After a trip to Colombia to visit my husband’s family, I wrote the following piece about my nephew. I hope it will challenge you to live gloriously!

The Meaning of Special

In Colombia they have a word for my nephew. They call him special. Here in the states they would probably give it a much longer, less understandable, less desirable name. I prefer their way. I prefer special.

When you’re special like him, you think nothing of running up to on-duty police officers and shaking their hands. Or throwing your arms around the woman who operates the bumper cars and telling her you love her. Or waltzing to the front of the church to greet the pastor in the middle of his sermon. Or touching an unknown pregnant woman’s belly and smiling up at her.

When you’re special, you believe that every dog and cat are your best friend. Which is why it makes perfect sense to find a scrap of rope, tie it around the neck of the mutt at the corner and drag him down the street to your house – without ever considering if he has fleas or rabies or if he belongs to someone else.

When you’re special, you hide in your aunt and uncle’s bedroom and wait until the lights go off. Then you climb into their bed and touch their faces, their hair, their arms. They’re laughing, so they must like it. You plant a sloppy kiss on their cheeks every chance you get.

When you’re special, you can be sitting at the very top of the Plaza de Los Toros, but when the clown at the center ring asks for ten volunteers, you don’t think you’re too far away to make the cut despite the hordes of children racing to the ring. You don’t notice the cringing of your family members who are sure you’re setting yourself up for disappointment. You don’t hear their cries to come back. Or if you do, you don’t let them deter you. You walk down to the wall dividing the spectators from the ring and crawl over it. Your steps are so purposeful that the security guard lets you right by. You stride into the center of the ring, and somehow, against all odds you are chosen. You wave at your family members, looks of shock upon their faces. You wave once, twice, three times. And they wave back. And then you dance! You dance in front of the crowds of people, and they cheer your praises, and you win! You receive 10,000 pesos. Five dollars. You buy a bag of chips with your winnings but before you eat one, you pass the bag around to your nine incredulous family members. Then you tell your mother to guard the rest, saying, “Don’t worry. Now we’ll be able to take the bus home.”

When you’re special, you make paper airplanes out of your restaurant menus and place-mats, and no one gets mad. You float one right below your uncle’s eye as he’s coming out of the bathroom and before he can say anything about nearly becoming blind, you ask him, “Why did you get in my way?”

Sometimes when people talk about being special, they drop their voices and speak in hushed tones. They say it like it’s something to be ashamed of. But why? Don’t the majority of us wish we could be so gloriously alive? Free from inhibition. Free from the fear of what others might think. Free to be.

If special means you can hug total strangers, make friends with all the stray dogs in the world, be undeterred when people tell you it’s not possible, put others first when you win a prize, and turn anything into a paper airplane then I wish there were more special people in the world. More people like my nephew.