and, coincidentally, in this particular episode, a young actor with Down syndrome.

Back to "Quincy." After a few minutes, Bill couldn't believe what he saw—Jack Klugman interacting with five children with Down syndrome! That night, Bill felt God gave him a clear message in an unusual way—he had a plan for Jordan and our family.

That peace didn't come to me as readily.

What sisters are for
Words of love and encouragement poured in. My sister Pam, mother of six-year-old Mandy, and newly pregnant, brought me up short that first day when we were talking.

"I'm having a really hard time," I sobbed.

"What's troubling you the most?" she asked.

"I keep looking at Jordan and thinking he won't have any friends … or a date for the prom."

Pam interrupted. "What about Kevin and Harper? They may grow up to be stone cold ugly or just plain unpopular. Have you worried about their prom dates yet?"

"Of course I haven't," I laughed. Pam's question underscored how ridiculous I was acting.

Her next words cut even deeper.

"Look, God asks us to take things in small doses. My advice is take what's given to you and try to discover what he wants you to learn. As a mom, you're supposed to love that baby. Tell me—is he a cute one-day-old?"

"Oh, he's beautiful," I said.

"Call me tomorrow and tell me if he's a cute two-day-old."

I called Pam back the second day. "Jordan's just as beautiful as yesterday." Still, I couldn't stop crying.

I turned to my Aunt Roz, who more than anyone else, seemed to have a spiritual depth that I desperately needed to draw from now.

Taking things at face value
"I don't know what to pray for, Aunt Roz," I said on the phone. "I don't know what's appropriate to ask God for."

"It's appropriate to ask God for whatever you want," my aunt replied.

"I think I want to ask him to help me not to cry," I began. "It's not fair to Jordan to come into the world with a mom who's crying all the time. I need to ask to be a better mom and for me to accept Jordan, because he won't change. God gave Jordan to me for a reason."

Each day I made that phone call to Pam—always with the same message: Jordan was just as beautiful as the day before. I didn't know then that ten months later my phone calls would be a comfort to Pam when her baby, Cassie, died from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.

When Jordan was three months old, Bill was transferred to Michigan. As soon as we settled in our new home, it was time to find a church. Although my husband and I both had grown up in Methodist churches, it wasn't important to find another Methodist church. It was important to find a church that was friendly—especially to Jordan.

From our first visit, we knew University Presbyterian Church in Rochester Hills, Michigan, was home. No one questioned Jordan's participation in any of the children's programs, even though he was the first child with Down syndrome to attend. Today, he, Harper, 9, and my stepson, Kevin, 16, keep me running between school and church activities.

More than anything, the move to Michigan helped me realize the great sacrifices parents of differently-abled children—especially those with Down syndrome—had made twenty years before. The battles they fought for acceptance made my life easier.

What could I possibly give back to them? A chance at a job for their children who were now adults. I became both an advocate and job hunter on their behalf.

Beautiful by the dozen
In 1994, the agency was doing well. But I knew there were more job markets to explore. Modeling was at the top of the list. I convinced all my differently-abled friends, as well as parents of children with Down syndrome, to have professional portraits done of their children. Then I mailed portfolios of each child to talent and modeling agencies in the Detroit area.

As I looked over the portraits of the children with Down syndrome—Emily, Laura, Andrew, Lisa, Matthew, Kate, Caitlin, Fabian, Lindsay, Matt-hew, Robert, and Kristin—it was a dream come true. Twelve engaging photos, thirteen with Jordan.

Kendra Dew, an accomplished commercial photographer, had beautifully captured their innocence, wonder, mischief, and surprise.

As I prepared my mailings, I wondered, What else can I do with twelve images? Of course. The perfect number for a calendar. A calendar we'll call "Beautiful Faces."

I mentioned the calendar in a letter mailed to all the Down syndrome support groups listed in Babies with Down Syndrome: A New Parents Guide, the book most parents read first. I sold 3,000 calendars for 1995.

Kendra Dew enjoyed the project and became our "official" photographer. The two of us began to bounce creative ideas off each other; we wanted the 1996 calendar to be more than just faces.

I'd throw an idea on the table, "Let's do an angel," and Kendra would run with it.

"Let's do an angel on the beach. We'll look for that special time of day when the lighting is just right … " In 1996, through word of mouth advertising, we sold 4,000 calendars.

We shot inside and outside, added props and animals. New models debuted—interacting with friends and family. We created seasonal settings. The black and white photos were reproduced in sepia (brown) tones on a creme-colored paper.

A good idea grows
With the business expanding, I gradually phased out the employment agency, though I still do consulting and speaking on hiring differently-abled adults. My first priority always had been to be a mom; working from our home, I could juggle mom duties—like carpooling, going on field trips, watching soccer games—with the professional duties.

When Harper and Jordan are available, they pitch in with the business. Harper takes orders over the phone; Jordan stacks boxes and keeps things organized.

Beginning with the 1997 calendar, we made the photos even more appealing. Black and white photos are softly hand-tinted with color by Candice Arcari. More children and teenagers appear each year, all recruited locally, not from a national "beauty contest" (as some people think). I find potential models when I'm grocery shopping, out on errands, introduced through friends.

We printed 8,000 of the 1998 calendars. For the past two years, a portion of the sales has been deposited in the Greater Rochester Community Fund to provide scholarships for speech therapy to children with Down syndrome. Kendra and I are planning to introduce a more inclusive calendar by the year 2000, featuring children in wheelchairs, with leg braces, as well as our regular models. We'll begin with notecards this summer.

To complement the Beautiful Faces calendars, we also started producing notecards and Christmas cards—Joyous Faces notecards, birthday and baby announcement cards, and Christmas Angels. I'm continually thinking of new ways to show expressive and positive images of differently-abled children and teenagers. The possibilities seem endless.

A ministry in disguise
When Jordan was born, I struggled with accepting a differently-abled child. I know what goes through the minds of parents who learn they have a child with Down syndrome. My goal is for the whole world to see, not how different, but how similar these children are to any other child. As society becomes more and more familiar with children like Jordan—through higher visibility and full inclusion programs in school—their future can only get brighter.

It isn't an accident that God used me—a mother who had worried so much about my son's appearance—to provide others with a visual tool of acceptance. Recently, an expectant mother called to tell me her geneticist had sent her a Beautiful Faces card as a follow-up to the news that her baby would be born with Down syndrome. The sweet face on the card reassured her.

I consider it a privilege to be part of the learning process for new parents confronting the unknown. A brand-new father of a daughter with Down syndrome saw one of our calendars posted at the hospital nurses' station and called me.

"I thumbed through the entire calendar. Those pictures helped me accept my daughter. Seeing all those children let me know things would be okay."

I owe Aunt Roz for the name of our business, Band of Angels Press. During my first days of insecurity and fear, Aunt Roz had comforted me by singing, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," while I cradled Jordan in my arms and cried. I still get teary-eyed when I hear the words, "I looked over Jordan and what did I see/Coming for to carry me home?/A band of angels comin' after me/Comin' for to carry me home." The name seemed a perfect fit.

Opportunities continue to open up for Jordan. In January, he appeared with a group of children in a television commercial for Northwest Airlines, featuring professional hockey player Steve Yzerman. Jordan even got to drive the Zamboni! I was thrilled to have one more invitation to include a differently-abled child in a cross-section of children.

I've come a long way in eight years. I wouldn't trade my experience for anything. Jordan is now in second grade at a public school. He loves to read (My Father's Dragon is his favorite book along with any animal story), play baseball and soccer—in so many ways, he's just another kid.

Each day, our family discovers another way Jordan puts things into perspective. If Bill and I raise our voices over something petty (like not stopping for gas), Jordan immediately intervenes: "Mommy, Daddy's nose needs a kiss." How can you argue with that? I truly believe Jordan is far more connected to God than I will ever be. I'm grateful he's letting us see the world as he does.

For information on ordering cards or calendars from Band of Angels Press, call 1-800-963-2237 or visit their web site at http://www.beautifulfaces.org.

A Christian Reader original article.

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