The guardian angels came to dinner last week. We served them chicken and potatoes.

        They brought their husbands and their children, lest anyone think they were anything better than mortal. They don't. We do.

        They are three teachers: Nancy Croskey, Linda Burke, Mary Smethurst. Two classroom teachers and an aide. Three people with winged ideals, three dispensers of the heady elixir of hope.

        Indulge me this morning. Allow me a selfish column celebrating three selfless people. Jillian, my 11-year-old, has Down syndrome. They taught her this year. Mary has been with Jillian three years; Linda tutors her once a week after school.

A box of Kleenex

        Jillian has grown to love them. The feeling is mutual. On Thursday, school ended. My little girl will be a big fifth-grader next year, at a different school. She has graduated; they're done graduating.

        “Mrs. Smethurst, after next week, I won't see you anymore,” Jillian had said last week.

        “Don't talk about it now,” was Mary's reply. “We'll cry next week.”

        On Thursday, their last day, Nancy Croskey brought in a fresh box of Kleenex. Between the three of them, they demolished it.

        It's quite a deal we cut with our teachers. For seven hours a day, we trust them with our children. Between September and June, they see our kids more than we do.

        Take care of them, we say. We are trusting you with the biggest pieces of our lives. Nurture their enthusiasm, direct their ambition. Give them confidence. Teach them.

        Jillian is a great kid. I say this only because it is so. But she's a communal triumph, a laying on of many hands. None have been stronger or more giving than the hands of the guardian angels. All they did was open their hearts and let my daughter live there.

        Each believed she got the better end of the bargain.

        “I learned with her, you can't give up, because she doesn't give up. She has taught me more about being a good person,” Nancy said. “Jillian delights in everything. I'll miss her smile, her work ethic, her enthusiasm, her sense of humor, her empathy for other kids. She's like nobody I know.”

Wonder of the ordinary

        Jillian opens our eyes to the wonder of the ordinary. This is the gift of the disabled child. There is no such thing as a boring day, a day without joy. There are only people who have lost the ability to see clearly the beauty that shows itself every day.

        We revel in Jillian's little wins: Tying her shoes, riding a two-wheeler, answering the phone, dressing herself. We look forward to her next generation of triumphs: Jillian home alone for part of a day. Jillian writing a book report or shopping with her own money. Jillian dancing at a prom or, heaven help us, driving a car.

        Maybe she'll do all these things; maybe just a few. There will be no limits, though, because hope has no boundaries. No one is denied a chance to reach up and touch the sky, least of all my daughter.

        It wouldn't work without the guardian angels, though. They held Jillian's future in their hands and made it light. There are events and people who make you who you are. Jillian will always remember the roles played by Nancy, Mary and Linda.

        For the last time Thursday, Jillian marched into Mrs. Croskey's classroom, said hello to her and Mary and gave each a hug. Jillian is a big hugger. One last time, they poured themselves out for her. Each is better for having known the other.

        You can't appreciate joy without knowing pain, so at the moment, we're all hurting a little. I am a profligate weeper, closet division. I can't, for example, listen to the song “All I Ask of You” from Phantom of the Opera without drowning. An old Art Garfunkel song, “Second Avenue,” gets me every time.

        So, now, does the notion that these three ladies will no longer be a part of Jillian's daily life.

        “It has been my privilege to teach her,” Nancy decided.

        You'd figure an angel would say that.

        E-mail pdaugherty@enquirer.com.

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