Her name meant miracle, and according to every medical statistic her very presence in my classroom was indeed a miracle. This child born with not one but two very rare genetic abnormalities, a combination that the National Institutes of Health could not find any record of happening previously, was a stunning miracle. With a single crooked smile she had melted my intimidated heart and I swept her up with love into our very special classroom. My rules for our class were that every single child, regardless of any lables that may have been placed upon them or accessories they may require to thrive, was first and foremost a child who could do all things unless proven otherwise. Miracle seemed destined to test my ability to hold to these beliefs, and my ability to patiently and lovingly meet her medical needs. Her personal accessories included a g-tube and a trach, both of which were highly offensive to Miracle. So offensive, that given about 5 seconds she would wiggle a finger under her trach and pull the tube out, and often then rip off the entire system and throw it onto the floor. Given about 15 second and she would also manage to pull our her g-tube during a feeding. Perhaps I am a bit extreme, but I prefer my children be able to breathe without fear of losing an airway, so I quickly became very familiar with the battle required to replace Miracle's trach tube. She hated the tubes and put up an incredible fight for a four year old child. Trust me, language is not necessary for communication. Miracle had some physical manifestations of her genetic disorders, and one day a first grade student stopped in the hall and pointed at her while grabbing a friend by the arm. "Look at that monster! She is a total freak!" My heart broke, broke because 6 year olds had already learned to hate, broke because my children were going to have to make their way in this cruel world, broke because they were blind to the beauty of my Miracle. Some days I questioned whether it was worth all I was doing, whether I was doing anything that was really going to make a difference in the lives of my children, whether my love was sufficient. I delighted in the successes of every single child, but was I doing enough? I began to wonder whether my professors in college had been correct about having to emotionally disconnect as a teacher in order to be successful, to detach and not teach with all of your heart because it required too much from you. We celebrated Miracle's fifth birthday in class with cupcakes and song, with party hats and laughter. I was so proud of my Miracle, of the fact that she had such a fighting spirit, of how much she had overcome and the skills she was building on. She had just begun to use switches to communicate choices, she was very close to walking with a gait trainer, she crawled like crazy and had even pulled herself into a chair. She had the best laugh, she appreciated silliness and used her vocalizations to take part in our classroom chaos, she "sang" along at circle time, and she clutched her beloved cloth diaper as she fell asleep when she was worn out. When we played ball or ran, she liked nothing better than to go fast and feel the wind in her face. One week after her fifth birthday Miracle was not in school. She had developed an infection in her trach and was sick. I called daily to check on her, and on Friday her mother was pleased to tell me that she was back to normal and would be at school on Monday once the doctors were certain that the antibiotics she was on were covering the specific infection. On Monday Miracle's little body could no longer fight and her spirit slipped free of the tubes and braces and limitations that she had battled against. I had never known that the human heart could shatter into so many jagged pieces. Tuesday I wstumbled through the motions, thankful the school had another teacher helping in my classroom, as I lovingly gathered all of Miracle's belongings and art work. I took a yearbook and had each classmate sign it with a fingerprint and every teacher and therapist who worked with her write a message inside. I gathered all of the pictures that I had taken of her and put them on CD and another teacher printed them for me to give to her family. The special education department at my school passed around an envelope for donations to assist her family, and I watched in awe as others gave to the family of my child in such abundance that I was able to provide them with $200 in American Express gift cards to use for gas and other expenses related to her funeral. Parents of her classmates sent in cards for her parents, which I gathered with all of her belongings. I ran my fingers over her cloth diaper and cried, not for her but for me. I somehow managed to keep my composure as I met with her parents and handed over the last possessions, last artifacts I had of their child's life. They in turn amazed me by donating her wheelchair to the school's program so that another child could benefit, a child who perhaps could not afford a wheelchair. Over the days that followed I grew angry with God for bringing this beautiful child into the world only to have her suffer and then die. Where was the miracle in all of that? Then with all of the wisdom of ages, one of my temporary inclusion peers looked into my eyes and asked me "why are you sad? Miracle is in heaven now. Shouldn't you be happy for her?" The wisdom of a three year old floored me. I was sad and angry not because of Miracle's experience, because I knew she was finally freed from the tubes she had tried all her life to remove, but because it hurt me to let her go. As I thought, I realized that Miracle's life truly was a miracle. She was a messenger who exuded lessons on true love, on living each day as if it might be your last, on what is beautiful and precious and of value. Just when I was considering shutting my heart out of my greatest passion because it seemed to cost too much, Miracle showed me that the price is reflective of the value. If I removed my heart from teaching then I would be denying my kids all of me, all of my love and attention and focus out of a selfish desire to not be hurt. Loving hurts, but it is worth it. Because in taking the risks you learn to live, to celebrate the tiny victories, to be in the moment, and you have the blessing to love amazing individuals like my Miracle. She reminded me what life was all about and where my priorities needed to be and continues to give me strength as I face my own medical issues. You may not like it, but you take it on with grace and dignity and style and a willingness to always live and laugh and love wherever you may be. In her honor I have the hands of a small child releasing a butterfly forever etched on my back to remind me of my own Miracle.