It was Tall Timber Days in our town here in the Minnesota northwoods, and we had a parade.

For two miles, from the fairgrounds and through the old downtown, floats and fire engines, vintage cars and civic groups walked and marched and danced and drove past sidewalks lined with old people in chairs and younger ones scrambling for the candy tossed out.

Our church had a float, accompanied by over forty members wearing matching tee shirts and spreading joy.

And Ben carried the banner.

I was nervous about Ben participating without us, but he wanted to do it by himself. Sheepishly, I asked others to support him. Most parents of children with special needs are familiar with the stomach-clenching request: Will you go out of your way, out of your comfort zone, to include my child? Do you see him as a burden? Will you resent my request?

I was confident that Ben would do fine. But still, he is non-verbal. He struggles with comprehending instructions. He would need help to understand the assignment.

I figured they would put him on the float to ride instead of giving him a job to do. But I was wrong. They didn’t hide him away to keep him from causing a problem, or because they didn’t know what to do with him.

They gave him the banner to carry in front of the float.

And there he was, strutting proudly down 4th street, front and center, his presence announcing that all are welcome and all have a place. Even 33 year old men with profound disabilities wearing Spider-Man socks.

Even him.

My church isn’t perfect. It has its troubles and blind spots just like any other group of people. But we are growing and learning and loving and reaching out to share how profoundly we are all loved by the God who came to us. Who came for us. Who welcomes the weak and the weary and wounded.

“Accept one another, then,” the apostle Paul wrote to a church of his day, “just as Christ accepted you, in order to bring praise to God.” (Romans 15:7)

Our church friends in the parade passed out invitations to join us. But I think that nothing says “welcome” quite like Ben, holding a banner he can’t read, overjoyed at being with people who care for him, strutting down 4th street for all to see. Silently declaring that all of us matter.

Even him.